Chapter 36 Fon
Fon
It was late when Fon left his brother’s house, pulling the green pedestrian door closed behind him till it clicked.
His own home was only three minutes’ walk away but he slid off his jacket and slung it over one shoulder as he walked.
It was still suffocatingly hot and the day had been long.
His body ached, but a cold shower would put everything right.
Fon turned the corner and walked past the bakery that sold Rafa’s favourite pasticciotti; he knew the lights would be on again in a few hours, the ovens heating up …
A dog trotted past him, its nose in the air curiously, as if he had a stray sausage in his pocket.
A small run of scooters had been badly parked alongside a graffitied wall and he was briefly transported back to his younger self and the years when he had run with Luigi and Gino, getting up to the same antics.
He still saw them, of course, when he went back to Tricase Porto, but so much had changed in the past few years, it was as if they were all entirely different people.
From this direction, he approached his villa by the garden first. Unlike his brother’s extravagant courtyard, with its fountain and trees and riotous flowers in pots, this was much smaller; but it was private and still large for the port.
He’d had some olive trees planted for Rafaella when they moved in but they had struggled to take here, the narrow street and high walls thwarting the sunlight.
They weren’t dead, but nor were they thriving, and they hadn’t produced any harvest at all as yet.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
He stopped at his front door. It was narrow and unassuming. People walked past every day, unaware of the identity of the man living here, and he preferred it like that. Dante was drawn to money and luxury – swagger – but Fon was more interested in quiet power.
‘Rafa?’ he called down the hallway.
He peered into the kitchen. It was clean and tidy, all the dishes cleared away – unlike his brother’s house, which more often looked as if an earthquake had hit it.
He glanced in at the sitting room, too: the cushions were plumped, the flowers set in fresh water.
The new television gleamed in the corner like a trophy, but he wasn’t convinced Rafa had ever switched it on.
He climbed the stairs. Was she already asleep? It was after midnight …
He passed the guest bedroom, which no one had ever stayed in, and immediately stepped back again, his brain taking a moment to process what his eyes had shown him: his beautiful wife, asleep on the covers, surrounded by three very clean and scrubbed children wearing pyjamas so new they still held the fold creases.
He stared down at them, trying to make sense of the scene.
The two girls looked to be no more than four, although the boy was nearer to ten, eleven maybe.
For a brief moment he had a flashback to that morning, all those years ago, among the oaks and the cattle.
A slaughter of the innocents … The usual wave of nausea rose up through his throat, but he was familiar with it now and could swallow it down.
He placed a hand on Rafaella’s foot and her eyes flew open. He saw her relief on recognizing that it was ‘only him’ and felt a rush of pleasure that the sight of him consoled her.
‘What’s going on?’ he whispered.
She pressed a finger to her lips, checking on the sleeping children before inching off the bed. He watched as she drew the sheet over their shoulders, pressing a hand to their foreheads and cheeks as if checking their temperatures. She was a natural mother, as he had always known she would be.
They walked through into their bedroom next door and he listened as she explained the events of her day.
‘Brother Savelli is going to let me know more tomorrow,’ she said. ‘The Church keeps up-to-date records of its parishioners, so with any luck they’ll have an aunt or uncle or grandparent here who can look after them.’
‘Yes.’
She looked at him, pinning him with her gold-flecked eyes, knowing he had never been able to refuse her when she held him in their gaze. ‘But until then, until we know more, I’d like to keep them here.’
He swallowed. ‘Rafa, it’s best to let the authorities take care of this. The Church is well equipped to deal with this sort of situation, not to mention there are procedures to follow. We can’t just take in a stranger’s children.’
‘Their mother’s just died, Fon, and their brothers and sister are still in the hospital. They’re completely alone. We can’t abandon them in their hour of need … Please.’
He looked into her eyes. She had so much love to give; just not to him. Or at least, not in the way she had given to Cosimo. No matter how much Fon gave her or how long he waited, it was never enough. And he feared it never would be.
‘… Fine.’
‘Thank you,’ she said as he moved away, beginning to untuck his shirt. He could feel her watching him. ‘… Did you hear about Fede Franchetti?’
He glanced over. ‘Yes, I was just with Dante. He’s making some calls.’
‘Do you have any idea who would do such a thing?’
He sighed. ‘Fede works for the state attorney, Rafa. I’m sure there are many people who’ve got a grudge against him: people he’s convicted, their families …’
‘Has a ransom demand been issued?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘So then, do you think they’ll …?’ Her voice rose with fear.
‘I’m sure there will be one tomorrow,’ he said quickly. ‘There’s usually a lag between kidnap and ransom demand. Whoever’s got him has probably been too busy covering their tracks today. Once they’re sure he’s somewhere secure, they’ll make contact with the family.’
‘I just can’t believe this could happen to them! As if that family hasn’t been through enough …’
‘It’s callous,’ he agreed.
Rafaella was pacing now, biting her nails.
‘You mustn’t take it to heart,’ he said softly, wishing he could take her in his arms and that she would find comfort there.
‘Everything will be fine. The Franchettis are rich. They’ll pay the ransom and it’ll all be over within a few days.
That’s usually how these things work.’ The papers were full of such stories lately, particularly in Palermo and Naples.
‘Sometimes they drag on, though,’ she fretted. ‘Don’t you remember that mayor who disappeared for nine months, and he was so weak by the time they released him, he died a week later?’
Fon sighed again, pushing off his shoes with his opposite foot and sinking onto the bed.
He had been on the road for several days and was weary.
‘Like I said, the Franchettis have money – not to mention Filippo must have people working on it behind the scenes. He’s a government minister.
They’ll know how to bring an end to it quickly. ’
‘Who is Dante talking to?’
He glanced up at her as he pulled off his socks. ‘What?’
‘You said he was making some calls.’
‘Oh. His supplier in Rome is asking around for him.’
She turned away, agitated. ‘As if a cigarette importer can shed any light on the kidnapping of a lawyer!’ Her tone was unintentionally withering, drawing a sharp look from him.
‘You’d be surprised. Lawyers smoke a lot of cigarettes.’ He shrugged. ‘He has his sources …’
She wheeled back to him. ‘What if you went up there?’
‘Me? What good would that do?’
‘You’re clever, Fon. You can read people and you pick up on things most people miss. If you were to speak with Fede’s colleagues or … or even go to the Franchettis’ place of residence.’
He frowned. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re from Tricase. Old bonds matter at a time like this. They know you.’
‘They know me as the man who accidentally killed their daughter!’ He paused, seeing how she recoiled, still, at any mention of Romola.
‘You really think they’d want to see me, of all people, at a time like this?
’ He shook his head. ‘There’s nothing they would tell me they won’t have told the police. ’
‘But you know better than anyone what the police are like – they make all the right noises but they’re always in someone’s pocket, being paid off.
’ She pinned a suspicious look on him. She had never explicitly asked him how the police had been dissuaded from pressing charges for Romola’s death but he suspected that, as the years went by, she had come to understand there had been offstage manoeuvrings of some sort; that his agreement to ‘save’ Cosimo had been pledged with his foot already on the scales.
He looked away again.
‘Please, Fon,’ she implored him. ‘We owe it to Romola’s memory. We can’t just sit by and do nothing! We have to do everything we can to help her family.’
He rubbed his face in his hands. ‘But it would take most of a day travelling each way, and I’ve got meetings booked. I’m supposed to be in Taranto and Bari and …’
She came and sat beside him, somehow dogged and gentle at the same time. ‘Can’t you reschedule them? You’re the boss, after all. I would go to Rome myself, but now, with those children needing looking after …’
His head lifted at the prospect of her going to the capital and reinstating herself with the Franchettis. ‘… Fine,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll go. But don’t get your hopes up.’
She had been his wife for three years now, and Cosimo was practically living as a monk somewhere – but the Franchettis still cast long shadows. He couldn’t take any chances.
Breakfast was quiet, even with five of them in the room.
The children stared at Fon from across the table as if he was the intruder.
Their eyes were too large in their heads, their cheeks sunken.
It was the look of lack, poverty’s hard mark upon the body, and he felt his sympathy stirred for these helpless creatures.
He himself hadn’t been so very far off that mark when he’d been their age.
But look at him now, with his noble house and beautiful wife. Happy endings could come from harsh beginnings. He was living proof.