about video games with your pal Gilberto and not even bothering to come and see your poor mother who you've abandoned here like some old coat you've no more use for now you've moved to the sunny south and gone native…'
And so on, for some time. And when Zen finally succeeded in getting the conversation back on track, it promptly ran right over him.
'So then Tarda told me her news. You'll never guess what's happened!' 'I suppose she wants to get married so that she can divorce me and get her hands on the American money you no doubt told her about too.'
'She does want to marry you, Aurelio, but not for your money. It's for the child.'
'Whose child?'
'Yours, of course! She's pregnant.'
During his previous sojourn in Naples, many years ago, Zen had investigated a particularly unpleasant killing in which an informer was tied to a table and his skull perforated by an electric drill. Zen's present sensations appeared to approximate, however feebly, the experiences of the victim. He did a number of rapid mental calculations involving dates, times and places. It was, he concluded, just possible.
'You didn't tell them where I am, did you? Don't give them this number! Don't even tell them I'm in Naples!'
'Why shouldn't I tell them? Luisella's your wife and Tania's the mother of your child — my grandchild. They're family, Aurelio.' 'For God's sake, mamma! They're just trying to get their hands on my money now I finally have some after all these years. Women are all the same!'
'Don't you use that tone of voice with me, Aurelio!
None of this would have happened if you'd had the simple common decency to pay me a visit when you were in town. I don't expect much, God knows, only a few minutes of your time once every couple of weeks. Is that too much to ask?'
Many years' experience of interrogations had left Aurelio Zen with a keen sense of when and how to turn the tables.
'Why don't you come down here?' he suggested.
The flow of aggrieved verbiage ceased. There was a shocked silence.
'To Naples?' his mother demanded at last, her voice a whisper. 'Are you crazy?'
It's not as bad as it's made out, mamma. I've been pleasantly surprised by the…'
'First you drag me down to the South, now you expect me to move to Africa!'
'Not to live, of course. But you might think about spending a few days here some time…'
'If anything, I'll go back to Venice! I can't see any less of you than I do already, and if I've got to live all alone I might as well do it there as here…'
And so on, for another five minutes. As Zen listened, he realized for the first time the extent to which he had already become 'meridionalized'. He saw it all with a different eye now, this dark, disturbing stuff boiling up like mud churned up by a power boat roaring up a shallow canal — with a clear, unforgiving Southern eye. These were extracts from another narrative, another life, redundant here.
Nevertheless he went through the usual motions, assuring his mother that he would call more often and visit her in person just as soon as the demands of the extremely vital and urgent case he was presently working on permitted. He told her that he loved her and missed her and would never ever come to Rome again without coming to see her, however rushed he might be, because she was more important to him than anything or anyone else. He told what she wanted to hear, then hung up and went to tear the cord out of the wall. He couldn't leave it here in his absence anyway. The last thing he needed was for Gesualdo and Sabatino to be fielding calls for someone called Aurelio Zen.
But before he could disconnect the instrument, it started to ring again. It's mamma, he thought, calling back for further reassurance. His heart sank at the prospect, but it was idle to pretend that he wasn't there.
'Yes?'
'Good evening, dottore. This is Pastorelli.'
'Well?'barked Zen.
'Many apologies for the interruption, dottore. I know we've been given very strict instructions never to disturb you at home, but I can't get hold of Giovan Battista… of Inspector Caputo, that is. He's out somewhere, his wife said, and she doesn't know when he'll…'
'So?'
'Well, the thing is, we have a bit of a problem. It's in relation to that case involving the stabbing of that Greek sailor on the night of the…'
'Has he died?'
'Who?'
'The Greek!'
'No, no. That's to say, I don't know. We've had no word as to his condition.'
'Then why the hell are you wasting my time, Pastorelli?
If you're lonely, go upstairs and chat up the whores.'
'It's the prisoner, dottore/ 'What about the prisoner?'
'He's gone.'
'Gone?' boomed Zen. 'Who authorized his release?'
'No one, dottore. He escaped.'
XIII
Pasquale had gone off duty after dropping the Squillace girls at the airport. He apologized profusely for not being able to drive Zen in person, but promised he would ring around and send someone reliable, thus sparing his client the indignity of having to call a taxi company himself, like some nobody without any standing or contacts in the city. Before leaving, Zen went across the alley and explained to the toothless Don Castrese that he was expecting friends to call that evening and that he might be delayed. He left a key and instructions to admit two young men answering to the names Gesualdo and Sabatino.
The cab dispatched by Pasquale was waiting for Zen in Via Cimarosa. The driver, a squat, tough-looking woman of indeterminate age and few words, confirmed his destination and did not speak again until they arrived at the port. It was the first time that Zen had had occasion to visit his place of work after dark, and he was astonished at the transformation. The shutters of the windows on the top floor of the police station were all closed, but cracks of light escaped here and there and the sound of disco music mingled with voices and laughter floated down through the soft evening air.
Pastorelli, a short intense-looking man with a permanently worried expression, was waiting in the entrance hall, visibly perturbed. Zen made no attempt to mitigate the man's embarrassment or to respond to his explanations and excuses, merely leading the way upstairs to his office as though it were quite normal for him to be there.
Not until he was ensconced behind his desk did he deign to address a word to his subordinate.
'As duty officer in charge of this post, you are personally accountable for ensuring that the statutory regulations are enforced and a proper degree of security maintained/ He lifted the phone.
'In fact, I think we might be able to set a precedent here.
You know how hard it is to get fired from the police.
Many attempts have been made, but they nearly always result in mere demotion or transfer. But if I call the Questura and report that you have not only been turning a blind eye to the fact that a brothel is operating on the premises, but have allowed the suspect at the centre of the most important case this section has ever handled to escape from under your nose, I'm pretty sure that you'll be on the street tomorrow — if not in jail yourself/ Pastorelli blanched visibly but said nothing.
'On the other hand, I'm not sure that's in my own best interests/ Zen went on, setting down the receiver again.
