Positano
The clean white hotel in Positano was set into cliffs overlooking the sea. It was still Campania; the stinking chaos of Naples was only up the road, but they had entered another world.
The girl at the reception desk gave them a bright smile as they entered. When they had filled out the visitor cards, the girl glanced out of the door and saw the camper van.
‘Is that vehicle yours?’ Her smile seemed a little more forced.
Blume jerked a thumb at Konrad, who was looking around the hotel lobby with an appreciative air. ‘Not mine. His.’
The girl nodded as if in understanding. She looked at the ragged backpack drooped off Blume’s shoulder.
‘Is that your luggage?’
‘I have a suitcase in the camper, too heavy to bother moving.’ He patted his backpack appreciatively. ‘Got all I need in here.’
The girl was now avoiding his eyes.
From the front, the hotel seemed like a single-storey house, but the entrance and lobby areas turned out to be the top floor of a building of three levels that developed in a step pattern downwards towards the sea. From a window on the left, they could see the roof tiles of the next two levels down, the lower of which jutted out into what seemed to be empty space. It was as if the entrance lobby where they now stood was the only part of the building sunk into safe ground. Konrad was unabashedly delighted with the place, at one point even nudging Blume and pointing at the vertiginous prospect, as if Blume, who felt a little giddy, could miss it.
Blume was sure the buildings below were actually nestled safely into the rock and resting, at least in part, on solid earth, but he still walked down the hallway with the same cautious tread he used when shuffling up the aisle of an aeroplane in flight, thinking of what would happen if his foot went through the floor. Konrad’s room was in the lowest of the three buildings to the far left, Blume’s in the building above to the right.
Blume was reassured to find the back wall of his bedroom was thick and uneven and it followed the contours of the rock face. It was cold and slightly damp to the touch. He had a shower to wash off the memory of rats. Then he opened his backpack and took out fresh clothes rescued from the suitcase. Fresh, but wrinkled, so he decided to put them on, lie on the bed, force them into some shape against his body.
The wide rectangular window, which swivelled open on a central hinge so that it could complete a 180-degree turn until the outside panes faced in and the inside panes out, framed nothing but sea. He had to stand right next to it and peer downwards to see the cliff into which the building was embedded. He caught a glimpse of a tiny garden set on a narrow ledge fifteen feet below, large enough for maybe one child to play in, a child with very laid-back parents. A ball dropped from his window would bounce once, bang in the centre of the garden, then fly over the cliff edge and down into the sea for ever.
The air that came in was salty but not clammy. The temperature was perfect. A three-masted tall ship lolled halfway to the horizon, headed out west. He opened his mouth wide and with three deep breaths cleared his mind and gratefully exhaled the threatened headache that had been lying in wait all day.
He expected Konrad any moment now, demanding his notes back, accusing him of bad faith. He flicked through the binder he had taken from Konrad’s suitcase, shaking his head at the sheer number of pages in German. Blume’s German was just good enough to see that the texts dealt with the ceremonies, history and beliefs of the Ndrangheta. One or two articles were in English and the rest in Italian. The leaves were filled with marginalia in blue and red. Konrad Hoffmann was a conscientious and fastidious scholar. No surprise there.
Blume took out the small curved black notebook he carried around in his back trouser pocket, which he used only when he had forgotten or deliberately set aside his larger one. His intention was to note down any points of particular interest among Konrad’s papers that caught his eye, but he gave up after ten minutes to focus instead on the image of the torn Madonna signed on the back by Domenico Megale. Konrad’s putative passport to somewhere, a membership card for something. What was the etiquette about ripping a Madonna in hal f? The Ndrangheta initiation ceremony involved the burning of images of the Archangel St Michael. For all he knew the tearing up of a Madonna was fine. But Konrad should not have it in his possession. Far from a voucher or token of safe conduct, the half Madonna was a death sentence that the foolish German was going to deliver with his own hand.
He picked up the reassuringly heavy handset of the bedside phone and called reception. Yes, the girl told him, they did have a fax and of course she would be happy to send something.
Blume took his Samsung and, after moving icons back and forth like he was trying to solve a tile-puzzle from his childhood, finally found the number pad, pressed ‘1’, held it, and waited.
Massimiliani answered on the third ring.
‘Nice of you to call in. Do you know how many times I have tried to contact you?’
‘No, but I’m sure this clever phone can tell me,’ said Blume.
‘It looks like you’re near Positano.’
‘Very clever phone. Actually, we’re there, in the hotel. We took a bit of a detour to Lake Avernus, which was the mad German’s idea. No reason that I can see, except he says he studied Latin once. Do you have a fax number up there?’ asked Blume.
‘A fax… I suppose we must still have one. Hold on.’
Blume heard the plop of a hand being placed over the mouthpiece, as if Massimiliani felt it was important not to let himself be heard calling out to someone in the room about whether they had a fax.
Finally, Massimiliani was back with a number, which Blume noted down. Very much to Massimiliani’s surprise and annoyance, he hung up as soon as he had finished writing.
The girl behind the desk smiled at Blume as he walked over, but the smile faded as Blume slapped the 83-page document on the desk in front of her and said, ‘You told me you had a fax.’
He wrote the DCSA number on the back of the first page. ‘These need to go out immediately.’
The girl picked up the file and seemed to weigh it in her hand. Then, with what sounded like relief, she said, ‘I can’t fax this: it’s in spiral binding.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Blume. ‘You fire up the fax machine or whatever you have to do, and I’ll rip the pages out and hand them to you one by one.’
‘That’ll take hours. Look, when I said we had a fax…’
‘And that you’d be happy to oblige,’ added Blume.
‘Yes, I did say that but…’ The girl picked up the phone and pressed a number. ‘Dad? I need you up here.’
When the hotel owner arrived at reception, he immediately dismissed his daughter with a curt nod of the head. He then turned to Blume with an expression of loathing, which Blume couldn’t justify unless the girl had telepathically communicated his unreasonable fax demands. He began to explain about the fax again when the manager interrupted him.
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave. Both of you.’
Blume turned around, looking for Konrad, but he was alone in the lobby. Through the window of the hotel he could just see a small part of the rear section of the ridiculous old camper van.
‘Your skinny boyfriend isn’t here. You know how I know that?’ said the manager. ‘I know that because he is at this moment lying naked on a ledge beneath our private garden. There have been complaints. Three children and a very respectable woman have seen him so far. Lucky for him my daughter has been spared the obscenity.’
‘My boyfriend?’
‘Partner, whatever you people call yourselves these days. I should have guessed, two men in a camper. There’s a campsite in Salerno, an hour from here, I’m sure you can park for the night there.’
‘Look, he’s German,’ said Blume in his best soothing voice.
‘Not only that,’ continued the manager, his voice trembling now, ‘he took two of our white towels and a bathrobe with him, when it is expressly written in large red letters on the door that they are not to be removed from the rooms.’
‘He’s still down there?’ asked Blume. ‘On the ledge?’
‘Yes, he is. Unless he’s taken off his bathrobe and dived into the water again. There’s a sign that says no swimming, dangerous currents, but if he can ignore our polite request about the towels, I suppose he’s not going to pay any attention to public notices. He’ll probably dash himself to pieces against the rocks. I’m calling the police.’
Blume pulled out his police badge, placed it on the counter between them, and tapped it with his forefinger, where ‘Commissario’ was written. ‘Before you do that,’ he said, ‘consider that this strange German and I have separate rooms.’
The manager looked at the badge, then picked it up and examined it closely. He looked back at Blume and, for the first time, noticed the fat document on the counter.
‘What is that?’
Blume made a show of checking that they were alone in the lobby, then opened the file, pointing at the German text. ‘These are files belonging to the German. He doesn’t know I have them.’
‘So you two are not…?’
‘I’m investigating him.’
‘Really? Sex crimes?’
Blume shook his head with great sadness and ambiguity.
‘It’s part of an operation. See the number on the back of the first page here? It’s an 06 number to a fax in Rome. It would be good if we could get this to them before the German finds out. The pages will have to be detached leaf by leaf before it can be faxed.’
‘That means he’ll find out,’ said the manager.
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Blume. ‘But once it’s been transmitted to Rome, there’s not much he can do about it. Of course, he mustn’t be allowed to see that you have this.’
‘No, I suppose that makes sense,’ said the manager.
‘Now, as I was about to explain to your beautiful daughter,’ Blume pulled out two fifties from his wallet and put them down on the counter, ‘I realize it will take time and effort, and then there’s the question of the phone bill.’
‘Oh, that,’ said the manager, waving a dismissive hand. ‘We pay a flat rate every two months. We could fax all night without paying a cent more.’
Blume slid the two fifties across the counter. ‘But it’s such a terrible waste of your time. And I am asking for discretion, too.’ He pulled out another two fifties. ‘That one’s for the towels and bathrobe, and to buy some drinks, dinner and ice cream for the lady and the children the German has offended.’
The manager eyed the money and said, ‘Luckily the fax is in the back room, so no one will see. My daughter could do it, if that’s OK, or is it too confidential?’
‘Absolutely fine. I was counting on it, because that way you can give her the two fifties as extra pocket money. The others, of course, are for your guests. I’m paying damages here, and you’re being very helpful.’
The manager hesitated, then, with a look of agony crossing his face, pushed the notes back towards Blume.
‘I am willing to help, but I cannot accept payment for my duties as an honest citizen.’
‘If I have to pick that money off the counter, I’ll charge you with bribery of a public official,’ said Blume.
The manager paled, and his hand froze over the bills, unsure whether to push them away, claw them back, or just let go.
‘I’m kidding,’ said Blume with a laugh.
The manager laughed, too.
‘But I insist,’ added Blume, pushing the notes at him and turning on his heel.
He guessed there was nothing of any use in the series of files being faxed to Rome. They could check if they wanted. The important thing was to seem to be doing something. He returned to his room to wait for Konrad. He opened the window and lay down on his bed, kicking off his shoes and then using his big toes to peel off one sock, then the other, and thought again about the torn Madonna.
His phone vibrated, but did not ring. He must have activated silent mode setting by mistake when he tried to answer it the first time. That would explain all the missed calls.
‘What are you sending us, Blume?’ asked Massimiliani, when he finally relented and answered.
‘Proof that Konrad Hoffmann is interested in the Ndrangheta,’ said Blume.
‘Well, that was pretty well established once his colleagues spotted him leaving the home of an Ndrangheta boss, don’t you think?’
‘Fine, then,’ said Blume. ‘Proof he’s no expert on the Society, despite having met the boss of an important locale in Germany. He’s learning the rudiments of Ndrangheta history and ceremonies. I don’t consider myself a real expert, but I do know that it is a cardinal sin for any member to carry about information on the mysteries and secrets of the Society, so take this as proof he has not been inducted into it. Or maybe he’s doing a double bluff, but I just don’t see it. Konrad is not operating on behalf of the Ndrangheta. I am sure of it.’
‘How did you manage to get these files from him?’
‘I took them. He doesn’t know yet, but he will.’
‘I suppose that’s good work, then. Anything else?’
Blume thought about the torn image of the Madonna, and couldn’t bring himself to tell Massimiliani about it until he himself had a clearer idea. He’d talk to Konrad and see what he could find out. He realized he wanted to give Konrad a chance to explain before reporting to Massimiliani.
‘No, nothing else at this point,’ he said.
‘Keep up the good work,’ said Massimiliani. ‘I think we may be about to learn something this end about Hoffmann and his motivations. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.’
Blume dropped the phone by his side, put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, trying to work out Massimiliani’s tone. The waves broke against sharp rocks at a regular rhythm forty metres below. Far away, seagulls were kicking up a terrible fuss.
A cooling air swirled around his feet, and he flexed his toes, pulled his trousers up to free his ankles, pulled his polo up, and lay there with his stomach bare. Lovely. It would be nice to have Caterina here now, but it was nice, too, maybe nicer, to be all alone on a large smooth white bed. He could stretch out in an X-shape and catch more of the air coming in, along with the distant noise of people shouting, motorbikes, or maybe outboard motors. The seagulls had stopped their clamour, a plane was passing high overhead, and some insects were clicking and chattering near the window. He flipped the pillow over to the cool side, pressed it against the back of his neck.
Damned phone. It was still under his hand, he picked it up — no, it was the one beside the bed. He rolled over, realizing the air had darkened considerably and grown cooler and wetter. ‘Pronto?’
‘Room 17.’
‘Huh?’
‘I’ll meet you there,’ said the manager, his voiced hushed with boyish excitement. ‘You’ll see. I’ve sent my daughter down to you. She’ll be there any moment.’
Someone knocked gently on the door, and Blume jumped out of bed and opened the door.
‘My father said to give you this.’ She handed him a neat stack of A4 paper. ‘And to go down to Room 17 immediately. Down those steps.’
The manager was waiting in the corridor below. ‘The German is not back yet but it’s getting dark. He’ll be here any moment,’ he said. He stopped outside Room 17 and opened the door. Beaming from ear to ear at his own cleverness, he then placed the spiral-bound notes in Blume’s hands. ‘I managed to get them all back into the spine. My fax machine is also a photocopier, so I thought I could copy them for you as I sent them, see? Then you can put this back in his room and the German will be none the wiser.’
Not bad, thought Blume, though he did not like the idea of the hotel manager being in too much on this, and definitely did not want him to watch as he opened Konrad’s suitcase and slipped the document back in. He nodded, took the file and closed the door in the eager manager’s face.
The manager knocked immediately.
‘No,’ said Blume. ‘You can’t come in here.’
The manager’s voice, hoarse with panic and excitement, came from behind the door. ‘The German’s walking up the steps. I just caught a glimpse of him. He’ll come in the door at the end of the corridor. It’ll take him only seconds… He’s going to catch us… Wait.’
Blume heard the manager move away from the door and his footfalls pounding down the corridor. He took his time even so, placing the document carefully in the position he remembered finding it. If Konrad walked in, well, it would be embarrassing, that was all. He closed the suitcase, walked quickly to the door, surveyed the room once more.
He slipped out of the room as the manager came running up the hall, breathless.
‘I pulled hard at the door so he couldn’t open it from the outside. Really hard like it was locked, not like someone was pulling it. He’ll have gone up the cliff path to get in, and then he’ll come down the stairs… that’s him. Quick, we can get out here.’
He ran down the corridor again. Blume followed reluctantly, and they exited the door the manager had been blocking. They ascended the steps back up to the parking area, past the camper van, and back into the hotel. The daughter and her father exchanging theatrical glances, Blume went back down to his room, dissatisfied.
Konrad had been willing to leave the documents unattended for hours. It wasn’t unreasonable to conclude that he didn’t care too much if they were discovered, which meant they had no real importance. Or, at the risk of being too Freudian, it meant Konrad unconsciously wanted them discovered. Maybe he wanted someone to stop him. But from doing what?