Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (23 page)

placed his bet and awaits the verdict of the wheel. Gesualdo looked at him levelly for some time. Then he smiled

slowly and nodded.

‘Get the money to us by Friday,’ he said.

‘Friday? Gesu, can’t you make it Sunday at least, Gesua.’

A thought seemed to strike him. He reached into his

pocket and produced a laminated card which he handed

over.

‘Here, I lifted this this morning, right outside the Questura!’

Catching

the look in Gesualdo’s eye, he added hastily,

‘The mark had no money to speak of, but this is the genuine article all right. Not one of those cheap fakes they’re turning out in Aversa.’

Gesualdo glanced contemptuously at the card in Ciro’s

hand, and suddenly became very still. He seized it and

scrutinized the writing and the picture carefully.

‘Keep it as a token of goodwill!’ Ciro told him, eager to regain the initiative. ‘All you need to do is change the photo and you’re an honorary Vice-Questore. Eh, Gesua?

Well, I must be going. Ciaol’

Before Gesualdo could react, he jumped on to his motorbike and roared off. Sabatino, who had arrived a few minutes earlier and had been watching the encounter from a bar on the other side of the street, came over to join his partner.

‘I trust you put the fear of God into him,’ he said lightly.

Without replying, Gesualdo handed the plastic card to

Sabatino, who looked at it with an expression of total

shock.

‘Holy shit!’ he murmured.

Che strepitol

Aurelio Zen strolled along Via Chiaia over the saddle

between the Monte di Dio and the lower slopes of the

Vomero, and continued up the gentle slope of elegant

Via Filangieri. He walked slowly, taking in the myriad

dramas and comedies unfolding all around him, a

guarded smile on his lips, compact and self-contained.

As the street veered to the left, becoming Via dei Mille, he paused to inspect the watch which Professor Esposito had returned to him. He had already done this several times, in an attempt to determine whether or not the watch was

really his. Even after another inspection, he remained in some doubt about this. The make, style and general appearance were apparently identical, yet the watch somehow

felt different from the one he had worn for so many years, and which had previously belonged to his father. Of course, this might be just the effect of the cleaning and repair which the professor’s friend had effected, free of charge.

An elegant young couple brushed past him, one to

either side, each speaking animatedly into a mobile

phone. Maybe they’re talking to each other, he thought, the ultimate yuppie relationship. Well, now he too could play these games.

‘Valeria? Aurelio Zen.’

‘Who?’

‘Alfonso Zembla, I mean.’

‘What’s all that noise?’

‘I’m just passing a stall selling bootleg cassettes. Wait a moment… Hello? Hello?’

‘Hello?’

‘Ah, there you are. I’m calling from my new mobile

phone. The city’s full of dead spaces, I’m finding.’

‘It’s lucky you rang, Alfonso. I just got a call from someone who wants to get in touch with you.’

‘Was it my mother?’

‘Pardon?’

‘My mother. She’s gone missing.’

‘No, this was a man. He didn’t leave a name, but he’s

going to call back later.’

“I went to see a mago and asked him where she was. He

told me the Three Furies were on my trail.’

‘Furies?’

‘He stuck his finger in my navel and had a vision of the Erinyes. Do you know about them? Female divinities

who punish crimes against close relations. Obviously the professor has a classical turn of mind. The other missing person I asked about he located in Hades.’

‘Have you got a fever, Alfonso?’

‘I’m fine. You haven’t forgotten that we’re going to the opera this evening, have you?’

‘Of course I haven’t. If you’re not back here in time, I’ll meet you at the San Carlo.’

‘Right. And listen, if anyone calls for me, just give them the number of my mobile. Have you got a pen?’

‘Even if it’s your mother?’

‘There’s no escaping the Furies, the professor says.’

In Piazza Amadeo, close to the lower terminus of the

other funicular railway up the Vomero, he entered a cafe and ordered a beer. His plan was to drop by the house on Scalini del Petraio and find out whether his hired professionals had managed to make any impression on the

Squillace girls’ innamorati.

It’s Gesualdo who is going to be the problem, he

thought. Sabatino looked like someone who could be

talked into almost anything, certainly into bed, but his

partner had that sanctimonious facade which conceals a mass of unresolved doubts, conflicts and ambiguities.

The way he carried on, you’d think he’d invented love

after everyone had been satisfied with shoddy imitations for the preceding thousand years.

But what if Zen blundered in just as Iolanda or Libera he could never remember which was which - was successfully putting the moves on this paragon of rectitude?

That could ruin everything, and give Gesualdo the

excuse he needed to bail out. Perhaps he should phone De Spino and check the lie of the land first. It might have been he who called him at Valeria’s. No, that couldn’t be right. De Spino didn’t know that he was staying there. No one knew, in fact. Except that someone evidently did.

Another unsolved mystery, thought Zen, paying the

bill and walking out into the honking, revving crush of vehicles in the piazza. How was it that everything

became so complicated here? A week earlier, his life had been as he had always wanted it: calm, pleasant and predictable.

And now even the smallest details seemed

uncertain, as though subjected to the same bradyism as

parts of the city itself, an imperceptible but continual seismic motion which undermined the strongest foundations

and rendered every structure unstable.

He was lining up for a ticket in the dismal grotto which formed the lower terminus of the Funicolare di Chiaia, his transit pass having gone missing along with the other

contents of his wallet, when an irritating electronic bleeping started somewhere close by. Very close. In fact, it

seemed to be coming from him. He stared wildly down at

his body, as though it might have turned into the steel limbs and greased joints of a robot.

‘Eh, signore, do us all a favour!’ said the elderly woman in front of him in the queue. ‘If you aren’t going to answer, kindly turn it off. In my opinion, those damn things have ruined civilized life. You can’t go out to eat or even to the opera these days without hearing them. Once upon a

time it was considered ill-bred even to answer the phone if you were talking to someone, but now…’

Zen apologized sheepishly while digging out the

phone.

‘Yes?’ he barked aggressively, by way of over-compensation.

‘Pasquale, dutto. Where are you?’

‘On my way home. Well, what used to be…’

‘Whereabouts exactly?’

‘Piazza Amadeo/

‘All right, here’s what you do. Take the train to Piazza Cavour. I’ll be waiting right outside. At this time you’ll get here far quicker than I can reach you with the traffic the way it is, plus we’ll be at the right end of town, more or less.’

‘No disrespect intended, Pasquale, but would you

kindly tell me what the hell you’re talking about?’

‘Your missing American, dutto? He isn’t missing any

more.’

Questa e costanza

‘It’s fake, of course.’

‘Has to be.’

‘Odd name to choose. Doesn’t even sound Italian.’

‘Same initials, though/

‘They often give themselves away like that. Remember

Vito Gentile? Constructed an entirely false personality for himself after he bust out of Procida. There were only two things he couldn’t bring himself to change, the village where he was born and his mother’s maiden name. And

that’s how they got him.’

The scene was a Vini e Cucina on a side-street just north of Via Tribunali: tiled walls, a cheap electric clock, large framed photograph of a dead relative, light filtering in from a net-curtained window high up on one end wall.

Below, as in the depths of a drained swimming pool, a

counter supported three wooden wine barrels with the

price per litre chalked on the end. Beyond a serving hatch knocked through to the tiny kitchen area, plates were

drying and tempers flaring.

Gesualdo and Sabarino sat at one of the two long tables, the remains of a snack between them. The only other customer was an elderly drunk with long greasy hair and

huge sideburns, wearing a seemingly infinite number of

clothing layers wrapped up in a luxurious and apparently new overcoat. Before him was a glass of white wine,

an empty half-litre flask and a collection of cigarette butts from which he was removing and recycling the tobacco in a rolling paper.

‘Pure mohair, dutto! he called hoarsely, catching Gesualdo eyeing his coat. ‘The new autumn line from Versace.’

‘OK, so what have we got?’ mused Sabatino rhetorically.

‘Alfonso Zembla, supposedly some sort of civil servant, although we have no proof of that, is carrying fake

identification enabling him to pass himself off as a high ranking cop.’

‘In the shops, a garment like this would cost at least two hundred thousand, maybe three,’ said the drunk, finishing his glass of wine. ‘And that’s if you can get a discount.’

‘Plus he went to a lot of time and trouble getting us to agree to stay at his house,’ observed Gesualdo. ‘We’ve

assumed all along that he was telling the truth about that, and that he had no interest in us or any idea who we are.

Maybe we were wrong about that. Maybe this whole

thing is just a cover.’

‘Certainly not, duttdV said the drunk. ‘Just a cover,

indeed. You might as well say that a Bugatti is just a car.

This is not a coat, it’s a style statement!’

‘A cover for what?’ asked Sabatino with a look which

was suddenly alert.

‘It’s warm but it’s light, it’s chic but sensible, a timeless classic that perfectly complements any ensemble which

may grace your wardrobe now or in the future/ the drunk rhapsodized to the empty restaurant. ‘And as for the

price…’

‘That’s what worries me,’ Gesualdo told Sabatino.

“I believe you, dutto Two hundred thousand, you’re

thinking, maybe more. Brand new, never worn except by

yours truly, which doesn’t count because technically

speaking I’m not wearing it but modelling it. Your worries are quite understandable, yet unfounded, because

today only the price on this garment has been slashed to ninety thousand HreY

‘If he was aiming to pass himself off as a Vice-Questore, it must be something pretty serious/ Sabatino remarked.

Gesualdo nodded.

‘And he must have connections, too. Whoever did that

ID was a real pro. If we weren’t in the business ourselves, I don’t think I’d have spotted it for a fake/

‘A fake?’ retorted the drunk indignantly. ‘This is no

fake, duttb. This is an authentic verified copy of a Versace original made right here in Naples by one of the best

sweat-shops! It’s no fake, but at eighty thousand there’s no question that it’s a steal/

‘In short/ said Gesualdo, “I think we need to find out a little more about Don Alfonso Zembla, a.k.a. “Aurelio

Zen”.’

‘We might start listening in to his phone calls for a

start/ suggested Sabatino.

‘Why not? I’ll get Gioacchino on it right away. We’ll

need to get his number, but I can get that out of the Squillace woman by pretending to be someone else. Speaking

of which, Orestina called me this afternoon. I told her I was thinking of going over.’

Sabatino frowned and shook his head.

‘Going over where?’

‘To London/

‘A waste of time, duttb, with all due respect/ the drunk declaimed, triumphantly lighting his completed cigarette.

‘London, Tokyo, Paris, New York - there’s nothing

you can find there you can’t get cheaper right here. But if you’re thinking of an English look, I’ll throw in a nice Burberry scarf, pure lambswool. Seventy thousand the

package, and no packing, no language problems, no

delays at the airport/

Gesualdo leant forward across the table and looked

into Sabatino’s eyes.

‘If I tell you something, will you swear never to tell

another soul, on your mother’s grave?’

‘Make him swear by something else, duttb/ the drunk

advised. ‘Mothers don’t have the clout they used to/

Sabatino gazed wide-eyed at his partner.

‘What is it, Gesua?’

Gesualdo looked down at the tabletop.

‘I’m in love/ he murmured. ‘And not just with

Orestina.’

‘Guglielmo, more wine!’ yelled the drunk. ‘Oh, Guglie!’

Sabatino’s smile gained a little edge.

‘You mean you’ve fallen for Iolanda?’

“I admit I’m attracted to her/ Gesualdo replied stiffly, as though already regretting this confidence. ‘But that isn’t going to change anything. I have a commitment to

Orestina and I intend to honour it. This is more than a personal issue, it’s a political decision. If there’s to be any

hope for this country, we’ve got to start accepting our responsibilities and keeping our promises. That’s the

only way to build a new Italy/

‘You sound like a spokesman for Strade Pulite/ Sabatino observed with a trace of malice.

‘Personally I’m for the Fascists or whatever they’re calling themselves these days/ the drunk interjected. ‘But the

main thing is to get someone in there who can get things done. To take a simple example, if you have the chance to pick up a fabulous Versace lookalike today at a knockdown sixty thousand lire, you don’t want it next month at