The Wedding Officer

12

THE NEXT morning, as James wrote up his report from the day before, a dapper gentleman was shown into his presence. “An informant,” Enrico said tersely.

The dapper man introduced himself as dottor Lorenzo Scottera. He was, he said, an avvocato, a lawyer, and he wished to give the British some information about known fascists in the area.

James made it clear that he was unable to pay for this information, at which Dr. Scottera became quite impassioned. He did not want money, he said, and even if James had tried to give him some he would certainly have been obliged to refuse it, since the disbursement of funds, however innocently intentioned, might tarnish the validity of his information in the eyes of those James shared it with. He was motivated, he explained, purely by his regard for justice and the rule of law—the calling in which he had spent his professional life—and his admiration for the British, not to mention a strong desire to see the fascist bastards who had profited from the German occupation brought to account. Dr. Scottera indicated, however, that he would not say no if James wished to carry on their discussion over a glass of marsala.

Since it was by now quite late, and James had had no breakfast, this seemed a reasonable suggestion, and they repaired to the bar at Zi’Teresa’s, where Angelo the maître d’ greeted James with the casual wave afforded to an old friend.

James duly ordered two glasses of marsala, a drink he had not tried before. It was sweet, but not unpleasantly so, and rather fortifying. The barman broke a raw egg into each glass just before serving it—a remarkable thing, given the scarcity of fresh eggs at that time. Dr. Scottera seized his even before the barman had finished stirring it, downed the egg in one swallow, and paused reverently to savor the experience before turning to James with a smile of gratitude. He was, James noticed, almost painfully thin.

He proceeded to give James an exhaustive list of people who had benefited from the Germans’ presence. James’s ear was by now becoming accustomed to the rapid torrents of the Neapolitan dialect, which filled every potential pause for breath with a senz’altro or per forza or per questo, and which replaced every full stop with the briefest of commas, and he found he was able to follow without too much difficulty. The more notes he took, the more details Dr. Scottera seemed to be able to remember, and they consumed several more glasses of marsala before the lawyer finally ran out of information.

“Well,” James said, putting down his pen and gesturing to the barman for a bill, “that’s been extremely useful, Dottore. But I’m sure you’ve got clients to attend to.”

“Yes, of course,” the lawyer said, a little reluctantly. Then he brightened. “But I forgot—there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Really? What?”

The lawyer leaned sideways so that he could whisper conspiratorially into James’s ear. “There is a division of German tanks hiding inside Vesuvius.”

It seemed to James that someone had already mentioned German tanks to him during the last few days, but he could not at that moment remember who it had been. “Do you have any proof?”

“I have been told by a highly reliable source, whom I have entrusted on many occasions with my life.”

James paused in his note-taking. “Who’s that?” he asked, his pen hovering over the paper.

“They are going to attack you from the rear. They know they will all be killed, but it is a point of honor with them—they want to die for their Führer.”

James remembered now: Jackson had specifically told him not to listen to any stories about German panzer divisions holed up in Vesuvius. “I’m afraid your source is misinformed,” James said. “That’s been looked into, and it isn’t true.”

Dr. Scottera looked wistfully at the bottles behind the bar.

“There is just one other thing, though…” James said.

Dr. Scottera brightened. “Yes?”

“This trade in black market penicillin. Do you have any idea who’s behind it?”

Dr. Scottera laughed. “But of course. Everyone does.”

“Who is it?” James asked, nodding to the barman for two more glasses of marsala-and-egg.

“The pharmacist, Zagarella. He runs it on behalf of Vito Genovese himself.”

“Would you say so in court?”

Dr. Scottera looked alarmed. “If I attempted to do anything of the kind, I would be killed long before I got to the courtroom.”

“Well, where can I find signor Zagarella?”

“You are not seriously considering arresting him?” Dr. Scottera was now so perturbed that he was getting to his feet, despite the fact that the barman had not yet finished pouring his marsala. “I had no idea that you were thinking of such a rash course of action. Really, as a lawyer I must advise you against it.”

“But the man is a crook, surely?”

They stared at each other across an unbridgeable gulf of understanding. “At least promise me that you’ll keep my name out of it,” Dr. Scottera said, fumbling for his coat buttons.

“Since you’re not prepared to give evidence, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“You think I’m a coward?”

“I think the penicillin market should be stopped. This stealing could put soldiers’ lives at risk.”

Dr. Scottera sighed. “When you’ve been in Naples a bit longer, you’ll understand. To survive in this city, it is necessary to be furbo, crafty. That’s the way things are around here.”

When Dr. Scottera had scurried away, James signaled to the barman for the bill.

“Duecento lire,” the barman said impassively, placing a ticket on a saucer.

James stared at him. Two hundred lire? It wasn’t possible. “È troppo.”

The barman shrugged. Drinking eggs were expensive.

“Un momento.” It was the maître d’, Angelo, hurrying across the room with an anxious smile on his face. “Please. Today they are on the house.”

“I have to pay,” James said doggedly. “Although I shall need a receipt.”

Angelo sighed. From behind his ear he produced a pencil, with which he proceeded to make some calculations on a napkin. The calculations went on for a very long time, and seemed to involve several complex equations, complete with brackets, percentages and conversions in and out of various currencies. Eventually Angelo cried, “Aha,” and struck the barman triumphantly around the head. “Attenzione, cretino! You added it up all wrong.” The correct sum, he informed James with an apologetic smile, was actually forty-five lire.

James handed over a fifty-lire note. “Please, keep the change.”

“You’re very kind.” Angelo hesitated. “Incidentally, I could not help overhearing some of your conversation just now.”

“From all the way back there?”

“I have very keen hearing. I should probably not say this, but Dr. Scottera is right about one thing, at least. To take on the black market would be a very large undertaking, and would make you many enemies.”

James noted that “at least.” “That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.”

After a moment Angelo nodded. “Then may I give you some advice?”

“In this place, I would expect nothing less,” James said drily.

“When it comes to anything to do with the camorra, think carefully about whether to involve your Allies.”

“Why?”

But Angelo’s shrug was all the answer he was going to get.

James went back to the Palazzo Satriano, his mind made up. Jackson had let things slide, clearly, but there was no reason for him to do the same.

“We are going to raid the pharmacist Zagarella,” he told Carlo and Enrico. “I have reason to believe that he may be connected with the black market in penicillin.”

Carlo yawned and scratched himself. “Of course he is connected with it. He runs it.”

“Then why haven’t we put him in prison?”

Carlo shrugged. “We are just three men, and with respect, if we were to start taking on the camorra we’d need an army.”

The more he thought about it, the more Angelo’s suggestion that he involve the Americans sounded like good advice. “This may have escaped your notice, Carlo,” James said stiffly, “but as it happens, an army is just what we have.”

He went downstairs and knocked on one of the windows in the central courtyard. As Jackson had said, the Yanks’ setup was impressive. Doors opened and closed busily, revealing a succession of bustling offices. Orderlies hurried to and fro with piles of papers; pert stenographers busied themselves at typewriters; men in olive green uniforms snapped terse orders at each other. James was suddenly rather ashamed of the comparative lethargy of his own operation upstairs. The surly indifference of Enrico and Carlo—he still had no real idea of what they actually did most of the time—was surely no match for this.

No one came to the window, so he wandered into what seemed to be the main office and waited for someone to talk to him. Eventually he stopped a passing orderly and asked if he could see someone in charge.

“Got an appointment?” the orderly snapped.

“No, I just—”

“I’ll get the book.” He bustled off. James made a mental note to get FSS an appointment book as soon as possible.

“Hey, buddy.”

The voice had come from behind him. James turned. The speaker was a young man of about his own age, seated at one of the desks. He wore a pair of steel-rimmed glasses that at some point had been mended with a piece of copper wire. Even seated, James could tell that he was tall and lanky, an impression confirmed when the American got to his feet. James saluted just as the American stuck out his hand. The American laughed, and saluted too.

“Eric Vincenzo. You’re the new guy at FSS, right?” He waved at a chair in the corner. “What’s up?”

He sat down and swung his own feet up onto the desk. Behind him, a clarinet was resting on a shelf. This, James deduced, must be the perpetrator of the insomnia-inducing jazz that drifted up the stairs each night.

Following James’s gaze, Vincenzo looked alarmed. “You’re not here to complain, are you? Have I been keeping the neighbors awake?”

James assured him that he was not there to complain about the noise, and explained about his planned raid on the pharmacist. The American stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“So you’re thinking of a joint operation? Well, the first thing is to check out this informant of yours. Let’s take a look.” He had pulled the drawer of a filing cabinet, which slid open effortlessly on its runners, and was leafing through some files. “Would that be the same Dr. Scottera who was the secretary of the local fascist party?”

“I don’t think that sounds right.”

“Hmm.” He pushed the drawer shut. “Well, there’s an easy way to check. Come with me.”

James followed him through a succession of rooms, all as busy as the first, until they reached an enormous salon, presumably once the palazzo’s ballroom. In the center of the room was an equally vast filing system, nearly eight feet high, around which more secretaries flitted like bees servicing a honeycomb.

“Goodness,” James said enviously.

“Oh, it’s not ours. We took this from the German Consulate. I’ll say this for the Krauts, they kept immaculate records.” As Vincenzo spoke he was locating the right drawer. “Here we are.” He handed James a folder.

The first item was a letter in Italian from one dottor Scottera, addressed to the German Consul. James quickly scanned it. Dr. Scottera wished, he said, to offer his services as an informant. He made it clear that he did not expect to be paid; indeed, even if Herr Hitler wished to give him some reward for his services, he would be obliged to refuse it, since the disbursement of funds, however innocently intentioned, might tarnish the validity of his information in the eyes of those his handlers shared it with. He was motivated purely by his regard for justice and the rule of law, the calling in which he had spent his professional life, and admiration for the Germans, not to mention a strong desire to see the socialist bastards who had profited from the years of softness and corruption brought to account. There followed a long list of names, many of which were familiar to James from his own conversation with Dr. Scottera, except that on that occasion he had described them as fanatical fascists rather than fanatical communists. The letter ended with a suggestion that the Germans might like to interview him further in a quiet place, such as a bar.

“The little prick,” he said, with some feeling. “He’s been trying to use us to settle his own scores. He even got me to buy him a glass of marsala.”

“That’s the one where the barman puts an egg…?”

James nodded. “You know, I thought at the time he seemed rather emaciated. It was probably the first food he’d eaten all week.”

Eric Vincenzo laughed. “You’ve been fottuto, as they say in these parts. That means—”

“I know what it means,” James said tersely. “Fucked. Screwed over.”

“Yeah—you speak Italian, don’t you?” Eric said, eyeing James carefully. “I noticed that letter didn’t give you any trouble.”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m learning, but it’s a slow business.”

“With a surname like Vincenzo?”

“I’m third generation. My folks wanted me to be a proper little American, so they refused to speak Italian at home. Not that it stopped them from being locked up for six months as enemy aliens when war broke out.” He offered James the file. “Want to trade?”

“Trade what?”

“Well, I reckon that even though your informant’s motives may be less than honorable, he could be quite useful. We’d need to clear it with our COs, but it seems to me a joint operation could benefit both of us.”

Both COs endorsed the notion of a joint operation against the black marketeers, so long as it was under one command. Curiously, the American CO seemed to think this was a job for the British, while Major Heathcote had a strong feeling that it was a task better suited to the Americans. After some internal wrangling, it was decided that for the time being James and Eric would report to Major Heathcote.

The operation took place the next morning at dawn, and was divided into two parts. The Italian carabinieri, under Carlo and Enrico, had been given the task of rounding up the black marketeers on the Via Forcella. Rather to James’s surprise, Carlo and Enrico accepted their mission with enthusiasm, dressing for the occasion like extras from an Al Capone movie, in boaters, blazers, bow ties and spats. From a cupboard somewhere they also broke out a fearsome arsenal of tommy guns, which James hoped they would use with rather more restraint than their matinée idols—although from the way in which the Italians waved the weapons around, he rather doubted it. Meanwhile, James and Eric were to search the pharmacist’s premises.

Signor Zagarella was having his breakfast when they knocked on his door. He received the news that they intended to look for contraband penicillin with equanimity.

“Go ahead.” He shrugged. “You’ll find nothing here.”

They searched for an hour. The apartment was not only bare of penicillin, it was bare of contraband goods of any kind. With a sinking feeling James realized that they had been expected. At last, in a wastepaper basket under the sink, he found a single used vial of penicillin. He showed it to Zagarella, whose expression did not change.

“You’ll have to come with us,” James told him, unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

“To where?”

“To the Poggio Reale, initially,” he said, naming the city prison. “You’ll be held there while we make our inquiries.”

Zagarella said agreeably, “My friend, if you are tired of life in Naples, I can arrange to have you sent away.”

“On the contrary,” James said. “I think that life in Naples is about to get much better.”

The pharmacist shrugged and held out his hands for the handcuffs. “You can put me in Poggio Reale if you like, but I can assure you I won’t be there when you come back.”

It seemed only reasonable to celebrate the success of their collaboration over a drink at Zi’Teresa’s.

“What are you going to do when the war’s over, James?” Eric asked as they finished off a bottle of wine.

James shrugged. “I haven’t really given it much thought. Go back to university, I suppose. They gave us a promise that we could finish our degrees when the war’s over. What about you?”

“I’m going to be a jazz musician. Or possibly a spy. I haven’t decided which yet.”

“Really?” They both seemed unlikely career choices for a grown man. “Presumably you need a degree to be a spy? And being a professional musician can’t be easy.”

Eric shrugged the question aside. “It’s what you decide to do that matters, isn’t it? After that it’s up to you.”

“It is?”

“Of course. This war’s going to change everything, James. Everything’s going to be blown wide open.”

“I was rather hoping everything would go back to the way it was before.”

“Come to America,” Eric said, shaking his head. “You don’t have to go to university in America. You can be whatever you want to be.”

“Well, thank you for the invitation. But I don’t think I’m ready to stop being British just yet.”

Eric laughed and poured some more wine. The bottle was almost empty. He made an imaginary gesture of wringing the bottle out to get the last few drops. “After this, we’ll try the cocktails,” he announced. “They do a pretty good Tom Collins in this place.”

“What’s a Tom Collins?”

Eric laughed again, although James had not in fact been joking. Then, abruptly, his face clouded. “You got a girl, James?”

“Oh, yes,” James said automatically. “Back home, that is.”

“Name?”

“Jane. Jane Ellis.”

“Good name,” Eric said approvingly. “Is she pretty?”

“I suppose she is, rather.”

“Shit, I need a pretty girl,” Eric said. “I haven’t had a pretty girl in weeks.”

“As long as that?” James heard himself saying. “Goodness.”

“An Italian girl, that would suit me. Though not speaking the language doesn’t help.” He raised his glass. “To Allied cooperation, the beginning of our friendship, and Jane.”

James raised his glass. “Per cent’ anni, as the Italians say.” He felt bad about perpetuating the myth of his fictitious fiancée with Eric, but if his work had taught him anything, it was that one couldn’t pick and choose whom one told a particular lie to.

All the same, it was extraordinary how, sitting here in Zi’ Teresa’s, basking in the warm glow of Eric’s Yankee optimism, and with a successful operation against the black market under his belt, the misery over being jilted which he had been carrying around with him for so long seemed suddenly less crushing, and he could almost contemplate a future in which an imaginary Jane was no longer necessary.

As they went to the bar to order their cocktails James spotted a face he recognized. Jumbo Jeffries was sitting on his own, working his way through a large plate of sea urchins.

“Oh, there you are,” he said without much enthusiasm.

“Enjoying your meal?” James inquired.

“Not much.” Jumbo gestured at the plate in front of him. “Elena’s got me eating these. Apparently they’re good for the libido.” Now that James looked more closely, he could see dark rings under Jeffries’s eyes. A religious medal hung around his neck. Jumbo touched it self-consciously. “This too, apparently. It’s all your fault,” he added glumly.

“Mine? Why’s that?”

“It’s those damn English phrases you taught Elena. When I could pretend I didn’t understand her, everything was fine. Now everything’s got much more difficult.” He pushed the plate away from him. “It’s no good. I’m sick of the bloody things.”