‘So, what have you been up to?’ Zen insisted. ‘How’s business?’
‘Very quiet. There’s a big sale on Tuesday, though.’
Ellen made a living acting as representative for a New York antique dealer, but it was a case of profiting from a lifelong hobby, and one that she had tried in vain to get him to share. Zen had had his fill of old furniture!
‘How long will it be altogether?’
‘Not long, I hope.’
‘Do you know Perugia?’
Perugia, he thought. Chocolates, Etruscans, that fat painter, radios and gramophones, the University for Foreigners, sportswear. ‘Umbria, the green heart of Italy’, the tourist advertisements said. What did that make Latium, he had wondered, the bilious liver?
‘I may have been there on a school trip, years ago.’
‘But not for work?’
‘Not a chance! There’re two of us on Housekeeping. Zuccaroni is better regarded than me, so he gets the soft jobs, close to home.’
‘Will it be difficult?’
He pushed his plate away and topped up their glasses with the flat, bland white wine.
‘There’s no way of knowing. A lot depends on the magistrate who’s directing the investigation. Some of them want to take all the decisions themselves. Others just want to take the credit.’
She also finished eating and at last they could smoke. He took out his packet of Nazionali. Ellen as usual preferred her own cigarettes.
‘Can I come and visit you?’ she asked with a warm smile.
‘It would be wonderful.’
She nodded.
‘No mother.’
He suddenly saw which way the conversation was heading.
‘Don’t you think it’s ridiculous, at our age?’ Ellen continued. ‘She must know what’s going on.’
‘I expect she does. But as far as she’s concerned I’m still married to Luisella and that’s that. If I spend the night with you it’s adultery. Since I’m a man that doesn’t matter, but one doesn’t mention it.’
‘It matters to me.’ Her tone had hardened. ‘I don’t like your mother thinking of me as your mistress.’
‘Don’t you? I quite enjoy it. It makes me feel young and irresponsible.’
The remark was deliberately provocative, but he had long ago decided that he was not going to be talked into matrimony a second time.
‘Really?’ she retorted. ‘Well, it makes me feel old and insecure. And angry! Why should I have my life dominated by your mother? Why should you, for that matter? What’s the matter with Italian men, letting their mammas terrorize them their whole life long? Why do you give them such power?’
‘Perhaps we’ve found over the centuries that they’re the only people who can be trusted with it.’
‘Oh, I see. You can’t trust me? Thanks very much!’
‘I can’t trust anyone in quite that way.’
It seemed perfectly obvious to him. Why was she getting so angry?
‘Not because my mother’s a saint,’ he explained. ‘It’s just that mothers are like that. They can’t help it, it’s biological.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful! Now you’ve insulted both of us.’
‘On the contrary, I’ve complimented both of you. My mother for being what she is, and you for being everything else. And above all for being so understanding in what is a very difficult situation for both of us, but one that won’t last for ever.’
She looked away, disarmed by this allusion, and Zen seized the opportunity to signal Ottavio for the bill.
The air outside was deliciously cool and fresh after the small, stuffy restaurant. They walked in silence towards the roar of traffic on Viale Trastevere. In Piazza Sonnino an office building was being refitted after a fire, and the hoarding put up by the builders had attracted the warpaint of rival political clans. The Red Brigade’s five- pointed star was the most conspicuous, but there were also contributions from Armed Struggle (‘There’s no escape – we shall strike everywhere!’), the Anarchists (‘If voting changed anything they’d make it illegal’), and the neo- fascist New Order (‘Honour to our fallen companions – they live on in our hearts!’).
To Zen, the clash of slogans seemed eerily appropriate. Because if the events of 1978 had had a secret centre, and part of their horror was that he would never be sure, then in a sense it had been here, at the terminus of the 97c bus and the San Gallicano hospital opposite. If there had been an unspeakable secret, then one of the two men who had guessed it had died there. And since that moment, day and night, whatever else he might be doing or thinking, Zen had remained uneasily aware that he was the other.
TWO
‘The entire resources of the Questura of Perugia are at your disposal. Eager to obey, my men await only your commanding word to spring into action. Your reputation of course precedes you, and the prospect of serving under your leadership has been an inspiration to us all. Who has not heard of your brilliant successes in the Fortuzzi and Castellano affairs, to name but two? And who can doubt that you will achieve a no less resounding triumph here on Umbrian soil, earning the heartfelt thanks of all by succeeding where others, less fortunate or deserving, have failed? The city of Perugia has a long and historic relationship with the capital, of which your posting here is a concrete symbol. My men will, I am sure, wish to join with me in bidding you welcome.’
There was a feeble flutter of applause from the group of senior officials assembled in the Questore’s spacious top-floor office, all discreetly modern furniture, rows of law books, and potted plants. Aurelio Zen stood in their midst like a Siamese cat dropped into a cage full of stray dogs: tense and defiant, his eyes refusing to meet those fixed on him with expressions of more or less successfully concealed mockery. They knew what he was going through, poor bastard! And they knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Salvatore Iovino, their chief, a corpulent, vivacious fifty-year-old from Catania, had given a masterly performance. Fulsome and vapid, laden with insincere warmth and hidden barbs, his speech had nevertheless left no legitimate grounds for complaint. He had spoken of Zen’s ‘reputation’, without actually mentioning that his abrupt departure from the Rome Questura in 1978 had been the subject of the wildest rumours and speculations throughout the force. The two cases he had mentioned dated from the mid-seventies, underlining Zen’s lack of recent operational experience. He had referred to the transfer as a ‘posting’, thus emphasizing that it had been imposed on him by the Ministry, and had called it a symbol of the historic relationship between Rome and Perugia, a relationship consisting of two thousand years of bitterly resented domination.
‘Thank you,’ Zen murmured, lowering his head in a proud and melancholy gesture of acknowledgement.
‘And finally,’ the Questore continued, ‘let me introduce Vice-Questore Fabrizio Priorelli.’
Iovino’s bland tone did nothing to prepare Zen for the glare of pure hostility with which he found himself transfixed by Priorelli. The Questore’s next words followed an exquisitely judged pause during which the silence in the room assumed a palpable quality.
‘Until today he was handling the Miletti case for us.’
Iovino laughed weightlessly.
‘To be perfectly frank, that’s one of the many problems your unexpected arrived has caused us. It’s a matter of protocol, you see. Since Fabrizio outranks you I can’t very well make him your second-in-command. Nevertheless, should you wish to consult him he has assured me that despite his numerous other duties he is in principle at your disposition at all times.’
Once again Zen murmured his thanks.
‘Right, lads, lunch!’ the Questore called briskly. ‘I expect you’re about ready for it, eh?’
As the officers filed out Iovino picked up the phone and yelled, ‘Chiodini? Get up here!’ Then he turned pointedly away and stood gazing out of the window until there was a knock at the door and a burly man with a bored brutal face appeared, at which point the Questore suddenly appeared to notice Zen’s existence again.
‘I’ll leave you in Chiodini’s safe hands, dottore. Remember, whatever you need, just say the word.’
