A Dead Man in Naples (9 page)

‘So it appears. The lads were talking about it after the race last Saturday. You see, he had been out with us that morning, the morning he was killed. Normally, we have a glass afterwards, but this time he didn’t want to. He said there was someone he had to see. “A lady?” someone said jokingly. “Yes, a lady,” he said, but quite seriously.

‘Of course, we all started teasing him. “No, it’s not like that,” he said. “It’s something I’ve been asked to do. To help her.”

‘Of course, that didn’t stop the teasing. But he wouldn’t say any more. He just smiled, and then rode off. But afterwards, when we heard, we remembered it. And some of the boys felt we ought to look into it. But others said no, it was a private matter, perhaps even a question of a lady’s honour. So we didn’t. You haven’t come across the lady in question, have you? In your investigations? Because if you have, and something has been left uncompleted, we’d like to know. If it’s a question of money, say, we’d like to chip in. We feel we have a certain responsibility, you know. He was one of us. Almost.’

‘It’s going to be big,’ announced Giorgio.

‘If it happens at all,’ said Giuseppi.

‘Oh, it’ll happen,’ Giorgio assured him. ‘Both sides have issued their challenges and somebody from the Reds is coming down today to approve the course.’

‘The Yellows have an unfair advantage,’ said Giuseppi. ‘They know the course. In fact, they’ve been riding it for weeks.’

‘The Reds know the course, too,’ said Giorgio. ‘They ride that way when they come down.’

‘It’s not the same thing,’ said Giuseppi.

‘No, it’s not,’ put in Maria unexpectedly. ‘The Yellows have been racing it. The Reds have just been riding it.’

‘Well, they seem to have accepted it,’ said Giorgio. ‘And if they don’t like it, they can turn it down this afternoon.’

‘There’s a lot of interest in the race in Naples,’ said Francesca.

‘A lot of money put down on it, too, I’ll bet,’ said Maria.

‘The fools!’ sneered Giuseppi. ‘They’ll lose it all.’

‘Only if they’re betting on the Reds,’ said Francesca.

‘It’s their duty to bet on the Reds!’ said Giuseppi fiercely.

‘It’s your duty not to bet at all,’ said Maria. ‘How much money have you got? Give it to me!’

‘I need some!’ protested Giuseppi. ‘For a cup of coffee.’

‘For a glass of beer!’ said Maria. ‘No! Give me your money.’

Grumbling, Giuseppi turned out his pockets. Maria scooped up the change and took it away.

‘I’ll lend you some, Grandfather,’ said Francesca. ‘Then you can bet. You’ll have to repay it, of course.’

‘Well, that’s not unreasonable.’

‘At a suitable rate of interest.’

‘Capitalist!’ cried Giuseppi.

‘Francesca, you cannot do this!’ said Giorgio, shocked. ‘Lend money to your grandfather at interest.’

Lend money to your grandfather at interest.’

‘I lend to you, don’t I?’ said Francesca.

‘Yes, but that’s quite different.’

‘I thought you were the man with money, Giorgio?’ said Giuseppi slyly.

‘I am,’ said Giorgio. ‘Only sometimes I am short.’

‘Are
you
going to bet, Giorgio?’ asked Giuseppi.

‘Probably.’

‘On the Yellows, I suppose?’

‘My heart is with the Reds,’ said Giorgio unctuously. ‘However, my head is with the Yellows.’

‘You’d do better to listen to your heart,’ said Giuseppi.

‘And lose my money? Actually,’ said Giorgio, a little shame-facedly, ‘I’ve already lost my money. I bet Lorenzo that a pigeon wouldn’t shit on Pietro’s head. He was standing just in front of the Palazzo, you see, where there’s a lot of pigeons up on the pediment. I thought I was safe. Pigeons don’t usually shit on people’s heads. This one did.’

‘Do you want me to lend you some money, Giorgio?’ asked Francesca.

‘Well –’

‘At a suitable rate of interest,’ said Giuseppi.

Francesca took some paper and began to write down calculations.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Deciding how much interest I’m going to charge. And what the odds are.’

‘What!’

‘Since I’m lending to both sides, I ought to be able to make a profit,’ said Francesca, ‘no matter who wins.’

‘Jesus, Francesca!’ said Giuseppi and Giorgio in unison.

Seymour was still thinking about how he was going to get information out of the inhabitants of the
bassi
. It wasn’t just the language difficulty: it was also how he could somehow manage to outflank their suspicions. What he needed was some kind of pretext for asking his questions, a pretext which they would all understand and be sympathetic to.

At last he thought he had hit on it.

He went down the narrow street behind the Porta del Carmine until he came to the water shop. Like the snail restaurant, it was not so much a shop as a base. The
acquaiolo
had parked his wares in the middle of the street, just where the street took a useful bend and from where the
acquaiolo
would command the approaches in both directions, visible, and audible, to all.

His wares, like those of the snail-shop owner, again did not amount to much. They consisted of a huge tank which during the day was pulled out across the street, forcing the traffic to slow, and at night was pushed back against the wall. The tank contained the
acquaiolo
’s working supply of water for the day and fed a small urn from which he actually supplied his customers. The urn stood on a little table and was lovingly polished every day. In front of it was a row of enamel cups. Beneath the table were the goatskins in which the
acquaiolo
fetched his water, in the morning on a small donkey, during the day on a yoke carried across his shoulders.

He greeted Seymour with a big smile.

‘How are things?’ he said.

Seymour took him by the arm, looked up and down the street, bent closer and said, in a low voice: ‘I’m working on it.’

‘Working on . . .?’

‘The numbers. I’ve been thinking over what we said. It was so close that I think I could be almost there. There must be just some tiny feature that I’ve not allowed for. Something I’ve not taken into account on the numbering.’

‘What is it?’

‘That’s just the trouble!’ said Seymour. ‘I don’t know. But what I’ve come round to thinking is that it must be something to do with what happened on that day, the day the Englishman was killed. It could be anything. The last person the man met as he was running away afterwards. A
basso
that he went into. Children – could it be anything to do with children, do you think? I mean, they’re all over the place. That could be significant.’

‘Well, it could,’ said the
acquaiolo
doubtfully. ‘But –’

‘You see, that’s the problem. I just don’t know. It could be anything. So I’ve got to ask around. What I feel is that if I hit on it, it would jump out at me. It would sort of announce itself.’

‘Well, it might,’ said the
acquaiolo
. ‘But –’

‘What I feel I’ve got to do is ask around. Generally, because it might be anything. I’d like to ask people if they remembered anything about that day. Anything that stood out. Or, perhaps, did not stand out particularly. Just anything. But details. I feel it’s got to be a detail, something particular. That’s what the number’s looking for, isn’t it? It’s got to be some detail that makes it stand out from other numbers.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose –’

‘But if I go down the street asking people for any details that they remember from that day, they’ll think I’m loony, won’t they? But if I could find a way of letting people know why I’m doing it, they might be sympathetic.’

‘Oh, I think they would! But you mustn’t tell them too much, you know, or they’ll all be doing it.’

‘Oh, I don’t want to tell them too much. I won’t tell them anything specific. Just that I’m trying to look for a number.’

‘I think they’ll certainly be interested. And I’m pretty sure they’ll want to help, once they know.’

‘But, you see,’ said Seymour, ‘I’m worried because I’m a stranger here. I was wondering if you would mind putting in a word for me. Just let them know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.’

‘I’d be glad to,’ said the
acquaiolo
.

Just at that moment the carpenter appeared, on his way to the snail restaurant, and they decided to go with him.

Seymour explained the situation.

The carpenter understood it at once.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘The number is a good number. I’ve said that from the start. It just needs something adding. And it’s got to be a particular, hasn’t it? I mean, it would be no good if it was just “a man”. It’s got to be a particular man.’

‘That’s why I thought: a man running away,’ said Seymour.

But it didn’t bite.

‘Of course, it doesn’t have to be a man,’ said
acquaiolo
. ‘It could be a woman. Your wife, for instance,’ he said to the carpenter.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said the carpenter.

‘It could!’ the
acquaiolo
insisted. ‘Theoretically, I mean,’ he added hastily.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said the carpenter. ‘And I’ll tell you why. The number has got to fit in with the other numbers. And my wife wouldn’t fit in with anything.’

‘The other thing it could be,’ said Seymour, lowering his voice, ‘although I don’t quite know how to get this in, and maybe it’s best not to go down that route anyway, is –’

He dropped his voice to the merest whisper, so that they had to put their heads in close to him.

‘– Our Friends.’

They started back.

‘No,’ said the carpenter hastily. ‘No, I really don’t think –’ ‘Best not to go down that route,’ said the
acquaiolo
.

‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ said Seymour. ‘But if you think about it, it’s not such a bad idea.’

‘It’s a very bad idea,’ said the carpenter.

‘But that’s just the point,’ said Seymour. ‘Everyone knows it’s a bad idea. So maybe it’s a good one.’

‘I’m not sure that I’m altogether following you,’ said the carpenter.

‘No one else is going to go down that road, are they?’ said Seymour. ‘And maybe that’s what the number wants. Otherwise it would be paying off for everybody.’

‘Yes, well, I still think it’s a bad idea,’ said the carpenter.

The
acquaiolo
, however, was becoming more enthusiastic.

‘You could be on to something,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It has to be something special doesn’t it? And Our Friends –’ ‘Just keep your voice down a bit,’ said the carpenter.

‘Just keep your voice down ‘– are certainly special.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘The more you think about it,’ said Seymour.

‘I know, but –’

‘You see, I reckon I’m on the right track with the rest of the number. It just needs one other thing. But that thing must be big, mustn’t it? A small number in itself but big in importance. And that would fit. If you know what I mean.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said the carpenter, ‘and I think it’s best to drop it.’

‘But is it?’ said Seymour. ‘Is it? Not from the point of view of winning, I mean, but from the point of view of politeness.’

‘What?’ said the
acquaiolo
.

‘Politeness?’ said the carpenter.

‘Well yes. To Our Friends, I mean. I wouldn’t want to insult them. And wouldn’t it be insulting them to leave them out? If they, by any chance, were a factor, I mean.’

‘The number would be incomplete,’ said the
acquaiolo
thoughtfully.

‘That’s it. It would be an insult to Our Friends
and
to the number!’

‘That certainly is a consideration!’

‘But how,’ said the carpenter, beginning to be convinced, ‘how could you fit them in? I mean, what number could you give them?’

‘Look it up in the book,’ said the
acquaiolo
.

‘But it won’t
be
in the book, will it? You don’t put that sort of number in a book, not in Naples.’

‘Number one?’ suggested the
acquaiolo
.

‘That would be a good number for them,’ acknowledged the carpenter. ‘But it’s been used already.
Everyone
in Naples puts that number down.’

‘The way I see it,’ said Seymour, ‘is that it’s no good thinking of a number that anyone would know refers to Our Friends. That would take care of the politeness, all right. But it wouldn’t help us with the number. It’s got to be more specific. What we want is something we can give a number to which links them to what happened by the Porta del Carmine.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ confessed Seymour. ‘But I feel that if I cast around, the number will leap up and hit me.’

‘This is getting a bit deep for me,’ said the
acquaiolo
.

‘Me, too,’ said the carpenter. ‘My head is beginning to reel.’

‘So is mine,’ said Seymour. ‘Let’s give it a rest. But, you know, I think we’re on the right lines. It’s just a case of hitting on the right number.’

‘It always is,’ sighed the
acquaiolo
.

Chapter Nine

Chantale had returned to the
pensione
and was sitting outside on the patio reading a book. She heard a door inside the house open and close and then the young man, Bruno, came out on to the patio.

‘Your pardon, Signora!’ he said, jumping back with a start when he saw Chantale.

‘It is nothing,’ said Chantale, smiling. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I was looking for Jalila,’ said the young man hesitantly.

‘Ah! She has just gone out for the moment with Maria to get the bread. She will be back – oh, at any moment now.’

‘Thank you. I will wait, then.’

He was about to go back into the house, then wavered.

‘Do you mind, Signora . . .?’

He indicated a spare chair on the patio.

‘Not at all.’

He sat down.

‘I do not like to wait in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Not when Maria is not there. And Francesca doesn’t seem to be there, either.’

‘She is not yet back from school.’

He looked at his watch, a large, rather good one.

‘No, of course not!’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t be. School goes on longer than in my day. And Francesca, I know, does extra.’

He shook his head.

‘Although I don’t see the point of that,’ he said. ‘What can it lead to? Especially in the case of a girl. What work can she do? Oh, work in the home. Yes, helping Maria, or perhaps Julia. Or even in a shop, although, personally, I think that with so many men out of work, girls ought not to take the jobs that are going. But the teachers say she is very clever and Giuseppi says she must have her chance. But chance to do what, I ask myself? It is, perhaps, different in your country,’ he said hastily.

Perhaps. But which was her country? England, or Morocco? In England, certainly, there were jobs for women. Seymour’s own sister, whom she had met and whom she liked, was a teacher. But in Tangier . . .!

She laughed to herself, and then saw Bruno looking at her.

‘In Tangier, no,’ she said. ‘In London, yes.’

‘You come from Tangier?’

‘In the first place, yes.’

‘But now you live in London. With Signor Seymour.’

‘Yes.’

‘That is how I would wish it to be for Jalila.’

‘You think it better for her to be here than with her family in Libya?’

‘Oh, yes! Here,’ he said, waving a hand largely. ‘Here are jobs, opportunities.’

Despite what he had just said.

‘Perhaps for the children,’ said Chantale, ‘when they grow up. But it is not so easy for her.’

‘No, no, indeed. It is very difficult.’ He hesitated. ‘It is not just that she is a woman, Signora. It is that she is an Arab. It is wrong, I know, but people are prejudiced about Arabs. It is the war partly, but not just that. People say, what is she doing here? And why does she bring extra mouths to feed when there is barely enough in Naples? I do not say that. For me, it is enough that she was married to Tonio.’

‘You and he were very close, I gather?’

‘Very close.’

He held out his hand with his first two fingers close together.

‘Like that,’ he said. ‘You do not, perhaps, understand how it is for Italians, Signora. At least, how it is for Neapolitans. We were like blood brothers. We would always do things together. We played together, worked together. Until he went into the army. Even then I would have gone with him, but my mother was old and sick and alone, and Tonio said, you cannot. It would not be right. So I stayed and he went.’

He looked at Chantale.

‘But do you know what?’ he said. ‘He sent his first pay packet home to me. For her. He knew how poor we were.’

He was silent for a moment.

‘People ask,’ he went on, ‘why do you do so much for an Arab woman? I say, because he would have done the same for me. How can I not do this? It is not for her I do it but for him.’

‘It is praiseworthy,’ said Chantale, ‘whoever it be for.’

She hesitated, wondering whether she should say more, and then decided, since he seemed to have confidence in her, that she would risk it.

‘But, Bruno,’ she said, ‘are there not limits to what you should do for her? They tell me you wish to marry her.’

‘Tonio would have done the same for me,’ Bruno said seriously.

‘No doubt. But – but, Bruno, marriage is a complex business, and many things come into it. You have to be sure that it is wanted on her side.’

‘Of course!’

‘And she may wish to choose for herself.’

Bruno laughed. ‘That is what women always say, Signora. But women are realists, too. They are realistic as well as romantic. Otherwise it is like an opera. And life in Naples, Signora, is not like an opera. There is not much choosing to be done. For men, it is either the army or poverty. For women, it is poverty or marriage. And if you are a widow with children, well . . .!’

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

Chantale wondered whether she would persist. She felt that she was coming up against bedrock Neapolitan, or perhaps even Italian, attitudes. Or – possibly Bruno was right – bedrock Neapolitan realities. To her they seemed not just rock, they seemed terribly tangled and confused. She had often thought that men’s attitudes in Tangier were tangled and confused, but that seemed as nothing compared with how things were in Naples.

Or maybe that was how it always seemed when you were looking at a society from outside?

‘I know what you are thinking, Signora,’ Bruno said seriously. ‘You are thinking that perhaps it will be different because she is an Arab. You will know about this, Signora, because you yourself are an Arab. I realize it will be hard for her – it
is
hard for her. But that, you see, is why it is best if I marry her. Then she will not be alone. She will have a place in society and a man to stand by her. A woman needs that in Naples, Signora, and she needs it all the more if she comes from outside. And even more if she is black. And I will do that, Signora. Other men blow hot and cold. But not me, Signora. What I say I will do, I do.’

‘I am sure of that, Bruno,’ said Chantale. ‘I know that you will stand by her and cherish her. But – I think that may not be all that she wants.’

Bruno looked puzzled.

‘It will be difficult, I know, he said. ‘That is what Alessandro said when we put it to him.’

‘Alessandro?’

‘He is a big cheese in Rome. He helped us to bring her back. “You daft bastards,” he said. “Do you know what you are doing? She’ll stand out like a sore thumb. She’ll never feel right and never be right. She’d be better off in her own country. How will she manage in Naples? Tell me that! No man, no money. What do you think she is going to live on?”

‘“Marcello says there will be a pension,” I said. “Pension, pooh!” he said. “It won’t be enough for her to buy a plate of spaghetti.” “Our people will look after her,” said Marcello. “Your people cannot even look after themselves,” said Alessandro. “With two children? Two extra mouths? That’s a lot in a family. Just ask me! I know. Listen, I know about this. I was poor in Naples myself once!”

‘“Tonio would have wished it,” I said.

‘In the end he agreed. “All right, all right!” he said. “I’ll do it. Since he was from Naples, and you’re from Naples, and I’m from Naples. Okay! I’ll do it. But it’s madness, I tell you, madness! You boys are never going to get anywhere in life. You’ve got to be tougher, harder. Learn to put things behind you. You can’t afford to take on things. Things you can’t pay for. Like my wife, for example. Jesus! Have I learnt it the hard way! It’s like running the National Debt. She
is
the National Debt! Get out while you still can. That’s my advice to you. Don’t take on things you cannot finish.”

‘“Tonio would have wished it.”

‘“All right, all right. I’ll pay for her to come to Naples. And the kids. Christ, we can’t leave them behind, can we? Although, come to think of it, maybe we should. No? All right, then, kids as well. But, mind you, once she’s in Naples, I wash my hands of them. From then on she’s your lookout. I want nothing more to do with it. Do you hear?”

‘Well, we heard, all right. That’s the way these big cheeses talk. It doesn’t mean anything. But he did bring her back. His bank paid for it. He’s got a bank, you see, the Bank of Rome. And he was setting up this branch in Libya. And Marcello got to hear of it and heard that he came from Naples. So he wrote to me and said, this is the answer. You see, we couldn’t do it ourselves. Not even between us. We hadn’t the money and he told me to go to Alessandro.

‘So I went to Alessandro and said: “I want some help, and I think you’re a cousin of mine.” “I don’t have any cousins in Naples,” said Alessandro. “That’s one thing I’ve learnt. And that’s one thing you’d better learn if you want to get on. Cousins are like locusts. They eat everything you’ve got. Anyway, you’re not a cousin.”

‘Well, it was true. He wasn’t a cousin of mine. But, Christ, everyone in Naples is pretty well related, and he might have been. And I reckoned Alessandro wouldn’t know. Well, of course, he didn’t. Who the hell knows what his father has been up to, let alone his uncles? But he knew he came from Naples and thought it might be true. And, apparently, or so Marcello said, he had a soft spot for Naples. So he listened.

‘And I told him the whole story, about Tonio. “This is one hell of a daft bastard,” said Alessandro. “First, he volunteers for the army. Then he goes to Libya. And then marries an Arab woman. You can’t do anything for a man like that.”

‘“I’m not asking you to do anything for him,” I say. “He’s dead. What I am asking you to do is something for his widow. And it’s not much money to someone like you. And it’s important to me. And to Tonio. And to Tonio’s mate in Libya.” “Christ, another one!” says Alessandro. “I told you they were like locusts.” “This isn’t just another one,” I say. “He was like a brother to him.” “Oh, yes?” says Alessandro. “Yes,” I say, “a blood brother. Sworn. And I’m like that, too. So you’ve got to do something.” “Because I come from Naples?” says Alessandro. “Yes. And because you’ve got on and we haven’t.”

‘“Naples,” says Alessandro, “is like a bloody great weight you’ve got around your neck. You never get rid of it.”

‘All the same, he agreed to pay for Jalila.’

‘I
have
got a job!’ protested Giorgio indignantly. ‘In fact, I’ve got three.’

‘Three?’

‘One at the baker’s. I help Luigi with the morning round.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Giuseppi.

‘Three days a week. It’s regular. And I get paid for it.’

‘Next to nothing,’ said Giuseppi.

‘It’s better than nothing,’ said Giorgio hurt.

‘It
is
better than nothing, Giorgio,’ said Maria. ‘And it helps your mother. You’re a good boy, Giorgio. But it won’t go far if you’re thinking of marriage.’

‘Who’s thinking of marriage?’

‘You are,’ said Francesca. ‘Or you ought to be.’

‘When you leave school, Francesca,’ said Maria firmly, ‘then will be the time to think of marriage.’

‘I’m planning ahead,’ said Francesca sulkily.

‘Yes, well, you can plan without me,’ said Giorgio. ‘
I
’m not thinking of marriage.’

‘Yet,’ said Francesca.

‘Yet,’ Giorgio agreed. ‘Nor for a long time,’ he added hastily.

‘It will be a long time if all you’ve got to marry on is three mornings at the baker’s,’ said Giuseppi.

‘What’s the other job, Giorgio?’ asked Maria.

‘I help Gianni with the barrels,’ said Giorgio.

‘Twice a week,’ said Giuseppi.

‘It’s something,’ said Giorgio.

‘It certainly is,’ agreed Maria. ‘But, Giorgio, it doesn’t go far.’

‘I don’t throw my money around,’ said Giorgio.

‘He certainly doesn’t,’ said Francesca. ‘Look how he’s saved up for that bicycle.’

‘I’ve seen that bicycle before,’ said Giuseppi, ‘several times. In other people’s hands.’

‘Not everyone around here has got a bicycle,’ said Giorgio. ‘In fact, I’m the only one. And the point is that now I can ride to work. That brings other jobs within reach.’

‘There!’ said Francesca. ‘Doesn’t that show how ambitious he is?’

‘What other jobs!’ asked Giuseppi. ‘There aren’t any out there, either.’

‘Oh, yes, there are,’ said Giorgio smugly. ‘And I’ve got one.’

‘You’ve got one?’ said Maria.

‘Oh, Giorgio, you didn’t tell me!’ said Francesca, delighted. ‘Where is it?’

‘Over at the base. The army base.’

‘You’ve not done anything daft, have you?’ said Giuseppi. ‘Like enlisted?’

‘I’m too young,’ said Giorgio. ‘Still. Although when I am old enough, I certainly will,’ he said defiantly. ‘I know you don’t like it, Giuseppi, but for me it’s the way out. It will only be for a short time and then I’ll have enough money to start a bicycle shop.’

‘There!’ said Francesca. ‘You see?’

‘I can see him getting a hole in his head,’ said Giuseppi.

‘Giuseppi! Do not say such things!’ said Maria. ‘It’s bad luck.’

‘And at least he’s doing
something
,’ said Francesca. ‘That’s what you always say, Grandfather. That’s what you say people should do. Get off their asses and do something.’

‘Francesca, I will not have you using such language!’

‘It’s not my language, it’s Grandfather’s.’

‘I won’t have
him
using it, either,’ said Maria.

‘What is this job, then, Giorgio?’ asked Francesca. ‘The one you’ve got at the base.’

‘It’s a temporary one only,’ Giorgio confessed. ‘But they say it could lead to something. And, anyway, they say it will help when I put my name down for the army. It’s cleaning the bicycles and getting them ready for the big race on Saturday.’

‘They pay you for
that
?’ said Giuseppi.

‘They certainly do. And will. Better than I get at the baker’s or with the barrels. More than Luigi makes during the whole week! He told me so himself.’

‘These rich men can afford it,’ said Giuseppi.

‘It’s a kindness to take their money from them. You say that, too, Giuseppi.’

‘It depends on the circumstances,’ muttered Giuseppi.

‘There you are! You see!’ said Francesca. ‘The money is rolling in. Soon he will be able to think of marriage.’

‘Now, hold it, Francesca!’ said Giuseppi, Maria and Giorgio.