Zen laid the blade of the knife on the clove of garlic and hit it sharply with the heel of his hand.
‘Where did you learn that trick?’ asked Cristiana in a tone of admiration.
Zen lifted the tissue-thin skin away and set about chopping up the clove.
‘From my mother.’
‘Nando can’t even make coffee. “I fly planes, you look after the house,” he always says. “Any time you want to swop, just let me know.”’
‘He’s a pilot?’
‘He flew ground-attack helicopters for the air force. He often says it was the high point of his life. That’s why he went into politics, I think, in search of new thrills. He tried business, but it didn’t have enough edge.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He’s a partner in a firm called Aeroservizi Veneti. They cater to rich people needing to be taxied to and fro, businessmen wanting to charter a small jet to Budapest, that sort of thing.’
She laughed.
‘I remember the day he proposed, he took me for a tour all over the lagoon in a helicopter, flying low. As we were hovering over the water in the middle of nowhere he suddenly got up from his seat, leant over me, kissed me and asked me to marry him. Later he told me that he’d put the helicopter on automatic, but I didn’t know that at the time. I was terrified. So of course I said yes, just to get him back at the controls!’
Zen poured the olive oil into a small pan, set it on a low flame and added the chopped garlic.
‘Quite the lad, eh?’
‘Oh yes. And with all the girls.’
The lid of the pasta pan started to rattle. Cristiana tore the spaghetti packet open with her sharp white teeth. She emptied half the golden rods into her palm and lowered them into the pan, where they gradually unbent and began to move freely, like underwater weed. She looked up at Zen, who had been watching the swell and sway of her breasts. Their eyes held a moment, then he turned back to the counter and began to shred the chillis.
‘Are these really hot?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no idea. Those small ones are often the worst.’
‘How many shall I put in? Three? Four?’
‘I can take it if you can.’
Dense with gluten, the pasta water gurgled like hot mud. Zen scattered the flakes of chilli over the slices of garlic, which had turned a pale gold in the warm oil. Cristiana laid a large bowl, two plates, glasses, forks and spoons on the kitchen table and unstoppered the wine. She fished a strand of spaghetti out of the water and tested it.
‘What do you think?’
She passed the rest to Zen, who bit into the clammy filament.
‘Still a bit chewy.’
‘It should be. The oil will finish it.’
She drained the spaghetti and dumped the tangled mass into the bowl, where Zen anointed it with the scalding oil.
‘Ready!’
They sat facing each other across the table, the steaming tub of pasta between them. While Cristiana served them each a plateful, Zen poured the wine.
‘So what have local politics to do with Ada Zulian’s ghosts?’ Cristiana asked, winding spaghetti on to her fork.
‘Ada? Nothing!’
He frowned suddenly, realizing his slip.
‘No, that was… I was talking about a different case.’
‘You’re working on something else?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Is that what that fax was about?’
He nodded.
‘It’s all a bit confidential, actually.’
‘I can keep a secret.’
He looked over at her and smiled, holding her eyes for a moment.
‘It concerns that American who disappeared a few months ago from an island in the lagoon.’
Cristiana gasped.
‘Swallowed a bit of chilli,’ she explained.
‘It was all over the papers for a while. Everyone assumed he had been kidnapped, but there was never a ransom demand.’
‘I seem to remember reading something about it. Has something new come up?’
‘Yes and no.’
She shot him a glance.
‘Meaning you don’t trust me.’
‘It’s not that,’ he said quickly — too quickly.
Cristiana gave the facial equivalent of a shrug and went on eating.
‘The American’s boat disappeared at the same time he did,’ Zen told her after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I think I’ve found it.’
She opened her eyes wide.
‘Where?’
‘Here in the city. The man who took it was probably supposed to scuttle it, but he was greedy. He sold it instead.’
He took a gulp of wine to cut the aromatic oil coating each strand of pasta.
‘But where does politics come into all this?’ asked Cristiana.
‘The man in question has friends.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I don’t know, but they had a lawyer there ten minutes after I’d started my questioning. And this was one of those lawyers you normally make appointments with a year ahead. Name of Gorin.’
‘Carlo?’
‘You know him?’
She frowned.
‘We… Nando knows him, I think.’
She hoisted a last forkful of pasta to her mouth. A dribble of oil ran palely green down her chin. Zen reached over and wiped the oil away with his fingers, then licked them clean.
‘Wonderful,’ he said, setting his own plate aside. ‘I haven’t had that for ages. So simple, yet so good.’
Cristiana smiled and poured them both some more wine. Zen held up his packet of cigarettes.
‘Do you mind?’
‘I’ll have one, if I may. I’m an occasional smoker.’
‘I know the feeling. I’m an occasional non-smoker.’
They smoked in silence for some time.
‘You miss your husband,’ said Zen abruptly.
It was not a question.
‘In a way,’ replied Cristiana. ‘It’s not easy being a single woman in this place. It’s like being a child again. Everything you do is subject to scrutiny and comment.’
‘Does your mother know that you’re here?’
Cristiana shrugged.
‘I expect so. There’s always someone watching.’
In the next room, the phone started ringing shrilly.
‘Damn!’ said Zen, getting up. ‘Don’t go away.’
Cristiana smiled ruefully.
‘Where would I go?’
