assume that he was a policeman, a government spy. The farce was over. He would drive to Cagliari that morning and book a ticket on the night ferry to the mainland. When he returned to the village, it would be in his official capacity. At least that way he could compel respect.
His inability to do so at present was amply demonstrated by the length of time it took him to get breakfast in the bar downstairs. At least half-a-dozen of the locals had drifted in and out again, replete with cappuccinos and pastries, before Zen was finally served a lukewarm cup of coffee that tasted as though it had been made from second hand grounds and watered milk.
'Goodbye for now,' he told the proprietor as he stalked out.
The remark elicited a sharp glance that expressed anxious defiance as well as hostility. It gladdened Zen for a moment, until he reflected that his implied threat was the first step on the path which had led to the Gestapo tactics of the past.
The weather had changed. The sky was overcast, grey and featureless, the air still and humid. Zen's hangover felt like an octopus clinging to every cell of his being.
Although weakening, the monster had plenty of life in it yet. Every movement involved an exhausting struggl against its tenacious resistance. He found himself looking, forward to sinking luxuriously into the Mercedes' leather upholstery and driving away from this damned village, listening to the radio broadcasts from Rome, that lovely, civilized city where Tania was even now rising from her bed, sipping her morning coffee, even thinking of him perpaps. He could allow himself to dream. Given all he'd been through, he'd surely earned the right to a little harmless self-indulgence.
Half-way across the piazza, beside the village war memorial, Zen had to stop, put his suitcase down and catch his breath. The dead of the 1915 -1918 war covered two sides of the rectangular slab, the same surname often repeated six or eight times, like a litany. The Sardinians pad formed the core of the Italian army's mountain divisions and half the young men of the village must have died at Isonzo and on the Piave. The later conflicts had taken a lesser toll. Thirty had died in 1940 -1945, four in Spain and five in Abyssinia.
As Zen picked up the leaden suitcase again, he noticed a tall thin man in a beige overcoat staring at him curiously.
His deception would be common knowledge by now, he realized, and his every action a cause for suspicion. He dumped the suitcase in the boot of the Mercedes, got inside and turned the ignition on. Nothing happened. It was a measure of his befuddlement that it took him several minutes to realize that nothing was going to happen, no matter how many times he twisted the key. At first he thought he might have drained the battery by leaving the lights on, but when he tried the windscreen wipers they worked normally. He had invented problems with the Mercedes as a way of breaking the ice with Turiddu and his friends the night before, and the wretched car was apparently now taking its revenge by playing up just when he needed it most. Then he noticed the envelope tucked under one of the wiper blades, like a parking ticket.
Zen got out of the car and plucked it free. The envelope was blank. Inside was a single sheet of paper. FURIO PADKDDA IS A LIAR,' he read. HE WAS NOT IN THE BAR THE NIGHT THE FOREIGNERS WERE KILLED BUT THE MELEGA CLAN OF ORGOSOLO KNOW WHERE HE WAS.
The message had been printed by a hand seemingly used to wielding larger and heavier implements than a pen. The letters were uneven and dissimilar, laboriously crafted, starting big and bold but crowded together at the right-hand margin as though panicked by the prospect of falling off the edge of the page.
Despite his predicament, Zen couldn't help smiling. So the humiliating disaster of the previous night had worked to his advantage, after all. Turiddu had seen an opportunity to even the score with his rival, no doubt easing his conscience with the reflection that Zen had not yet been officially identified as a policeman. If the information was true, it might be just what Zen needed to fabricate a case against Padedda and so keep Palazzo Sisti off his back.
Unfortunately Turiddu's hatred for the 'foreigner' from the mountains, whatever its cause, did not make him a very reliable informant. Nevertheless, there was something about the note which made Zen feel that it wasn't pure fiction, although in his present condition he couldn't work out what it was.
He stuffed the letter into his pocket, wondering what to do next. For no reason at all, he decided to ring Tania.
The phone was of the new variety that accepted coins as well as tokens. Zen fed in his entire supply of change and dialled the distant number. Never had modern technology seemed more miraculous to him than it did then, stranded in a hostile, poverty-stricken Sardinian village listening to a telephone ringing in Tania's flat, a universe away in Rome.
'Yes?'
It was a man's voice, abrupt and bad-tempered.
'Signora Biacis, please.'
'Who's speaking?'
'I'm calling from the Ministry of the Interior.'
'For Christ's sake! Don't you know this is Sunday?'
'Certainly I know!' he replied impatiently. The coins were dropping through the machine with alarming frequency. 'Do you think I like having to work today either?'
What do you want with my wife?'
'I am afraid that's confidential. Just let me speak to her, please.'
'Oh no, certainly not! And don't bother ringing any more, signore, because she isn't in! She won't be in! Nog ever, not for you! Understand? Don't think I don't know wpat's going on behind my back! You think I'm a fool, gon't you? A simpleton! Well, you're wrong about that! I'll peach you to play games with a Bevilacqua! Understand? I know what you've been doing, and I'll make you pay for it! Adulterer! Fornicator!'
At this point Zen's money ran out, sparing him the rest of Mauro Bevilacqua's tirade. He walked despondently pack to the Mercedes. By now the octopus had slackened its grip somewhat, but it still took Zen five minutes tp work out how to open the bonnet. Once he had done so, however, he realized at once why the car would not start.
This was no credit to his mechanical knowledge, which was non-existent. But even he could see that the spray of wires sticking out of the centre of the motor, each cut cleanly through, meant that some essential component had been deliberately removed.
He closed the bonnet and looked around the piazza. The phone box was now occupied by the man in the beige overcoat. With a deep sigh, Zen reluctantly returned to the hotel. Why on earth should anyone want to prevent him from leaving? Did Padedda need time to cover his tracks?
Or was this sabotage Turiddu's way of reconciling his anonymous letter with the burdensome demands of omerta?
The proprietor greeted Zen's reappearance with a perfectly blank face, as though he had never seen him before.
'My car's broken down,' Zen told him. 'Is there a taxi service, a car hire, anything like that?'
'There's a bus.'
'What time does it leave?'
'Six o'clock.'
'In the evening?'
'In the morning.'
Zen gritted his teeth. Then he remembered the railway down in the valley. It was a long walk, but by now he was prepared to consider anything to get out of this cursed place.
'And the train doesn't run on Sunday,' the proprietor added, as though reading his thoughts.
A phone started ringing in the next room. The proprietor went to answer it. Zen sat down at one of the tables and lit a cigarette. He felt close to despair. Just as he had received information that might well make his mission a success, every door had suddenly slammed shut in his face. At this rate, he would have to phone the Carabinieri at Lanusei and ask them nicely to come and pick him up. It was the last thing he wanted to do. To avoid compromising his undercover operation, he hacf left behind all his official identification, so involving the rival force would involve lengthy explanations and verifications, in the course of which his highly questionab]e business here would inevitably be revealed, probabli stymieing his chances of bringing the affair to a satisfactory conclusion. But there appeared to be no alternative, unless he wanted to spend the night in the street or:; cave, like the beggar woman.
