The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

  “Even I cannot save you,” his older brother had said during one of their furtive telephone calls. “If I see you, I’ll have to kill you myself, or I’ll be killed, along with our mother and our sisters. Our house is always watched, men waiting for you to return. If our father—may he sleep with Christ—had not been so strong and well liked, we might all be dead by now.”

  “But I didn’t kill the capogruppo!”

  “Then who did, my foolish brother? You were the last to see him; you threatened to tear his heart out.”

  “It was only an expression. He stole from me!”

  “He stole from everyone, mainly from the holds of the cargo ships, and his death cost all of us millions of lire, for he needed our cooperation, our silence.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “Your signora spoke with Mama. She told her you would be safer out of the country, that she would look after you like a son.”

  “Not like any son we know—”

  “Go with her! In two or three years maybe things will change, who knows?”

  Nothing would change, thought Nicolo, turning partially away from the window, his head angled down as if he were still observing the scene below. From the corner of his eye he saw his bella signora sitting across the large room in front of a dressing table. Her hands and fingers were moving quickly, doing odd things with her hair. He watched her, even more bewildered as she wrapped a wide, stuffed corset around her waist, pulled an outsized undergarment down over it, and stood up, studying herself in the mirror. So absorbed was she that she was oblivious of him, not realizing that he was staring at her. She turned in circles, her eyes constantly angled toward her image in the glass. Suddenly, Nicolo was astonished; she was a different woman. Her long, dark hair was no longer attractive; it was knotted at the nape of her neck, straight back and stern. And her face, it was almost pale, or gray, but nothing like it had been—it was actually ugly, with dark shadows under her eyes, the flesh somehow lined and weary, an aging mask of her former self.… Her body was disgusting, a plump pig with no breasts or any indication of the exciting woman it had replaced.

  Instinctively, Nicolo turned back to the window, somehow—he did not know how—realizing that he should not have seen what he saw. Confirmation of his judgment came moments later. Signora Cabrini moved quickly, noisily, across the room and announced:

  “My darling, I’m going to take a shower if this godforsaken place can send the water up three flights.”

  “Certainly, Cabi,” said Nicolo, his eyes on the courtyard café below.

  “And when I’m finished, we must have a long talk, for you’re about to experience the adventure of your life.”

  “Cèrto, signora.”

  “That’s one of the things we’re going to talk about, my beautiful boy. From now on, you speak only Italian.”

  “My father would rise out of his grave, Cabi. He taught all of his children to speak English. He said it was the way to progress oneself. He would whip us at the supper table if we spoke Italian.”

  “Your father was a relic of the war, Nico, when he sold vino and women to the American soldiers. These are entirely different circumstances. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  “When you’re finished, may we go down to the restaurant? I’m very hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry, Nico, but I’m afraid we can’t. We have a lot to discuss. However, I’ve made arrangements with the hotel. You’ll have everything you choose from the menu downstairs. You like room service, don’t you, my darling?”

  “Cèrto,” repeated Nicolo, now turning around as Bajaratt abruptly did the same; she had not wanted him to see her performing in front of the faraway mirror.

  “Va bene,” said the Baj, heading into the bathroom. “Solo italiano. Grazie!”

  She treated him like a fool! thought Nicolo angrily. This wealthy bitch who claimed to find so many delights with his body—as he did with hers, he had to admit—had not treated him so well, so generously, and for so long without a purpose. It had to be, for a handsome dock boy could make thousands of lire bedding an amorous tourist, first carrying her luggage for a tip that was nothing compared to what she paid him later. Benissimo! But this was not the way of Signora Cabrini; she had done too much, constantly talking to him about his honest desires to get an education and leave the piers of Portici, going so far as to deposit funds for him in the Banco di Napoli so he could later better his life—if he accompanied her on a trip. What choice did he have? Left to be hunted by the killers from the waterfront? She kept telling him how perfect he was … for what?

  They had gone to the police in Rome, special police, men who saw them only at night and in darkened rooms, where he had been fingerprinted for documents he signed, but which she kept. Then there were two embassies, again at night, only one or two officials present, and more documents, more papers, and photographs. For what?… She was about to tell him, he knew it, he felt it. “… You’re about to experience the adventure of your life.” What else could it be? And whatever it was, again he had no choice but to accept. For now. There was a saying on the docks that never left him, as eager as he was to leave the docks. “Kiss the boot of the tourist until you can steal it.” For a woman who killed as casually as he had seen her kill, he would do no less. She called him her toy, and he would be her toy. Until he could steal, perhaps.

  Nicolo took another look at the bustling courtyard below, feeling as he had felt during their last weeks in Italy—a prisoner. Throughout those suffocating days he could not leave the confines of wherever they were, whether it was a hotel room, or on board a boat owned by an acquaintance of Cabrini’s, or even in a motor home that the signora would rent so they could move swiftly from place to place. It was all necessary, she had explained, because they had to be in the Neapolitan area, for one day a freighter would sail into port and she had to be there at the first dawn to receive a package sent to her. And, indeed, on a Tuesday evening, while poring over the shipping news in the area’s papers, the freighter in question was listed as arriving shortly past midnight. Long before the sun came up, the signora was gone from their hotel room; when she returned later that morning, without a package, she had announced: “We fly to Marseilles this afternoon, my beautiful young lover. Our journey begins.”

  “To where, Cabi?” She had suggested the shortened name in respect to Nicolo’s deep religious feelings, although, in truth, Cabrini was simply the name of a wealthy estate outside Portofino.

  “Trust me, Nico,” she had replied. “Think of the funds I’ve deposited for your future, and trust me.”

  “You carry no package.”

  “Ah, but I do.” The signora had opened her large purse and removed a thick white envelope. “This is our itinerary—our transportation is confirmed, my darling.”

  “That had to come to you on a ship?”

  “Oh, yes, Nico, some things must be delivered by hand.… Now, no more questions, we must pack—as little as possible, only what we can carry.”

  The dock boy moved away from the window, thinking that the conversation he recalled had occurred less than a week ago, and what a week it had been! From near death in storms at sea to real death on a strange, unbelievable island owned by the strangest old man he had ever encountered. Even this morning, when the seaplane was late due to bad weather, it angered the ancient, sick padrone, who kept screaming that they had to leave. And here, on this other, civilized island, where Cabi went from shop to shop, buying so many articles they filled two bags, along with a cheap suit for him that did not fit.

  “Later, we’ll throw it away,” she had said.

  Nicolo walked aimlessly over to the signora’s dressing table, bewildered by the assortment of creams and powders and small bottles that reminded him of his three sisters in Portici. They were the trucco their papa yelled about so often, even when he was dying and the girls were paraded in to say good-bye to him on his deathbed.

  “What are you doing, Nico?” Bajaratt walked out of the
bathroom, draped in towels, her sudden appearance startling the dock boy.

  “Nothing, Cabi, just thinking of my sisters—all these things on your table.”

  “Surely you know that women are vain.”

  “You don’t need any of those—”

  “You’re a love,” interrupted the Baj, waving him aside and sitting down. “There’s a bottle of passable wine in one of the bags on the table in front of the couch. Open it and pour us some, less for you, for you have a long night of study before you.”

  “Oh?”

  “You may call it part of the education you seek that will permit you to leave the docks of Portici.”

  “Oh?”

  “Bring us our wine, darling.” The wine poured, the glasses in their hands, Bajaratt gave her young charge the white envelope she had received from the freighter in Naples; she told him to sit on the couch and open it. “You read very well, don’t you, Nico?”

  “You know I do,” he replied. “I’ve nearly completed my scuola media.”

  “Then start reading these pages, and as you read, I’ll begin to explain to you.”

  “Signora?” Nicolo’s eyes were riveted on the first page. “What is this?”

  “Your adventure, sweet Apollo. I’m going to turn you into a young barone.”

  “Che pazzía! I wouldn’t know how to behave like a baron.”

  “Just be yourself, as shy and courteous as you are. Americans love modest nobility. They think it’s so democratic, so appealing.”

  “Cabi, these people—”

  “Your lineage, my dearest. They are a noble family from the hills of Ravello who a year or so ago came upon difficult times. They were barely able to pay their bills, their lands and their grand estate were draining them—poor vineyards, overindulgence, wastrel children, all the normal afflictions of the rich. But suddenly, wondrously, they are wealthy again. Isn’t that astonishing?”

  “It’s very good for them, but what has it to do with me—”

  “Read on, Nico,” Bajaratt interrupted. “They have millions now; once more they have great respect, and all Italy worships them. The vicissitudes of the rich run in cycles—long-ago investments rise to the skies, vineyards suddenly become classico, foreign real estate turns to gold—do you follow me, Nico?”

  “I’m reading as fast as I can, listening as hard as—”

  “Look at me, Nicolo,” the Baj broke in firmly. “There was a son. He died of drugs eighteen months ago in the infamous Wädenschwill ghetto. His body was cremated on the orders of the family, no ceremony, no announcements; they were too ashamed.”

  “What are you saying to me, Signora Cabrini?” asked the dock boy quietly.

  “Your age is within a year of his, your appearance quite similar until he was wasted by narcotics.… You are now he, Nicolo, it’s as simple as that.”

  “You’re not making sense, Cabi,” said the boy from Portici, frightened and barely audible.

  “You don’t know how many days I looked for you along the waterfronts, my child-man. Someone who had the modest but imposing presence of everyone’s image of nobility, especially the Americans’. Everything you must learn is written on those pages: your life, your parents, your schooling, your hobbies and accomplishments, even the names of certain family friends and former estate employees, all beyond reach, incidentally.… Oh, don’t look so terrified. Just familiarize yourself, you won’t have to be specific, as I am your aunt as well as your interpreter and I’ll never leave your side. Remember, however, you speak only italiano.”

  “Please … per piacere, signora!” stammered Nicolo. “I’m confused.”

  “Then, as I’ve said before, think of the money in your bank account and do as you’re told. I’m going to introduce you to many important Americans. Very rich, very powerful. They will like you very much.”

  “Because I am this someone I am not?”

  “Because your family in Ravello is investing heavily in American enterprise. You will promise to make contributions to many causes—museums, symphonies, charities—even to certain political men who wish to accommodate your family.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes, but only and always through me. Can you imagine, you may one day be invited to the White House to meet the President of the United States?”

  “Il presidente?” cried the adolescent, his eyes wide, his joyous grin genuine. “It’s all so fantastico, I am in a dream, no?”

  “A dream well thought out, my excitable child. Tomorrow I will buy you a wardrobe fit for one of the wealthiest young men on earth. Tomorrow we start our journey into this dream of yours, this dream of mine.”

  “What is the dream, signora? What does it mean?”

  “Why not tell you, you won’t understand anyway? When certain people hunt for certain other people, they look for the secretive, for the hidden, for the obscure. Not for what’s in front of their eyes.”

  “You’re right, Cabi, I don’t understand.”

  “That’s just fine,” said Bajaratt.

  But Nicolo understood only too well as he hungrily returned to the pages in front of him. On the docks it was called estorsione, the selling back of a kissed, stolen boot for many times its value because its mere presence could bring about the destruction of the owner. His time would come, thought the dock boy from Portici, but until it did, he would enter into the signora’s game with enthusiasm, always remembering that she killed too easily.

  It was 6:45 in the evening when the stranger walked into the lobby of the Virgin Gorda Yacht Club. He was a short, stout, balding man dressed in sharply creased white trousers and a navy blue blazer with the gold and black crest of the San Diego Yachting Association on his breast pocket. It was an impressive emblem, so closely connected as it was to the Americas Cup and all the racing glory that went with it.

  He signed his name on the register. Ralph W. Grimshaw, attorney and yachtsman. Coronado, California.

  “We, of course, have a courtesy exchange with San Diego,” said the tuxedoed clerk behind the counter, nervously checking his files. “I’m rather new on the job, so it may take me a while to figure the discount.”

  “It’s not important, young man,” said Grimshaw, smiling. “The discount isn’t vital, and if your club, like ours, has troubles in these difficult times, why not forget the courtesy? I’d be happy to pay full price—as a matter of fact, I insist upon it.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

  “You’re British, aren’t you, fella?”

  “Yes, sir, sent over by the Savoy Group … for training, you understand.”

  “I sure do. You couldn’t get any better training than in a place like this. I own a couple of hotels in southern Cal, and let me tell you, you send your best young people to the toughest spots to learn how rough it can be.”

  “You really think so, sir? I rather thought otherwise.”

  “Then you don’t know how hotel management works. It’s the way we determine who our most promising up-and-comers are—put ’em into the worst situations and see how they perform.”

  “I hadn’t even considered that—”

  “Don’t tell your bosses I let you in on the secret, ’cause I know the Savoy Group and they know me. Just keep your whistle clean and spot the heavy hitters when they come into town, that’s another secret, the most important one.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. How long will your stay be, Mr. Grimshaw?”

  “Short, very short, a day, perhaps two. I’m checking out a boat we may purchase for our club, then it’s off to London.”

  “Yes, sir. The boy will take your luggage to the room, sir,” said the clerk, glancing around the fairly crowded lobby for a bellhop.

  “That’s okay, son, I’ve only got an overnighter; the rest of my stuff is back in P.R. for the London flight. Just give me the key, I’ll find it. Actually, I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  “A hurry, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m to meet our appraiser down at the marina and
I’m an hour late. Man named Hawthorne. Know him?”

  “Captain Tyrell Hawthorne?” asked the young Englishman, slightly surprised.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not here, sir.”

  “What?”

  “His charter left early this afternoon, I believe.”

  “He can’t do that!”

  “The circumstances would appear to be odd, sir,” said the clerk, leaning forward, obviously impressed by the “heavy hitter” familiar with the Savoy Group. “We’ve received several calls for Captain Hawthorne, all of which were transferred to our head of dock maintenance, a man named Martin Caine, who’s taking his messages.”

  “That’s odd, all right. We paid the guy! Except the name Caine was somewhere in the basket.”

  “Not only that, sir,” continued the clerk, warming up to his new association with the wealthy attorney-yachtsman who had such enviable connections in London. “Captain Hawthorne’s associate—Mr. Cooke, Mr. Geoffrey Cooke—left a large envelope in our safe for the captain.”

  “Cooke?… Of course, he’s our money man. That envelope’s meant for me, young fella. It’s got the breakdown of the replacement cost specifications.”

  “The what, Mr. Grimshaw?”

  “You don’t buy a yacht for two million dollars if the cost of replacing worn-out equipment tallies up to another five hundred thousand or more.”

  “Two million …?”

  “It’s only a medium-size boat, son. If you’ll get me the envelope, I’ll unwind for the evening, then catch the first flight to Puerto Rico and be off to London.… Incidentally, let me have your name. One of our Anglo merger litigants is on the Savoy Group’s board—Bas-comb. Surely you know him.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”

  “Well, he’s going to know who you are. The envelope, please.”