He snatched a gulp of wine.
‘Even then we got off pretty lightly here in Venice, apart from the Jews. Two hundred of them, including the Coin family, were deported to the death camps.’
‘And Rosetta Zulian?’ Zen put in a trifle pointedly.
Andrea Dolfin smiled and nodded.
‘The old man is losing track of the subject, eh? It’s true. When I start to think about those days, I sometimes get confused, and forget who was who and what really happened. It’s not hard to do in the case of Rosetta Zulian, because what did happen was so incredible.’
He clicked the forefinger and thumb of his right hand.
‘She vanished, just like that! In the spring of 1944, it was. She would have been about fifteen. One afternoon she left home, telling her mother she would be back by six. She was never seen again. No body was ever discovered. No trace of her, alive or dead, was ever found.’
Dolfin shook his head sadly.
‘The contessa never got over it. Her husband had been killed just a couple of years before, and now this. She started making absurd accusations.’
He shot Zen a glance.
‘That’s why I had to move, to tell you the truth. She started putting it about that I’d done away with her daughter.’
Dolfin shrugged.
‘Normally I’d just have laughed it off, but it was a difficult moment for me just after the war. There were people who had it in for me because I’d been in the party. As though I’d been the only Fascist in Venice!’
He laughed bitterly.
‘She even made a formal complaint to the police! Nothing came of it, of course, but there were plenty of folk prepared to believe that there’s no smoke without fire, enough to make life in the old house impossible for me. So I pulled up my roots and moved over here to Dorsoduro. The people round this way are quite different. They don’t care what you may or may not have done fifty years ago, just as long as you leave them in peace now.’
He stood up painfully, wrapping the russet dressing-gown about his spare form.
‘And then that fool Saoner expects me to sign up for his fantasies of an independent Venice! I might, on condition that we bulldoze the Cannaregio and make it into a car park. So many terrible things have happened here, so many crimes, so many horrors. Who wants to remember all that? We’d all end up like Ada
Zulian, talking to people who aren’t there and ignoring those who are.’
Recognizing that the interview was at an end, Zen stood up, buttoning his coat.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ he said. ‘The wine was excellent.’
‘It is not so bad,’ Andrea conceded. ‘I’m sorry I’m unable to tell you any more about Rosetta Zulian.’
He looked Zen in the eye.
‘I fear it’s just one of those episodes which will remain a mystery for ever.’
The next day dawned dull and cold. Aurelio Zen was up to watch as the light imperceptibly reclaimed the eastern sky. He had paid for his late afternoon nap with a broken, restless sleep from which even so early an awakening came as a relief. He had no idea how long he had slept. It might have been hours or minutes, but his abiding memory of the experience was of a continual tossing and turning which was the outward expression of his inner turmoil.
His visit to Andrea Dolfin the night before had merely served to confirm his sense that everything was slipping away from him. The old man’s parting words had echoed his own realisation that the fate of Rosetta Zulian, like that of Ivan Durridge, and for that matter his own father, would quite likely never be known. The few facts he had gleaned stood out like objects scattered at random in a dark room, illuminated by a beam of light whose brilliance only serves to emphasize the impenetrable obscurity all around.
Anxious to dispel this paralysing sense of hopelessness, Zen dressed rapidly and set out for the Questura on foot without even pausing to broach the packet of coffee he had bought the day before. The day was established by now, but the light was still mean and grudging. The keen wind which had seen off the last of the fog blew the pigeons down the streets towards him like flying debris from an explosion.
When Zen reached his office, having stopped off in a bar to get his caffeine count up to par, he discovered that the province’s maritime registration office had faxed over the details he had requested. The list was not extensive. Ivan Durridge’s boat had been the broad-beamed topa, once a common sight on the lagoon but now largely superseded by more utilitarian models. Since the 1st of November of the previous year, only three such vessels had been registered. Of these, one was still powered only by the original lugsail and could thus be discounted. The remaining two had both been equipped with diesel engines, one a Volvo, the other a Fiat.
Zen consulted his watch. By now it was after seven, and Marco Paulon would have made an early start to catch the tide. He looked up his number and dialled. The phone was answered by Signora Paulon, who informed Zen curtly that her husband could be reached on his mobile phone. Zen thanked her and dialled the number she supplied. A brief series of electronic beeps were followed by a gruff shout above the noise of a labouring marine engine.
‘Well?’
‘Good morning, Marco.’
‘Aurelio?’
‘Where are you?’
‘On the way to San Lazzaro with a load of paper for the Armenians’ printing press. What can I do for you?’
‘I hear that that fisherman from Burano you were telling me about was found drowned.’
‘Poor bastard. After whatever happened to him on Sant’Ariano, his brain must have snapped. Christ protect us all from such a fate.’
‘A word of advice, Marco. How do I trace the serial number of the engine of a missing boat?’
For a while there was only the gurgling throb of Marco Paulon’s boat bucking out across the lagoon.
‘Probably the easiest way is to trace the boatyard which sold or serviced it,’ Marco replied at length.‘They’ll be bound to have those details on record.’
‘Of course. Thanks, Marco.’
‘Any time. Hey, what about coming to dinner one of these days? Fabia’s telephone manner may stink, but she’s also a lousy cook. On the other hand, how good do you need to be to cook fish?’
‘Good enough to buy it fresh and not mess it about too much.’
‘Give me a call when you’re free. How about Sunday?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘We’ll be expecting you.’
Zen dug out the office copy of the Venice Yellow Pages and looked up boatyards. Then he started a series of phone calls, identical in form and content.
‘Good morning, this is the Questura of Venice. Can you tell me if you sold or serviced a converted topa belonging to Ivan Durridge, spelt D-U-R-R-I-D-G-E? You’re sure? Thank you. Goodbye.’
There were about thirty-five yards altogether, and Zen had recited his formula over twenty times before he struck lucky. It seemed that Durridge had had his boat overhauled every year by a small family firm on the Giudecca from whom he had bought it in the first place. They evidently remembered him with affection.
‘Of course, the American. So kind! So friendly! He always brought a present for my little boy when he went away. We were shocked by what happened. What an appalling tragedy! Is there any fresh news?’
Zen said enough to impress on the boatyard owner the importance of the information he sought and then popped the question.
‘The serial number? Yes, of course, I’ll have it in the books somewhere. It was a Volvo, I remember that. Hold on just a minute.’
In the event it was more like five minutes. Meanwhile Zen went through the registration list again. The Volvo-engined topa was owned by one Sergio Scusat. Like all those in the city, the postal address supplied consisted of a number followed by the name of the sestiere, in this case San Polo. Zen was searching the desk drawers for a copy of the directory which converted these postal codes into street addresses when the receiver lying on the desk began to squeak. He picked it up and noted down the serial number of the motor fitted to Ivan
