it all makes sense. You would have to change the habits and ideas of a lifetime, and that would be too much trouble.’
He wagged a finger at Zen.
‘You called me weak just now. Well, you’re lazy. You’d rather have the devils you know than a man who, whatever his faults, is worth more than the whole of the old gang put together!’
At their feet, the unquiet water swirled and splashed.
‘You talk of Dal Maschio like a lover,’ Zen murmured.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘He’s won your heart, and you can’t understand why I can’t see what you see in him.’
He shrugged.
‘It’s an old story, and harmless enough in private life. But this is a question of politics. Remember those Greek lessons we sweated through at school, when it seemed the bell would never ring? Polis, a city. Polites, a citizen. It’s not your personal feelings about Dal Maschio that are at issue here, Tommaso. It’s your public duties, your responsibilities as a citizen.’
Saoner barked a laugh.
‘I don’t need moral lectures from you, Zen,’ he snapped, turning away.
The pursuit began again. At the same deliberate, purposeful pace, Saoner led the way along the other side of the Punta della Dogana, past the Salute church and into the tangled skein of alleys leading to the Accademia, where he crossed the bridge for the second time that night. When they reached Campo San Stefano, he stopped and seemed to hesitate. This was the spot where the leader of the Nuova Repubblica Veneta had taken leave of his acolytes earlier, and for a moment Zen thought that Saoner might try and make a dash to Dal Maschio’s house, and moved to the left to cut him off. In the event Saoner turned the other way, towards the Piazza, bringing them into a district quite unlike any through which they had passed so far, into streets lined with banks, restaurants, hotels and a succession of shops and boutiques catering to the needs of the international shop-till-you-drop brigade.
But the water seemed to be calling Saoner, and when they reached the lugubrious monstrosity of San Moise he veered right down a passage leading out on to the quayside. They walked past the ferry landing-stage and the harbour-master’s office, beneath a grove of trees where a mob of starlings squabbled invisibly and along a broad promenade curving away as far as the eye could see. As though in response to these unfettered vistas, Saoner increased his pace until Zen had difficulty keeping up with him.
They crossed the bridge over the canal leading to the Questura, and then the Rio dell’Arsenale. Here the lighting was sparser and dimmer, and at moments Saoner’s figure disappeared altogether into the rushing darkness. Zen began to lose all sense of reality, as though his night’s dreams, denied, were seeping out to taint his waking consciousness. He dimly remembered what he was doing and why, but only as one remembers some fact about a country one has never visited.
‘Tommaso!’
There was no response. Zen broke into a run.
‘Stop, Tommaso! Let’s talk!’
Saoner neither turned back nor changed his pace. Zen kept on running until he caught up with him.
‘This is ridiculous, Tommaso! Let’s not go any further.’
Like an automaton, Saoner kept striding on. By now they had reached the area laid out by the invading French as a formal public garden with walks, fountains and statues in a vain attempt to make an honest city of the Serenissima. In the depths of winter and the dead of the night, the place looked even more bizarre than usual. Zen grabbed Saoner’s arm and pulled him to a stop. The moon slid out from behind the cloud again, turning the darkness to dusk. The two men stood there breathing fog into the silvery air. The serried trees lining the promenade had been pruned back to an equal height, making them look like giant candelabra.
‘All this talk of morality!’ Saoner exclaimed bitterly. ‘You hypocrite!’
Zen stared at him, genuinely surprised.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know why you’re out to destroy Dal Maschio! Because you’ve got the hots for his wife, that’s why!’
‘That’s bullshit!’
‘She spent the night at your place on at least two occasions, according to my informants. They say you were fucking so hard it made waves in the canal.’
Forcing himself to remain calm, Zen took out a cigarette and lit up.
‘That’s very flattering, Tommaso, but unfortunately not true. Signora Dal Maschio and I met socially on a number of occasions — our mothers are close friends — but I’m afraid to say that her only interest in me was as a spy acting on her husband’s instructions to find out what progress I was making in the Durridge case.’
He released a rippling ribbon of smoke.
‘Mind you, in the course of our conversations she did let fall a few stray bits of information herself. I vividly remember her telling me some of her husband’s unguarded comments on his associates in the Nuova Repubblica Veneta. Would you like to hear what he thinks of you, Tommaso?’
Saoner stamped his feet, as though to warm them.
‘I know what Ferdinando thinks of me.’
‘I have to say that he was fairly dismissive of his supporters in general. “Clerks and shopkeepers hitting their mid-life crisis. The ones with balls have affairs, the rest give themselves to me.”’
‘Ferdinando would never talk like that,’ snorted Saoner.
‘As for his views on you in particular…’
Saoner turned brusquely away.
‘I don’t want to know!’
‘It’s not that bad,’ Zen chuckled, pulling him back to face him. ‘Cristiana told me that he’s very appreciative of all the work you’ve done so far. “We would never have got where we are today if it hadn’t been for men like Tommaso, simple and strong, dull but dependable, incapable of independent thought but quick to follow orders.” He’s aware of your shortcomings and limitations, you see, but he also fully appreciates your merits. That’s why he was initially so reluctant to get rid of you.’
Saoner flinched.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the reshuffle he’s planning if he wins the election. Assuming the party does as well as expected, Dal Maschio’s whole political position will change completely. He’ll no longer be the leader of some fringe group, but mayor of one of the most important European cities, with a national and international profile and immense powers of patronage and persuasion. To deal adequately with that, he’s going to need a new set of men around him, men of vision and imagination, with quick wits and a nice television manner.’
Zen let his cigarette fall to the pavement and stepped on it carefully.
‘Mind you, I’m sure he’ll find some suitable role for people like you,’ he went on quickly. ‘Something which matches your talents and skills. Cristiana mentioned the possibility of a post with the department responsible for dredging the canals.’
‘This is all lies!’
Zen looked at him steadily and said nothing.
‘You’re making it all up!’ Saoner exclaimed in a tone of desperation.
‘You’re the ones who are making it up,’ Zen replied quietly. ‘You’ve made an inspirational leader out of an opportunistic mob-orator and you’ve remade the history of the city to fit in with his nonsense about a Venice cut off from the rest of Italy and Europe, inhabited by pure-blooded, dialect-speaking, one-hundred-per-cent Venetians.’
Saoner clenched and unclenched his hands in desperation.
‘That’s enough! I can’t bear any more. Why are you tormenting me like this?’
He started to walk away, mumbling to himself.
‘We were only trying to change things for the better. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? I never meant to get mixed up in anything illegal. I don’t remember how that happened. I just don’t remember…’
He broke into a run, sprinting through the public gardens and across a bridge into a neighbourhood of turgid nineteenth-century apartment blocks like a chunk of Turin dropped down in the lagoon. Zen followed, calling out to him to stop. Down the broad, straight, eerily vacant moonlit streets the two men ran, their footsteps hammering on
