Malavita (28 page)

“You haven't got the choice,” Tom said. “If you don't do it, we'll both be lynched. Let's get it over with, this day's gone on long enough. Then I'll buy you a drink.”

I asked him if there was any way to get out of that, at least. He burst out laughing and led me up to the cameras. You can picture the scene – a little platform with microphones on it, a hundred journalists, and the whole world watching.

“Gotta do it, Fred.”

“You sure?”

In other words, are you sure you want to exhibit that hardened villain Giovanni Manzoni to the world? I was exhausted by life in general and in particular by the battle I had just fought. I was about to arouse more reflexes of hatred from all sides. All of humanity was about to curse me in every language, spit on the ground, threaten me, point me out to their children. From east to west, north to south, at sea and on the land, in deserts and cities, among the rich and the poor. Surely the world didn't need this – in fact what it needed was the exact opposite.

That's when I had my idea.

Belle, my diamond, my princess.

I really would be a proper writer if I could find the right words to describe my daughter's look. But who could do such a thing?

She said yes at once when I suggested that she take my place – I couldn't understand why she agreed, but we'd all be the winners. Her face lit up even before she came under the spotlights. And the people saw it, that inner light; they felt it, that inner peace in her heart. When she smiled, each man thought that smile was for him alone. She's a miracle, Belle. A Madonna like her is made to be seen.

She gave good news about the family, and especially about her dad. It was as though she was reassuring the population of five continents about my fate. For a minute Belle was the most famous and the most watched girl in the world. She left the stage, more glowing than ever, with a little gesture that seemed to promise a return.

*

Night finally fell on So Long, and everything returned to normality. The inhabitants returned to their beds after this day of madness, trucks began loading up again, and even the police lay low, awaiting new orders. Tom installed camp beds for my little family at number 9 Rue des Favorites, the Feds' villa. His two lieutenants, each with a pump-action gun, stood guard in the sitting room, while Tom and me leaned on the window sill, knocking back the bourbon we'd been dreaming of all day.

Malavita was trying to sleep, next to the boiler in the basement, wrapped in several metres of bandage. She had had quite enough of this fucking day. The state they'd found her in – who would do such a thing to a dog? When I saw her in that condition, I just wanted to look after her, to help her to recover, and then take her for walks in the forest, play with her in the garden, teach her a few tricks, let her come and go freely, in short give her back a taste for life. I think she felt the same way.

But before that she had a score to settle, and as quickly as possible. And that's exactly what happened that very night, after everyone had gone to sleep. They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Not for her it wasn't. It fell into her mouth, freshly cooked.

She heard the basement window squeaking, and felt someone's presence, and then saw a shape in the dark. The intruder had no idea that the dog was there, in the dark, still alive. She recognized him by his smell, or maybe just by instinct. How could she forget him? You never forget, and you never forgive. What people say about all that is just crap.

In the dark, Matt had found the stairs that would take him up to me. He was prepared to die just to get my guts, and avenge the honour of his family and every other mafioso.
Omertà
would have the final word.

He must have frozen when he heard the growl. A fucking dog? Yes, it was that fucking dog he'd beaten up that afternoon. He didn't even know what it was called.

Malavita.

One of the many names Sicilians call the Mafia.
Malavita
, lowlife. I always thought it had a more melodious sound than “Mafia,”
“Onorevole Società,”
“the Octopus,” or the “Cosa Nostra.” The
Malavita
.

Since I'd been forbidden to refer to my secret society under any name whatsoever, I could still call my dog anything I wanted, and shout her name everywhere, just for old times' sake.

From the condition of the body when they found it the next morning, it seemed that Malavita had leaped at Matt's throat and torn it out with one bite. And I'll lay a bet that she then went straight back to huddle against the boiler and go to sleep, content at last.

An American family, the Browns, moved into an abandoned house in the small town of Baldenwihr, in Alsace.

As soon as they moved in, Bill, the father, found a little shed at the bottom of the garden, and decided to make it his study.