'Why not just forbid your daughters to see them?' Zen had suggested.
Valeria merely smiled sadly.
'You're out of touch, Don Alfonso. The girls simply wouldn't obey me. They're in love, or think they are. For the young these days, that's a licence to do anything.
Besides, it might just make matters worse as far as the men are concerned. Gangsters never take no for an answer, even if they're not really that interested. It's a question of principle with them.'
Things had come a long way since that stiff-backed, exploratory rendezvous at La Cantinella. In retrospect, the turning-point had probably been Zen's agreeing to give up smoking. Valeria's late husband had been a sixtya- day man, and the smell of cigarettes, she explained, still evoked disturbing memories. Much to his surprise, Zen had simply shrugged and said, 'All right/ It was just another example of how he had changed since moving to Naples. All his habits and attributes had come to seem provisional, decorative impedimenta related to choices he had once made for reasons now forgotten, no more a part of him than his clothes. He'd started smoking at a certain moment, now he would stop. Why not?
The decision had meant handing over the remaining 320 packets of the contraband Nazionali to old Signor Castrese across the street, but it had been worth it. Never before had Zen had a relationship like this with a woman: warm, intimate, friendly, informal, but completely nonsexual.
This is what it would have been like having a sister, he thought as they lay sprawled side by side beneath the green awning, the table between them littered with the remains of the simple meal Zen bought on his way home — a selection of cold antipasti, half a crusty loaf and some insalata Caprese.
They still had their differences, though, notably over the success of the plan Zen came up with for separating Valeria's daughters from their unsuitable suitors.
'But will it work?' she repeated. 'That's the question.'
'Of course it will/ Zen replied lazily.
She shook her head.
'I don't feel right, playing with their emotions like this.
They're such darlings. I remember when they were babies 'But now they can have babies. And it's your responsibility to make sure that that happens with the right person and in the right circumstances.'
'You're so logical, so Northernl Life isn't that simple.'
She glanced at her watch.
'I must go. The girls will be home in half an hour. I don't want to have to lie to them about where I've been.'
'The essential thing now is to make sure they don't try and back out. Take them shopping, let them choose suitable clothes and accessories, pick up a guidebook and maps of London.'
Valeria sighed.
'But what about the men? I still don't understand how you're going to get them to be unfaithful in such a short time.'
'Leave that to me. Just remember to leave me the key to the downstairs flat. Oh, and have you got those snapshots I asked for?'
Valeria Squillace handed over these items, and Zen led her down the stairs to the front door. The football players had dispersed and the steep basalt steps were deserted.
From the sill of a barred window across the alley, Don Castrese's cat watched them warily.
'I'll set up a meeting between our four young lovers just before the girls leave/ Zen told Valeria. 'But it's most important they shouldn't meet until then. If Sabatino and Gesualdo find out what's happening and get to work on the girls, they could destroy the whole plan.'
Valeria nodded.
'I'll take them off to visit their aunt in Salerno. They've been promising to go for weeks, and this is the perfect opportunity.'
She turned to Zen.
'So I'll see you on Sunday night/ she said lightly.
'What about the neighbours? The porter is bound to see me coming and going, and it'll be all over the building in no time.'
Valeria waved dismissively.
'I've told him I'm expecting a cousin from Milan who's down here on business for a few weeks. That and a large tip from you should do the trick.'
Zen smiled and nodded.
'A presto, allora.'
'Arrivederci, Don Alfonso.'
V
At about the time Zen and Valeria parted in a quiet alley on the slopes of the Vomero, with only a cat for company, the two men who were the subject of their discussion entered a shop in Spaccanapoli amid the shriek of sirens and the raucous shouts of street vendors. The shop sold wine and beer and filling snacks: balls of cooked rice with a soft heart of melted mozzarella, folded pizzas stuffed with curd cheese and ham, potato croquettes laden with oil and melted cheese.
The elderly woman behind the counter was adding to the general din by yelling an order to the kitchen, where her husband and a teenage boy were hard at work in the ferocious heat of ovens the size of tombs. Then she saw the two men who had just come in and her face became studiously blank.
'Giosue here?' asked the older and taller of the pair.
He was dressed in designer slacks and a tight-fitting sweater which revealed his taut, muscled frame to advantage.
'Eh, oh!' the woman called to the back of the shop. 'And these pizzettel'
The other man reached over the counter and took one of the golden rice balls stacked on a plate. He was wearing jeans and a smartly pressed sports jacket over an open-necked shirt.
'Good/ he said appreciatively, biting into the arancia.
'What do you want?' the old woman asked.
'A double cone with pistachio and chocolate/ returned the first man in dialect as thick as her own. 'Oh, and a scoop of raspberry, what the hell.'
'We don't have ice-cream.'
The man looked shocked.
'You don't?'
He turned to his companion.
'They don't have ice-cream, they don't have Giosue. So what the fuck do they have?'
The other swallowed a mouthful of rice before replying.
'They have problems/ he said, shaking his head.
The old woman made a face.
'Eh, problems! Of course we have problems, and so many!'
The first man flicked his forefinger at her face.
'Ah, but you have problems you don't even know about yet. Maybe you have ice-cream too, without knowing it.'
'Maybe they have Giosue/ the other man put in.
At this point the woman's husband emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a filthy towel. He was old too, just like his wife, and the neighbour's kid who was helping out was too young to be any help in a situation like this. Once upon a time he could have seen scum like this off the premises without any trouble, but not any longer. He knew it, and so did they.
