let you into their neighbour’s secrets, particularly if they thought it might distract your attention from their own. ‘Mayer couldn’t fucking wait to shop his rich young pal.’ Yes, that was the style of the place. It was all a fuss about nothing, another example of the national genius for weaving intricate variations around the simplest event. Zen had always derived much amusement from Ellen’s simple-minded approach to current affairs. Despite her intelligence, she could be quite amazingly naive and literal in her judgements. She seemed to believe that the truth was great and would prevail, so why waste time spinning a lot of fancy theories? Whereas Zen knew that the truth prevailed, if at all, only after so much time had passed that it had become meaningless, like a senile prisoner who can safely be released, his significance forgotten, his friends dead, a babbling idiot.
But in the present case it was time to take a stand, to declare once and for all that on this occasion at least the truth was as obvious and evident as it appeared to be. The crimes which had been committed were manifestly the work of hardened professionals who had no more to do with the incestuous dramas of this city than Zen himself. Any suggestion to the contrary was simply an excuse for the locals to feel self-important and settle a few scores with their neighbours.
Inevitably, his steps led him in the end to the Corso, where the evening promenade was in progress. People paraded up and down, displaying their furs and finery, hailing their friends, seeing and being seen, streaming back and forth continually like swimmers in a pool. The stars of either sex clustered in twos or threes, massing their power, or strode out alone, shining soloists, while the less attractive gathered for protection in groups outside the offices of some religious or political organization. Part of the street was thronged with teenagers, and more were arriving every instant on their mopeds. The males dominated, bold gangling youths in brightly coloured designer anoraks and jeans turned up to reveal their American-style chunky leather boots. They threw their weight about with boisterous nonchalance while the girls, in frilly lace collars like doilies, tartan skirts and coloured tights, looked on admiringly. One of the most prominent of them was a tall youth with the extravagant gestures and loud voice of an actor who knows he’s going down well. Only at the last moment, when he’d been recognized in turn, did Zen realize that it was Daniele Miletti.
It was almost predictable. The young trendies of the soft right, like their Fascist counterparts of half a century earlier, bragged about not giving a damn. Nothing would do more to boost Daniele’s status than to be seen showing off on the Corso while his father’s life still hung in the balance.
‘A very good evening to you, dottore!’ the boy called out in a bad parody of a Venetian accent. ‘So sorry to hear about your accident. Do try and take more care in future!’
He turned to explain the joke to his companions, who all laughed loudly.
‘Don’t you dare beat me up, you nasty nasty man, I’m a policeman!’ one of them shrieked in a mocking falsettto.
Zen pushed on, understanding how Italo Baldoni must have felt when the young Miletti slipped through his fingers. Increasingly it seemed to him that there were people who needed to spend a few hours locked in a room with the likes of Chiodini. The trouble with the system was that they were the ones who never did. But he would never admit to such a thought, and in fact felt guilty for even thinking it. Then he felt resentful for being made to feel guilty, so that by the time he got back to the Questura all the benefits of his walk had been cancelled out.
He’d had an irrational feeling that something must have happened in his absence, simply because he hadn’t been there, but he was wrong. He was back where he’d started, staring at the wall with nothing to do but wait. As his eyes fell on the crucifix he realized that he’d always loathed it, and in a small gesture of defiance he lifted it off its hook and set it down on top of the filing cabinet. Then he remembered the copy of Ruggiero’s letter, and realized that there was something he could do after all.
‘ Seven double eight one eight.’
‘Good evening. This is Aurelio Zen. Am I disturbing you?’
‘ No, no. Not at all. Well not really…’
Ivy sounded ill at ease. Had she already guessed why he was calling?
‘I wanted to contact you this morning, but…’
‘ I was out. I’d arranged to meet someone.’
‘Yes, I know. I met Cinzia Miletti in town. She’d been waiting for you.’
‘ Well, I’d been waiting for her, too! We’d arranged to meet at her house.’
‘She told me that you phoned her and asked for a meeting in town.’
‘ I really can’t imagine why she should have said that, Com missioner. It’s exactly the opposite of what happened. She phoned me and asked me to come straight over. She didn’t say why, but obviously in my position…’
It occurred to Zen that while they were talking any incoming call announcing Ruggiero’s release would be blocked.
‘Never mind about that,’ he said briskly. ‘There’s something I want to discuss with you. It’s about a letter I’ve received.’
‘ A letter? What son of letter? ’
‘I’d rather not discuss it on the phone. Do you think you could drop into my office? It won’t take long.’
‘ Well, it’s a bit difficult. It’s a question of the family, you see. I’m not sure they’d approve, just at present.’
They’d approve still less if they knew what it was about, thought Zen.
‘ Perhaps later on, once this is all over.’
‘Very well. I’ll contact you later then.’
He hung up, his hand hovering hopefully above the receiver. But the phone remained sullenly silent.
His suspicions were confirmed. The uncharacteristic fuss and fluster in Ivy’s manner was surely a proof that she knew only too well which letter he was talking about and was in mortal dread of the family finding out.
He took out the letter and scanned the final lines again. That mistake was curious: ‘… well-worn consecutively numbered notes…’ For a moment it had made him inclined to doubt the authenticity of the whole thing. But it was only a detail, and it didn’t alter the fact that no one but Ivy could have done it. She must have taken the letter straight to a photocopy shop after collecting it from the skip and then posted the copy to Zen before returning to the house, calculating that if the copy came to light each of the Milettis would equally be under suspicion. But that calculation had gone up in smoke with the original letter, and since then she must have bitterly regretted her rashness. Why had she taken such a risk? Was it because she knew the Miletti family only too well, and was determined that this time at least everything should not be conveniently hushed up? Had sending Zen the letter been her humble way of serving the great principle upon which Luciano Bartocci had now apparently turned his back, of not letting the bastards get away with it? At all events, she had committed no crime, so there was no reason for him to pursue the matter any further.
He sat there until his eyelids began to droop, then phoned the switchboard and told them that he would be at his hotel. There was no point in continuing his lonely vigil.
But why couldn’t he rid himself of the eerie sensation that it had already happened, that everyone knew except him, that he was being deliberately kept in the dark?
SEVEN
He was in bed, in the room in Venice where he had spent his childhood, and he was still that child. A figure moved slowly through the uncertain light towards him, as faceless and monumental as Death in an old engraving. But he wasn’t frightened, because he knew that it was all just a joke, a little comedy of the kind fathers like to play with their sons.
He’d always known his father would come back. Not that he’d ever admitted it before, even to himself. But nothing and no one could ever really convince him that a world where fathers just disappeared one day and never returned could be anything other than a pitiful sham, a transparent hoax. He had never been taken in, not really, not inside, but he’d known moments of doubt, so his delight and relief were unbounded now he found that his instincts had been right all along! For here his father was, sitting down beside him, hugging and kissing him, taking his hand again and laughing at the silly terrors his little game had aroused in his son.
The phone beside his bed started to ring. It was the duty officer on the intercept desk at the law courts.
