A Glancing Light

A third man, in a flashier, double-breasted suit, stood a step behind them, his back against the fireplace wall. This one was younger, more fit, olive-skinned. Now and then he would lean over to whisper a few words to one of the Mafiosi, but mostly he let his expressionless eyes wander over the room. Periodically, he would nod peremptorily at someone; the person would eagerly hop up to come pay his respects at the table.

'Who's that other guy?' I asked.

'Secretary,' Ugo said.

'What does that mean, bodyguard?'

'It means secretary,' Ugo said crossly. 'They don't need bodyguards.'

He wasn't really paying attention to me; he was watching the newcomers intently. When his own signal to approach came, it was not from the 'secretary,' but from the white- haired man, who nodded to him with a smile, as a courteous monarch might motion a subject to approach. It was Ugo's turn to pay homage. He licked his lips, straightened his tie, and stood up.

'You think they would enjoy to try the cassata?' he asked Mary.

'Sure,' she said, 'it's pretty good.'

We watched Ugo, all smiles and deference, take the cake to them and put it on a table already loaded with tribute.

'They'll never be able to eat all that stuff,' I said.

'Don't worry about it,' Mary said. 'Fabrizio gives doggie bags.'

'Mary, what did Ugo mean, they don't need bodyguards?'

'They don't need them, that's all. Nobody would dare hurt them.'

'I see.'

'No, you don't see. Nobody would dare to, but nobody would want to, either, Or hardly anybody. Sure, these creeps have turned every third Italian kid into a dope addict, but they also make it possible for everything to work around here. Without the Mafia everybody would be after his own graft, there'd be gang wars all over the place, there'd be a thousand little Mafias. They'd eat us up alive.'

'So one big Mafia is better than a thousand little ones, is that the idea?' I usually thought of Mary as an American married to an Italian. Sometimes I forget she was half-Sicilian herself.

'You better believe it.'

'Well, I see your point, but—'

'Look, there was a back road we took today, coming in from the airport. A few years ago there used to be this gang, like pirates. They worked the road late at night. They used two cars with walkie-talkies, one at either end, and when they got a lone car, they'd head it off and block it from in front and behind at this narrow bridge, to rob it. Sometimes they killed the passengers. It went on for months; nobody could do anything.'

'What about the police?'

'Come on, the Catanian polizia are something else. The only thing that made any difference was when a few people got together and went to the Mafia, to those guys sitting right there. There was no protection fee involved, you understand, no subscription, no Mafia interest. But the gang was giving the area a bad name, and people just expected the Mafia to do something about it.'

'And?'

'And a few mornings later they found the cars the gang was using, burned to crisps near the bridge. Three bodies inside, likewise fried. And that was the end of that. I'm telling you, when these guys go after you, you can forget it.'

'Oh, wonderful. Did I tell you Colonel Antuono thinks it's the Mafia that's trying to kill me?'

She blinked at me. 'The . . . oh, piffle, why would—'

At that moment Ugo returned, flushed and pleased with himself. 'I told them all about you,' he said proudly. 'They were tremendously interested.'

'I'll bet,' I muttered. 'They probably loved finding out I was still in one piece.'

He looked at me peculiarly. 'What?'

'I'll explain later, Ugo.'

'They invite you to their table,' he said. 'They would like to meet you.' He put a hand on my forearm. 'It's an honor, Cristoforo.'

'Well, I'd like to meet them, too,' I said, pushing my chair out from the table.

The dark secretary was standing right behind me, smooth and snaky. 'I am Basilio,' he said in English. 'When they sit down, you sit, too. When they stand up, you go. You are to ask them nothing, only answer. This is understood?'

Basilio, it seemed, was not only secretary but protocol chief, too. He waited, blocking my way until I nodded, then turned and led me to their table.

The two men rose. There were smiles and handshakes and friendly noises. If they were annoyed to find me still breathing, they didn't show it.

The older man with the graceful fingers was mild and courtly. 'Benvenuto a Catania, dottore,' he said. He smelled of soap and cologne.

It occurred to me that I might fare better if they thought I didn't understand Italian. 'Molte grazie,' I said haltingly. 'Mi dispiace, io non parlo bene l'italiano. ' I tried to make it sound as if I'd memorized it out of Berlitz.

Both men laughed pleasantly. The white-haired one waved me politely to a chair and we all sat. I accepted a small glass of dark, sweet wine. The pudgy one spoke quietly over his shoulder to Basilio, who stood at his side.

'They say,' Basilio translated, 'how long do you stay in Catania?'

'Only four days, unfortunately.' It was actually only two days, but I'd learned my lesson: I wasn't going to start advertising my departure time again.

The information was conveyed by Basilio, who was given a second message, this time from the white-haired man. 'They ask, what is your special competence, your expertise?'

'The Renaissance and Baroque periods.'

This seemed to interest them, especially the older man.

'They say,' Basilio said, 'have you familiarity with Sicilian artists of the time?'

'Of course. Montorsoli, Pietro Novelli—they're known throughout the world.' Not household names, perhaps, but why quibble? And oddly enough, I found myself wanting to please the older man.

He was pleased. He chuckled and nodded at me. 'Known throughout the world,' I heard him repeat in Italian.

For a while the three of us sipped and smiled at each other. I was conscious of envious stares from other tables. People were coveting my time with them, fretting that their own turns might be bypassed. Not that mine was doing me much good. For all the information that my clever no-spikka-da-Italian ploy had produced, I might have dispensed with it. There had been no muttered byplay in Italian about bombs or loot or anything else.

I decided to take hold of matters. 'I had an interesting flight here today,' I said.

Basilio translated.

'Ah?' said the pudgy one politely. Either his attention was beginning to wander or he was craftier than I thought. No doubt the latter.

'Yes,' I said, 'I was almost killed by a bomb.'

With a quick stab of his cold eyes Basilio advised me against the propriety of this I repeated it.

Basilio shrugged. 'He says,' he told them in Italian, 'that he encountered many difficulties and delays on his flight.'

There were murmurs of sympathy, bland and perfunctory; nothing more. Something was peculiar here. Even with no more than Basilio's bowdlerized version to go on, their ears should have pricked at mention of the flight, but there had been nothing. Was Antuono wrong? Despite his 'skilled undercover agents' and their months of information-gathering, had he come to the wrong conclusion about who was at the bottom of it all? Or—a fresh, unsettling possibility—had he been purposely misleading me? But why?'

The bald one said something to Basilio.

'They say, where you are from in America?'

'I was born in California.'