The Venetian Job (3 page)

Thoughts of Franco kept bothering me. Say he
was
our great uncle. Would our whole
life change or would he just want us to send him an email every now
and again? I could see Charlie and me dressed in black suits at a
big family mafia gathering ... Franco introducing us to his family
... Charlie and me playing soccer with Franco's grandsons.

And what sort of stamps would a mafia boss
want? Were pictures of small furry animals too girly? What about
pictures of colorful birds? Pictures of cricketers might be okay,
but Franco probably hadn't heard of cricket. And why was I so
worried?

When I'd sunk into that wonderful dreamy
place before falling asleep, a really loud siren sounded. And it
kept going. I sat up straight. It took me a minute to realize I
wasn't in my own bed, but on the other side of the world. In Sicily
and sleeping in the same hotel as a mafia boss. A mafia boss who
might be my great uncle.

A voice came over the loudspeaker. First,
the man spoke in Italian. Then, in English, the voice said, "Please
leave the building immediately. There is a fire in the
building."

I jumped out of bed and shook Charlie, who
was still asleep. "Get up! There's a fire! Are you deaf?"

First he groaned and told me to get lost.
Then it hit him and he jumped up and began to get dressed. "Where's
my iPod?"

"Who cares? I'm not getting burnt alive for
an iPod." In less than ten seconds I got dressed. Someone banged on
the door and I ran to answer it. It wasn't Dad, but someone from
the hotel to make sure we were leaving. There were people running
along the corridor. Some were dressed and some were still in their
pajamas.

"Yeah,' I said, "we're going." As I yelled
at Charlie to hurry, Dad and Mom appeared. We all made our way to
the stairs, which were full of people. Everyone was rushing down
the stairs as fast as they could. Our room was on the eighth floor,
so it was a long way to the bottom.

"Can you smell smoke?" I whispered to
Charlie. Did I smell smoke or was I imagining the smell of Dad
burning sausages on the barbecue?

He sniffed. "Might be on the top floor."

Franco was on the top floor. Near his usual
room - the presidential suite. I remembered the
Carabinieri
across the road from the restaurant,
all Franco's bodyguards, the fact that his usual room wasn't
available, and now a fire. Something was going on.

Finally, we reached the ground floor. We
were told to wait on the street. The street had been blocked off
and
Polizia
and people were
everywhere. Everyone was looking up at the building, including me.
There wasn't any smoke.

I searched the crowd. It took me a while to
see him because he was surrounded by a bunch of
Carabinieri
. He was wearing a dressing gown and
looking real old. His bodyguards were with him too and they were
still dressed in black suits. Franco looked straight at me and
nodded. As if he really were my great uncle, I nodded back. For
some reason I felt relieved. The bad guys hadn't got him.

From side on I checked out his nose. Far
out, my nose wasn't that ugly.

We were soon allowed back to our rooms
because it was a false alarm. Hundreds of people were waiting for
the elevators, so we took the stairs. By now I was wide awake, so I
didn't mind. It was sort of exciting. A good story to tell, as Dad
would say. But Dad and Charlie grumbled all the way back up the
stairs until we reached our rooms.

False alarms happened, I supposed, but I
couldn't help feeling that something big was going on.

A
t breakfast the next
morning, there were still
Carabinieri
in the hotel. Some of them were hanging
round and a couple were having breakfast like they'd moved in. The
hotel guests were louder than usual. I really wished I could
eavesdrop. Mom said everyone was probably still talking about the
fire alarm. But it was more than that ... I could feel it in my
gut.

Mom stared at me and said, "You're quiet.
Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm good."

Really I wasn't too good. I couldn't stop
thinking. What could I do if Mr. Mafia wanted me to join the
business? In video games, I was pretty good at shooting people, but
real life was another thing. If you killed someone, I reckon in the
next life you'd be a homeless, hungry orphan with only one leg.

I needed an excuse so I wouldn't have to
join the business. Having a rare disease could be good, but I
didn't know the name of any. Or what if I was on my way to being a
soccer superstar and my country couldn't do without me? That might
work until old Franco saw me play soccer. What about saying I was
adopted? That might work for Charlie, but since I looked like Mom
it wouldn't work for me. I couldn't finish my breakfast, I was so
sick from worrying.

When we went to leave the hotel after
breakfast, we couldn't. The entrance was blocked with police tape
and no one was allowed to leave or come in. Two
Carabinieri
with machine guns were on guard out the
front.

We sat in the hotel foyer for almost an
hour. Matteo, the guy from the front desk, apologised three times,
but he'd only say: There has been an incident and the matter is
being investigated. I could tell someone important told him to say
that.

Lots of people were waiting to leave. No one
got angry, even though no one knew what the problem was. I reckoned
that was because of the
Carabinieri
hanging round with their smart black uniforms and their big black
machine guns.

Charlie and me swapped iPods because we were
sick of listening to the same songs. Not that I liked rap
music.

Franco and his bodyguards never appeared.
That was a bit weird.

Finally, we were allowed to leave. Matteo
opened the door of the hotel for us and said goodbye to each of us.
I told him we were going skiing and he replied, "May the goddess of
good luck go with you."

"Fortuna," Charlie said.

Matteo's face lit up. "Si. Fortuna is the
goddess of good luck."

Charlie was such a smarty-pants.

It took ages to drive to the top of Mount
Etna. I played a game on Dad's phone and Charlie read a book about
Italy. He was so boring.

We must've been halfway up to Mount Etna
when Charlie said, "I bet I can name more Roman gods than you can
name Italian soccer players."

I paused my game. I hated not taking Charlie
on. The thing was that he only bet me when he was pretty sure he'd
win. But there must be more Italian soccer players than Roman gods.
The problem was, he could rattle off a bunch of Greek gods as well
and I wouldn't know. I counted on my fingers how many Italian
soccer players I knew. "Do you mean players born in Italy or ones
playing for Italian clubs?"

"Anyone who plays for an Italian club will
do."

That sort of made it easier. I had to know
at least ten, maybe twelve. Surely there couldn't be that many
Roman gods. How many did they need? They had to have a god of war
because they were always at war with someone. And they'd have gods
for the animals, the sea, thunder and lightning, and there was
always a god of love. Surely, there couldn't be more than nine.

"Okay," I said, "you first."

Charlie smiled his sly smile. Then real fast
he said, "Jupiter, king of the gods; Mars, god of war; Apollo, the
sun god; Dis, god of the underworld; Neptune, god of the sea;
Bacchus, god of wine; Ceres, god of crops; Mercury, god of trade;
Saturn, god of farming; Vulcan, god of blacksmiths; and Cupid, god
of love."

"That's eleven; I can beat that."

"I haven't said the goddesses yet."

"What?"

"Fortuna, goddess of good luck," he said
with that sly smile. "Juno, queen of the gods; Venus, goddess of
love and beauty; Diana, goddess of the moon; Flora, goddess of
spring; Minerva, goddess of science and wisdom; Roma, goddess of
Rome; Janus, goddess of doorways and bridges; and Vesta, goddess of
the hearth." He took a breath. "That's twenty."

"Twenty! Who needs twenty gods?"

He shrugged. "They liked gods. There isn't a
limit on the number of gods you can have."

Could I argue that goddesses aren't actually
gods because gods are male and goddesses are female? That'd make me
look real lame. I sighed. "You win." I wasn't going to tell him
that I only knew twelve Italian soccer players.

I stared out the window. The mountain looked
strange where rivers of lava had flowed down and hardened. It was
like we were on another planet. But then we hit the snow. As soon
as Charlie and me got out of the car, we had a massive snowball
fight. I got Charlie in the head five times. That paid him back for
being such a smarty-pants.

Then we hired skis and ski gear and took the
cable car up the mountain. Up the top it was like a fashion parade
with lots of people standing round, like show offs, so everyone
else could see how good they looked in their bright-colored ski
gear. Besides that, it was sort of the same as skiing at home. Mom
and Dad, who were as slow as, went on the easy runs, while Charlie
and me hit the black runs and raced each other the whole time. It
was unreal racing down the mountain while looking over the
ocean.

Sometimes at the bottom or top of the slope,
someone would start to speak to us in Italian and I'd say in
Italian, I can't speak Italian. Do you speak English? "Non parlo
italiano. Parla inglese?" They always understood and sometimes
they'd answer in perfect English. Ordinary Italians were nice; it
was the black-suited ones who wore black sunglasses that I wasn't
thrilled about.

Late in the afternoon, we finished skiing
and returned our hire gear. Charlie and me went to sleep in the car
on the way back down the mountain. At least we did until a loud
rumbling woke us. At first I thought the noise was fighter
aeroplanes invading my dream, but the rumble vibrated through my
whole body. Real quick, I sat up straight, wide awake. "What was
that?"

Mom turned round. Her face was white. I'd
never seen her look like that, even when she was sick. She said
very softly, "The volcano is rumbling. It'll be okay; we aren't
that far from the bottom."

Two things hit me. Mom was lying to keep me
calm and Dad's knuckles were white because he was holding the
steering wheel so tight. I wanted to scream, Mount Etna is an
active volcano! The thing was that I knew that. But what were the
chances of it waking up cranky today?

"Look at the smoke." Charlie, who'd just
woken up too, was gawking out the back window. He sounded
excited.

The smoke was dark. It looked angry.
"Charlie, we could all die!" I felt like punching him.

Suddenly it seemed to hit him that we were
in serious trouble. "I know. Etna is one of the most active
volcanoes in the world. It erupts all the time."

"What? When did it last erupt?"

"Last year."

"Great." I heard Mom suck in her breath.

Dad interrupted, "Everything is going to be
fine. In less than an hour we'll be off the mountain and this will
be merely a good story to tell your friends."

Just then our car went round a bend and Mom
screamed. Ahead of us, a massive tree blocked the road. There was
no way to go round the tree because old lava flows covered most of
the ground either side of the road.

Far out! I was too young to die!

D
ad turned off Tom Tom
because Tom Tom kept telling us, in his robotic-newsreader voice,
to go straight ahead. There were two other cars in front that had
been blocked by the tree. Of course, no one in those cars spoke
English. Although it really didn't matter because the problem was
obvious.

The driver of the first car told us in sign
language that he'd called someone on his cell I wished I knew how
to say in Italian, Do you have a plan B? But I was pretty sure the
answer was no.

Everyone was standing round as though
someone was going to have some brilliant idea as to how the
enormous tree could be moved. A couple of times we leaned up
against the trunk of the tree and pushed. Nothing happened, except
the mountain rumbled again and the smell of rotten egg gas got
stronger. Everyone but us was talking real fast and waving their
hands about. Gradually, more and more cars stopped behind our
car.

Of course, no one had a chainsaw.

Charlie and me decided we should walk down
the mountain. Dad and Mom didn't like the idea. We tried to
convince them it was like having an each-way bet. Either we'd end
up orphans or they'd end up childless. Mom didn't think it was
funny and told us to be quiet. Actually, Charlie and me didn't
think it was that funny either. We were just desperate.

But then Mom said to us in a real soft
voice, "If anything happens to Dad and me, then you can live with
any relative you like."

A cold shiver swept through me.

Then a small truck came round the bend. The
driver got out and started talking to the other Italians. Everyone
got excited. I wished I could understand them. Why hadn't Mom's
parents taught her Italian? A translation would've been better than
nothing. Dad paced up and down. Then the driver got two crowbars
and some bits of wood out of his truck. Where was the chainsaw?

First, we had to move our cars away from the
fallen tree. The driver lined up the crowbars under the tree and
yelled instructions. Three men, including Dad, got on each crowbar
and managed to lift the tree onto the bits of wood. Everything took
forever, lifting the tree, moving the wood, resting the tree back
on the wood and doing it all again so eventually the tree would
swing around closer to the side of the road. Everyone got involved,
even me and Charlie. We worked in two teams, so one team got a rest
while the other one did the hard work.