The judges then filed in and were briefly introduced as leading chefs, cookery writers and culinary experts before taking their places at the dining table in the central section. After that the presenter began to explain the rules of engagement, and Gemma felt her interest slipping away. It was all about food, and she didn’t feel in the least hungry, not least because it brought to mind Aurelio, whom she had unwisely contacted in a moment of elation the evening before with a virtual invitation to lunch and an implied reconciliation. She now felt very dubious about both, besides which she had been invited to dinner by Stefano and Lidia, who would be sure to take any lack of appetite on her part personally. Flicking idly through the brochure covering the Enogastexpo fair that she had been handed along with her pass, she noticed an advertisement for what sounded like a fashionable snack bar right in the centre, and texted Aurelio the name and address. That was the solution, she decided. A meaningless encounter, a quick bite, e poi via.
On stage, the presenter flung his arms wide, his expression one of astonishment and awe.
‘And now, let battle commence!’
Gemma put the glossy brochure down and studied the two very different contestants. To the left, Edgardo Ugo had clearly resigned himself to his inevitable defeat. He sloped confusedly around his kitchen set under the brilliant TV lights in his pathetically homely garb like a parody of the drab, ineffectual bachelor wondering where everything was and what to do first.
Romano Rinaldi could not have presented a clearer contrast. From the very first moment, it was clear that he owned the space he had been allotted. He glanced at the display panel, then moved rapidly to turn up the flame under a pan of water for the pasta before turning his attentions to the ingredients and the chopping board. While Ugo pointedly ignored the onlookers and the cameras, turning his back all the time and never saying a word, Lo Chef romanced his audience constantly, chatting aloud, sharing his thoughts and cracking jokes.
Then he suddenly froze rigid for a long moment, as though struck by a spontaneous inspiration.
‘Ci vuole una cipolla!’ he proclaimed. ‘I know it! How do I know it? Because the onion is calling out to me!’
Launching into ‘ Recondita armonia ’, he sloshed copious quantities of his name-brand olive oil into a pan and set it on a high flame. The pasta water was now rising to the boil. Still singing and grinning, Rinaldi poured in the spaghetti and swirled it about a bit with a wooden spoon before seizing an onion from the array on the counter. He skinned and chopped it, then turned dramatically to the audience and walked downstage.
‘The onion has spoken to me,’ he said softly, wiping mock tears from his eyes. ‘And what it has to say makes me weep.’
This provided an irresistible segue into Donizetti’s ‘ Una furtiva lagrima ’, during which the pot of pasta boiled over, flooding the right side of the stove and extinguishing the flame.
Rinaldi proved unable to relight the burner, despite hammering away repeatedly at the spark lighter function and then looking around in vain for matches. Meanwhile, on the other side of the stage, Edgardo Ugo was lumbering about like the caged bear he rather resembled, adding something to the sauce, keeping an eye on the pasta, and generally displaying complete indifference to whatever might be happening elsewhere. Eventually a businesslike woman of about thirty came running on to Rinaldi’s kitchen set, moved the pasta pan to a different burner and ignited the flame before hastening off-stage. Lo Chef turned to the audience, showing his teeth in a huge smile above his bearded chin.
‘What a thing it is to have a woman around!’ he declared in a tone at once humble and triumphant.
The audience burst into laughter and applause. Rinaldi acknowledged their appreciation of his wit and poise with a rendition of the famous aria from Rigoletto, changing the lyrics to ‘ La donna e mobile, ma indispensabile ’. This led to still more applause. Keenly in tune with the mood of his public, he proceeded with the rest of the piece, interpolating or altering lyrics as he went, before ending on a high and long-held note at the very edge of his vocal range.
It was at this moment that the pan of oil on the stove behind him burst into flames.
19
Tony Speranza made his way jauntily along Via Oberdan, a satisfied smile and a smouldering Camel on his lips. Passing a rather chic bar where he was known very well indeed, he turned in and ordered a double espresso and a whiskey. This fine establishment stocked not only Jack Daniels but also Maker’s Mark, and on this occasion Tony decided to indulge himself with a large glass of the latter, even though designer bourbon was a little prissy for a true investigatore privato, strictly speaking.
But he had done the job, even if he hadn’t yet been paid. This was becoming something of a sore point, particularly given the expense of replacing the miniaturised camera that had been stolen along with his beloved M- 57 pistol back in Ancona. Nevertheless, he had got the photographs, which was the main thing. The digital shots of Vincenzo and his associates that Tony had taken in the cafe after the Curti memorial service the night before had been printed up on heavyweight A4 paper first thing that morning and delivered by hand to the client together with an itemised bill.
Actually his client had been out of the office when Tony called, but he had handed the sealed envelope, marked ‘Urgent, Private and Personal’, to a receptionist whose looks and manner suggested that her rates would put a high-class hooker to shame, with instructions to hand it to l’avvocato immediately on his return. For form’s sake, he had then flirted a bit with the leggy lovely, who had coyly pretended to be interested only in her work, before returning to the mean streets.
After lunch he would phone Amadori senior and press for immediate payment of the fee they had agreed, as well as his substantial expenses to date, including of course the Maker’s Mark, of which he ordered another glass. In short, everything was great, except for the gnawing sense of existential emptiness that always came over him once a case was closed. How much longer before the day came, as he knew it must, when the moral and physical strain became too much to bear? Tony had been a gumshoe for over twenty years now, ever since the day he was dismissed from the police force after shooting two passersby while failing to arrest a sneak thief who had fled with a pocketful of discount coupons after holding up one of the cashiers in a Conad grocery store. Twenty years was a long time in this filthy trade.
He knocked back the second bourbon and lit another Camel. Hell, he was good for another twenty, as long as his luck held and he didn’t stop a shell from some punk in a speakeasy down by the docks. Actually there weren’t any docks in Bologna, but one of his cases might take him down the road to Ravenna some day. Now there was one tough town. But that was the way it was with this stinking job. You never knew what was coming your way next, except that it wouldn’t be good news.
As if to demonstrate this, he caught sight of something in the big mirror at the rear of the bar, which reflected the front window and the street beyond. He threw some cash at the barman and hustled out. There, about ten metres away, was the unmistakable battered black leather jacket bearing the crest of the Bologna football club on the back. Tony began to follow circumspectly. It was good to see that Vincenzo had started wearing the bugged garment on occasions other than his visits to the stadium. That would make life so much easier if l’avvocato decided to hire Tony for the long-term maintenance service that he always recommended to his clients in the interests of their continuing peace of mind.
The man in front turned left and cut through the side streets to Via Zamboni, Tony keeping a constant ten metres back. Then it was left again, past the church of San Giacomo and the theatre to the university, where the subject ran up the steps and into the main building. At this, Tony shrugged and turned back. He couldn’t possibly keep up a covert tail in that maze of corridors packed with people half his age. What was the point, anyway? Apparently Vincenzo Amadori had decided to start studying again. Fine. That would be some good news that Tony could use to sweeten the pill when he called the kid’s father to demand his money, while the fact that he was aware of it provided conclusive proof that he was tirelessly on the job, fulfilling his promise to provide the assurance of knowing everything, always!
20
