October Men Read Online Free Page B

crucified, flayed and impaled. But it was his—Boselli’s—phone on which the unthinkable crime was being perpetrated, rendering him an accessory. At the very least he would be banished to some far-off province still ruled by the Communist Party.
    “Hey, General—Armando Villari here, General—“
    “Armando—good to see you again, my boy!” The General came beaming from behind his vast desk towards Villari, without even a glance for Boselli.
    “General.” Villari acknowledged the enthusiasm as though it was nothing less than his right, but with a touch of caution now. “This is a hell of a time to want anyone to work.”
    “Hah!” The General embraced him, keeping his arm round the broad shoulders as he turned back towards the desk. “I know you, boy, I know you! It’s those big German girls of yours—you like the big girls, eh? I know it—don’t deny it, boy—I remember them myself when I was your age. Fine breasts and wonderful hips! What hips they had!”
    The bitterness rose in Boselli’s throat like bile as he watched the hand squeeze the shoulder affectionately. He recognised the whole vomit-making scene for what it was: through some ghastly aberration of judgement the General was identifying himself with the Clotheshorse, or at least his youth, part of which had been spent back in the Duce’s day training with the German Special Forces in Bavaria. But that was something which was never mentioned now, an episode very carefully overlooked, if not forgotten—that the General should even indirectly mention it now was an extraordinary personal gaffe.
    “I’m too goddamed busy for girls, General,” said Villari easily. “You should know that—it’s your fault.”
    The General chuckled. “You don’t fool me one bit, boy. You’ll stop chasing when you stop breathing, not one moment before. I’m much more worried that you aren’t keeping up your skiing. You’ll never make the national team now, you know—not a chance of it. And don’t say you haven’t had the leave for it, either.”
    Boselli, greatly daring, cleared his throat.
    “I have the Audley files here, sir.”
    The General still didn’t look at him. Indeed, neither of them gave the least sign that they had even heard him speak. It was just as though he didn’t exist, or that he existed in some other space and time, a shadow man with his armful of shadow documents desperately waiting for someone in a warmer, more real world to notice him. He had a sudden pathetic desire to scream and stamp and throw all his paperwork into the air, and shout rude gutter words.
    Instead, he felt himself shrinking, the sweat on his forehead cold in the General’s air conditioning, and he knew he would stand there, meek and eager, until his turn at the end of the queue came. There was nothing new in this, it was the very pattern of his existence. Rather must he watch patiently for the arrival of his moment, when the General and Villari came down to earth. They would need him then—they always did in the end.
    “Not a chance is dead right,” Villari gave a snort. “Nobody who works for you has time for fun—or games. It’s getting so a chap can’t even slip through Rome for a day without you catching him. And it’s the wrong season for trouble—this Audley of yours has no breeding.”
    “Audley? So you know about him?” The General’s arm delivered a final man-to-man slap and then fell away from the shoulders. He turned abruptly and bent a fierce eye on Boselli at last.
    Boselli tried for one second to match the eye and the hard set of the mouth, but his face instantly turned traitor on him with an expression of total obsequiousness.
    “I—“ Boselli ran out of words after the first squeak, looking helplessly from one man to the other. From Villari he expected—and received—nothing, neither explanation nor even recognition. And from the General—with the General it was always the same: there seemed to lie between them (at least in