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IN PALERMO
I'm in Palermo, a place I love and come back to as often as I
can. There's a lot that suits me here. The pace of life is slower. Goats
carelessly herded by spindly limbed boys in unfashionably short shorts, can
cause a traffic jam. I'm not like some people, losing my temper when my coffee
doesn't arrive on time or when the guy in the car in front of me stops to talk
to his friend or to try and pick up a pretty girl. That's the way things are
here and if you don't like it, if you can't adjust your expectations to the
locals', then don't come.
I'm sitting at a table on the street in front
of an old fashioned cafe, adjusting the level of a glass of ice cold blood
orange juice and waiting.
Just a couple of months ago I was in another
cafe, smack in the middle of no where Nevada waiting for almost the same thing.
That was the Laughing Buddha Cafe and it was owned and run by a guy called
Hitler. He was a nice man and maybe didn't deserve what he got, either in the
name or the way he died but I don't judge. That's not my job.
Now, I'm
back in Europe and that's all right by me. I like Europe. The States, even the
Laughing Buddha Cafe in no where Nevada, lives at a different pace. Every
thing's got to happen yesterday. A day you don't get mail is a day you think you
died. Think about it. Africa's too political for my taste. No one dies there
unless they're politically motivated to do so. I swear and I don't like
politics.
Europe is old, has traditions and here, this country, has
traditions for people like me that go back centuries. No body beefs here. This
thing is done for a reason, they accept it. Tradition.
At the table two
from mine, is a couple; a very young, pretty girl and a quite old but still
handsome man. My Italian is not so good but I understand these two pretty well.
She is eighteen years old, very pretty in gamin androgynous way. Her hair is
wavy and soft brown and her skin is olive tanned and just shiny enough to be
attractive. She's petite, with little expressive hands that flutter like
butterflies when she wants to emphasise some thing she's saying. Her name is
Nicole Sutherland and her father is some sort of billionaire type who thinks
that he has the right to blame other people for the way she's turned out.
The impressive individual she's with is Count Vittorio di Castelli. He's
nearly seventy now but you wouldn't think it to look at him. He's tall, elegant.
His hair is white, his suit is cream coloured, he wears a Panama hat and too
much expensive jewellery. The ring on the middle finger of his right hand, the
one Arturo Capaldi, the cafe owner, bent to kiss when this man sat down, is
probably worth what I make in a year. This is not a reason I find to dislike the
man. He's probably a warm, friendly individual, who was good to his mother, paid
his alimony on time to his ex-wife, took care of his kids' education. This is
not a man I can find one good reason to dislike.
There are those, some
of whom I know personally, mostly young men who think that a relationship
between a man his age and a girl her age personally threatens their masculinity,
who don't like the idea of love between two people of such different ages. You
pick up any airport novella where such a relationship is posited and it never
turns out well. Never. Always the younger person finds another younger person
and bla de bla da, the older person gets ditched. That's a fact. Your dime
novelist can't see that there might be cases, and again I speak from people I
know, where this kind of thing has a happy ending. People don't like it.
Especially when it's an older man and a younger woman. They seem to go out of
their way to prove themselves right. Is this because they genuinely don't think
that the relationship is natural or because they just want to be proved right? I
don't know. I don't judge. That's not in my remit.
Nicole is a real
stunning looking girl and boy does she dress well. I don't know if this is her
papa's money or maybe even the Count buys her what she needs but she dresses so
well. I put this down to her mother. Sadly Arlet died when Nicole was just
twelve years old but I think she influenced her. French aristocracy, bound to
have given the kid some pointers on the taste front.
The count is a
different generation. He has style bred in to him. All right so the bling could
be a little less obvious but ....
You can't buy a man like him. That's
Jude Sutherland's problem. He has no control over his daughter because she has
no respect for him and he can't buy of her 'lover' because the guy doesn't want
his money. what is the poor sap to do. He relies on me to solve his problem and
because I am a professional, I do it by the rules, with respect.
I look
at my watch, my one sign that what I do earns me a more than passable living.
It's a Rolex, 22 carat gold. Paid for by the Laughing Buddha.
Right
about now two young Dutch men will be leaving their hotel three blocks from
where I'm sitting. They booked in last night under the names Ernst Van Keller
and Pick Van de Kyle. They're both in their late twenties, good looking boys and
surprisingly good at what they do. I've used them before and with any luck, I
will use them again.
It proved impossible to use local people. Di
Castelli commands too much respect and any way if I had left the information out
there, in his own back yard, he would be bound to pick up on it. People talk.
People expect people to talk. So I went back to Africa, reacquainted my self
with the Dutchmen and here we all are. Waiting.
I hear her laugh, a
soft, tinkling sound that's like music you hear some times at a fair ground and
if you have memories like mine, it freezes your heart.
She loves this
man. I haven't thought about that till now but it's clear from every thing she
does, from the way she looks at him. She loves him. From the top of his London
made Panama to the soles of his Gucci shoes, she loves him. It doesn't matter to
her that when she drew her first breath this man was already head of his family,
had two son's and a daughter, had buried more men than any one has a right to.
She does not care. What she loves is what she sees now.
For a moment I
stop watching them, close my eyes and just wish there was another way. Am I
getting too old for this? The contract says there is one way for this to end and
that is how it has to be. Why do I care about them? They're nothing to me. I
know them because I have been forced to know them but I shouldn't care about
them.
I open my eyes and look down at the Rolex watch. If I have done my
job and I have, in just two minutes a motor cycle will come around the corner.
It will slow down at the gas station across the road as if to pull in for gas
and then the pillion passenger will do his job, they will speed up and be gone
before any one knows what has happened.
When I first sat down here, I
thought I had a get out. The gas station was having a delivery. The owner came
out to talk to the delivery guy. They were both smoking and I thought then that
that could solve all our problems. But nothing happened and the gas was safely
delivered, the tanker driven away.
I can hear the motor cycle engine.
Low and powerful. What if they skid out of control. It rained earlier in the
day, what if the road's still slick but the sun is out and the road is dry.
Every thing is in my favour.
I see her lean forward to whisper some
thing to the Count. He smiles, touches her cheek. Why do I care if they love
each other? This is not my problem.
Nicole turns to look at the motor
cycle as it draws level. Does she see Van de Kyle draw the gun from his black
leather jacket. I see it. I see their visors down over their faces, I see the
black leather gloved hand reach in to the half open zip.
It all goes in
to slo mo. The bike slows down. The gas station owner stops on his way back to
the office. Arturo Capaldi's son Guido comes to the door of the cafe. Maybe he
has a thing about Harleys too.
Nicole looks horrified. She has seen it.
Damn! She moves in front of the Count. There's no way Van de Kyle can stop
himself. One two three sharp cracks. The Harley's engine roars and they're gone.
I look. Nicole is slumped on the floor, blood, like wine stains her pretty white
dress. The sound of the gun shots still seems to be hitting the buildings.
The Count is on his knees holding his little beloved girl as the life
dribbles from her into a pool on the floor. Guido's mama is screaming. Her
scream the last sound I hear in my head as I stand, pushing my chair backwards.
I have done this job for twenty years. This has never happened to me
before. People don't defy me.
I walk away from the scene I've created.
Rebus, my dog looks up at me as if I'm going to take him out but it's
snowing.
I go down stairs and wait for a second before I enter the
lounge. My husband looks up and I see he's concerned.
"What's up?" he
asks.
"You know I always pooh poohed the idea of characters having a
life of their own and doing what they want... well it just happened."
"Sit down. I'll make you a cup of coffee."
Later, I go back to
my study and select the last two paragraphs, press delete. "No way you do that
to me, you little bitch!" |