The War Council

Saturday, 1:05 PM. Hotel Bella Vista.

At one o’clock Nonno Gino moved the wedding from four to six, and at five past one he called a war council.

He held it at the east end of the lobby, beside the potted palm, because that was where his late wife had always sat when they came to this hotel for anniversaries, and because from there he could see the front door, the stairs, and the Espositos.

The Espositos had held their own council at the west end of the lobby, by the lifts. It had started at exactly the same moment as his. Gino did not think this was a coincidence.

“Report,” said Gino.

His family reported.

Cousin Fabio reported that he had filmed the whole lobby this morning, including the moment when Zia Carla left the ground, and that the video now had four thousand views, and that nobody believed it was real.

Zia Carla reported that she had not left the ground, that it was a bad bottle of Lambrusco, and that if Fabio showed the video to anyone else she would remove him from her will, where he currently was not.

Uncle Tonino reported that he had called every wine shop in the city and they were all closing for the afternoon.

Bruno the chef reported, through a messenger, that he now had four hundred tortellini, eleven litres of capon broth, a very large ragù, and nothing to drink, and that if this continued he would not be responsible for his actions.

And Giulia’s mother reported that Giulia was out in the city, with her hair done and her dress in a bag, looking for Matteo in every church, bar and bookshop between here and the river, and would not come back without him.

Gino listened to all of it with his hands folded on the head of his walking stick. The machine on his wrist beeped twice, then settled.

“And the gift?” he said.

Nobody had anything to report about the gift.

At the west end of the lobby, Assunta Esposito rose to her feet. She came across the marble toward him, alone, holding her handbag in front of her. The Rossis went quiet. The Espositos went quiet. Even the lift, arriving, seemed to go quiet.

“Mr. Rossi,” said Assunta.

“Madam.”

“My son is missing.”

“I know. I have been saying so since nine o’clock.”

“You have been saying that someone stole him. Nobody stole him. Nobody could steal him. He is thirty-one and he is a very sensible boy.” She held the handbag tighter. “But he isn’t answering, because his phone is on the bed. And he isn’t here. And my sister’s stomach cannot take any more of your ragù.”

“Your sister has not eaten any of my ragù.”

“She has smelled it. It’s enough.”

Gino stood up. He was shorter than he had been at fifty, but he still knew how to stand up.

“Madam, when your family came to this city, I opened my home to you. I opened my table. On Thursday, my sisters made four hundred tortellini with their own hands for your son. With their own hands. And last night, at my table, you asked the waiter for something without meat.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Assunta looked at him. For a moment, Gino thought she was going to say something true. It was in her face, the way rain is in the sky before it falls.

Then the front door opened, and the Maresciallo came in.

He looked terrible. His uniform was dusty down the back, as though he had been lying in the street, and there was a small spot of grease on his shirt. But he walked across the lobby like a man with news, and every person in it turned toward him.

“Mr. Rossi,” said Moretti. “I know who took your gift.”

“Who?”

“Two men. Marco Bellandi and Leo Ferri.”

There was a sound from the potted palm. It was Zia Carla.

“Marco Bellandi,” she said. “The one with the suits.”

“You know him?”

“Everybody in Bologna knows him. In 2011 I lent him four hundred euros to open a pizza restaurant for dogs.”

“A what?”

“Pizza for dogs. Without onions. For dogs. He said it was the future.” Zia Carla sat back. “It was not the future.”

“Where are they now?” said Gino.

“I lost them in the piazza,” said Moretti. He touched the grease spot on his shirt, briefly, as if remembering something. “But they still have the object. And I know two more things. One: they owe money to a man named Massimo Grandi. Eleven thousand four hundred euros, by midnight.”

Gino felt his wrist begin to beep.

“Massimo Grandi,” he said. “The butcher in the Quadrilatero.”

“Yes.”

“He is my granddaughter’s godfather. He is sitting at the top table tonight. He made the filling for the tortellini.”

Moretti nodded, slowly, as if this was bad news for somebody but he was not yet sure who. “The second thing. They are planning to sell your gift. Not today. On Monday. To the university.”

“The university!”

“And tonight they are going to Rimini.”

Gino sat down. His stick went tock on the marble. He looked across at Assunta Esposito, who was still standing there, in her dark green, with her handbag.

“So,” said Assunta. “Let me understand. The police have found the thieves.”

“Yes,” said Moretti.

“And they have lost them.”

“Temporarily.”

“In a square.”

“It’s a very large square.”

“And the police do not know where my son is.”

“Madam, your son is not a police matter. A groom on his wedding day—”

“And the police did not see my son go out of this hotel, even though they were standing at the door at ten o’clock arguing about a parking ticket.”

Moretti opened his mouth, and closed it.

Gino looked at Assunta. Assunta looked at Gino. For the first time since the train from Naples had arrived, they were looking at the same thing, and the thing was a Maresciallo of the Carabinieri with grease on his shirt.

“In Naples,” said Assunta, “the police are exactly the same.”

“In Bologna,” said Gino, “they are worse. They have a university.”

Something passed between them then. It was not friendship. It was the thing that comes before friendship, when two old people discover they despise the same thing.

“So we do it ourselves,” said Assunta.

“We do it ourselves,” said Gino. “My family finds the gift. Your family finds the boy.”

“And if my family finds the gift?”

“Then I will say thank you. Once. In private.”

“And if your family finds my son?”

Gino thought about it. “Then I will bring him to you,” he said, “and I will not shout at him until after the photographs.”

Assunta held out her hand. Gino took it. It was a small, strong hand, and it held his exactly as hard as he held hers.

Behind them, the lift doors opened and closed, and opened and closed, because nobody was getting in.

When the Maresciallo had gone and the two councils had become one council, which was louder, Gino took out his phone and stood by the window to make a call.

There was one more piece of business. At three o’clock, a whole wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano was coming to the hotel from the Quadrilatero, thirty-six months old, forty kilos, for the centre of the reception table. It was Massimo’s gift to his goddaughter. It had been in his cellar since Giulia was twenty-seven.

The phone rang twice.

“Gino,” said Massimo Grandi. His voice was soft and warm, as it always was. “My friend. The cheese is ready. Three o’clock. How is our girl?”

“Massimo.” Gino looked out at the porticoes, the rain drying on the stones. “They took something of mine.”

He told him. The gift. The shelf. The two men. The names.

On the other end of the line there was a silence. It went on so long that Gino looked at the phone to see if the call had dropped.

Then Massimo spoke again, as gently as a man laying down a sleeping child.

“Then we are both owed, Gino.”