treating this tragedy with the proper gravity, Signor Butani. But then Gemma's always been frivolous and flippant, haven't you, my dear? We were at school together, and I remember some of the tricks she used to play on our poor teachers…'
Zen smiled politely. Gemma said nothing. Signora Pananelli emitted a sound rather like a hiss. She leaned forward to Zen, touching him on the sleeve.
'And it didn't end there,' she confided in a stage whisper. 'The stories I could tell! Particularly since Tommaso and she split up.'
She laughed loudly and insincerely.
'Anyway, be warned! When it comes to men. Gemma eats them up and spits them out. There was a tennis pro at the Club
Nettuno who lasted almost the whole season, but normally the turnover's much faster than that. Well, I must be getting back to my friends. A pleasure to have met you, Signor Butani. Ciao, Gemma!'
Zen sat down again.
'Well, she was certainly…' he began.
'Don't say anything!' snapped Gemma. 'Just don't say anything.'
She was staring at the tablecloth so furiously that it seemed she might burn a hole in it. Zen signalled the waiter to take their plates.
'Per secondo?' the waiter queried. 'Fish,' said Zen. 'What kind?' 'The freshest.'
'All our fish are fresh’ the waiter retorted grittily. 'Then it doesn't matter which kind. Grilled, with patate fritte and a dish of insalata di fagiolini verdi. And more and better wine.' The waiter took himself off in a huff. 'I hope you don't mind me ordering,' Zen said to Gemma. 'Why should I?' 'Some women might.'
'I'm not interested in tokenistic gestures. If I want to assert myself, you won't be in any doubt about it. Besides, your choice was perfectly correct’
'Thank you’ Zen replied with a smidgen of irony.
'That bitch.'
'La Pananelli?'
'What a fucking nerve. I mean, really! She was right, we were at school together. What she didn't mention was that she left a year after I arrived.'
'She was expelled?'
An abrupt shake of the head.
'A little question of age, caro. And she's been on my case ever since, peeking and prying, gossiping and insinuating. I don't know what her problem is. Except I do, which just makes it worse. Thank God I only see her here at the beach’
'What is her problem?'
'Don't try and pretend you're interested!'
Zen looked at her neutrally and said nothing. 'I'm sorry’ Gemma went on. 'She really got to me and I'm taking it out on you. I apologize.' 'That s all right'
'Her problem is that she sees me as her vicarious double. She's too stupid to realize it, of course, but that’s the situation all right. Teresa married her childhood sweetheart, a consulting engineer who knows everything there is to know about reinforced concrete. I was once at a birthday party she threw for him where he showed a selection of slides he had taken all over the world showing different types of rebar.'
'What’s that?'
Gemma laughed.
'Be thankful you didn't ask Sandro that question. It's the metal gristle that holds concrete together. It comes in various shapes and forms. Each country has its preferred kind. The differences are slight but extraordinarily significant.'
‘I get the picture.'
Their main course arrived, a succulent mullet grilled to perfection.
'But Sandro's own rebar seems to have rusted out, judging by various remarks which Teresa let drop in an attempt to get me interested in her affairs. Not that I needed her to tell me. Look at her, sitting over there. Go ahead, stare! Christ knows she and her pals are staring at us. Note the tremulous, pouting lower lip? A sure sign of the unfucked. Sad but true.'
She drank some wine as though to quench her thirst.
'Forgive me being so frank. I would have preferred to have carried on with the civilized evening we were having, but since Teresa made those comments about me, I thought I'd better try and put them in perspective.'
Zen noted that although Gemma had explained why her nemesis had made the allegations about her, she hadn't attempted to deny them.
'Anyway, at least we know who took my place at the beach and why,' he replied brightly. 'He paid a stiff price, the poor bastard.' He grinned at Gemma.
'And now let's change the subject, and try and at least pretend to be enjoying ourselves. After all, if that woman was trying to ruin your evening, we don't want to give her the satisfaction of thinking that she's succeeded.' Gemma grinned back.
'I like the way you think. God this fish is good! They've done nothing to it, just a hint of coriander and fennel. And have you tried the potatoes? Light as a feather.'
'All right, all right, don't overdo it'
'So where are you from?'
'Venice,' he answered without thinking.
'Really? But no one's from Venice any more.'
'I am that no one.'
'That explains why we're both so stubborn. Lucca's the only city in Tuscany that was never conquered by the Florentines, and Venice was never conquered by anyone.'
'Until the end.'
'Yes, and when it happened we both chose a championship conqueror in Napoleon, who handed both cities over to his uninspiring but well-intentioned Habsburg in-laws. Not a bad way to finish up, when you look at the alternatives.'
She pushed her plate aside.
'Now let’s get out of here.'
'No dessert, coffee, nothing?'
'There's a good gelateria just up the road, near where I parked. Lef s go there and get some ice cream and coffee, and then I'll run you home.'
'I can walk.'
'I wouldn't mind seeing the Rutellis' villa. From the outside, I mean. Is it nice?'
'Very pleasant. And you can come in, if you want. The interior's really good. All of a piece.'
'Well, let’s see how we feel.'
Zen obviously couldn't use any of his own credit cards, and his minders hadn't gone to the lengths of getting him any in his cover name. They had however provided an ample supply of large-denomination bank notes for his use, and he tossed a few of these on top of the bill before following Gemma outside.
It was now dark, the air mild and smooth as silk, the streets saturated with people standing or wandering about in animated clusters. Gemma and Zen joined them, she clacking along in her high-heeled beige sandals with delicate straps criss-crossing her feet and encircling her trim ankles. When they arrived at the gelateria they had a spirited argument about the appropriate choice of flavours. Zen attempted without success to enlist the owner's support in favour of his thesis that only fruit-based ice cream was healthy and proper at this time of year, and that by opting for hazelnut, pistachio and dark chocolate Gemma was making a fundamental dietary error which she would be lucky to live long enough to regret.
They took their overstuffed cones outside and sat licking them like a couple of children, giggling as they bent this way and that to try and avoid the melting ice cream from dripping on to their clothing. But behind Zen's mask of frivolity, he felt a little hollow. It was now clear what the situation was. Assuming that what Teresa Pananelli had said was even half true, men Gemma was a rapid recycler of summer lovers, and indeed possibly came to the beach
