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petroniaQ: Did you actually name all your OCs by concatenating a footballer and a digestive mint flavour?
A: Yes. Yes, I did.
Bruno-and-Giorno-and past!fic. Cunningly I have reposted it here with the proper ending and edits so you're forced to read the whole thing againand comment. Only spoils up to where the scanlations stop, though it's quote standalone to the point that you don't need to have seen/read the canon unquote - I won't be held responsible if you get the wrong idea, though. XD
I joked this is Traffic with more child pr0n but it's not, it's The Berchtesgaden Debriefing with less child pr0n. I should work out the profit margin of writing the same story over and over.
Honour
Part One
"Allow me to outline the situation," Pietro Lampone said, handing me two fingers of Scotch in a cut-crystal glass. "Celso Fernet-Branca does not lack for enemies. He has survived seven attempts on his life to date – that we know of – and I fear not without the inevitable psychological effects, as the man is a renowned paranoiac. For the past several years he has confined his activities to the grounds of his manor, and receives no visitors. His business is conducted through telephone, fax and email. His closest subordinates and allies do not see him in person. He is surrounded at all times by a corps of hand-selected bodyguards, trained professionals, of unfortunately unimpeachable loyalty; we have attempted to suborn them and failed. In any event—" he smiled like a conspirator— "you well understand why we cannot afford to make our involvement in this affair blatant.
"A sniper, no matter how gifted, is out of the question. The cleared property owned by Fernet-Branca extends nearly a kilometre beyond the gated area, and there is no place from which to make a shot. Equally impossible: to enter – how would you say this – guns blazing. The possibility of capture must be minimized; the possibility, in fact, of leaving behind any signature that might implicate us, before or after the event. Discretion and anonymity are paramount."
I took a swig of the Scotch. It was warmer than I would have liked, or perhaps that was the room itself. "Puzzles of intellect have never been my forte, Pietro."
Lampone laughed.
"Every man has a weakness, my friend," he said. "Perhaps that is yours. Keep it in mind. The two of you are not here today because I have failed to do my legwork."
"And what is Fernet-Branca's weakness?"
"Ahh," said Lampone. It was a drawn-out syllable, almost like an exhalation. I noticed he kept his gaze fixed, not on his drink or on me, but on the boy who stood on the other side of his desk. "A matter for poets and doctors to disentangle. Laymen such as you or I might call it..."
He paused.
"Pietro?"
"Beauty, perhaps," said Lampone. "Come here, Bruno."
The boy approached, obedient. At Lampone's gesture he rounded the corner of the desk, so that the lamplight fell full on him. He was perhaps thirteen, with dark hair that fell straight and shining around a heart-shaped face. Clear, wide-set eyes. Most boys that age are unprepossessing, but he was one of those who grew with no gangly awkwardness, only an impression of slender build as they took on height and childish roundness burnt away. He wore white, and stood straight-backed like a soldier at attention. In the dim, warm light he reminded one of the marble angels who officiated at the apse of the Gesù Nuovo.
My hand was clenched around my glass; I had to will myself to relax.
"It transpires," said Lampone, "that our friend Fernet-Branca does occasionally receive visitors after all – a very carefully vetted type of visitor. They are selected in advance, according to photograph, retrieved by one of his bodyguards, and brought blindfolded to the estate. Never the same pickup spot; the same photograph only rarely. The guards, as I have mentioned, cannot be suborned.
"Luckily for our enterprise, the same cannot be said of the man who provides the photographs." Lampone made a gesture that said small wonder. "I have seen his wares, dear child, and you will be as a rose among daisies of the field."
"Is that all?" said the boy, low. It was the first time that evening I had heard him speak.
"Well, now. There is the matter of how to get you out afterward; my friend here will be in charge of that. And, of course." Lampone fished a key from his breast pocket, unlocked the bottom desk drawer and rummaged around. "A weapon to suit the deed. Needless to say you will be searched thoroughly, but I doubt they will turn up such a one as this."
It was a slim, brushed-chrome rod, perhaps ten centimetres long and less than a quarter-centimetre in diameter. Bruno examined it with care, running a finger along its length. Then he grasped it in one hand, positioned his fingers deliberately and made a peculiar twisting motion with his wrist.
A stiletto blade shot out of the end of the rod, too fast to be anything but spring-loaded. The point gleamed wickedly in the lamplight. Bruno did something else, and the blade retracted slowly. Before I could ask, he lowered his head and – with an entirely natural gesture, as if it were part of his daily routine – slipped the rod into the braided part in his hair.
"As for the rest, follow your judgment," said Lampone. "You will need to be at quite close range, of course."
***
"A delicate matter," Lampone said after the door closed behind the boy. "A very delicate matter, if if you don't mind me saying... My friend, your thoughts are written on your face as plain as day, and you'll do well to put them away. The cardinal rule of mousetraps is not to stick your finger into the same one you just set."
"That child—"
"Mother of God! Don't be fooled. It has the face of a Madonna but the soul is the devil's own." Lampone indicated the door with fore- and midfinger. "A fisherman's son, that. You remember Giovanni Gnocchio? When that child was ten he killed two of Gnocchio's men with the knife his father used to clean fish. Not a qualm, as if he were gutting tuna. Throat to belly—" Lampone made an illustrative gesture— "zip!
"It won't be his first man, my friend, and it won't be his last." Lampone tossed back his drink and grimaced. "In more senses than one, I don't doubt. They start young these days."
He didn't have it in his eyes, I wanted to say, but the comment seemed inane.
Lampone rose, went to the sideboard and returned with the bottle of Scotch.
"Events are moving fast," he said. "We must see them through."
I downed the contents of my glass and held it out for the refill. "I thought he was Fernet-Branca's greatest ally."
"He is, still," said Lampone, giving me a warning look.
"Insofar as the rest of the organization is concerned. Who takes the fall this time? Garofano? Cannella?"
"The walls have ears, my friend—"
"There was a time before which we did not have to worry about such things," I said. "I can tell you when that time was."
Lampone sighed and ran a distracted hand through the sparse cover of his crown.
"We cannot afford to pick the losing side," he said. "We cannot even afford to lie low until the storm blows over. Do you understand? If this mission is successful we will know something no others will. It's one step closer to establishing his trust in us."
"And one step closer to the day we know too much. There's no such thing as trust to him. Have you seen his face, Pietro? Has anyone still alive today? I'm not asking a rhetorical question."
"Belcaro has. I believe. But one way or the other the point is moot." Lampone shook his head. "Don't look at me like that. You may not like the game we're playing, my friend, but we've been dealt in and the cards are stacked. It is not a choice. You've heard of 'stand users', haven't you? The rumours?"
The alcohol was beginning to lose its taste. "If rumour is the word for it."
"Quite. There's no honour to be salvaged here; not anymore. Only survival, and that as long as we're careful."
We were both silent. Lampone tilted his glass, gazing into the bottom as if engaged in some act of divination.
"I'm afraid I must trouble you to return to Naples again," he said after a moment. "I'll let Polpo know, he'll take the boy in. I'm sorry to lose such talent but we simply cannot risk him being found in the city after this."
"The rumours say every stand user to date has passed through Polpo's hands," I said. Lampone shrugged.
"Who knows?" he said. "This may yet work to our advantage, in the end."
Part Two
The scent of orange blossom in the darkness.
A movement in the shadows caught my attention. I removed the cigarette I was about to light from between my teeth and flattened into the grass, squinting. It was a variably overcast night, the moon waning past half – reasonable luck when the date wasn't ours to pick.
As I watched the moon came into view from between scudding clouds, only to disappear again. In the tenuous illumination the moving shadow resolved itself into Bruno, bent nearly double and scrambling his way down the slope, toward the orchard where I was situated. Every few steps he paused and glanced around, visibly trying to establish his position. There were no pursuers.
I looked at my watch: five minutes to two. One couldn't fault his punctuality.
When he was less than fifty metres away from the perimeter I sat up and struck my lighter several times to catch his attention. When I was certain he could see me I held up two fingers, then made the gesture for stop.
He did. After a minute or so the moon reemerged, and he crouched down in the grass. For my part I rose to my feet, retreating into the relative obscurity of the treeline. We watched each other across the invisible barrier, nerves attuned to the least sound. Twenty seconds, nineteen, eighteen...
The explosions tore through the silence, barely muffled despite distance. Bruno didn't need my signal. He was up and running, crossing the infrared sensors well ahead of the second blast. Sirens joined those that had already began to wail on the other side of the compound, lost in the cacaphony.
I ran as well. Floodlights came on behind us, throwing stark shadows in our path. Branches whipped at my face. Bruno was a step behind me; I didn't look back.
The bike was hidden on the other side of the orchard, where the trees were delimited by the curve of a dirt path. I tossed Bruno the passenger helmet, gunned the engine as he climbed on behind me.
"Hold on," I said. He locked his arms around my waist, and I felt more than saw him nod.
***
"Where are we going?"
I glanced at him, then returned my eyes to the road. We had arrived back in the city about forty minutes later, then switched to a prearranged car in an underground parking lot. The entire time he had said nothing, except to confirm that the mission had been accomplished.
He didn't seem hurt; not visibly at least. I couldn't tell if he was still carrying the knife.
"Naples," I said. "The organisation there will take care of you. You'll have to lie low for a while."
He bowed his head at that. The fall of his hair shifted to half hide his face. He'd dressed as well as he could for the exigency, I noticed: dark jeans and a shirt of some flimsy material that left his arms and shoulders entirely bare. Foolish questions queued in my mind: Should I turn off the air conditioning? You probably want to get out of those clothes. Is there anything you need to pick up before – anyone—
"Do you have family?" I said. "Siblings, maybe? Your parents—"
He didn't flinch, exactly, but a tension came into the lines of his body.
"...My father," he said, quietly, after a long moment. "He's in the hospital."
"Which hospital?"
Silence.
"I'll take you there now. They'll let you in if you're with me."
Still nothing. Fair, but there was only so much time.
"Listen, I don't give a damn what they're holding over your head right now, but this is probably the last—"
"Please!"
It brought me up short. After a pause he went on, lower but no less fierce, "Please don't misunderstand. The group helped us when we had nowhere else to turn. They protected us from harm. The reasons don't matter. Even now they take very good care of us... of my father."
He met my eyes.
"This is my choice. No one made it in my place."
The conviction in that gaze was too much to bear. I looked away.
"I understand," I said. "I apologize for my presumption."
He looked surprised, as if he hadn't expected the retraction. I fumbled for cigarettes one-handed and lit one.
"The hospital – will you tell me?"
After a hesitation he did.
***
I gave him half an hour. It made the risk quota for the night.
The door was ajar, and as I approached I could see he was sitting on a chair beside the bed, holding his father's hand between his. Not talking, not crying – just sitting and watching his father's face. The man's eyes were closed; he could have been asleep.
He wasn't going to wake up. I'd had a chat with the nurse at the front desk, but I could see for myself. One of my friends had overdosed on heroin that way, years ago. After they revived him the body kept breathing but the man was gone, as if he'd walked out of his flat and left the lights on. You don't forget what it looks like.
Fernet-Branca had been in the illegal drug trade; so had Gnocchio. Lampone dabbled as well. It wasn't a monopoly.
I waited for Bruno to notice me, then tapped my wrist. He nodded.
"Father," he said, "I'm going now." He stood up, bent over the man and kissed him on the forehead, once. Then he turned and preceded me out of the room. He didn't look back.
***
After we got back into the car he said, simply, "Thank you."
I shrugged. "Didn't cost me anything."
"You didn't gain anything from it either," he said. Then, after a pause, "May I... sleep for a while?"
There wasn't much of a response to make to that. "Go ahead," I said. "Lever's under the seat if you want to lower the back."
Two red lights later I glanced over and saw that he was already asleep, in the deep, unguarded way exhausted children sleep: limbs slack, lips half parted. That much he hadn't lost. I let the engine idle, took off my jacket and drew it over him to the shoulders.
It was going to be a long drive.
Part Three
The sun was high by the time he stirred and sat up, pushing the hair out of his eyes.
"Sir," he said, "where are..."
"Just entering the city," I said. "How do you feel?"
"Fine," he said. Then, looking at me, "Really. I am."
"That's good to know. Are you hungry?"
"A little, but—"
"We're going for lunch. You ever been to Naples?"
"No," he said, "I haven't."
"Then you've never had a real pizza."
He stared at me. Then he smiled. It was a nice smile, per expectation.
***
I took him to Giambattista's. Polpo would be expecting us, but Polpo was a man whose patience I had no qualm about testing. I considered it the least of my charitable works.
Bruno seemed more relaxed, but he wasn't talkative and I didn't want to pry. There wasn't much worth telling about myself either, so I stuck to neutral subjects like history. He was interested, would've been one of the bright kids in school. He asked questions. Once or twice he even laughed.
"So they really thought tomatos were poisonous?"
I shrugged. "Some red fruits are. Who was to know? Naples was under Spanish rule at the time, and it was the Spaniards who brought them in galleons from the New World. Nowadays it would be like produce that landed in a spaceship." I illustrated with my hands. "Killer tomatos from outer space!
"Of course someone was hungry or fool enough to try it, sooner or later. Probably within a week of not dying he had the idea of spreading some slices on a slab of wood-fire dough, with herbs, and that was the birth of your classic marinara. The margherita came a century and a half afterward, during the reign of Queen—"
Giambattista gave a ponderous cough. I looked up to see that Gianluca Rabarbaro had just walked in, and five of his men filed through the door behind him as I watched.
Bruno glanced at me quickly, eyes wide. I shook my head very slightly, leant back in my chair and waited. Rabarbaro came right up to us, and his men took up relaxed positions around our table.
"I thought you'd be here," he said.
I kept my hands in plain view. "It's good to see you too, Gianluca. How's Polpo treating you these days?"
He had the grace to look fleetingly embarrassed. "You walked away from this town, Raffaele," he said. "Some of us have a living to make."
"I don't blame you for that," I said. "I just wonder what you're thinking right now. Where's the big hurry that it can't wait until after lunch? Or did you bring your men out here to treat them to Battista Menta's calzones?"
"Polpo wants to see the boy for himself," said Rabarbaro. "He's heard a lot about him from Lampone."
"Funny how we were just going to pay him a visit."
"Of course," said Rabarbaro. "But you never know. Polpo hates missing a chance to satisfy his curiosity; he doesn't leave the house that often these days."
"Let's go," said Bruno. He addressed Rabarbaro, but didn't take his eyes off me. "We were done with lunch anyway."
***
Polpo's "house" was the local minimum-security prison. A year or two ago he'd chosen not to walk away from a racketeering charge, for reasons that were apparent: no guard could have mistaken us for the family visit.
"Security you can't buy on the open market," I said to Rabarbaro, who only shrugged.
"The boy goes first," he said. "Polpo wants a word with you as well, but he only receives one guest at a time."
Bruno looked at me. What was there to say? Do what you believe is just, and carry yourself as a man, with honour – but he didn't need to hear it from me. He was doing a better job of it than I was.
So I said, "Go," and because he was within arm's length I reached out and ruffled his hair, roughly. It was the first and last time I touched him. He nodded and followed Rabarbaro through the door.
At the turn of the corridor he glanced over his shoulder, and I thought he smiled.
I sat back in my chair like any man in a waiting room since the world began, be it an antechamber to jail or hospital or Hell itself. Half an hour later Rabarbaro returned to escort me through the metal detectors.
***
Polpo had been grossly fat for as long as I'd known him. Now it was as if he'd expanded to fill the confines of his glass-walled cell, like a lump of sourdough rising in a mixing bowl. The effect was disorienting, as if every other item of furniture in the room were the wrong size by comparison.
Bruno was not present. Nor had I crossed him on my way in.
"I've made arrangements for the boy," Polpo said, seeing me scan the room. "You can set your mind at ease, Raffaele."
"What do you intend to do with him?"
There was no need to ask, but the question slipped out. Polpo smiled at me. He was holding a basket of figs on his lap, and rolled one between his hands, caressing its blue-black skin with his bulbous thumbs.
"Much has changed in Naples since you left," he said, "I fear not all for the better. Do you know, I have been positively bleeding subordinates? I don't mind telling you in confidence, as an old colleague in the business. They're transferred away as soon as I have them trained up. He puts them to good use, but it leaves me in a lurch.
"Foot soldiers like Rabarbaro are all very well, I don't lack for those, but a good aide must have talent... competencies... a natural edge. If they don't come by it naturally something can be done, but either way it's best to start them young. You see my meaning, don't you?"
I did. I saw his meaning. For the space of a heartbeat it was all I could see, and if he'd been within range of my fists I would have struck him. But an inch of bulletproof glass separated us, and in this game knowledge was power. He would still have won.
"I understand," I said, after a moment. "Convey the boy my regards."
"You did me a favour bringing him here, Raffaele," said Polpo. "You and Pietro both."
As I turned away he lifted the fig to his mouth and bit it in half, neatly, without bothering to peel.
Coda
"The boy's here to see you," Giambattista said, looming in the doorway and wiping his hands on his apron. After a contemplative pause he added, "the other boy."
It took me a few seconds to catch his meaning. Just what I needed. "I left town. You know that."
"He says he was watching the back and saw you come in."
"Just kick him out the—"
"He's sitting on a crate on the other side of the street. Says he'll wait as long as it takes."
I stared at him. Giambattista merely held his palms out at his sides, in the impassive attitude of an empty-handed ballboy.
I took a deep breath, let it out. Poured myself another glass of Chianti; there wasn't a third left to the bottle, but it didn't look like I was going to get to finish it in peace. "Send him in, then, Battista. Let's get this over with."
A minute or two later Giambattista ushered the boy to my table and took his leave, as imperturbable as ever. I nearly asked him to bring another bottle, but we were still a few hours from sundown.
The boy slid into the chair opposite mine, and I looked him up and down. A different school uniform from when I'd first seen him, a different, straightbacked way of sitting, but not much taller. The mother was Asian – Japanese, I'd been told – but the father wasn't, and it showed. He had dark, straight hair that wasn't quite black, and dark eyes that revealed themselves to be green under direct lighting, as if behind some kind of camouflage. That was a good word to describe him when we'd first met, camouflage. He'd been more quiet than any child should have had to be, quiet enough that one could forget he existed. If he weren't always watching.
He was quiet now, watching me. But no one could overlook those eyes now.
I'd seen another gaze like that, not so long ago. Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it down so I could speak.
"Has your stepfather hit you again?"
He shook his head once, from side to side.
"What about school? Anyone giving you problems there?"
"No, sir, no one has."
He was unfailingly polite.
"So why are you here? I told you not to come back to this neighborhood."
For a moment he didn't answer. Then he said, carefully, "I have a wish – a request, sir, if you will grant it to me."
It was as if the room had gone still. I knew what was coming.
"I want to join your—"
"No!"
Glassware clinked. Haruno flinched away, his eyes wide; that more than anything else brought me back to myself. I kept my hands flat where I'd slammed them on the table, breathing deep, willing the anger down. It wasn’t for him, and he shouldn't have to see it.
"I think you've misunderstood something," I said finally. "Do you think I helped you out of kindness? Because I'm a good man?"
"Sir, I—"
"Listen to me carefully. I took you under my protection because you saved my life. That put me in your debt. I've killed men, and I've collected debts; I know the worth of each one to the last lira. I don't like owing you anything, so I repaid you. Now we're even."
He said nothing. So I continued.
"The gang doesn't take care of people because it's just. It takes care of people because every service rendered is a favour, to be repaid with another favour down the road. Another kind of currency.
"That's all there is where I live: favours, debts, and profit. Join the gang and you'll owe the men who took you in – the people you protect will owe you – and pretty soon you'll owe the ones whose blood gets on your hands. It's not kindness, and it's not justice. Don't go looking for things where they don't exist."
He was silent for a long time. I could tell he understood: best for him to learn the lesson before it was too late. I considered getting up and leaving.
Then he said,
"Do you think that's right?"
I stared at him. He held my gaze, head lifted, and his green eyes were completely fearless.
"I know I'm young," he said, "too young to be a useful member or do much good. But I promise to do only what is right; it doesn't matter what other people think. And—" only the slightest of hesitations— "if you don't think what's happening is right. I'll help change it. I'll do all that I can."
If you don't think what's happening is right.
I thought of Bruno. For a moment I couldn't speak; the sensation was akin to vertigo.
Lampone had said, it is not a choice. But of course it was.
Of course it was.
It was my turn to be silent. He waited. Finally I said, "I know you would. I believe you. But it's not your war to fight."
"But sir—"
For the first time he sounded like a pleading child. I had to smile.
"You're persistent, so I'm going to make sure you don't do anything rash," I said. "I'll spread the word. Call in favours if I have to. No gang in Naples will touch you, and no one will take you in, for as long as they know I'm alive. So don't try. Stay in school and make something of yourself. You understand me?"
He looked stricken. I stood, retrieved my wallet and dropped a few bills on the table for Giambattista.
"Keep your freedom, Haruno Shiobana," I said. "Keep your honour. Someone has to, in this world."
Then I turned and left. There was work to be done.
Author's Notes
The moral of this story is that child pr0n is not seigi-licious
Now that I'm done with it I see that it really is a counterpart to The Berchtesgaden Debriefing, if not an antithesis. It's not a shift in my perception, only what's appropriate to the characters and story differs - though I wouldn't have been capable of writing this at the time I (thought I) was capable of writing tBD.
I was falling asleep even in the act of writing last night so what I said afterward was pretty muddled. XD The point is, I think, that the protagonist cannot save Bruno - not because it's impracticable, although it is, but because Bruno himself made a choice that he believes to be right. In the moral system of the series 覚悟 is sacred. Thus he tries to eliminate the possibility that Giorno should have to make the same choice, knowing that the problem goes down to the root of the system. It's not an uplifting tale, unless you know what eventually happens.
In any case Bruno may be materially helped but his soul doesn't need saving, because his goodness is essential. As most goodness in the series is. XD Sensibly speaking a propensity for self-sacrifice is also something that needs rescuing from but this is where canon diverges.
...Mostly it was a tricky line to walk because I thought, hey I haven't done that Dashiell Hammett nameless first person narrator thing for a while, I wonder why, haha - very soon I realised why. =_= You can't put a toe out of line, even Raymond Chandler fucks up and gets insufferably sappy once in a while.
A: Yes. Yes, I did.
Bruno-and-Giorno-and past!fic. Cunningly I have reposted it here with the proper ending and edits so you're forced to read the whole thing again
I joked this is Traffic with more child pr0n but it's not, it's The Berchtesgaden Debriefing with less child pr0n. I should work out the profit margin of writing the same story over and over.
Honour
Part One
"Allow me to outline the situation," Pietro Lampone said, handing me two fingers of Scotch in a cut-crystal glass. "Celso Fernet-Branca does not lack for enemies. He has survived seven attempts on his life to date – that we know of – and I fear not without the inevitable psychological effects, as the man is a renowned paranoiac. For the past several years he has confined his activities to the grounds of his manor, and receives no visitors. His business is conducted through telephone, fax and email. His closest subordinates and allies do not see him in person. He is surrounded at all times by a corps of hand-selected bodyguards, trained professionals, of unfortunately unimpeachable loyalty; we have attempted to suborn them and failed. In any event—" he smiled like a conspirator— "you well understand why we cannot afford to make our involvement in this affair blatant.
"A sniper, no matter how gifted, is out of the question. The cleared property owned by Fernet-Branca extends nearly a kilometre beyond the gated area, and there is no place from which to make a shot. Equally impossible: to enter – how would you say this – guns blazing. The possibility of capture must be minimized; the possibility, in fact, of leaving behind any signature that might implicate us, before or after the event. Discretion and anonymity are paramount."
I took a swig of the Scotch. It was warmer than I would have liked, or perhaps that was the room itself. "Puzzles of intellect have never been my forte, Pietro."
Lampone laughed.
"Every man has a weakness, my friend," he said. "Perhaps that is yours. Keep it in mind. The two of you are not here today because I have failed to do my legwork."
"And what is Fernet-Branca's weakness?"
"Ahh," said Lampone. It was a drawn-out syllable, almost like an exhalation. I noticed he kept his gaze fixed, not on his drink or on me, but on the boy who stood on the other side of his desk. "A matter for poets and doctors to disentangle. Laymen such as you or I might call it..."
He paused.
"Pietro?"
"Beauty, perhaps," said Lampone. "Come here, Bruno."
The boy approached, obedient. At Lampone's gesture he rounded the corner of the desk, so that the lamplight fell full on him. He was perhaps thirteen, with dark hair that fell straight and shining around a heart-shaped face. Clear, wide-set eyes. Most boys that age are unprepossessing, but he was one of those who grew with no gangly awkwardness, only an impression of slender build as they took on height and childish roundness burnt away. He wore white, and stood straight-backed like a soldier at attention. In the dim, warm light he reminded one of the marble angels who officiated at the apse of the Gesù Nuovo.
My hand was clenched around my glass; I had to will myself to relax.
"It transpires," said Lampone, "that our friend Fernet-Branca does occasionally receive visitors after all – a very carefully vetted type of visitor. They are selected in advance, according to photograph, retrieved by one of his bodyguards, and brought blindfolded to the estate. Never the same pickup spot; the same photograph only rarely. The guards, as I have mentioned, cannot be suborned.
"Luckily for our enterprise, the same cannot be said of the man who provides the photographs." Lampone made a gesture that said small wonder. "I have seen his wares, dear child, and you will be as a rose among daisies of the field."
"Is that all?" said the boy, low. It was the first time that evening I had heard him speak.
"Well, now. There is the matter of how to get you out afterward; my friend here will be in charge of that. And, of course." Lampone fished a key from his breast pocket, unlocked the bottom desk drawer and rummaged around. "A weapon to suit the deed. Needless to say you will be searched thoroughly, but I doubt they will turn up such a one as this."
It was a slim, brushed-chrome rod, perhaps ten centimetres long and less than a quarter-centimetre in diameter. Bruno examined it with care, running a finger along its length. Then he grasped it in one hand, positioned his fingers deliberately and made a peculiar twisting motion with his wrist.
A stiletto blade shot out of the end of the rod, too fast to be anything but spring-loaded. The point gleamed wickedly in the lamplight. Bruno did something else, and the blade retracted slowly. Before I could ask, he lowered his head and – with an entirely natural gesture, as if it were part of his daily routine – slipped the rod into the braided part in his hair.
"As for the rest, follow your judgment," said Lampone. "You will need to be at quite close range, of course."
***
"A delicate matter," Lampone said after the door closed behind the boy. "A very delicate matter, if if you don't mind me saying... My friend, your thoughts are written on your face as plain as day, and you'll do well to put them away. The cardinal rule of mousetraps is not to stick your finger into the same one you just set."
"That child—"
"Mother of God! Don't be fooled. It has the face of a Madonna but the soul is the devil's own." Lampone indicated the door with fore- and midfinger. "A fisherman's son, that. You remember Giovanni Gnocchio? When that child was ten he killed two of Gnocchio's men with the knife his father used to clean fish. Not a qualm, as if he were gutting tuna. Throat to belly—" Lampone made an illustrative gesture— "zip!
"It won't be his first man, my friend, and it won't be his last." Lampone tossed back his drink and grimaced. "In more senses than one, I don't doubt. They start young these days."
He didn't have it in his eyes, I wanted to say, but the comment seemed inane.
Lampone rose, went to the sideboard and returned with the bottle of Scotch.
"Events are moving fast," he said. "We must see them through."
I downed the contents of my glass and held it out for the refill. "I thought he was Fernet-Branca's greatest ally."
"He is, still," said Lampone, giving me a warning look.
"Insofar as the rest of the organization is concerned. Who takes the fall this time? Garofano? Cannella?"
"The walls have ears, my friend—"
"There was a time before which we did not have to worry about such things," I said. "I can tell you when that time was."
Lampone sighed and ran a distracted hand through the sparse cover of his crown.
"We cannot afford to pick the losing side," he said. "We cannot even afford to lie low until the storm blows over. Do you understand? If this mission is successful we will know something no others will. It's one step closer to establishing his trust in us."
"And one step closer to the day we know too much. There's no such thing as trust to him. Have you seen his face, Pietro? Has anyone still alive today? I'm not asking a rhetorical question."
"Belcaro has. I believe. But one way or the other the point is moot." Lampone shook his head. "Don't look at me like that. You may not like the game we're playing, my friend, but we've been dealt in and the cards are stacked. It is not a choice. You've heard of 'stand users', haven't you? The rumours?"
The alcohol was beginning to lose its taste. "If rumour is the word for it."
"Quite. There's no honour to be salvaged here; not anymore. Only survival, and that as long as we're careful."
We were both silent. Lampone tilted his glass, gazing into the bottom as if engaged in some act of divination.
"I'm afraid I must trouble you to return to Naples again," he said after a moment. "I'll let Polpo know, he'll take the boy in. I'm sorry to lose such talent but we simply cannot risk him being found in the city after this."
"The rumours say every stand user to date has passed through Polpo's hands," I said. Lampone shrugged.
"Who knows?" he said. "This may yet work to our advantage, in the end."
***
Part Two
The scent of orange blossom in the darkness.
A movement in the shadows caught my attention. I removed the cigarette I was about to light from between my teeth and flattened into the grass, squinting. It was a variably overcast night, the moon waning past half – reasonable luck when the date wasn't ours to pick.
As I watched the moon came into view from between scudding clouds, only to disappear again. In the tenuous illumination the moving shadow resolved itself into Bruno, bent nearly double and scrambling his way down the slope, toward the orchard where I was situated. Every few steps he paused and glanced around, visibly trying to establish his position. There were no pursuers.
I looked at my watch: five minutes to two. One couldn't fault his punctuality.
When he was less than fifty metres away from the perimeter I sat up and struck my lighter several times to catch his attention. When I was certain he could see me I held up two fingers, then made the gesture for stop.
He did. After a minute or so the moon reemerged, and he crouched down in the grass. For my part I rose to my feet, retreating into the relative obscurity of the treeline. We watched each other across the invisible barrier, nerves attuned to the least sound. Twenty seconds, nineteen, eighteen...
The explosions tore through the silence, barely muffled despite distance. Bruno didn't need my signal. He was up and running, crossing the infrared sensors well ahead of the second blast. Sirens joined those that had already began to wail on the other side of the compound, lost in the cacaphony.
I ran as well. Floodlights came on behind us, throwing stark shadows in our path. Branches whipped at my face. Bruno was a step behind me; I didn't look back.
The bike was hidden on the other side of the orchard, where the trees were delimited by the curve of a dirt path. I tossed Bruno the passenger helmet, gunned the engine as he climbed on behind me.
"Hold on," I said. He locked his arms around my waist, and I felt more than saw him nod.
***
"Where are we going?"
I glanced at him, then returned my eyes to the road. We had arrived back in the city about forty minutes later, then switched to a prearranged car in an underground parking lot. The entire time he had said nothing, except to confirm that the mission had been accomplished.
He didn't seem hurt; not visibly at least. I couldn't tell if he was still carrying the knife.
"Naples," I said. "The organisation there will take care of you. You'll have to lie low for a while."
He bowed his head at that. The fall of his hair shifted to half hide his face. He'd dressed as well as he could for the exigency, I noticed: dark jeans and a shirt of some flimsy material that left his arms and shoulders entirely bare. Foolish questions queued in my mind: Should I turn off the air conditioning? You probably want to get out of those clothes. Is there anything you need to pick up before – anyone—
"Do you have family?" I said. "Siblings, maybe? Your parents—"
He didn't flinch, exactly, but a tension came into the lines of his body.
"...My father," he said, quietly, after a long moment. "He's in the hospital."
"Which hospital?"
Silence.
"I'll take you there now. They'll let you in if you're with me."
Still nothing. Fair, but there was only so much time.
"Listen, I don't give a damn what they're holding over your head right now, but this is probably the last—"
"Please!"
It brought me up short. After a pause he went on, lower but no less fierce, "Please don't misunderstand. The group helped us when we had nowhere else to turn. They protected us from harm. The reasons don't matter. Even now they take very good care of us... of my father."
He met my eyes.
"This is my choice. No one made it in my place."
The conviction in that gaze was too much to bear. I looked away.
"I understand," I said. "I apologize for my presumption."
He looked surprised, as if he hadn't expected the retraction. I fumbled for cigarettes one-handed and lit one.
"The hospital – will you tell me?"
After a hesitation he did.
***
I gave him half an hour. It made the risk quota for the night.
The door was ajar, and as I approached I could see he was sitting on a chair beside the bed, holding his father's hand between his. Not talking, not crying – just sitting and watching his father's face. The man's eyes were closed; he could have been asleep.
He wasn't going to wake up. I'd had a chat with the nurse at the front desk, but I could see for myself. One of my friends had overdosed on heroin that way, years ago. After they revived him the body kept breathing but the man was gone, as if he'd walked out of his flat and left the lights on. You don't forget what it looks like.
Fernet-Branca had been in the illegal drug trade; so had Gnocchio. Lampone dabbled as well. It wasn't a monopoly.
I waited for Bruno to notice me, then tapped my wrist. He nodded.
"Father," he said, "I'm going now." He stood up, bent over the man and kissed him on the forehead, once. Then he turned and preceded me out of the room. He didn't look back.
***
After we got back into the car he said, simply, "Thank you."
I shrugged. "Didn't cost me anything."
"You didn't gain anything from it either," he said. Then, after a pause, "May I... sleep for a while?"
There wasn't much of a response to make to that. "Go ahead," I said. "Lever's under the seat if you want to lower the back."
Two red lights later I glanced over and saw that he was already asleep, in the deep, unguarded way exhausted children sleep: limbs slack, lips half parted. That much he hadn't lost. I let the engine idle, took off my jacket and drew it over him to the shoulders.
It was going to be a long drive.
***
Part Three
The sun was high by the time he stirred and sat up, pushing the hair out of his eyes.
"Sir," he said, "where are..."
"Just entering the city," I said. "How do you feel?"
"Fine," he said. Then, looking at me, "Really. I am."
"That's good to know. Are you hungry?"
"A little, but—"
"We're going for lunch. You ever been to Naples?"
"No," he said, "I haven't."
"Then you've never had a real pizza."
He stared at me. Then he smiled. It was a nice smile, per expectation.
***
I took him to Giambattista's. Polpo would be expecting us, but Polpo was a man whose patience I had no qualm about testing. I considered it the least of my charitable works.
Bruno seemed more relaxed, but he wasn't talkative and I didn't want to pry. There wasn't much worth telling about myself either, so I stuck to neutral subjects like history. He was interested, would've been one of the bright kids in school. He asked questions. Once or twice he even laughed.
"So they really thought tomatos were poisonous?"
I shrugged. "Some red fruits are. Who was to know? Naples was under Spanish rule at the time, and it was the Spaniards who brought them in galleons from the New World. Nowadays it would be like produce that landed in a spaceship." I illustrated with my hands. "Killer tomatos from outer space!
"Of course someone was hungry or fool enough to try it, sooner or later. Probably within a week of not dying he had the idea of spreading some slices on a slab of wood-fire dough, with herbs, and that was the birth of your classic marinara. The margherita came a century and a half afterward, during the reign of Queen—"
Giambattista gave a ponderous cough. I looked up to see that Gianluca Rabarbaro had just walked in, and five of his men filed through the door behind him as I watched.
Bruno glanced at me quickly, eyes wide. I shook my head very slightly, leant back in my chair and waited. Rabarbaro came right up to us, and his men took up relaxed positions around our table.
"I thought you'd be here," he said.
I kept my hands in plain view. "It's good to see you too, Gianluca. How's Polpo treating you these days?"
He had the grace to look fleetingly embarrassed. "You walked away from this town, Raffaele," he said. "Some of us have a living to make."
"I don't blame you for that," I said. "I just wonder what you're thinking right now. Where's the big hurry that it can't wait until after lunch? Or did you bring your men out here to treat them to Battista Menta's calzones?"
"Polpo wants to see the boy for himself," said Rabarbaro. "He's heard a lot about him from Lampone."
"Funny how we were just going to pay him a visit."
"Of course," said Rabarbaro. "But you never know. Polpo hates missing a chance to satisfy his curiosity; he doesn't leave the house that often these days."
"Let's go," said Bruno. He addressed Rabarbaro, but didn't take his eyes off me. "We were done with lunch anyway."
***
Polpo's "house" was the local minimum-security prison. A year or two ago he'd chosen not to walk away from a racketeering charge, for reasons that were apparent: no guard could have mistaken us for the family visit.
"Security you can't buy on the open market," I said to Rabarbaro, who only shrugged.
"The boy goes first," he said. "Polpo wants a word with you as well, but he only receives one guest at a time."
Bruno looked at me. What was there to say? Do what you believe is just, and carry yourself as a man, with honour – but he didn't need to hear it from me. He was doing a better job of it than I was.
So I said, "Go," and because he was within arm's length I reached out and ruffled his hair, roughly. It was the first and last time I touched him. He nodded and followed Rabarbaro through the door.
At the turn of the corridor he glanced over his shoulder, and I thought he smiled.
I sat back in my chair like any man in a waiting room since the world began, be it an antechamber to jail or hospital or Hell itself. Half an hour later Rabarbaro returned to escort me through the metal detectors.
***
Polpo had been grossly fat for as long as I'd known him. Now it was as if he'd expanded to fill the confines of his glass-walled cell, like a lump of sourdough rising in a mixing bowl. The effect was disorienting, as if every other item of furniture in the room were the wrong size by comparison.
Bruno was not present. Nor had I crossed him on my way in.
"I've made arrangements for the boy," Polpo said, seeing me scan the room. "You can set your mind at ease, Raffaele."
"What do you intend to do with him?"
There was no need to ask, but the question slipped out. Polpo smiled at me. He was holding a basket of figs on his lap, and rolled one between his hands, caressing its blue-black skin with his bulbous thumbs.
"Much has changed in Naples since you left," he said, "I fear not all for the better. Do you know, I have been positively bleeding subordinates? I don't mind telling you in confidence, as an old colleague in the business. They're transferred away as soon as I have them trained up. He puts them to good use, but it leaves me in a lurch.
"Foot soldiers like Rabarbaro are all very well, I don't lack for those, but a good aide must have talent... competencies... a natural edge. If they don't come by it naturally something can be done, but either way it's best to start them young. You see my meaning, don't you?"
I did. I saw his meaning. For the space of a heartbeat it was all I could see, and if he'd been within range of my fists I would have struck him. But an inch of bulletproof glass separated us, and in this game knowledge was power. He would still have won.
"I understand," I said, after a moment. "Convey the boy my regards."
"You did me a favour bringing him here, Raffaele," said Polpo. "You and Pietro both."
As I turned away he lifted the fig to his mouth and bit it in half, neatly, without bothering to peel.
***
Coda
"The boy's here to see you," Giambattista said, looming in the doorway and wiping his hands on his apron. After a contemplative pause he added, "the other boy."
It took me a few seconds to catch his meaning. Just what I needed. "I left town. You know that."
"He says he was watching the back and saw you come in."
"Just kick him out the—"
"He's sitting on a crate on the other side of the street. Says he'll wait as long as it takes."
I stared at him. Giambattista merely held his palms out at his sides, in the impassive attitude of an empty-handed ballboy.
I took a deep breath, let it out. Poured myself another glass of Chianti; there wasn't a third left to the bottle, but it didn't look like I was going to get to finish it in peace. "Send him in, then, Battista. Let's get this over with."
A minute or two later Giambattista ushered the boy to my table and took his leave, as imperturbable as ever. I nearly asked him to bring another bottle, but we were still a few hours from sundown.
The boy slid into the chair opposite mine, and I looked him up and down. A different school uniform from when I'd first seen him, a different, straightbacked way of sitting, but not much taller. The mother was Asian – Japanese, I'd been told – but the father wasn't, and it showed. He had dark, straight hair that wasn't quite black, and dark eyes that revealed themselves to be green under direct lighting, as if behind some kind of camouflage. That was a good word to describe him when we'd first met, camouflage. He'd been more quiet than any child should have had to be, quiet enough that one could forget he existed. If he weren't always watching.
He was quiet now, watching me. But no one could overlook those eyes now.
I'd seen another gaze like that, not so long ago. Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it down so I could speak.
"Has your stepfather hit you again?"
He shook his head once, from side to side.
"What about school? Anyone giving you problems there?"
"No, sir, no one has."
He was unfailingly polite.
"So why are you here? I told you not to come back to this neighborhood."
For a moment he didn't answer. Then he said, carefully, "I have a wish – a request, sir, if you will grant it to me."
It was as if the room had gone still. I knew what was coming.
"I want to join your—"
"No!"
Glassware clinked. Haruno flinched away, his eyes wide; that more than anything else brought me back to myself. I kept my hands flat where I'd slammed them on the table, breathing deep, willing the anger down. It wasn’t for him, and he shouldn't have to see it.
"I think you've misunderstood something," I said finally. "Do you think I helped you out of kindness? Because I'm a good man?"
"Sir, I—"
"Listen to me carefully. I took you under my protection because you saved my life. That put me in your debt. I've killed men, and I've collected debts; I know the worth of each one to the last lira. I don't like owing you anything, so I repaid you. Now we're even."
He said nothing. So I continued.
"The gang doesn't take care of people because it's just. It takes care of people because every service rendered is a favour, to be repaid with another favour down the road. Another kind of currency.
"That's all there is where I live: favours, debts, and profit. Join the gang and you'll owe the men who took you in – the people you protect will owe you – and pretty soon you'll owe the ones whose blood gets on your hands. It's not kindness, and it's not justice. Don't go looking for things where they don't exist."
He was silent for a long time. I could tell he understood: best for him to learn the lesson before it was too late. I considered getting up and leaving.
Then he said,
"Do you think that's right?"
I stared at him. He held my gaze, head lifted, and his green eyes were completely fearless.
"I know I'm young," he said, "too young to be a useful member or do much good. But I promise to do only what is right; it doesn't matter what other people think. And—" only the slightest of hesitations— "if you don't think what's happening is right. I'll help change it. I'll do all that I can."
If you don't think what's happening is right.
I thought of Bruno. For a moment I couldn't speak; the sensation was akin to vertigo.
Lampone had said, it is not a choice. But of course it was.
Of course it was.
It was my turn to be silent. He waited. Finally I said, "I know you would. I believe you. But it's not your war to fight."
"But sir—"
For the first time he sounded like a pleading child. I had to smile.
"You're persistent, so I'm going to make sure you don't do anything rash," I said. "I'll spread the word. Call in favours if I have to. No gang in Naples will touch you, and no one will take you in, for as long as they know I'm alive. So don't try. Stay in school and make something of yourself. You understand me?"
He looked stricken. I stood, retrieved my wallet and dropped a few bills on the table for Giambattista.
"Keep your freedom, Haruno Shiobana," I said. "Keep your honour. Someone has to, in this world."
Then I turned and left. There was work to be done.
Author's Notes
Now that I'm done with it I see that it really is a counterpart to The Berchtesgaden Debriefing, if not an antithesis. It's not a shift in my perception, only what's appropriate to the characters and story differs - though I wouldn't have been capable of writing this at the time I (thought I) was capable of writing tBD.
I was falling asleep even in the act of writing last night so what I said afterward was pretty muddled. XD The point is, I think, that the protagonist cannot save Bruno - not because it's impracticable, although it is, but because Bruno himself made a choice that he believes to be right. In the moral system of the series 覚悟 is sacred. Thus he tries to eliminate the possibility that Giorno should have to make the same choice, knowing that the problem goes down to the root of the system. It's not an uplifting tale, unless you know what eventually happens.
In any case Bruno may be materially helped but his soul doesn't need saving, because his goodness is essential. As most goodness in the series is. XD Sensibly speaking a propensity for self-sacrifice is also something that needs rescuing from but this is where canon diverges.
...Mostly it was a tricky line to walk because I thought, hey I haven't done that Dashiell Hammett nameless first person narrator thing for a while, I wonder why, haha - very soon I realised why. =_= You can't put a toe out of line, even Raymond Chandler fucks up and gets insufferably sappy once in a while.
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Date: 2006-08-22 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-22 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-22 04:05 am (UTC)I've seen a HK triad flick in which one of the characters would read the Young & Dangerous comic constantly... actually I have this story idea that involves Mista reading Pink Dark Boy, and the missing Thus Spake Kishibe Rohan episodes one through fifteen. XD
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Date: 2006-08-22 04:17 am (UTC)