Stefano drove. Bernardo reflected on the meeting ahead of him. His grandson yawned. Bernardo did not know which girl’s bed the boy had graced, whether he had been into the village or had gone as far as Locri to find company. He wondered where Marcantonio would find a wife. He had discussed it with Mamma – he would not make a decision based on her opinions, but would consider her suggestions as to who would be suitable. Mamma would know which families had a history of fertile women, and which were plagued with miscarriages or deformities through breeding too close to the blood line. His own opinion would be based on matters of finance and power, areas of influence and control of territory. There were families in Locri and Siderno, and one at Brancaleone with daughters, but serious negotiation had not begun. The windows at the back of the City-Van were dusty but Stefano had drawn a small smiley face in one so that Bernardo could see out.
The boy yawned again. God, had he been at it all night? It was a long time since Bernardo had been his age. In his day, a girl would fight tooth and nail to preserve her virginity. Now she would drop her knickers in exchange for a mandarin or a ripe lemon. He strained to see through the window. They passed the house where the shutters were always closed. He kept that traitor’s family there as an example. They existed in a living hell, as he intended. He saw them sometimes as they trudged, isolated and ignored, through the village. They had no money, no friends, and even the priest did not visit. Maybe they would watch television that day.
Stefano drove out of the village and pulled into an abandoned quarry.
A kid on a scooter waited there.
The kid knew him, was bright-eyed and eager to please him. He knew Stefano and helped him clean engines, learning how they worked. The boy knew Marcantonio, too, and had joined the school at Locri when Marcantonio was leaving. The kid knew them better than he knew his own father, who was serving the twelfth year of twenty after conviction for murder: Bernardo had ordered the killing. The height of the kid’s ambition was to become a giovane d’onore, ‘honoured youth’, rise to picciotto and gain the family’s trust. He had a Vespa, the Piaggio model, 124cc engine. It was silver, his pride and joy, and had cost more than two thousand euros. The kid waved to them: cheeky, cocky and proud to be close to them. The family’s trust showed in the cost of the scooter, paid for by Bernardo, which was the envy of other village boys. He might marry into the fringes of the extended family. The kid was important, and Bernardo, with Stefano driving, went nowhere without him.
Stefano told the kid where they would go, which route they should take. The kid had a mobile phone in his jacket pocket and waved it at them. Then Stefano rifled in a bag at his feet and peered through his spectacles at a dozen different mobile phones, their distinguishing covers, and frowned as he remembered which one he needed. He concentrated, selected and tossed it into Marcantonio’s lap. It was switched on. The kid was told that the phone was live.
They went in humble transport to meet a man with whom the final decisions would be taken on the purchase of a half-ton of pure cocaine. They would also discuss the transshipment of Syrian exiles inside the EU. The Arabs would be provided with well-forged documentation. It was good that he had brought his grandson: the boy’s presence would show that Bernardo’s dynasty had a future. The scooter would travel at a little under forty kilometres an hour, and the gap between them would be two kilometres. The kid’s phone was live, the number set. He would have to press a single button to indicate that a carabinieri or polizia roadblock was in place. They would pass through a remote area of countryside. On some roads there would be interference or a weak signal, but they would avoid them.
He was uncomfortable in the back but accepted the hardship. The road surface was poor and the cushion gave him only limited protection from the ruts. A few more days, and he would be able to ride again in the front. He would know that a special investigation on him was closed, the file consigned to a cupboard, the spotlight moved elsewhere. With Stefano, he would go to the open market in Locri and to Brancaleone. He would sit in the mountains where his father used to go, while Mamma and Stefano searched for mushrooms. He would plan and . . . There was much to look forward to.
In truth, Bernardo wanted little. They had a decent television but not an exceptional one, a decent kitchen, but not from one of the magazines that Annunziata had enjoyed, and a decent bed, old and breathing family history. He had no luxury. Neither did Mamma. They lived without gold taps, jewellery, and servants, yet the family had such wealth that only Giulietta and her calculator could accurately assess it. Great riches meant little to him. The most important matter in his life, which was drifting to a close – not tomorrow but not far away – was that he could pass on what he had achieved to Marcantonio and know his legacy was in safe hands. His grandfather had done that for his father, and his father for him. Marcantonio was a good boy. He could strangle a man and kill a woman. Now he must learn more about the trade of the clans.
The light broke. The sun came low through gaps in the foothills and rose above the sea behind them, throwing long shadows.