A Quiet Death in Italy (Daniel Leicester) by Tom Benjamin

Author:Tom Benjamin [Benjamin, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472131560
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2019-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

4 July 1979. Antonio, who is a quiet sort, picked me up in his car. He’s always struck me as one of those on the fringes and does not play much of a part in our discussions. Yet Carlo appears to trust him – it is always Antonio who is doing the legwork, who has got the leaflets ready, the banners, sets up the projector, looks after the logistics. Each according to their ability, says Mario, and he’s probably got a point – Antonio seems happy in his own quietly industrious way. ‘Nice car,’ I said, although it wasn’t anything special, just a Fiat 128, but still as fastidiously clean and tidy as I would somehow expect from Antonio. ‘I bought it from my earnings,’ he said. There was a southern lilt to his voice. ‘From the packaging factory.’ ‘You were working, then?’ I said. ‘It took me a while to cotton on,’ he said, looking straight ahead, ‘education is power.’ That all added up, why he focused on getting things done, why he preferred to keep his mouth shut. ‘If you ever have any questions,’ I said, ‘about theory, I mean, Marxist theory, or anything else, you can always ask me, in confidence, I mean.’ Now he looked at me, seemingly amused. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and returned his eyes to the road.

Where was that music coming from? Over and over it played – a piano riff … what was it? The opening of an old Paolo Conte track … Then I realised. I scrambled for my phone.

‘Dad?’

‘Rose?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Via Gerusalemme …’ I thought about it, ‘fifteen.’ I was propped up on a sofa, fully dressed, while sun forced a dusty haze into the shuttered room. ‘That song,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise it was my phone. I told you not to play with it.’

‘It’s your favourite song! I thought you would like it!’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘That’s what I was going to ask you! Why aren’t you here?’

I looked at the table, the bottle of Montenegro, the empty glass. The old-style TV, the battered armchair, the mantelpiece crowded with knick-knacks, walls covered with photographs of family, line-ups at political and social gatherings, drawings and photos of building projects. A portrait of Stalin. ‘I had to follow up a lead,’ I said, ‘got stuck at a contact’s.’

‘You’re with a woman!’

‘Sadly, no.’ I sat up. ‘I’m sorry I’m not there, sweetheart. Really, I got distracted—’

‘I hope you used condoms!’ The phone went dead.

‘Good read, is it?’ Franco was standing in the doorway in a filthy white t-shirt, baggy sweatpants and slippers.

‘I fell asleep,’ I said, ‘having delivered you here.’

‘And drinking my booze, I see,’ he said.

‘Just a sip,’ I said.

‘I suppose you’ll be wanting some of my coffee too.’ He shuffled past and went into the kitchen. I checked my watch – Rose would be out before I could make it home. Feeling like a suitably terrible father, I followed him through.

‘You were in quite a state last night,’ I said. ‘Is that how you usually get home?’ I nodded to a wheelchair folded up against the wall.

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