child playing hide-and-seek in the darkness. But had he imagined it, or had he really caught sight of somethin8 out of the corner of his eye, on the extreme periphery of vision, something seen but not registered until now?
He shook his head sharply, as though to empty it of all this nonsense. Then set off again, a little more hurriedly now.
The pizzeria was just around the corner where the street curved downhill, among the new blocks on the outskirts of the village. The exterior was grimly basic -reinforced concrete framework, bare brickwork infill, adhesive plastic letters spelling 'Pizza Tavola Calda' on the window – but inside th place was bright, brash and cheerful, decorated with traditional masks, dolls, straw baskets and woven and embroidered hangings. To Zen's astonishment, the young man in charge even welcomed him warmly. Things were definitely looking up.
After a generous antipasto of local air-cured ham and salami, a large pizza and most of a flask of red wine, they looked even better. Zen lit a cigarette and looked around at the group of teenagers huddled conspiratorially in the corner, the table-top laden with empty soft-drink bottles.
If only he had had someone to talk to, it would have been perfect. As it was, his only source of entertainment was the label of the bottled mineral water he had ordered. This consisted of an assurance by a professor at Cagliari University that the contents were free of microbacteriological impurities, together with an encomium on its virtues that seemed to imply that in sufficient quantities it would cure everything but old age. Zen studied the chemical analysis, which listed among other things the abbassamento crioscopico, concentrazione osmotica and conducibilita elettrica specipca a x8'C. Each litre contained 0.00009 grams of barium. Was this a good thing or a bad thing?
The door of the pizzeria opened to admit the half-witted midget he had seen outside Confalone's office that morning. She was dripping wet, and Zen realized suddenly that the hushing sound he had been hearing for some time now, like static on a radio programme, was caused by a downpour of rain. The next instant a deafening peal of thunder rang out, seemingly right overhead. One of the teenagers shrieked in mock terror, the others giggled nervously. The beggar woman limped theatrically over to Zen's table and demanded money.
'I gave you something this morning,' Reto Gurtner replied in a tone of distaste.
The owner shouted angrily in Sardinian and the woman turned away with a face as blank as the wooden carnival masks hanging on the wall and went to sit on a chair near the door, looking out at the torrential rain. She must know a thing or two, thought Zen, wandering about from place to place, privileged by madness.
When the owner came to clear Zen's table, he apologized for the fact that he'd been bothered.
'I try to keep her out of here, but what can you do? She's got nowhere to go.'
'Homeless?'
The man shrugged.
'She's got a brother, but she won't live with him. Claims he's an impostor. She sleeps rough, in caves and shepherd's huts, even on the street. She's harmless, but quite mad. Not that it's surprising, after what happened to her.'
He made no effort to lower his voice, although the woman was sitting near by, perched on her chair like a large doll. Zen glanced at her, but she was still staring rigidly at the door.
'It's all right,' the owner explained. 'She doesn't understand Italian, only dialect.'
Zen eagerly seized this opportunity to talk.
'What happened to her?'
The young man shook his head and sighed.
'I wasn't around then, but people say she just disappeared one day, years ago. She was about fifteen at the time. The family said she'd gone to stay with relatives who'd emigrated to Tuscany. Then a few years ago her parents died in… in an accident. The son was away doing his military service at the time. When the police went to the house they found Elia shut up in the cellar like an animal, almost blind, covered in filth and half crazy.'
Reto Gurtner looked suitably horrified by this example of Mediterranean barbarism.
'But why?'
The young man sighed.
'Now, you understand, this village is just like anywhere else. Televisions, pop music, motorbikes.'
He waved at the teenagers in the corner.
'The young people stay out till all hours, even the girls.
They do what they like. Twenty years ago it was different.
People say that Elia was seeing a man from a nearby farm.
Perhaps she stayed out too late one summer night, and…'
He broke off as the door banged open and three men walked in. The beggar woman sprang to her feet, staring at them like a wild animal about to pounce or fiee. One of the men spat a few words of dialect at her. She flinched as though he had struck her, then ran out. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
The three newcomers were wearing the local heavyweight gear, durable, anonymous and mass-produced, but there was nothing faceless or conventional about their behaviour. They took over the pizzeria as though it were the venue for a party being given in their honour. The leader, who had obviously had quite a lot to drink already, threw his weight around in a way that seemed almost offensively familiar, going behind the counter and sampling the various plates of toppings, talking continuously in a loud raucous voice. Zen could understand nothing of what was being said, but although the owner kept smiling and responded in the required jocular fashion, it seemed an effort, and Zen thought he would have been happier if the men had gone away.
Having done the rounds, chaffed the owner and his wife and grabbed a plate of olives and salami and a litre of wine, the trio seated themselves at the table next to Zen's.
Once their initial high spirits had subsided, their mood rapidly turned sombre, as though all three had immense grievances which could never be redressed. The leader in particular not only looked fiercely malcontent, but was scowling at Zen as though he was the origin of all his troubles. His bristly jet-black beard, curly hair and enormous hook nose gave him a Middle Eastern appearance, like a throwback to the island's Phoenician past. He reminded Zen of someone he had seen earlier, although he couldn't think who. From time to time, between gulped half glassfuls of wine, the man muttered in dialect to his companions, bitter interjections which received no reply.
Zen began to feel alarmed. The man was clearly drunk, his mood explosive and unpredictable, and he was staring at him more and more directly, as though beating up this stranger might be just what was needed to make his evening. To defuse the situation before it got out of hand, Zen leaned over to the three men.
'Excuse me,' he said in his best Reto Gurtner manner.
'Could you tell me if there's a garage round here?'
'A garage?' the man replied after a momentary hesitation. 'For what?'
Zen explained that his car was making a strange knocking noise and he was worried that it might break down.
'What kind of car7'
'A Mercedes.'
After a brief discussion in dialect with his companions, the man replied that Vasco did repairs locally, but he wouldn't have the parts for a Mercedes. Otherwise there was a mechanic in Lanusei, but he was closed tomorrow, it being Sunday.
'You're on holiday?' he asked.
As Zen recited his usual explanation of who he was and what he was doing, the man's expression gradually changed from hostility to sympathetic interest. After a few minutes he invited Zen to join them at their table. Zen hesitated, but only for a fraction of a moment. This was an invitation which he felt it would be decidedly unwise to refuse.
Three quarters of an hour and another flask of wine later, he was being treated almost like an old friend. The hook-nosed man, who introduced himself as Turiddu, was clearly delighted to have a fresh audience for his long and rather rambling monologues. His companions said hardly a word. Turiddu talked and Zen listened, occasionally throwing in a polite question with an air of wide-eyed and disinterested fascination with all things Sardinian. Turiddu's grievances, it turned out, were global rather than personal. Everything was wrong, everything was bad and getting worse. The country, by which he appeared t~› mean that particular part of the Oliastra, was in a total mess. It was a disaster. The government in Rome poure.i in money, but it was all going to waste, leaking awai through the sieve-like conduits of the development agencies, provincial agricultural inspectorates, the irrigation consortia and land-reclamation bodies.
