In her face he saw neither happiness nor misery, and thought her a woman without emotion. She did not pause to watch the chickens at her feet, or to gaze at the grapes hanging from the vine or entwined in the trellis. He considered the sheets. There was no breeze and the sun would soon dip behind the trees’ foliage. He watched her move away. Despite her hip problem, she betrayed no pain, and he thought her eyes were hard.
He was proud that he had eaten only half of his chocolate, and drunk less than half of the water.
Jago couldn’t read the old woman: he didn’t know whether she had enjoyed the time with her grandchildren or whether she had felt loved. He hadn’t seen, at her throat or on her fingers, any of the diamonds that would be commensurate with her wealth. When he strained he could just see a slender gold ring on the wedding finger. He had noticed the handyman leave a plastic bowl of vegetable peelings where the chickens were, and that the path the man took was behind the sheets.
The priest left.
The children were taken home.
He saw Marcantonio.
He saw the daughter, Giulietta – she had a bent nose. It would have been broken many years before and not set correctly. Her chin jutted out too far and her teeth overlapped. She wore no jewellery. Jago knew who she was from her photograph in the file, and that she was in her early thirties. She had glasses perched on the end of her nose.
Jago watched, the plan not yet firm in his mind. He remembered the pizzeria girl’s face, the impact with which he had hit the ground, the blows thrown at him. He remembered the anger of the shouts as he had pocketed his keys. He had started to know them all – except the head of the family.
‘It should have been me.’
‘Our father never thought it would be you.’
Marcantonio pirouetted on his heel. ‘Because of where my father and my uncle are, I should have done the bastard.’
His aunt, Giulietta, countered, ‘It was never going to be you. Our father always had it done by those not associated with us. It’s a mechanical process.’
‘I wanted to hurt him – I wanted to look into his face and see the fear, hear him beg. Then I wanted to finish him.’
‘What you did with the whore was different. It was personal to all of us. Marcantonio, you’re the future.’
‘I would have done it. I’d like to have done it.’
‘You’re in Berlin to learn a new life – to learn about investment and opportunity. Marcantonio, your father and your uncle are in gaol. The family needs your vitality, your youth and strength, if it’s to survive.’
She stroked his arm. He recognised the moment. Down the road, in the village, there were cats. Sometimes they were shot to keep down the numbers. Often, a litter was put in a sack and taken to the stream, usually by boys, then thrown in to drown. The boys did it so that they could kill if they had to. Sometimes the female cat was old but would nuzzle the youngest male. He lifted the hand. It was large, pudgy, sinewy and strong. It could have strangled as well as his could. He kissed the back. And did it again. And laughed. Marcantonio had had girls in Berlin and in the village. Giulietta did not have boys – Stefano had told him so. He allowed his lips to linger on her skin and she did not snatch away her hand.
They were in the open, as far as possible from any hidden microphone, and switched to the dialect they had been taught as children. Business talk – what would happen, the successes were close at hand.
‘It’s a dump.’
‘Right, Bent.’
‘Why’d they put us here?’
‘It’ll be because they own it.’
‘It’s crap . . .’ He saw Jack’s face screw up. ‘I’d thought they’d do better for us.’
‘As you say, Bent. They might have done better for us. But . . .’
They were in Brancaleone, which barely figured in the guidebooks. The hotel was on the hill behind it. An English guy lived up the coast – Humphrey. He’d met the flight and driven them down in an old Jaguar, almost a museum piece. He’d checked them in but hadn’t come upstairs with them: the lifts were ‘resting’. Humphrey had been, long ago, a sharp junior who had traded at Woolwich Crown Court on the defence side, taken early retirement to Torquay, needing a quick change of location, then made another move. He ‘fixed’ for trusted people, and was now in a development seven klicks towards Reggio. Humphrey had seen that there was no need for passports to be shown at the desk – good ones or otherwise – no signatures or addresses required. Now he had gone, and had been vague about the schedule. It had been a long day, and Bent had spent half the night sitting out at Canada Wharf. He felt nervous, and his temper was short. They were on the second floor. The room was for tourists and the signs were in German. Jack was pointing, jabbing with his finger.
It took Bent a moment to read him. The finger went from the ceiling light to the television, from the floor switch to the air-conditioner, then to the telephone.
Bent said, ‘Will we get a steak here?’
Jack answered him, ‘More likely pasta, then fish.’
‘And a mouthful of bones.’