The Namesake Read Online Free PDF Page B

Blume would have regarded a DIA takeover of a case as probably a good thing; now he was not so sure. Clean, focused and effective in the early 1990s, the DIA and its judicial arm, the DDA, were like erstwhile youthful idealists who had become more tired and compromised as they grew older together, both of them being absorbed into the corrupted political system they had once dared to challenge.
    ‘All right, then. I am pleased to hear you are happy in your current position.’
    ‘That is not what I said.’
    ‘As for me,’ Arconti continued, ignoring Blume, ‘I have stayed away from the anti-Mafia magistrates, but I don’t think they would have me anyway. One needs to come across as a bit more . . . a bit more . . .’ He gazed wistfully out the window in search of the word he was looking for.
    ‘Dynamic?’ offered Blume.
    ‘Yes . . . or . . .’
    ‘Decisive?’
    ‘Most of all, you need to be a bit uncaring, which is why I thought of you.’
    ‘You’re just sore because I called you old. I am actually a very caring person,’ said Blume.
    ‘People say you are reticent and secretive. Not very clubbable.’
    ‘I simply believe that you should never tell a friend anything you would conceal from an enemy,’ said Blume.
    ‘That attitude is what makes you ideal for Mafia work. I’ve seen this happen time and again in investigations, and it has happened to me. You seek a confession from a crime boss, and next thing you know he’s implicated half your colleagues, three dear friends and all your superiors. It takes a special type of person to deal with that. Someone who can survive alone. Once you have a confession, if you get one, you can’t be sure who’s telling the truth any more. Maybe you’re being played by your informer or maybe you have been fooled for years by colleagues you thought you could trust. Capturing a boss is like holding a rabid wolf by the ears as it tries to bite your balls off. You want to release your grip, but really you’d better not.’
    He squeezed his eyes shut.
    ‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked Blume after the magistrate had not spoken for a while.
    ‘Do you ever get the feeling you are moving in slow motion?’
    Blume nodded. ‘In dreams all the time. Running away, legs getting heavier and heavier. Something dragging you back.’ He looked at the magistrate who was sitting very still. ‘But not when I’m awake.’
    The magistrate lifted his left hand. ‘Do you ever get the feeling one arm is really light and the other really heavy?’
    ‘If I am wearing a watch, it makes my arm feel heavy and causes my wrist to itch,’ said Blume. ‘And now you’ve reminded me.’
    ‘No, not heavy,’ said Arconti absently. ‘More like it was full of water . . .’ His voice trailed off.
    ‘My speciality is blinding headaches, not heavy limbs,’ said Blume, pulling off his watch and pocketing it. He stared at Arconti, who now seemed to be stroking an imaginary beard, as if he were a doctor diagnosing his own arm trouble.
    ‘I am stroking an imaginary beard,’ replied Arconti.
    ‘I see that. You can stop now,’ said Blume.
    ‘Who is your father, Commissioner?’
    ‘My father’s dead.’ Arconti knew that, damn it.
    ‘No,’ said the magistrate, slowly, weighing up Blume’s reply. ‘ “My father’s dead” is one of the initiation responses used by a Russian vor . An Ndranghetista at Curmaci’s level would reply, “The sun is my father”, though there are variations.’
    ‘Is that what the beard-stroking was about? Were you testing to see if I was an Ndranghetista?’
    ‘Of course not, Commissioner. I wanted to see if you recognized the symbolism. The imaginary beard is Garibaldi’s. Garibaldi, Mazzini and La Marmora are the three secular saints of the Santa . Apart from all else, Commissioner, including my trust in you and your work as a policeman, racially and culturally speaking, you could never have been a santista in the Ndrangheta. It has to be in your