She gazed numbly at him.
‘No doubt you cultivated me for precisely the same reason,’ Zen went on, ‘to keep dear Nando informed about the progress I was making. We were each using the other. No one got hurt and neither of us has any right to complain.’
‘That’s not true!’ Cristiana retorted. ‘You told me you were investigating Ada Zulian’s problems. Why on earth should Nando care about that?’
Zen shrugged.
‘Have it your own way. What does it matter, since you’ve won? I went to see Mamoli this morning. The judiciary is dropping the case. Bon and the others have been released. Your husband’s election triumph is assured and you can look forward to being Signora Dal Maschio, loyal wife of the local political supremo. Only you and I will know that you’re married to a kidnapper and a murderer.’
‘What?’
Her face was rigid with shock.
‘Didn’t he mention that little exploit?’ murmured Zen. ‘How odd. I’ll bet he tells all his other women. Just the sort of thing to get them going.’
Cristiana walked towards him.
‘What are you talking about? What are these horrible lies?’
Zen held up his hands.
‘Since you’ve branded me a liar, there’s no point my saying any more. Why don’t you ask Tommaso Saoner? He knows all about it.’
Cristiana stopped and stared at him, shaking her head slowly.
‘That’s an appalling thing to say.’
‘It was an appalling thing to do, Cristiana. Durridge may have been a war criminal, but…’
‘To joke about Tommaso like that, I mean!’
He frowned.
‘Like what?’
They confronted each other in silence.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ she said at last.
‘Heard what?’
‘It’s been on the local news and…’
‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Zen irritably.
Cristiana lowered her head.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead? Who’s dead?’
‘Tommaso Saoner.’
He laughed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Why, I saw him only…’
His voice trailed away.
‘The body was washed up at the Lido this morning,’ said Cristiana. ‘Nando is devastated. Tommaso was one of his closest and most trusted associates. They met just last night. Nando even walked part of the way home with him.’
She looked at Zen.
‘When did you see him?’
He turned to the window.
‘Oh… before that.’
There was a long silence.
‘What happened?’ he muttered almost inaudibly.
‘It looks like suicide. The body was fully clothed, and there was no sign of violence. But Nando says he seemed perfectly normal last night. He even made a joke about you.’
She shivered.
‘What could have suddenly driven him to do something like that? And what was he doing on the Lido in the first place? It doesn’t make sense!’
There was a long, sombre silence. Cristiana looked at Zen, who was still facing the window.
‘I thought he was supposed to be a friend of yours,’ she remarked sharply.
‘He used to be.’
‘Well you don’t seem to care particularly that he’s dead!’
This time the silence was even more oppressive.
‘I’m not sure I really know you,’ Cristiana muttered. ‘I’m not sure I really like you.’
Zen turned slowly and looked at her.
‘Neither am I,’ he said.
They exchanged a long glance, then Cristiana abruptly turned and walked out. The front door slammed shut. Zen stood gazing down at the quadrilateral of sunlight on the floor. It had moved slightly to the left, and was shorter and squatter than before. Zen stepped carefully around it and picked up the phone.
‘Mamma? At last! It’s me, Aurelio. I’ll be home this evening. In time for dinner, yes. Can you get Maria Grazia to make something really nice? I haven’t eaten properly all week. Rosalba? I ate there the first day, but since then… She’s fine. Who? Cristiana? She’s the daughter, isn’t she? I met her briefly. Anyway, how are you? Good. Are they? Glad to hear it. I’m looking forward to seeing you both this evening. You and Tania. What? What? Moved out? Where’s she gone? Why did she leave? I thought you two were getting on well together…’
He sat down on the sofa, the receiver clamped to his ear.
‘Me? What did I do? I wasn’t even there!’
His face gradually grew hard as he listened.
‘Sorry, Mamma, but I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my train,’ he said in a different voice altogether. ‘Goodbye. Yes. Goodbye. And you. Goodbye.’
He got out his crumpled pack of Nazionali and sat there smoking one cigarette after another until the packet was empty and the ashtray full. Then he put on his coat and hat, closed his suitcase, and left.
Out of the sun, the air was still chilly. Zen walked the length of the triangular campo without looking back, hefting his suitcase in his right hand, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered. As he rounded the corner into the long alley leading to the Lista di Spagna he collided with someone coming the other way. Zen muttered an apology and was about to pass by when the man spoke his name. Zen set down the heavy suitcase and looked at him, taking in the greasy grey hair, the shabby suit, the tartan carpet slippers, the non descript mutt trailing along at the end of a rope.
‘Daniele,’ he murmured without enthusiasm. ‘You must excuse me. I’m late for my train.’
‘You’re leaving?’
‘As you see.’
‘So soon?’
Zen picked up his suitcase again.
‘I should never have come in the first place.’
Daniele Trevisan scuttled up to him with amazing rapidity and grasped him by the arm.
‘You can’t go yet!’
Zen looked down at the elderly face, as shrivelled as an old nut.
‘Ever since I saw you last week, I’ve been wondering whether or not I should say anything,’ Trevisan went on hesitantly. ‘God only knows when you’ll be back, and whether I’ll still be alive.’
He shook his head helplessly.
‘I just don’t know what to do, Angelo.’
Catching sight of Zen’s expression, the old man hastily corrected himself.
‘Aurelio, I mean.’
Zen tried to tug himself free of the man’s fierce grip.
‘Let me go!’
‘Stop! Wait!’
