‘You must wait.’
Bernardo had waited. When he was about to emerge from the bunker, the walls seemed to press harder against him and the container to have shrunk. He was carried back to the cave – and the child. He would not emerge unless his wife, daughter or Stefano sanctioned it. Stefano was a rogue and took liberties with him, but Bernardo would have trusted him with his life.
‘How long must I wait?’ he had called up the tunnel.
The delay with the ransom had not resulted from the parents’ suspicions that their daughter was already dead. They had had to persuade cousins, uncles and close friends to help because their own resources did not match the demand.
The family, in Calabria, had manipulated the situation well. Two lawyers, with roots in the region, had been appointed as go-betweens. One had taken the role of ‘friend’ and had seemed to wring his hands at the pain the parents suffered and work tirelessly for the child’s freedom. The second had played the part of the enemy, bullying them with demands for speedy payment or their child would die. The parents had regarded the friend as a sympathiser, and the enemy as scum. But the money had been paid over, in a rucksack that had been left beside the bronze statue of Christ above the town of Plati. It was extraordinary: at that time in that area seven kidnapped children were held, awaiting ransom, all giving employment because each needed at least ten men to guard them and look out for the carabinieri. The money had been brought to a house in the village, where many had had to be paid for their work during the long wait. He remembered it all . . . and that in her life with them, the child had never been given clean clothing. On her back had come Bernardo’s family’s advancement, wealth and power. Of course she was not forgotten.
He called again: ‘What’s the delay?’
‘Your grandson.’
‘Why?’ Bernardo knew that Stefano had little affection for his grandson, that he did not value Marcantonio’s talents, which might – one day, after Bernardo’s passing – kill him.
‘He’s searching the hill above us with the dogs.’
‘What for?’
‘I didn’t ask but, you should. And ask him what happened in the night to my vehicle.’
The kid didn’t know what had happened to Capo’s eyes. He might have been stung by a wasp. He sat on a low wall beyond the trellis and bathed the dog’s eyes in warm water that Mamma had brought. The wind had dropped and the sun was high and warm, all trace of the storm gone, but for a scattering of leaves on the slabs by the door.
Jago saw Marcantonio – only a snip of him after he came out of the back door, then went behind the trellis, but his spiked hair stuck up above the hanging sheets.
It would have been further confirmation, if Jago had needed it, but he didn’t. The sun’s warmth bounced from the stone in front of him into the recess under the boulders. He didn’t know what had happened with the search and the dogs, but thought himself lucky. The penknife was close to his hand.
The family had learned a lesson. Any of them could live a lie, but if that lie challenged Bernardo’s authority only an imbecile would fail to confess it to him. The same lesson was taught in every family, each cosca, in the mountain communities. Marcantonio might have lied to his sister-in-law, might even have been flexible with the truth to his grandmother, and would have lied relentlessly if questioned by a prosecutor, but he would not lie to his grandfather.
He talked of the boredom in Berlin. He hung his head. The old man horsewhipped him with words: he was a fool.
He talked of a new pizzeria in a good inner suburb of the city, Italians managing it and money from a Baltic town. Had he been greedy and reckless? He didn’t deny it.
He talked of going to collect the first pizzo, a fiery girl, making a point to her that she had ignored, a pistol-whipping. Had he not been told to learn the arts of finance and to cause no trouble?
He had accepted the blame – and told his grandfather about a man who had intervened and been put down, and should then have backed off. As he talked he saw the old man’s frown slip away and the fist unclench. He was asked how it had ended. The old man’s hand was on his and they shared the tunnel.