rocks, ricocheting like hailstones.
It seemed impossible that the silence could ever recover from such a savage violation, but before long the echoes died away as though nothing had happened. Zen had no idea what had happened, so he waited a long time, sampling the silence, before emerging from his hiding-place.
He found Spadola almost immediately, his body fiung backwards across the rocks, a limp, discarded carapace.
Something had scooped a raw crater out of his belly, around which circles of lesser destruction spread out like ripples on a pond. The shotgun lay close by, wedged between two rocks.
Zen searched dispassionately through the dead man's pockets until he found his lighter, then sat down on a rock and lit a cigarette. From this perch he could see the end of the gully. Beneath the wall of white rock the ground opened up to form a cavernous sluice funnelling downwards, the edges clean and rounded. As he sat there, the cigarette smouldering peacefully between his fingers, Zen recalled what Turiddu had said about the soft rocks and the hard rocks, and realized that the white surface closing off the gully was the limestone that overlaid the granite at this point, rubbed to a smooth curve by the whirling water before it disappeared underground into the pool of darkness at the base of the cliff which was now a main entrance to the cave system underlying the whole area.
Something glinted in the shadows just inside the cavern. Like the immortal he had once seemed to be, playing God with the video of the Burolo killings, Zen made his way towards it as though immune to danger.
The grey rock was stained with something sticky that, smelling it, he knew was drying blood. A double-barrel pump-action Remington shotgun lay near by. The metal was still warm. By the flickering flame of his cigarette lighter, Zen read the inscription engraved on the barrel: 251 'To Oscar, Christmas 1979, from his loving wife Rita.'
Friday, 11.20 – 20.45
'He threatened to kill me?'
'Oh, yes! Me too, for that matter. But it's only talk. He has to call his mother if he finds a spider in the bath. Now if she'd said it we might have something to worry about.'
The cafe on Via Veneto accurately reflected the faded glories of the street itself. The mellow tones of marble, leather and wood predominated. Dim lighting discreetly revealed the understated splendours of an establishment so prestigious it had no need to put on a show. Its famous name appeared everywhere, on the cups and saucers, the spoons, the sugar-bowl and ashtray, the peach-coloured napkins ar,d tablecloth and the staff' azure jackets. The waiters conducted themselves like family retainers, studiously polite yet avoiding any hint o1 familiarity. A sumptuous calm reigned.
The cafe was too far from the Viminale to be one of the regular haunts of Ministry personnel, who in any case would have balked at paying 4'000 lire for a cup of coffee they could get elsewhere for 800, with a hefty dose of Roman pandemonium thrown in for free. This was one reason why Zen had invited Tania there for their first meeting since his return from Sardinia. The other was a desire he still didn't completely understand, to do things differently, to break free of old habits, to change his life, himself.
'How did he find out?'
She smiled, anticipating his reaction.
'He hired a private detective.'
'To follow you?'
'To follow you!'
So that was who Leather Jacket had been working for, thought Zen, not Spadola or Fabri, but Mauro Bevilacqua!
Ironically, he might have considered that possibility earlier if it hadn't seemed wishful thinking to imagine that Tania's husband could have any reason to feel jealous ofhim.
'He didn't want to admit even to the detective that his wife might be unfaithful,' Tania explained. 'He was afraid people would laugh at him and call him a cuckold.'
'Which he wasn't, of course. Isn't, I mean.'
'Well, it depends on how you look at it. According to the strictest criteria, a husband is a cuckold if his wife has even thought of being unfaithful.'
They exchanged a glance.
'In that case we're all cuckolds,' Zen replied lightly.
'That's why Mauro would claim that his vigilance was completely justified.'
This time they both laughed.
Zen lit a Nazionale and studied the young woman sitting opposite him, her legs crossed, her right foot rising and falling gently in time to her pulse. Clad in the currently fashionable outfit of black mid-length coat, short black skirt and black patterned tights, with bright scarlet lipstick and short wet-look hair, she looked very different from the last time he had seen her. Not that he minded.
The Tania he loved – he felt able to use the word now, at least to himself – was invulnerable to change, and 'as for this new image she had chosen to show the world, he found it exciting, sophisticated and sexy. A week ago he would have hated it, but the life which had almost miraculously been returned to him in Sardinia was no longer quite the same as it had been before he had passed through that ordeal.
'But it must be a nightmare for you,' he said seriously. 'It was bad enough having to live there before, but now that his suspicions have been proven, or apparently proven…'
'I don't live there any more.'
For a moment they both remained silent, the news lying on the table between them like an unopened letter.
Tania lifted the pack of Nazionali and shook a cigarette loose.
'May I?'
'I didn't know you smoked.'
'I do now.'
He held the lighter for her. She lit up and blew nut smoke self-consciously, like a schoolgirl.
'He hit rne,. you see.'
Zen signalled his shock with a sharp intake of breath.
'So I hit him back. With the frying pan. It had hot fat in it. Not much, but enough to give him a nasty burn. When his mother found out I thought she'd go for me with the carving knife, but in the end she backed off and started babbling to herself in this creepy way, hysterical but very controlled, saying I was a northern witch who had put her son under a spell but she knew how to destroy my power.
It scared me to death. I knew then that I had to leave.'
'Where did you go?'
He dropped the question casually, like the experienced interrogator that he was, as though it were a minor detail of no significance.
'To a friend's.'
'A friend's.'
She took a notebook and pen from her handbag, wrote an address and handed it to him. He read, 'Tania Biacis, c/o Alessandra Bruni, Via dei Gelsi 47. Tel. 78847.'
'It's in Centocelle. I'm staying there temporarily, until I find somewhere for myself. You know how difficult it is.'
He nodded.
'And Mauro?'
'Mauro? Mauro's still living with his mamma.'
Everything about her had a new edge to it, and Zen couldn't be sure that this wasn't an ironical reference to his own situation.
Ignoring this, he said, 'That restaurant in Piazza Navona, it's open tonight.'
