But the sense of failure ran deeper than that. There was a generalized reek of frustration, even despair, as unmistakable as mould. Things hadn’t worked out the way they were supposed to. The members of the commune had worked their fingers to the bone, followed the idealistic principles of the movement to the letter, but they’d been let down by events. And not just here! The whole country, it had turned out, was ideologically rotten to the core. After all the valiant and tireless struggles against entrenched corruption, blatant scandals, extreme right-wing terrorism, attempted military coups and a host of secret organizations aimed at keeping the powerful in power and everyone else in subjection, those responsible had finally been ousted, only to be replaced by Silvio Berlusconi and his opportunistic pals. It had turned out that the majority of Italians did indeed want un paese normale, only not as the left had intended that slogan, meaning a ‘Scandinavian’ model of probity and socialism with a human face, but in the most literal sense of the phrase: a country much like any other; no better, no worse.
That’s what they’d voted for and that’s what they’d got, leaving the sinistrini to weep into their pasta and bean soup prepared from ingredients grown according to the highest principles of biological agriculture, and to squabble self- destructively about whose fault it was that everything had gone wrong. Not for the first time, Zen reflected on the irony of the fact that those who had explicitly declared History to be the final court of appeal should be so reluctant to accept its judgements.
The dry strokes of the long-case clock combined in a syncopated pattern with two sets of footsteps. Marta, the short, anxious- looking woman who had greeted Zen upon his arrival, went behind the bar and started sorting glasses. Naldo, wearing his usual sullen grimace, headed back to the table. Zen suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to get out of there, and fast. When it came to interrogations, his rule of thumb was simple: if you can discover the thing that a man despises about himself, which may of course be very different from what others despise about him, then he’s yours. But despite his best efforts, he had failed to find this crucial key to Naldo Ferrero, and there was nothing more for him here. He stood up, crushing his cigarette out on the floor.
‘I shall need to speak to your mother, Signor Ferrero.’
‘You can’t.’
Zen sighed. How he would have loved to take the little squirt down to the police station in Pesaro and make him sweat blood!
‘I can get her details from my colleagues in Verona, of course, but I thought you might have wished to save me the time and effort. Never mind. The net result will be the same.’
‘Your time and effort will be wasted. My mother has gone to Switzerland.’
Zen was genuinely surprised.
‘Leaving the country at this juncture casts considerable doubt on your account of her role in this affair, to say the least,’ he remarked coldly.
‘It’s got nothing whatever to do with that! She always goes to Lugano at this time of year. The next time she calls, I’m going to tell her to stay there until further notice. Whether or not she had an affair with someone thirty years ago is of no relevance to the identity and manner of death of this body that’s turned up. She knows nothing about that and I’m not going to let you terrorize her as you’ve tried to terrorize me!’
He stood there, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet, as if expecting to be punched and quite prepared to hit back. Ignoring him, Zen took out his mobile and called the taxi driver, who had driven on to a neighbouring town after dropping him at the restaurant. The man said he would be there in fifteen minutes. Zen put his phone away and started towards the door.
‘Would you like a drink or something while you wait?’ the woman behind the bar asked as he passed. She was small-bodied but large-breasted, with an amiable air of blowsy sensuality that must have absolutely devastated the ranks of some small-town PCI sezione a decade earlier. Now she looked wiser and sadder and worn-out in some way that went beyond mere physical or mental exhaustion.
‘The espresso machine is turned off during the week, and it takes ages to heat up, but we have beer or…’
Zen sensed that she was trying to compensate for Naldo’s aggressive manner earlier, out of both politeness and concern about the possible consequences.
‘Do you have any grappa?’ Zen asked.
The woman raised her eyes to his for the first time.
‘We have a local one, hand-made in limited batches using small copper stills…’
‘I’d be delighted to try it,’ Zen replied with a warm smile. ‘But only on condition that you join me.’
The woman looked anxious again.
‘Well, I don’t know. There’s so much to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, there are the pigs to feed. I meant to do it earlier, but then the water pump broke down and…’
‘Signor Ferrero will take care of all that. In view of its impeccable credentials in other respects, this establishment must surely be an equal-opportunity employer.’
He turned to Naldo, who was still standing on the same spot, seemingly lost in whatever long irresolvable internal tussle occupied his time and energies.
‘This is your opportunity to experience at first hand the rewards of plumbing and pig husbandry,’ Zen told him. ‘I’m sure we can count on you not to throw away a chance for personal enrichment which may never come again.’
Naldo turned furiously to the woman.
‘Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Marta?’
‘It was only a joke!’
Zen sensed that this was a line that had been used so many times that it was by now worn out. He also belatedly realized what it was that Naldo despised about himself: his dependency, his lack of decisive virility, his mammismo.
‘And besides,’ she went on, ‘it wouldn’t do you any harm to get a little exercise. I’ve told you over and over again that physical work activates the endorphins and helps with your depression.’
Naldo scowled his way out to the back of the premises, leaving Zen with an odd feeling that he’d just scored a point of some kind, even though he hadn’t been playing to win. Marta poured a shot of a clear spirit and a glass of wine and set them both on the counter in an unhurried way.
‘ Saluti,’ she said. ‘I don’t drink spirits myself, but I’ve been told that this one’s good.’
Zen sniffed the glass, then took a long sip. It was indeed a very good try for an area with no tradition of producing grappa, although lacking the last degree of refinement which producers in his native Veneto could achieve.
‘Excellent,’ he said, producing his cigarettes and offering one to Marta, who shook her head.
‘So why are the police after Naldo?’ she asked.
‘We’re not after him. I’m trying to help him locate and identify his father’s body, that’s all.’
He glanced at her.
‘Has he ever talked about that aspect of his life to you?’
When she did not reply immediately, he threw up his hands.
‘Sorry! You offer me a drink and the next thing you know I’m grilling you.’
‘It’s not that. I’m just not sure what you want to know, or what it would be proper for me to tell you without consulting Naldo.’
Zen nodded his understanding of the situation.
‘Let me tell you what he told me,’ he said. ‘Basically, he said that his mother claims to have had an affair thirty years ago with a man called Leonardo Ferrero. The man died shortly after she had become pregnant. Claudia passed the baby off to her husband as his. He apparently never suspected the truth. Later, after his death, she revealed all this to her son, who started using the lover’s surname as his own at his mother’s request. And she now claims that this unidentified body that’s turned up is that of her lover.’
Marta nodded.
‘That’s about all he told me, except that this Leonardo was in the army. That’s all he knows.’
She finished her wine and poured them both a second measure.
‘But you know more,’ said Zen, studying her intently.
Marta took her time about answering, but it was a silence with which she was at ease, unhurriedly working out what she wanted to say.
