the stupid bastard was too proud to give them his wallet.’
Roberto Calopezzati made his eloquent gesture again.
‘Life is an acquired taste, Signor Zen, but death has mass-market appeal. Sooner or later, we all succumb to its charms. I tried to shield my nephew from them as best I could.’
What sounded like a peal of the thunder that Zen was by now habituated to — although not this early in the day — prevented any further conversation. It turned out to be the roar of a jet taking off from Ciampino, a few kilometres to the north, and obligingly faded away in a few moments.
‘And it would have been an excellent solution,’ Zen commented, ‘if only he hadn’t come back to Calabria and started talking to the locals in fluent dialect.’
‘That marked him down as someone who had been born and raised in the area, but there are plenty of calabresi in the States, God knows. How did his killers discover his identity?’
‘Speaking of that, do you know the identity of his father?’
Roberto sighed.
‘My sister told me that it was a friend of ours named Carlo Sironi. He was a fighter pilot in the war, an utterly irresistible daredevil who was shot down while attacking an Allied bombing sortie over Salerno six months before Pietro was born. He and Ottavia had spent some time together in Naples shortly before, so it’s just possible that she wasn’t lying to me. The truth is that I don’t know and don’t really care. Whoever she might have screwed, Pietro was here and it was my duty to look after him to the best of my ability. Now will you answer my question, Signor Zen? Granted that Pietro was stupid enough to speak the dialect rather than just passing himself off as a dumb American, how could his killers have found out that he was a Calopezzati?’
Zen shot him a keen glance.
‘Are you insulting my intelligence or your own, barone? There is only one possible answer, namely that he himself disclosed the information to someone, almost certainly the shady fixer he had employed to facilitate his business deals. Following your advice, Pietro had set out to become an American. Perhaps he had succeeded only too well. After forty years over there he simply couldn’t conceive that anyone in a backwater like Calabria cared about what might or might not have happened in the years before he was born. But Americans care enormously about any provable antiquity and lineage in their family history, particularly if it involves a title. It’s hardly surprising that he couldn’t resist mentioning to his new acquaintance that he was a member of an Italian baronial family founded back in the mists of time before the first shipload of American pilgrims arrived.’
Calopezzati smiled pallidly.
‘Actually, we’re only late eighteenth century.’
Tom spent much of the morning watching television with Martin Nguyen. He’d been able to hold off moving hotels for twenty-four hours, on the grounds that the police wanted him to perform various legal functions connected with his father’s death, but that morning Nguyen’s limo had shown up to whisk him off to this flashy business location about two miles from the city centre, out in what Italians called the periphery. While he was in the car, Nicola Mantega had phoned to tell him that the world-famous film director Luciano Aldobrandini would be making a surprise appearance on the popular morning TV show Ciao Italia! and that there were rumours that what he was going to say might have a direct impact on the business interests of Tom’s new employer. This news had been duly passed on and both men were now fixated on the screen, Tom’s job being to translate Aldobrandini’s words, in real time as far as possible, although Nguyen was burning a DVD as back-up.
Up to now the show had offered nothing but a succession of entry-level celebrities, burned-out celebrities, minor politicians and a footballer in drug rehab, but when the presenter finally announced the star whose name she had been teasingly trailing for almost an hour the results proved well worth the wait. Clad in a stunning cream linen suit over a blue silk shirt left largely open to reveal a perfectly judged tan, his mass of silver hair sculpted as though by some natural force, Aldobrandini looked youthful yet distinguished, strikingly virile and decisive but with vast inner reserves of gravitas.
He speedily got down to business, announcing that he had flown to Rome, ‘interrupting my annual period of creative repose’ on the Costa Smeralda, in order to break the dramatic news that he had withdrawn from the project to transfer the Book of Revelations to the screen — ‘a work I hoped and believed would crown a long career dedicated solely to my art’ — since he had lost all faith in the commitment and integrity of the American production company which had been financing it.
What followed was a presentation worthy of someone who had once played, very competently, various minor roles in post-war neo-realist films made on a shoestring budget by directors including Visconti and Fellini. Aldobrandini lamented the demise of that generation’s values in favour of the cynical manipulations of market-driven accountants and middle managers, ‘people without intelligence, without courage, without vision, without ideals, concerned only with maximising profits’. With a sad smile, he recounted his discovery that the backer of ‘the intended masterwork of my late period, a funeral oration for the entire culture which formed and nourished me’, was exploiting the project for reasons which had nothing to do with making the film.
Egged on by the eager but flustered hostess, who had obviously been primed with a list of helpful questions, Aldobrandini proceeded to disclose certain very specific details which had led him to suppose that the masterwork in question would never be made. His suspicions had been aroused, he said, by the withdrawal of the great British actor whom he had selected to play St John of Patmos. The reason given at the time had been that his agent had come to doubt the credibility of the project’s backers. Until that moment, Aldobrandini proclaimed, he had ‘never even thought of such a thing. I don’t live in that world. For me it is all about the creative challenge e basta! When it comes to high finance and commercial skulduggery, I am an innocent abroad.’ Nevertheless, this news led him to instigate certain enquiries, the results of which had appalled him.
‘I am reliably informed that for several weeks now a helicopter has been operating in and around the city of Cosenza, supposedly carrying out a detailed survey of the terrain under the pretext of selecting suitable locations for the shooting of my film. My film!’
He appealed to his interviewer with a charming gesture.
‘ Signorina, you may or may not like my work… Well, that’s very kind of you, but my point is that even my severest critics have never suggested that I am not un autore. Every single one of my films is handcrafted in every aspect and at every stage of its creation, from setting up to final editing. It is absurd to imagine that Luciano Aldobrandini would delegate the selection of locations to an outside contract! And needless to say he never did so. Nevertheless, these flights are taking place under the auspices of my American production company. Have you ever had occasion to hire a helicopter, signorina? I have, and believe me they don’t come cheap. Since that money is clearly not being spent on preparations for my film, what is it being spent on? And where does that leave me and my dreams of making a final and lasting contribution to the glorious history of Italian cinema?’
Aldobrandini held up his palms in symbolic surrender.
‘I don’t know the answer to those questions, and until I do I can have no faith in those who suggested this project and promised to finance it. I am therefore, and with the greatest reluctance, severing all personal and professional connection with this whole sorry affair. It is a sad day for me, a sad day for art and a sad day for Italy.’
Martin Nguyen turned off the TV as the hostess thanked her guest and transitioned effortlessly to a commercial break.
‘Holy fuck!’ he said.
‘Yeah, he was certainly in a hissy fit,’ Tom replied casually. ‘No one gives me ’nuff respec’ now I’m over the hill stuff.’
‘The guy’s a genius,’ said Martin in a tone of hushed reverence.
Tom gestured sceptically.
‘Well, the jury’s still pretty well out on that one. I like his early films, Terra Bruciata for example. That was one of my mom’s favourites. She said it was just how people lived where she grew up.’
‘I’m not talking about his fucking movies!’ Martin yelled. ‘He just killed us, live on national network TV! Next it’ll be all over the — ’
The phone in the room rang. Martin jerked his thumb.
‘Take it.’
Tom did so. He listened for a long time, inserting the occasional ‘ Ho capito ’, ‘ Senz’altro ’ and ‘ D’accordo, signore ’. Then he turned to Martin.
‘That was the mayor’s office. They want you to present yourself at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
