Hell's Gate E-Book

Laurent Gaudé

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 246

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

When his son is killed by gangsters' crossfire on his way to school, Neapolitan taxi driver Matteo is consumed by despair.But just when he feels life has lost all meaning, he encounters a man who claims the living can find ways into the afterlife. And legend says that there's an entrance to the underworld beneath Naples. What if Matteo had a chance of bringing Pippo back from the dead?

Leseprobe

Hell’s Gate

Laurent Gaudé

Translated from the French by Emily Boyce and Jane Aitken

Pushkin Press

For Anna May the sound of your laughter be heard there and bring comfort to those we miss

Contents

Title PageDedicationI:The Dead Rise AgainII:Death on Via ForcellaIII:Kneeling on My TombIV:The Lonely RoadV:I Grant You VengeanceVI:The Kiss of GraceVII:Garibaldo’s CaféVIII:Giuliana’s NightIX:The Ghosts of AvellinoX:The Grieving Mother’s NotesXI:OverwhelmingXII:The Dead around the TableXIII:The Forgotten Gate of NaplesXIV:The Gate of the GhoulsXV:The Land of the DeadXVI:Naples TremblesXVII:My Blank LetterXVIII:Alarm BellsXIX:Càlena AbbeyXX:Giuliana’s Last CurseXXI:The Disease that Kills the TreesXXII:The Hospital of SufferingXXIII:The Corridor between UsXXIV:My Father Is with MeAbout the AuthorCopyright

I

The Dead Rise Again

(August 2002)

For a long time, I called myself Filippo Scalfaro. Today I am taking my name back and saying it in full: Filippo Scalfaro De Nittis. When the sun came up this morning, I became older than my father. I stand at the kitchen window, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. I have a stomach ache. No surprise – I have a long, hard day ahead of me. I’ve made myself an especially bitter coffee to keep me going – I’ll be needing it. Just as the coffee pot starts to whistle on the stove, a plane takes off from Capodichino airport and the air begins to hum. I watch the plane’s flat metal stomach rising up over the rooftops and I wonder what would happen if it dropped out of the sky onto the thousands of people below it – but it keeps soaring upwards, pulling free of its own weight. I turn off the heat on the stove and splash my face with water. My father. I’m thinking of him. This is his day. My father – whose face I can barely picture. The sound of his voice has gone completely. Sometimes I think I remember things he used to say – but whether he really said them or I’ve just made them up after all these years to fill the gap he left, I don’t know. The only way I can really get close to him is by looking at myself in the mirror. There must be something of him there, in the shape of my eyes or the line of my cheekbones. From this day, when I look in the mirror I’ll see the face he would have had if he’d had the chance to grow old. I carry my father within me. This morning, at the first light of dawn, I felt him climb onto my shoulders like a child. He’s counting on me now. Today’s the day it will all happen. I’ve been working towards this for so long.

I sip my coffee slowly as the steam rises off it. I’m not afraid. I’ve already been to hell – what could possibly be scarier than that? All I have to ward off are my own nightmares. At night, the blood-curdling cries and groans of pain come flooding back. I smell the nauseating stench of sulphur. The forest of souls surrounds me. At night, I become a child again, begging the world not to swallow me up. I tremble from head to toe and I call out to my father. I scream, choke back tears, cry. Other people might call them nightmares, but they’re wrong. If these were only dreams or visions, I’d have no reason to be afraid. But I know that what I see is real – I’ve been there. Nothing else frightens me. As long as I’m awake, I fear nothing.

The walls have stopped shaking from the roar of the jet engines. The only trace left in the sky is a long cotton-wool trail. I was planning to shave this morning, make a fresh start, but maybe I won’t bother. No, wait, I must. I want to look as boyish as possible tonight. If there’s a chance he might recognise me, I want to make sure he does. The water running into the sink is dirty, yellowish. My time is coming. I’ll have my father with me. I’ve planned my revenge. I’m ready. Let the blood flow tonight. It feels right. I pull on a shirt to spare myself the sight of my skinny body. Naples is slowly waking up. Only slaves get up this early. I know this time of day well, when the ghosts loitering around the central station look for somewhere to hide their cardboard boxes.

I’ll head into the city centre. I won’t let my face give anything away. I’ll go into the restaurant through the service entrance as I have done every morning for the past two years. Ristorante Da Bersagliera. Via Partenope will be empty – no taxis, no Vespas. Boats will bob on the water at Santa Lucia. The grand seafront hotels will seem as quiet and still as majestic sleeping elephants. I’ll get on with my shift and not let anything show until tonight. The coffee I made myself just now will see me through. I make coffee like nobody else. That’s why, every evening at seven o’clock, I’m allowed to come out into the restaurant. I leave the washing up and trays of dirty water behind and take my place by the espresso machine. It’s all I do. I don’t take orders or carry any dishes. Most of the customers don’t even see me. I make the coffees. But I’ve made a name for myself in Naples. Some people have even started coming especially because of me. I’ll be in the restaurant this evening as usual, smiling away until it’s time to take my revenge.

I head out of the door of my apartment. I won’t be coming back. I take nothing with me. All I need are the car keys. I feel strong. I’ve come back from the dead. I have memories of hell and fears of the world ending. Today, I’ll be reborn. My time has come. I close the door behind me. It’s sunny outside. The planes will go on shaking the walls of Secondigliano. They all take off towards the sea, skimming over the buildings. I’m going to take my place at Da Bersagliera and wait for nightfall. I hope he’ll be there. I’m not worried. My stomach isn’t aching any more. I walk quickly. My father is with me now. Today is the day I take my name back and I say it once more in full: Filippo Scalfaro De Nittis.

Stay calm. Look bland and unremarkable. Nothing about the way I move or the expression on my face must give me away, no nervous twitching or sweating. I keep glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, but I can’t stare straight at him as I wish I could. I knew he’d come. He’s like clockwork – every Thursday night, he’s here. Sometimes he brings a girl with him and she’ll spend the night either laughing idiotically or pouting like an actress. Sometimes he eats alone, rushing to pay his bill and get back to the hotel where the girls are waiting for him. Tonight he’s on his own. I saw him stride in the way he always does, as if he owns the place, knowing the staff will drop everything to serve him. He holds his arms out for them to take his coat and waits for a chair to be pulled out for him. He laps up the stares from the customers at nearby tables who wonder what he’s done to deserve this five-star treatment when nothing about the way he looks, dresses or acts suggests he’s anything special. He likes to be waited on.

My patience has paid off. I stayed in the kitchen for ages, hoping the boss would eventually put me on coffee duty. Time dragged on. I seemed to be constantly scrubbing the same plate, taking the same dishes out of the dishwasher. But when the first sitting moved on to dessert, I heard the boss barking at me to come out into the restaurant. I dried my hands on a cloth and told myself to seize the moment and make it go my way. I pulled off my white apron and took my place in front of the coffee machine.

The two American women on table 8 want cappuccinos with their pasta. The waiter has just passed on their order, sniffing at the sacrilege of it. I make the coffees as slowly as possible to give myself time to watch him. The noise of conversation rises, voices booming under the glass roof. The general havoc keeps my mind occupied. Waiters zip in and out of the kitchen, their footsteps gliding across the tiled floor. They hurry past without a glance in my direction, occasionally giving me an instruction through gritted teeth. Coffee on 7. I look down at my hands to check if they’re shaking, but my body’s calm. I must be paler than usual, but who’s going to notice? The stomach pains are back, that’s all, like distant twinges, reminders of a blow I was dealt a long time ago, a blow from which I’ve never recovered. The boss is coming over. Slowly. He says table 18 wants a word. I look up. It’s the ingegnere on 18. I know what I have to do. The ingegnere is a regular. He’s just finished his meal and wants to put my skills to the test. I go over to his table. He smiles at me. He says he’s had a good meal and now he’d like a little coffee, but a proper one, none of this chlorinated decaffeinated stuff; he says he needs a good night’s sleep, but can’t stand the taste of decaf. He asks if I can do that for him. I nod. He gives me a wink. I can do anything, and he knows it. I go back to the machine. I’m the king of coffee. That’s why I work here. A loser like me could never land a job like this otherwise. Nobody in Naples can claim to make better coffee than me. I get it from my father. Not my first father; the other one: Garibaldo Scalfaro. He got it from his uncle before him. Whatever you want, however you’re feeling, I’ve got the coffee for it. Strong as a slap in the face to wake you up in the morning. Smooth and mellow to treat a headache. Silky and creamy to get you in the mood. Full-bodied and long-lasting to keep you awake. Coffee for biding your time. Coffee to make your blood boil. I measure out doses like an alchemist, using spices the palate won’t notice but the body will recognise. The ingegnere on 18 will sleep well tonight and he won’t have a heavy head in the morning. I smile. For the last few weeks, the owner has been itching to show off my talents. He’s waiting for the new menus he’s ordered with ‘Da Bersagliera’s Magic Coffee’ printed on them. Your wish is our command … And of course it’s a chance for him to put prices up. Soon I’ll be the star attraction … I smile. It’ll come to nothing. Tonight I’ll be making my last coffee and handing it to the man I’ve had my eye on all night: Toto Cullaccio. And by the time the boss’s shiny new menus arrive, I’ll be long gone and he’ll have to throw them away, cursing my name.

Toto Cullaccio, whom I’m no longer letting out of my sight, is finishing his plate of calamari. His shirt is stained with amatriciana sauce from the pasta course. Happens every time. He has slightly shaky hands and his fork slips out of his grasp. I thank God he hasn’t died before now. Toto Cullaccio. To look at him, you’d think he’d retired from the post office. His hair’s all fallen out, his fingers are puffy. But I know what he’s capable of. I know why he walks around like he owns the place and why, when he waves me over irritably, he does it not like a customer to a waiter, but like a master to his dog.

I put my cloth down behind the counter and walk towards him. As I draw nearer, he gestures to me to bend down so he can speak into my ear, and his dirty voice whispers that the night isn’t over yet, he has two pretty girls to go back to, the expensive kind, but he hasn’t got the energy he used to, especially after the meal he’s just had. He murmurs that he’s not worried, because he knows I can make him a little coffee to help him put on a good show. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He knows it can be done. I go back to my machine. I can feel my heart racing. I’m starting to sweat. Blood is pumping through my temples. Now I’m dripping with sweat. My guts are wrenching. I feel like I’m bleeding again. I need to stay strong. I’m a child crouching on the ground. I can hear my father’s voice sounding further and further away. I have to get a grip on myself, not let visions and fears get the better of me. Tonight’s the night. Now. In a few seconds. My father is thirsty for it. He’s calling out to me. The last drops of coffee run into the cup. I haven’t added anything to it. No matter. It’ll have no special properties but Toto Cullaccio won’t be drinking it anyway. I place the cup and saucer on the tray. I put a knife there too. I walk towards Toto Cullaccio. The room is hot. As I pass a table, I almost knock over a jug of water. I feel pangs in my stomach. I’m very close to him now. Before he senses me behind him, I say his name loud and clear, I say ‘Toto Cullaccio’ and he jumps. The customers sitting nearby go quiet because I’ve said his name so forcefully and I am standing here, pale and still, for no apparent reason. He has turned to glare at me. I meet his gaze. It’s him. Here we are again. So I carry on; I tell him my name is Pippo De Nittis, and it feels strange. I say it loudly; the whole restaurant hears. Heads turn, conversations stop. He’s about to ask me what I want and how I’ve dared to call him by his name and tell him mine – which he really couldn’t give a damn about – but I cut him off. I let go of the tray, so that the coffee, the glass of water, everything, goes crashing around my feet, and I plant the knife in his stomach. Screams ring out around us. Everything becomes still. People are rooted to the spot, their mouths hanging open in shock. I like the silence around me. I want them all to see me, so that they can tell everyone what they saw. I was careful not to push the knife in to the hilt. I don’t want to kill him – I want to hurt him, make him moan and cry, not spill his guts all over the table. Moving quickly, I step behind Cullaccio and slip the knife under his throat. Everything happens in fast-forward. My stomach no longer hurts. I can hear everything, see everything. The women can’t take in what they’re witnessing. The men can’t bring themselves to stand, they’re so scared. Cullaccio begins to scream in pain. His shirt is already spattered with blood. Simply by pressing a blade to his flesh, I force him out of his chair. His stomach must be killing him, but he gets to his feet. I knock over a couple of tables on the way to the door. Nobody thinks of stopping us. Cullaccio is yelping like a dog. I know what it’s like. I cried too, all those years ago, bent double, clutching my stomach, unable to breathe. I was a child then. He’s forgotten all of that. It’s fine. He has all the time in the world to remember.

We leave the restaurant and the harbour air rushes into my veins. The silence of the boats at Santa Lucia is broken by our passing. The car is waiting for us. The hardest part is climbing the steps to Via Partenope. I hear him groan with every movement he makes. Lumbering along like a whale, Cullaccio limps, sobs, implores me, I think, but I take no notice. My knife landed perfectly – I left him with the strength to walk; he hasn’t passed out. Here we are. I tell him to open the car door and I throw him into the passenger seat. He curls up like a snail, finally able to lick his wounds. I hear him crying as he clutches his belly. He’s getting blood all over the seat. I make my way quickly round to the other side of the car, still holding the knife in my hand. I get in next to him and slam my own door closed. It’s a beautiful night, humid and calm. I feel good. We have all the time in the world.

II

Death on Via Forcella

(June 1980)

Matteo De Nittis began to walk even faster. Little Pippo had trouble keeping up but didn’t dare say anything. His father was holding him by the hand and tugged him along each time he slowed down. They were already half an hour late and Matteo knew they wouldn’t be there for at least another ten minutes. They made their way along Via Nolana, dodging the people lingering in front of the stalls. Occasionally Matteo knocked into someone and barely bothered to apologise. He was muttering to himself through clenched teeth, cursing the people blocking his way, the never-ending streets and this day that had started so badly.

Giuliana had had to go to the hotel earlier than usual. Two of her colleagues were away, and it had been agreed that she would cover for them. She had left her husband to take their little boy to school. As she drank her coffee in the kitchens of the Grand Hotel Santa Lucia with her bleary-eyed colleagues, she tried to imagine how the two men in her life were getting on, what they were saying to each other. She felt comforted at the thought of them together. Father and son. Then it was time for her to go upstairs and begin the day’s work, leaving behind her cup, still steaming with the remains of her coffee. And leaving behind too the thought of her husband and son and her longing to see them again. She determined not to think of them any more, and busied herself with her work.

*

Matteo and Pippo were both sweating. They had spent an hour stuck in traffic before finally reaching Porta Nolana. Naples had become a giant knot of stationary cars exuding petrol fumes and irritation. Matteo had been beside himself with impatience, drumming his hands on the steering wheel. Earlier that morning he had had to take a passenger to the airport and there was no choice but to take Pippo with him. On the way back the traffic had snarled up disastrously. Every route was blocked. After an hour, since the roads were still in chaos, Matteo had decided to park the car and continue on foot. ‘It will be quicker,’ he had said. But it was market day and the crowds pressing round him seemed to be there simply to take over from the traffic and to ensure that the rest of the journey was just as exhausting.

Now he was practically running. Pippo was red in the face, not because he was having to walk so quickly, but because his father had just lost his temper with him. The child had asked if he could stop for five minutes and Matteo had shouted no, they would stop when they reached school and not a moment before, and Pippo was to keep quiet, to keep quiet and hurry up.

They were still running. Matteo continued to rant at everyone he bumped into, at every road they had to cross, at every Vespa that sped past, almost knocking them down. Faster. That was all he had in mind. To go faster and be done with this disastrous morning. To drop Pippo off, even though he was late, and in tears. To drop him off and finally draw breath. Once that was done, he would go and have a restorative coffee and splash some water on his face. He would dry his hands, and as he did so, the tension that had built up in the car and then during the dash through the crowded streets would slip away. Yes, he would have all the time in the world to compose himself and cool down. But right now it was getting later and later by the second and it was torture.

It had been some time since Giuliana had last worked upstairs, cleaning the guest rooms, with her back bent and using quick, efficient movements. She usually worked on the ground floor, helping with breakfast in the dining room. She laid tables, took drinks orders from the guests and made sure they had everything they wanted. For three hours, guests came and went. They arrived looking sleepy or pressed for time, but all filled with the same desire to be fed and to come to gradually, surrounded by the reviving smell of coffee. She filled plates, removed dirty tablecloths and made sure the hot water urn was never empty. She enjoyed herself. As she moved from table to table she heard all the languages of the world being spoken. No one paid any attention to her. She went discreetly about the dining room, alert to the guests’ needs.

Today, working along the second-floor corridor, she was engulfed in silence and the aroma of coffee did not reach her. She was alone. It was like starting out again. It was here she had begun working five years ago as a cleaner. She remembered the long, silent carpeted corridors. You had to go into every room and do exactly the same thing in each one, the same cleaning ritual: open the window, plump up the pillows, make the bed, change the towels, clean the bathroom, then hoover. There she was, outside room 205, knowing that she had a long morning of housekeeping in front of her. She smiled. She had just remembered the two nights she had spent here, at the Grand Hotel Santa Lucia. Twice she had been the one slipping into the luxurious rooms. When Giosuè at reception had let her know at the last minute about very late cancellations. Rooms that had been paid for but were empty. They had leapt at the chance, she and Matteo. That had been before Pippo was born. Two nights. In a beautiful luxury hotel. She smiled. Remembering the pleasure of those two nights made her day’s work seem bearable.

As they turned into Vicolo della Pace, Matteo felt a sense of relief. The street was less crowded. The market was ending so there would be far fewer people to get in their way. Just then the little boy began to cry. He said he was tired, his father was hurting his arm, his lace was undone and he wanted to stop. Matteo didn’t listen. He continued to pull his son along, saying angrily, ‘Hurry up,’ so that the child would realise that until they reached the school gate, he shouldn’t ask anything; in fact, shouldn’t say anything at all, just grit his teeth and follow.

Matteo hesitated for a fraction of a second to decide which side of the road to take. He would have preferred to walk in the shade, but that would mean crossing over, which would use up more time, so he decided to press on in the sun. He was already streaming with sweat anyway.

That was where, at the corner of Vicolo della Pace and Via Forcella, the world fell apart. At first he didn’t notice anything. He pulled on the child’s arm with the same insistence. When passers-by began to scream, he stopped. He wasn’t worried. He didn’t understand what was happening. He looked around. Everything had become strange. Everywhere, he saw faces with mouths wide open. He heard shouts; a woman with a wicker bag was a few feet in front of him on all fours by a car, waving her feet as if a spider were crawling up them. He stood still for what seemed like an eternity, then his body appeared to register what was happening and he threw himself to the ground. Fear paralysed his muscles, his mind, his breathing. He heard gunshots. Then several more in response. He had pulled his son down and held him tightly. He could smell the tar warmed by the morning sun. Shouts came from all around. There were long shrill moans from people trying to expel their fear and breathe again.

He hugged Pippo with all his might. The embrace was the only thing that mattered in that moment. It helped him think straight. He tried to analyse the situation. He was in the middle of the street, caught in a shoot-out. The sound of glass breaking erupted a few feet away, setting off several car alarms. The best plan was not to move until everything stopped. To wait. To wait for the police, the emergency services and for silence to return. To wait until he could stand up again. He was winded. The blood throbbed in his temples. He stayed like that, lying down, his hand on his son’s head. The seconds ticked past with painful slowness. He no longer paid attention to the noise around him. He was praying, saying ‘Hail Mary’ over and over again.

Then slowly silence did return.

A telephone started to ring in one of the rooms on the second floor. The ringing reverberated along the corridors of the Grand Hotel Santa Lucia. At first she paid no attention. She was in room 209. A group had left early that morning, freeing up the ten rooms on the corridor. She had to do them all. The door to 209 was open. She was on her knees, wiping the bathroom floor with a cloth, and did not get up. The telephone rang on. After a while, she put the cloth down, wiped her hands and walked out of 209 and into the corridor. She couldn’t tell which room the ringing telephone was in. She moved along the corridor, trying to work out where the noise was coming from. The telephone was still ringing. Finally, she found the room and went in, approaching the phone with the trepidation of someone who knows that tragedy awaits them.

Matteo was unsure how much time had elapsed. Voices still reverberated around him, but they no longer sounded panicked. The voices were asking if everything was all right, if anyone had been hurt, if someone had called the police. Matteo felt relief when he heard the police siren – far away at first, but getting closer all the time.

He released his grasp. The danger had passed. He began to tremble uncontrollably. His fear left him. How late would they be now? The thought was laughable. None of that mattered any more. He stroked his son’s back, telling him that it was over, that he could stand up now, that the danger was gone. The little boy didn’t move.

Pippo? The child didn’t reply. The colour drained from Matteo’s face. He knelt down. His shirt was soaked with blood. Pippo? He couldn’t breathe. His son wasn’t moving; he was lying face down on the ground, inert. Pippo? He shouted. He didn’t know what to do. He shouted again. Because he didn’t know how to stop the blood he loved so much from spreading over the pavement. His hands were running all over his son’s body, as if trying, unsuccessfully, to find the wound and stop it bleeding. His hands were all red, slippery, bathed in blood and seemed totally useless: he did not know what he should be doing with them.

People came over looking anxious. They stood a few feet away, repeating that an ambulance was on its way, but he could barely hear them. He was concentrating on not crying. More people gathered, but did nothing. He shouted out. That someone should go for help. That they should hurry. No one moved. Everything was unbearably slow.