Despite the acknowledged and indeed almost miraculous benefits of this potion, there had been plenty of adverse comments about it from those forced to associate with the patient afterwards. As one uncle had put it succinctly, ‘The symptoms of the cure are worse than those of the illness.’ But to Zen’s mind this merely confirmed its efficacity, on a par with such harsh and primitive remedies as bleach poured over an open wound, or the ministrations of the local self-taught dentist, with his rack of terrifying implements whose application you didn’t want to even think about. Pain could only be cured by pain. Bad power required good power to defeat it, and power of any sort was bound to hurt.
The cloves of garlic, once stripped and chewed, certainly hurt at first, their crunchy fibrous substance disclosing an astonishing saturated strength of oily, burning intensity which coated every surface in the mouth and throat and then, under the benign influence of the wine, turned into a mild but persistent tingling warmth promising to drive out every foreign body and intruder in short order. He had drunk most of the litre of red wine and was biting into the last but one of the fat ivory cloves when there came a knock at the door.
‘Well?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of half-chewed garlic. Probably the cleaner wanting to make up the room. The service was never there when you needed it, but whenever you wanted a bit of peace and quiet…
The door opened cautiously to reveal a plump, dapper, well-dressed man of about Zen’s age carrying a large manilla envelope. He took in the scene and coughed in an embarrassed way.
‘Ah! Excuse the intrusion, dottore. I’ll come back later, when you’re more…’
Zen took another leisurely swig of wine.
‘Are you the manager?’ he demanded. ‘About time, too. I’ve complained twice about the heating, and that lump of scrap metal over there is still about as warm as yesterday’s bath.’
His visitor surveyed the dishevelled, unshaven figure huddled in his dressing-gown on the rumpled bed, gulping wine and chewing raw garlic.
‘I think there must be some mistake,’ he said.
‘I certainly hope so!’ Zen retorted. ‘The principles of central heating have been known in this country ever since Julius Caesar was wetting his knickers, yet your establishment is apparently incapable of…’
The newcomer closed the door. He strode to the phone, set his envelope down on the table and dialled.
‘Front desk? Room 314, Vice-Questore Tullio Legna of the Commissariato di Polizia speaking. I have come to pay my respects to a very important visitor from Rome who is staying here as your guest. I understand that he has complained about the inadequate heating in his room, but without effect. I suggest that you rectify this situation without further delay, lest I find it necessary to close the entire hotel pending a full investigation, a process likely to take some considerable time.’
He hung up and turned back to Zen.
‘Please accept my apologies, dottore. We don’t get many visitors out of season. They must have been trying to cut costs by turning the boilers off.’
Zen unrolled a strip of toilet paper from the spare roll he had removed from the bathroom and blew his nose loudly.
‘I feel dreadful,’ he said, rising painfully from his bed, one hand extended. Realizing belatedly that he was still holding the soggy tissue, he looked about vaguely for the waste-basket.
‘You’re ill,’ Tullio Legna observed.
‘No, no. I mean, yes, I suppose I am. But that’s not… Dreadful about receiving you like this, I mean. What must you think?’
‘I think you have a bad cold.’
Zen waved at the open wine bottle and the remaining clove of garlic.
‘An old family cure. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
He gestured Legna towards the lone chair in the room and collapsed soggily on the bed, pulling the dressing-gown about his legs.
‘I tried phoning, but there was no reply,’ the local police chief replied, sitting down. ‘Since I happened to be passing, I thought I’d just drop by in person.’
Zen coughed, sniffed and lit a cigarette.
‘And found what looks like a flop for homeless alcoholic derelicts,’ he said, pushing the remaining clove of garlic about the bedside table like an extracted wisdom tooth awaiting the proverbial fairy. ‘But it does work. At least, so I’ve been told.’
‘The curative powers of garlic are, of course, well-attested,’ Tullio Legna remarked sententiously. ‘But here in Alba, at this time of the year, I think we may be able to do better. Will you allow me to order you lunch? Not from the kitchens here, God forbid. There’s a good place a couple of streets away. I’ll have them send it up to the room. What are you drinking?’
Zen passed him the bottle. His visitor inspected the label, sniffed the contents, and handed it back.
‘No,’ he said decidedly.
‘Not good?’ queried Zen.
‘Not even bad.’
Tullio Legna wiped his hands together as if to remove a contaminating stain.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘In an hour, shall we say? The sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be back on your feet. Which brings me to my reason for coming, apart, of course, from the pleasure of making your acquaintance.’
He pursed his lips and gazed thoughtfully at Zen, who felt the full force of his disadvantage for the first time.
‘When it was announced that a Criminalpol officer was being transferred here to open an investigation into the Vincenzo case, the news naturally excited much comment,’ Legna continued in a studiously neutral voice. ‘This case had been in the hands of my Carabinieri colleagues — we had had no hand in it — and they had made an arrest. There has therefore been a considerable amount of speculation as to why the Ministry should suddenly have decided to take a hand, and at such a high level.’
‘Naturally,’ Zen replied in an equally bland tone.
Tullio Legna smiled sympathetically.
‘I don’t want to burden you with questions when you’re unwell, dottore. But it would considerably facilitate my position if you would, however briefly, clarify yours.’
Semi-recumbent, half-drunk, stinking of garlic and feeling like death partially defrosted, thought Zen.
‘My position?’ he repeated.
‘Your interest, let’s say.’
‘In the Vincenzo case?’
‘Exactly.’
Zen put out his cigarette in the dregs of wine remaining in his glass.
‘I have no interest in it.’
‘Ah.’
‘It’s a question of someone else’s interest.’
‘And what is that?’
‘To ensure that the Vincenzo wine gets made.’
Legna looked probingly at Zen for a moment, then smiled ironically.
‘And who on earth is this well-connected intenditore?’
Zen lit another Nazionale. When it became evident that he was not going to reply, Tullio Legna nodded gravely.
‘Ah, like that, is it? Excuse my indiscretion, dottore. We’re just simple country people here in the Langhe. I’m not accustomed to the Roman way of doing things.’
Zen gestured feebly.
‘It’s I who should apologize. You’ve been very kind, and I’m not trying to play games. I can assure you that the identity of the person who was instrumental in having me sent here is of absolutely no relevance to the case or to my assignment.’
‘Which is to get Manlio Vincenzo out of gaol,’ Legna remarked expressionlessly.
Zen shrugged.
‘I understand that this year’s wine promises to be exceptional.’
