the end of the table? That's Orlando Pagano. Actually he's a little heavier than I remembered, but don't you think he looks like you?'
Zen narrowed his eyes obediently There was a certain resemblance, he supposed, although the man in the picture was both fleshier and swarthier than Zen himself.
'Here's Manlio/ Valeria went on, pointing. 'And this is the supposed victim of that Strade Pulite group, Ermanno Vallifuoco.'
Vallifuoco was a complacently corpulent man with an expression of inscrutable serenity. Manlio Squillace was leaner and slighter, with a pencil moustache and gleaming eyes. Zen leant forward, scrutinizing the picture intently.
An unearthly sound made itself heard next door, a long rising whine like some primitive lament.
'The kettle!' said Valeria, hurrying out. 'Would you like some cake? I baked it myself, an old Ferrarese recipe.'
Zen did not reply. He was still staring at the photograph, but not at the illustrious victim of terrorism or the late-lamented Signor Squillace. His attention was focused on a man who, judging by his distance from the head of the table, had been one of the less important guests, a minor character brought in to make up the numbers in this boisterous scene of underworld conviviality.
He had been forced to look sharply back over his left shoulder in order to face the camera, and even so was partially obscured by his neighbour. But enough of his face was visible to leave no doubt in Zen's mind that he was none other than the man who had knifed the Greek sailor a few days earlier and then mysteriously disappeared from his cell at the police station.
XV
The chic austerity on display in the 'public' areas of the Squillace apartment was gleefully abandoned once past the door to the family's own rooms, which sported an amazing range of high-tech, low-taste gadgets, gimmicks and gizmos ranging from novelty telephones to auto flushing toilets, from remote-control light fixtures to a set of interactive operas on CD-ROM.
So it came as no particular surprise to Zen, when he went to the bathroom early next morning, to find a miniaturized waterproof television set attached to a bracket in the shower cubicle. The idea struck him as both idiotic and irresistible — we may be half the men our fathers were, but they couldn't watch TV in the shower — and he turned it on in the middle of the local news. What with the hiss of the water and the assorted noises associated with his ablutions, it was some time before he tuned in to the story which the gorgeously coiffed presenter was reading. .. approached the truck following the collision, when a group of men — estimates vary as to the exact number leapt out and opened fire. The officer was killed instantly.
The assailants then ran off into the neighbouring Forcella area, abandoning their vehicle. Another official travelling in the police car was unharmed, but in the confusion a prisoner they were transporting is thought to have escaped. A search was instituted, but so far all attempts to trace the authors of this savage crime have been unsuccessful. The victim has been named as Armando Bertolini, twenty nine, resident in Fuorigrotta and married with one…'
Valeria Squillace was assembling the coffee machine when the apparition occurred: a naked man, dripping wet, sprinting past the kitchen and down the hall. She dropped the caffetiera, spilling grounds all over the floor and hurting her foot quite badly. Even once the pain had subsided, she had no idea what to make of it. She wondered for a moment if the whole thing was a dream. But the splashes of soapy water on the parquet, not to mention the pain in her toes, were realenough.
Back in Filomena's bedroom, where he was sleeping, Zen searched frantically for the phone, which took the form of a pink plastic rabbit. Judging by the decor, it was very hard to believe that Filomena Squillace could possibly be old enough to give her mother any cause for concern.
Every available surface was piled high with stuffed toys and brightly coloured knick-knacks decorated with cartoon animals and wide-eyed infants. The only hint of sexuality came in a series of posters featuring a variety of intense-looking young men struggling to look less wholesome than they actually were.
Zen perched naked on the bed and pressed a series of buttons protruding from the rabbit's chest and pressed the creature's head to his ear. The number rang for a considerable time before being answered with a tentative 'Si?'.
'Who's this?' demanded Zen into the grille on the rabbit's stomach.
'Who's calling?'
'Is this the port police?'
'I think you have a wrong number.'
That was quite possible, given the fact that the keys were cutely disguised as buttons on the bunny's outfit.
Zen muttered an apology and was about to hang up when the voice at the other end said, 'Is that you, dottore?'
'This is Aurelio Zen. Who's speaking?'
'Oh, thank God! This is Caputo.'
'Why the hell didn't you answer properly?' 'I thought it might be the Questura. They've been after you all night.'
There was a faint knock at the door, but Zen did not register it.
'When did this happen?' he demanded.
'Last evening, while we were driving Pas… the prisoner to the hospital. We got in a fender-bender with this rubbish truck. Bertolini went to give them hell and suddenly these guys jump out and riddle him with bullets. I put in a call for backup…'
'And Pastorelli?'
'He ran off. I haven't heard from him.'
The door opened and Valeria Squillace appeared with a cup of coffee.
'OK, listen, Caputo/ Zen said. 'I'll be there as soon as I can. Until then, the arrangements we made yesterday still stand. Got that?'
Valeria stood looking on with a small, fixed smile. Perhaps he's some sort of nudist, she was thinking, although he didn't seem the type.
'Don't go into any details/ Zen continued. 'Refer all supplementary questions to me.'
He put the rabbit back on the bedside table and turned to Valeria. It was only then that he realized that he was naked.
'I haven't had time to get dressed/ he explained apologetically.
'One of my men was killed in a gunfight last night. I'm rather shaken up.'
Valeria set the coffee down on a dresser just inside the door. She was wearing a thick ivory-coloured towel robe.
Judging by the expanse of shoulder, leg and upper chest visible, she wasn't wearing anything else.
'How horrible/ she said with the same fixed smile.
Zen didn't bother making any belated attempts to cover his genitals, but naturally Valeria studiously avoided looking anywhere in that direction. Nevertheless, she somehow got the impression that one particular item was rather more prominent than it had been when she first came into the room. Whether or not this was in fact the case, the mere idea was enough to produce a spectacular blush which served to emphasize the contrast between her body and the garment loosely wrapped around it, secured by a single twist of belt. This only made matters worse, and the next time she didn't look there was no further doubt.
They were saved by the telephone, which began chirping and beeping and ringing and buzzing from its various locations all over the house. Valeria's rictus vanished along with her blush. She turned briskly away, closing the door behind her. With an effort, Zen pulled himself together and started to get dressed.
