at Mestre nor subsequent hold-ups at Bologna and Florence had been able to touch it, and despite the weather, grey and unseasonably cold for late March, even the return to the capital hadn’t depressed him as much as usual. He would never learn to like Rome, never be at ease with the weight of centuries of power and corruption there in the dead centre of Italy, the symbol and source of its stagnation. How could he ever feel at home in the heaviest of all cities when he had been born and formed in its living antithesis, a city so light it seems to float? Nevertheless, if he were forced to take sides between the old Veronese and the young Roman there could be only one choice. He had no wish to live in some miserable Northern land where everything ran like clockwork. As if that was what life was about! No, it was about those two lads out there in the corridor, for instance, typical Roman working-class toughs in jeans and leather jackets staring into the first-class compartments as they strolled along the corridor with an easy natural insolence which no degree of poverty could touch, as if they owned the place! The country might have its problems, but as long as it could go on producing that burning energy, that irresistible drive and flair…
In a second, the door was closed again and the taller one inside, a plastic sports bag in one hand, an automatic pistol in the other. A brief smile flashed across his face.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not a terrorist!’
The bag landed on the floor at their feet.
‘All the goodies in there! Wallets, watches, rings, lighters, lockets, trinkets, bangles, ear-rings, silk knickers, you name it. Foreign currency in major denominations only, all major credit cards accepted. Move it, move it!’
The snout of the automatic jabbed out towards each of the three passengers in turn.
‘You piece of shit.’
It was hardly audible, a shiver of pent-up loathing finding its release. The pistol swung towards the silver- haired man.
‘You said what, grandpa?’
The grey-eyed man by the window cleared his throat conspicuously.
‘Don’t shoot me, please,’ he said. ‘I’m just getting my wallet out.’
The pistol swung away from the Veronese. The other man’s hand emerged holding a large brown leather wallet from which he extracted a plastic card.
‘What’s that?’ the youth snapped.
‘It’s no use to you.’
‘Let me see! And you two move it, for fuck’s sake, or do you want to get kneecapped?’
Expensive leather and precious metals began to hit the bottom of the plastic bag. The youth glanced at the plastic card and laughed briefly.
‘Commissioner of Police? Eh, sorry, dottore, I didn’t know. That’s OK, keep your stuff. Maybe one of these days you can do me a favour.’
‘You’re a police official?’ demanded the Veronese as the carriage jerked violently and the train started to roll forward.
The door opened and the other youth beckoned urgently to his companion.
‘Haven’t you fucking finished yet? Let’s go, for Christ sake!’
‘Well, do something!’ shrieked the silver-haired man as the pair scooped up the bag and vanished. ‘If you’re a policeman, do something! Stop them! Pursue them! Shoot them! Don’t just sit there!’
The train was now moving slowly past the San Lorenzo goods yard. A carriage door slammed near by. The police official opened the window and looked out. There they were, haring away across the tracks towards the safety of the streets.
The Veronese was beside himself with rage.
‘So you refuse to reply, do you? But that won’t do! I demand an answer! You can’t get out of it that easily, you know! God in heaven, do you feel no shame, Commissioner? You calmly allow innocent citizens to be robbed under your very nose while you hide behind the power of office and do precisely damn all about it! Mother of God! I mean, everybody knows that the police these days are a bad joke that makes us the laughing stock of every other country in Europe. That’s taken for granted. But dear Christ, I never in my worst moments expected to witness such a blatant example of craven dereliction of duty as I have seen today! Eh? Very well. Excellent. We’ll see about this. I’m not just some nobody you can push around, you know. Kindly give me your name and rank.’
The train was rounding the curve by the Porta Maggiore and the terminus was now visible up ahead.
‘So, your name?’ the silver-haired man insisted.
‘Zen.’
‘Zen? You’re Venetian?’
‘What of it?’
‘But I am from Verona! And to think you disgrace us like this in front of these Southerners!’
‘Who are you calling a Southerner?’
The young Roman was on his feet.
‘Ah, ashamed of the name now, are you? A few minutes ago it was your proudest boast!’
‘I’m ashamed of nothing, signore! But when a term is used as a deliberate insult by someone whose arrogance is matched only by his stupendous ignorance of the real meaning of Italian culture…’
‘Culture! What do you know about culture? Don’t make me laugh by using big words you don’t understand.’
As the carriage jarred over several sets of points and began to run in alongside the platform Zen left the compartment and squeezed through the line of people waiting in the corridor.
‘In a big hurry, eh?’ remarked a sour-looking woman.
‘Some people always have to be first, and just too bad for everyone else.’
The platform was packed with passengers who had been waiting for hours. As the train slowed to a halt they stormed it like assault troopers, intent on winning a seat for the long haul down to Naples and beyond. Zen struggled through them and out to the station concourse. The phones were all in use. At the nearest a tired-looking, poorly dressed woman was repeating ‘I know… I know… I know ’ over and over again in a strident, unmodulated country voice. Zen waved his identity card at her.
‘Police. This is an emergency. I need to use this phone.’
He took the receiver from the woman’s unresisting hand and dialled 113.
‘This is Commissioner Aurelio Zen. No, Zen.?,?,?. No O. That’s right. Attached to the Ministry of the Interior. I’m calling from the Stazione Termini. There’s been a train job. They ran off towards Via Prenestina. Get a car off now and then I’ll give you the descriptions. Ready? The first was about twenty. Height, one sixtyish. Short dark hair, military cut so possibly doing his service, dark-green leather jacket with twin zippered flaps, faded jeans, dark brown boots. The other slightly taller, longer lighter hair, moustache, big nose, brown leather jacket, new jeans, red, white and blue running shoes, carrying a green plastic sports bag with white lettering “Banca Popolare di Frosinone”. He’s got a small automatic, so be careful. Got that? Right, I’ll leave a full report with the railway police.’
He hung up. The woman was gazing at him with an air of cautious fascination.
‘Was it a local call?’ he asked.
Fascination was replaced by fear.
‘What?’
‘Were you speaking to someone in Rome?’
‘No, no! Salerno! I’m from Salerno.’
And she started rooting in her bag for the identity card which was her only poor talisman against the dark powers of the state.
Zen looked through his change until he found another telephone token, which he handed to her.
‘Here. Now you can dial again.’
The woman stared at him suspiciously. He put the token down beside the phone and turned away.
‘It’s my sister,’ she said suddenly, gripping his arm. ‘She works for the Pope. At the Vatican! She’s a cleaner. The pay’s rotten, but it’s still something to work for the Pope, isn’t it? But her husband won’t let me in the house because of what my brother found out about him, the dirty bastard. So I phone her whenever I come up to see my grandson. She hasn’t got a phone, you see, so I phone from the station. They’re stingy bastards, those priests. Still, it’s better than packing anchovies, at least your fingers don’t stink. But listen, can that criminal do that? Forbid me to see my own sister? Isn’t there a law against that?’
