Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (15 page)

Manlio proposed to me two weeks later.’

She looked at Zen intently.

‘That’s who it is!’ she exclaimed, laying her hand on

Zen’s arm.

‘Who what is?’

‘I knew you reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t

think who. Of course, it’s Orlando! You could be twins.

I’ve got a photograph somewhere, I’ll show you.’

She got up to fetch it, but at that moment the telephone sounded, a confident rich burble. The call wasn’t for Zen, although plenty of people were desperately trying to contact him at that very moment. But his own phone was out

of action, and he had been careful to avoid telling anyone where he was staying.

Valeria was on the phone for some time, evidently talking to her daughters in London. She had, Zen realized, a

good body, but he still wasn’t interested. No more romantic complications for him. He was very comfortable with

the role he had been playing since coming to Naples: the philosophical observer who looks on with wry amusement

at the follies of others but is too wily and cynical to risk becoming entangled himself.

She turned towards him, catching him eyeing her, and

smiled unexpectedly.

‘I’m sure it’ll all seem better in the morning, darling.

Anyway, I’ve got to run, there’s someone at the door. Try and get some sleep, and give me a call in the morning.

Bye!’

She hung up and drifted back towards Zen.

‘So how are they finding London?’ he asked.

‘They say it’s just as dirty as Naples, the traffic’s even worse, there are more beggars and it’s cold and raining.’

‘But they’re going to stick it out?’

‘Filomena sounded a bit homesick. She’s always been

the weaker one. She gets moody quite easily. But

Orestina’s made of sterner stuff, and proud too. And in the end Filomena will go along with whatever her sister decides.’

She stood over him, smiling.

‘Now, then, would you like something to drink? Some

tea? A nightcap?’

‘Tea would be wonderful. And then I must get some

sleep. I have rather an important case on at the moment, and I’ll need to be up early.’

‘Is it something to do with this Strade Pulite business?’

Valeria asked, heading off towards the far end of the room.

‘No, no. That has nothing to do with me.’

He got up and followed her across the dining area into

a luxuriously equipped kitchen.

‘Well, I don’t know who’s behind it/ Valeria remarked,

filling a kettle, ‘but I wish them the best of luck. The people they claim to have abducted are the very ones poor

Manlio worked with for years and trusted like his own

family, and who then left him to fend for himself against the judges without lifting a finger to save him!’

She set the kettle on the stove.

‘Which reminds me, come in here and I’ll show you

that picture.’

She led the way into a small room furnished with a

desk, filing cabinet and a small set of bookshelves. The air smelt faintly of cigar smoke.

“This was Manlio’s office/ Valeria said. “I don’t need the space, so I just left everything as it was, what was left of it.

The Guardia di Finanza came and took everything away.’

She turned and pointed to a large framed photograph

mounted on the wall behind the desk.

‘That’s the one.’

The picture showed a convivial group of men in what

looked like a restaurant. There were ten or more of them, all men, all looking towards the camera, all smiling or laughing.

‘See that man in the centre?’ said Valeria, pointing with one fleshy heavily ringed finger. ‘The one sitting at the end of the table? That’s Orlando Pagano. Actually he’s a little heavier than I remembered, but don’t you think he looks like you?’

Zen narrowed his eyes obediently There was a certain

resemblance, he supposed, although the man in the picture was both fleshier and swarthier than Zen himself.

‘Here’s Manlio/ Valeria went on, pointing. ‘And this is the supposed victim of that Strade Pulite group, Ermanno Vallifuoco.’

Vallifuoco was a complacently corpulent man with an

expression of inscrutable serenity. Manlio Squillace was leaner and slighter, with a pencil moustache and gleaming eyes. Zen leant forward, scrutinizing the picture intently.

An unearthly sound made itself heard next door, a long

rising whine like some primitive lament.

‘The kettle!’ said Valeria, hurrying out. ‘Would you like some cake? I baked it myself, an old Ferrarese recipe.’

Zen did not reply. He was still staring at the photograph, but not at the illustrious victim of terrorism or the

late-lamented Signor Squillace. His attention was

focused on a man who, judging by his distance from the

head of the table, had been one of the less important

guests, a minor character brought in to make up the numbers in this boisterous scene of underworld conviviality.

He had been forced to look sharply back over his left

shoulder in order to face the camera, and even so was partially obscured by his neighbour. But enough of his face

was visible to leave no doubt in Zen’s mind that he was none other than the man who had knifed the Greek sailor a few days earlier and then mysteriously disappeared

from his cell at the police station.

Sogno o son desto?

The chic austerity on display in the ‘public’ areas of the Squillace apartment was gleefully abandoned once past

the door to the family’s own rooms, which sported an

amazing range of high-tech, low-taste gadgets, gimmicks and gizmos ranging from novelty telephones to auto

flushing toilets, from remote-control light fixtures to a set of interactive operas on CD-ROM.

So it came as no particular surprise to Zen, when he

went to the bathroom early next morning, to find a miniaturized waterproof television set attached to a bracket in

the shower cubicle. The idea struck him as both idiotic and irresistible - we may be half the men our fathers

were, but they couldn’t watch TV in the shower - and he turned it on in the middle of the local news. What with the hiss of the water and the assorted noises associated with his ablutions, it was some time before he tuned in to the story which the gorgeously coiffed presenter was

reading.

.. approached the truck following the collision, when a group of men - estimates vary as to the exact number leapt out and opened fire. The officer was killed instantly.

The assailants then ran off into the neighbouring Forcella area, abandoning their vehicle. Another official travelling in the police car was unharmed, but in the confusion a prisoner they were transporting is thought to have escaped. A

search was instituted, but so far all attempts to trace the authors of this savage crime have been unsuccessful. The victim has been named as Armando Bertolini, twenty

nine, resident in Fuorigrotta and married with one …’

Valeria Squillace was assembling the coffee machine

when the apparition occurred: a naked man, dripping

wet, sprinting past the kitchen and down the hall. She

dropped the caffetiera, spilling grounds all over the floor and hurting her foot quite badly. Even once the pain had subsided, she had no idea what to make of it. She wondered for a moment if the whole thing was a dream. But

the splashes of soapy water on the parquet, not to mention the pain in her toes, were realenough.

Back in Filomena’s bedroom, where he was sleeping,

Zen searched frantically for the phone, which took the

form of a pink plastic rabbit. Judging by the decor, it was very hard to believe that Filomena Squillace could possibly be old enough to give her mother any cause for concern.

Every available surface was piled high with stuffed

toys and brightly coloured knick-knacks decorated with

cartoon animals and wide-eyed infants. The only hint of sexuality came in a series of posters featuring a variety of intense-looking young men struggling to look less wholesome than they actually were.

Zen perched naked on the bed and pressed a series of

buttons protruding from the rabbit’s chest and pressed the creature’s head to his ear. The number rang for a considerable time before being answered with a tentative ‘Si?’.

‘Who’s this?’ demanded Zen into the grille on the rabbit’s stomach.

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Is this the port police?’

“I think you have a wrong number.’

That was quite possible, given the fact that the keys

were cutely disguised as buttons on the bunny’s outfit.

Zen muttered an apology and was about to hang up

when the voice at the other end said, ‘Is that you, dottore?’

‘This is Aurelio Zen. Who’s speaking?’

‘Oh, thank God! This is Caputo.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you answer properly?’

“I thought it might be the Questura. They’ve been after you all night.’

There was a faint knock at the door, but Zen did not

register it.

‘When did this happen?’ he demanded.

‘Last evening, while we were driving Pas … the prisoner to the hospital. We got in a fender-bender with this

rubbish truck. Bertolini went to give them hell and suddenly these guys jump out and riddle him with bullets. I

put in a call for backup …’

‘And Pastorelli?’

‘He ran off. I haven’t heard from him.’

The door opened and Valeria Squillace appeared with a

cup of coffee.

‘OK, listen, Caputo/ Zen said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Until then, the arrangements we made yesterday still stand. Got that?’

Valeria stood looking on with a small, fixed smile. Perhaps he’s some sort of nudist, she was thinking, although he didn’t seem the type.

‘Don’t go into any details/ Zen continued. ‘Refer all

supplementary questions to me.’

He put the rabbit back on the bedside table and turned

to Valeria. It was only then that he realized that he was naked.

“I haven’t had time to get dressed/ he explained apologetically.

‘One of my men was killed in a gunfight last

night. I’m rather shaken up.’

Valeria set the coffee down on a dresser just inside the door. She was wearing a thick ivory-coloured towel robe.

Judging by the expanse of shoulder, leg and upper chest visible, she wasn’t wearing anything else.

‘How horrible/ she said with the same fixed smile.

Zen didn’t bother making any belated attempts to

cover his genitals, but naturally Valeria studiously

avoided looking anywhere in that direction. Nevertheless, she somehow got the impression that one particular

item was rather more prominent than it had been when

she first came into the room. Whether or not this was in fact the case, the mere idea was enough to produce a spectacular blush which served to emphasize the contrast

between her body and the garment loosely wrapped

around it, secured by a single twist of belt. This only made matters worse, and the next time she didn’t look there

was no further doubt.

They were saved by the telephone, which began chirping

and beeping and ringing and buzzing from its various

locations all over the house. Valeria’s rictus vanished along with her blush. She turned briskly away, closing the door behind her. With an effort, Zen pulled himself

together and started to get dressed.

When he emerged, ten minutes later, the salon was filled with sunlight streaming in through the open doorway

leading to the balcony. Valeria, now also decently clad, leaned over the railing. A light breeze ruffled her hair.

‘Good morning/ she said, as he appeared. ‘Did you

sleep well?’

‘Very well, thank you/ he replied, taking her cue that

this was to be their first meeting that morning.

‘That was Orestina. Apparently their evening ended

better than it began. They met some people who invited

them to something called a “rave”. I’m not sure what that is, exactly, but they seem to have had a good time.’

From the balcony, there was a magnificent view extending right over the city to the coastline near Pompeii and the brooding mass of Vesuvius. From the gardens and terraces below, a heady mixture of scents awakened by the sunlight rose up to envelop them. In the middle distance, Zen could clearly see the cranes and warehouses at the port. And that grey block, slightly to the left, was the Questura.

‘Well, I’m glad someone is/ he said resignedly.

Cava semplicita, quanto mi piaci

The Greco, at the foot of Via Chiaia, seemed to Dario De Spino the right sort of venue for his purposes. Its slightly faded gran caffe elegance, the sense of tradition and history, the waiters in their starched uniforms, to say nothing

of the view of the former Royal Palace and of the San Carlo opera house - all this was calculated to impress the pants off these two babes who’d grown up in some mosquito

ridden hovel in Hoxha’s Albania. They’d think they’d

died and gone to heaven!

Not that Dario was interested in removing their pants

himself, although he had been known to dip into the other side of the gender pool from time to time, both by way of demonstrating his versatility and confirming that he was better off where he was. But his resources in that respect were already overstretched, what with Mohammed out at

Portici - a thirty-minute commute each way, on top of

everything else - and the demands of social life here in town. With his extensive range of business interests, it was essential to remain on good terms with a large number of people, many of whom could get distinctly snippy if he

didn’t make a pass at them every so often.

No, Dario’s interest in the albanesi was, he would have been the first to admit, purely professional. And from that point of view, the outing had already been a success.