Numbers in the Dark and Other Stories (13 page)

‘How should I know…’ said Enrico, passing a hand over his face, recalling with great weariness the moment when she had run off amongst the bushes, and they had had a bit of a tussle, and it came to him the necklace could perfectly well have fallen off there, so that already he was experiencing the tedium of having to go and look for it, to search that stretch of scrub inch by inch. He felt a prick of nausea. ‘Don’t worry: it’s so big, it’ll turn up… Look in the car… Can you trust the man in the garage?’ (The car was hers. Likewise the garage.)

‘Sure. Leone’s been with us for years and years.’

‘So phone him right away and tell him to look.’

‘What if it’s not there?’

‘Phone me back. I’ll go and look where we got out.’

‘You’re so sweet.’

‘Right.’

He hung up. The necklace. He pulled a face. God only knew what a fortune it was worth. And when Umberta’s husband was unable to meet his debts. Very nice. Yes, this could lead to something very nice indeed. On a sheet of paper he drew a necklace with four strings of pearls, filling it in minutely pearl by pearl. He must keep his eyes open. He turned the pearls in the drawing into eyes, each with its own iris, pupil, lashes. There was no time to lose. He must go and search those fields. Why wasn’t Umberta phoning back at once? The hell it was in the car. ‘You can get on with that on your own,’ he said to the draughtsman. ‘I’ve got to go out again.’

‘Are you going to see the contractor? Remember those papers…’

‘No, no, I’m going to the country. For strawberries.’ And with his pencil he filled in the necklace to make a huge strawberry, complete with sepals and stalk. ‘See, a strawberry.’

‘Always after the women, boss,’ the boy said, smirking.

‘Dirty so-and-so,’ said Enrico. The phone rang. ‘As I thought, nothing. Keep calm. I’ll go now. Did you warn the man in the garage not to say anything? To him I mean, for God’s sake, to what’s his name, his majesty! Good. Yes of course I remember where it was… I’ll phone you… bye then, don’t worry…’ He hung up, began to whistle, pulled on his coat, went out, jumped on his scooter.

The city opened up before him like an oyster, like a halcyon sea. When you’re young and on the move, and especially when you’re driving fast, a town can suddenly open up before you, even a familiar place, a place that’s so routine as to have become invisible. It’s the thrill of adventure does it: the only youthful thrill this prematurely cynical architect retained.

Yes, going after lost necklaces was turning out to be good fun, not boring as he had at first imagined. Perhaps precisely because he cared so little about the thing. If he found it well and good, and if not, too bad: Umberta’s problems were the problems of the rich, where the bigger the figure at stake the less it seems to matter.

And then what could ever really matter to Enrico? Nothing in the whole world. Yet this town he was now racing across, carefree and bold, had once been a kind of fakir’s bed for him, with a shriek, a fall, a sharp nail wherever you looked: old buildings, new buildings, cheap housing projects or aristocratic apartments, derelict shells or building site scaffolding, the town had once presented itself as a maze of problems: Style, Function, Society, the Human Dimension, the Property Boom… Now he looked with the same self-satisfied sense of historical irony on neoclassical, liberty, and twentieth century alike, while the old unhealthy slums, the new tower blocks, the efficient factories, the frescos of mould on windowless walls were all seen with the objectivity of someone observing natural phenomena. He no longer heard that shrill blast as of trumpets at Jericho which had once followed him on his city walks, proclaiming that he would punish the monstrous urban crimes of the bourgeoisie, that he would destroy and rebuild for a better society. In those days, if a workers’ march with its placards and its long tail of men pushing bicycles were to fill the streets towards the police station, Enrico would join in, while above the humble crowd he had the impression there hovered, white and green in a geometric cloud, the image of that Future City he would build for them.

He’d been a revolutionary then, Enrico had, waiting for the proletariat to take over and give him the job of building the City. But the proletarian triumph was slow in coming, and then the masses didn’t seem to share Enrico’s obsessive passion for huge bare walls and flat roofs. So the young architect embarked on that bitter and dangerous season when the flag of every enthusiasm is lowered. His rigorous sense of style found another outlet: seaside villas, which he designed, for philistine millionaires unworthy of the honour. This too was a battle: outflanking the enemy, attacking from within. To reinforce his positions he would strive to become a fashionable architect; Enrico had to start taking the problem of ‘career advancement’ seriously: what was he doing still riding round on a scooter? By now the only thing he was interested in was getting hold of profitable work, of whatever kind. His designs for the City of the Future gathered dust in the corners of his studio and every now and then, while hunting about for a piece of drawing paper, he would find one of those old rolls in his hand and on the back sketch out the first outline of a roof extension.

Driving through the suburbs on his scooter that morning did not prompt Enrico to return to youthful reflections on the squalor of workers’ housing projects. Instead, like a deer after fresh grass, his nose picked up the scent of potential building sites.

Indeed it was a potential site he had been meaning to go and see early that morning when he got into Umberta’s car. They were coming out of a party, she was drunk and didn’t want to go home. Take me to this place, take me to that. For his part Enrico had been toying with the idea for some time: and since they were driving here there and everywhere they might as well go and take a look at a place he knew; there wouldn’t be anybody there at this time of day and he could get a good idea of its potential. It was a piece of property Umberta’s husband owned, some land round a factory. Enrico was hoping that with her help he could get the man to give him a contract for something big. It had been on the way to the factory that Umberta had come close to jumping from the moving car. They were arguing; she was pretending to be more drunk than she was. ‘And where are you taking me now?’ she whined. Enrico said: ‘Back to your husband. I’m fed up with you. I’m taking you to see him in his factory. Can’t you see that’s where we’re going!’ She half sang something to herself, then opened the door. He broke hard and she jumped out. Which was how she had lost the necklace. Now he had to find it. Easily said…

A bushy slope of abandoned land fell away beneath him. He only knew he was in the same place as this morning because the road was dusty and not often used and the tyre marks were still there where he’d braked: aside from that the whole landscape was shapeless; never had the official expression,
terrain vague
, taken on such a precise and subtly disturbing relevance in his mind. Enrico took a few steps this way and that peering between the branches of the bushes at the matted ground beneath: as soon as he set foot on the mean barren earth, insensitive to any footprint, strewn with litter, elusive and indefinable, smeared with a streaky pale light that might have been slug slime, any zest for adventure ebbed, the way a readiness to love shrinks and retreats when met by coldness, or ugliness, or apprehension. He was seized by the nausea that had been coming over him in waves ever since he woke up.

He began his search already convinced that he wouldn’t find anything. Perhaps he should have settled on a rigid method first, established the area where Umberta had probably been, divided it into sectors, scoured it inch by inch. But the whole enterprise seemed so pointless and unrewarding that Enrico went on walking about at random, barely bothering to move the twigs. Looking up, he saw a man.

He had his hands in his pockets, in the middle of the field, bushes up to his knees. He must have sneaked up quietly, though where from Enrico couldn’t have said. He was lanky and lean, pointy as a stork; he had an old military cap pulled down on his head with balaclava flaps dangling like bloodhound ears, and a jacket, likewise military, its shoulders in tatters. He was standing still, as if waiting for Enrico at some threshold.

The truth is he had been waiting there for quite a few hours: since even before Enrico had realized he would have to come. It was the unemployed Fiorenzo. Having got over his first flush of frustration at seeing those two workers snatch what might well be a treasure from under his nose, he had told himself that the thing to do was to stay put. The game was by no means over yet: if the necklace really was valuable then sooner or later the person who had lost it would come back to look for it; and when treasure was at stake there was always the hope you might grab a bit of it.

Seeing the other man standing there motionless, put the architect on the alert again. He stopped, lit a cigarette. He was beginning to take an interest in the story again. He was one of those people, Enrico, who think they have put down foundations in things and ideas, but who really have no other guiding principle in life than their shifting and intricate relationships with others; confronted with the vastness of nature, or the safe world of things, or the order of reasoned thought, they feel lost, recovering their poise only when they get wind of the manoeuvres of a potential enemy or friend; so that for all his plans the architect never actually built anything, either for others or for himself.

Having caught sight of Fiorenzo, Enrico, to get a better idea of what the fellow was up to, went on stooping and searching along a straight line that would take him nearer to the other but not actually to him. After a moment or two, the man also began to move, and in such a way that he would cross Enrico’s path.

They stopped a yard or so apart. The out-of-work Fiorenzo had a gaunt, bird-like face, mottled with scraggy beard. It was he who spoke first.

‘Looking for something?’ he said.

Enrico raised his cigarette to his lips. Fiorenzo smoked his own breath, a small thick cloud in the cold air.

‘I was looking…’ Enrico said vaguely, making a gesture that took in the landscape. He was waiting for the other to declare himself. ‘If he’s found the necklace,’ he thought, ‘he’ll try to find out how much it’s worth.’

‘Did you lose it here?’ asked Fiorenzo.

Immediately Enrico said: ‘What?’

The other waited a moment before saying: ‘What you’re looking for.’

‘How do you know I am looking for anything?’ said Enrico quickly. He had been wondering for a moment whether he should be brutally direct and intimidating, as the police were with anybody scruffily dressed, or polite and formal like urbane and egalitarian city folk; in the end he had decided the latter was better suited to that mixture of pressure and readiness to negotiate which he thought should set the tone for their relationship.

The man thought a little, let out another little puff of air, turned and made to leave.

‘He thinks he’s got the upper hand,’ Enrico thought. ‘Could he really have found it?’ There was no doubt but that the stranger had put himself in the stronger position: it was up to Enrico to make the next move. ‘Hey!’ he called and offered his pack of cigarettes. The man turned. ‘Smoke?’ asked Enrico, offering the pack, but without moving. The man came back a few steps, took a cigarette from the pack, and as he pulled it out with his nails snorted something that might even have been a thank-you. Enrico returned the pack to his pocket, pulled out his lighter, tried it, then slowly lit the other man’s cigarette.

‘You tell me what you’re looking for first,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll answer your question.’

‘Grass,’ the man said, and pointed to a basket laid by the side of the road.

‘For rabbits?’

They had climbed back up the slope. The man picked up the basket. ‘For us. To eat,’ he said and began to walk along the road. Enrico got on his scooter, started up and moved slowly alongside the man.

‘So, you come round here looking for grass every morning, do you?’ and what he wanted to say was: ‘This is your territory in a way, isn’t it? Not a leaf falls here without you knowing about it!’ But Fiorenzo got in first: ‘This is common land, everybody comes.’

Clearly he had understood Enrico’s game, and whether he had found the necklace or not, he wasn’t going to say. Enrico decided to show his hand: ‘This morning somebody lost something right there,’ he said, stopping the scooter. ‘Did you find it?’ He left a pause then, expecting the man to ask, ‘What?’ Which he eventually did, but not before having thought it over a bit: a bit too much.

‘A necklace,’ Enrico said, with the twisted smile of one referring to something that was hardly important; and at the same time he made a gesture as though stretching something between his hands, a string, a ribbon, a child’s little chain. ‘It’s got sentimental value for us. So you give it to me and I’ll pay,’ and he made to pull out his wallet.

The unemployed Fiorenzo stretched out a hand, as though to say: ‘I haven’t got it,’ but then was careful not to say so, and with his hand still stretched out said instead: ‘That’ll be hard work, looking for something in the middle of all this… it’ll take days. It’s a big field. But we can start looking…’

Enrico leant on his handlebars again. ‘I thought you’d already found it. That’s too bad. Not to worry. I’m sorry for you more than me.’

The jobless man tossed away his cigarette stub. ‘The name’s Fiorenzo,’ he said. ‘We can come to some arrangement.’

‘I’m an architect, Enrico Pre. I was sure we could get down to business.’

‘We can come to some arrangement,’ Fiorenzo repeated. ‘So much every day and then so much on delivery of the missing item, whenever that is.’

Enrico almost whirled round, and even as he moved he didn’t know whether he was going to grab the man by the scruff of the neck, or whether he just wanted to test his reactions again. As it turned out, Fiorenzo stopped still without making any move to defend himself, an ironic expression of defiance on his plucked-chicken face. And it seemed impossible to Enrico that the pockets of that skimpy crumpled jacket could hold four strings of pearls; if the man knew something about the necklace, God only knew where he had hidden it.