Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (24 page)

a hundred, am I right?’

‘It’s a question of principle/ Gesualdo replied primly.

‘Whatever happens, I am not going to deceive Orestina.

No matter how much I may be tempted, I’ll always be

able to control myself.’

‘You won’t be able to do a damn thing,’ said Sabatino

with a cynical smile. ‘But what’s the big deal, anyhow? I love Filomena just as much as you love Orestina, and I

can’t wait to see her when she gets back. But in the meantime I aim to enjoy myself/

‘Just be sure you inspect the merchandise carefully

before taking delivery,’ the drunk intoned. ‘Not

every

thing is what it seems at first sight, particularly here in Naples.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Gesualdo.

Sabatino shrugged.

“I gave Libera the key to my place in Mergellina. We’re meeting there this evening.’

‘What?’

‘Why not? There’s no way Filomena will ever find out.

It’s as if it never happened/

Gesualdo looked at him for some time in silence, then

sniffed loudly.

‘Well, that’s your business.’

The street door opened and a young man appeared. All

conversation immediately ceased. The intruder walked

to the centre of the room, looking about him in a pleasant, dopey way.

‘Vino?’ he said tentatively, waving a 50,000-lire note.

The drunk perked up at once.

‘You want to drink?’ he said in English. ‘Maybe eat

something? Sit down! Later I tell you of the war. Oh,

Guglie! Addb cazzo staje? Puortace ‘n’ato litro ‘e chellu bbuono, pecche cca ce sta ‘n’amico mije ca e arrivate mo’ dalVAmerica ca se sta murenne ‘e setel’

Vi par, ma non e ver

Dario was at a loss. This was doubly disturbing for a man who prided himself on always knowing what was what

and who was behind it, even on those rare occasions when he himself wasn’t directly or indirectly involved. But now not only could he not get hold of either Gesualdo or

Sabatino, but he was beginning to have an uneasy sense

that everything that had been happening was merely a

diversion designed to distract attention from the real action, which was taking place somewhere else entirely. In short he sensed that he, Dario De Spino, was in this case no better off than the hapless fauna on whom he was accustomed to prey, people dumb enough to think that they

knew what was going on because they followed the news.

His two friends had not returned his calls, and the only person he had been able to trace who had any information on their whereabouts was Ciro Soglione, amateur of

big bikes, busty blondes and other people’s wallets. And even Ciro was conspicuously unhelpful, merely saying

that he had met Gesualdo briefly in Forcella that afternoon and that the latter had ‘tried to get heavy’.

“I soon put a stop to that,’ Ciro continued airily. ‘Gesualdo’s a good guy, we all know that, but if you haven’t got

respect out here on the streets, you haven’t got anything, right? I showed him he couldn’t push me around, then

when he backed off I eased up and told him not to worry so much. “Oh, Gesua,” I said, “you’ve got to learn to relax, kid!” But it was no good, he was too pissed off. What’s the deal? Is his girl screwing around on him or something?

Some guys come on so fucking tough, you know, but they

let women push them around! I don’t get it/

In the time he had known them, Dario had learned that

it was not unusual for Gesualdo and Sabatino to drop out of circulation for hours or even days at a time. He had always assumed that this had to do with their work, into which he was careful not to pry. There were things you

could discuss and others you couldn’t. Dario respected

their privacy and expected them to do the same in return.

Plus he got the impression that the stuff they were working on was way out of his league. There were occasions

when it was better even for Dario De Spino not to know

what was going on, still less who was behind it.

But it was something the thief had said just before they parted which worried Dario most - or rather what he had not said. Swivelling around on the saddle of his motorbike, Ciro had smiled in a knowing way and called out,

‘How about those Strade Pulite guys, eh?’ Like it was a football team or something.

And that was all, except for the valedictory roar of the bike. Dario had walked away deep in thought. What was

the purpose of that teasing reference to the ‘Clean Streets’

group? It must have something to do with Gesualdo,

otherwise Ciro would have clarified it. Instead he had

deliberately left it hanging there, vague but suggestive, right after their discussion about their mutual acquaintance.

That could only mean one thing: he was implying

that Gesualdo was linked in some way to the terrorists

who had ‘disappeared’ three prominent local figures,

with two of whom Dario had had professional dealings.

And if Gesualdo was involved, then Sabatino must be

too.

Once again Dario De Spino asked himself just how well

he really knew these two young men. Not that there had

ever seemed anything very much to know. They had

always seemed absolutely typical young middle-management hoodlums, perhaps a trifle smarter and more

reserved than some, but in no way exceptional. If they

had been, Dario wouldn’t have had anything to do with

them. They were affable and efficient in exactly the sort of way you’d expect of people who knew the sort of people

they said they knew and worked for the class of operation they let it be understood that they worked for.

Tough, it went without saying, and no doubt capable of

ruthless viciousness if the circumstances called for it, but basically just a couple of average Neapolitan lads trying to get on in life and make a decent living. Certainly not terrorists! The whole idea was ridiculous. The South might have its problems, but ideological fanaticism had never been one of them. People down here were too smart to waste their time trying to change the world. They came to terms with life as best they could, each in his own way.

History had taught them what happened to anyone who

failed to do so.

Nevertheless it remained, this feeling which Dario

couldn’t explain but had learned to trust, an almost physical sense that all was not what it seemed. He plunged

into the pullulating life of the Forcella market area,

greeted friends and enemies alike, ate a pizza and drank a beer, made various deals on a cargo of microwave cookers and CD players due to fall overboard from a freighter

shortly, scored three complimentary tickets for Sunday’s big game, appreciated a variety of passing bums and

biceps, picked up some cheap Gucci forgeries which

would delight and impress the Albanians, and discussed

some possibilities for their long-term placement in positions offering them security and assorted fringe benefits

and Dario a reasonable consideration up-front plus a percentage of the resulting action.

All of this took several hours, at the end of which his feeling was still in place, a stabbing internal pain of the kind you initially dismiss as just a passing twinge but which ends up looking like a symptom of something more

serious. Dario distractedly caressed the red horn-shaped amulet dangling from a gold chain around his neck, an

antidote against the evil eye. In view of the proposals he had just discussed, he was understandably reluctant to

give up on the two girls and the very lucrative returns, both immediate and deferred, which they represented.

On the other hand, he was well aware that ragazze and ragazzi were not to be separated, particularly in this case.

And where the latter were concerned, everything he

believed in and depended on for his everyday and long

term survival was telling him to get the hell out at the earliest possible opportunity without leaving a forwarding

address. On yet another hand - how many hands you

needed in this business! - he didn’t have a single scrap of evidence to suggest that anything whatever was wrong.

In short, Dario was facing a dilemma familiar to every

Neapolitan: reason was telling him one thing, instinct

another. The resulting struggle was short, painful and despite a lifetime’s training and the tradition of centuries

- obscurely humiliating, but the outcome was never in

any real doubt.

Bisognapigliarlo

Like so many things in Naples, the so-called Metropolitana wasn’t quite what its name suggested. True, a purpose built underground railway was now under construction

- and had been for as long as most people could remember.

One fine day it might even open, but meanwhile the

name was attached, like a fake designer label, to a stretch of the national railway network which happened to run

between the western and eastern suburbs of the city

through one of the more recent portions of the complex

and only partly charted system of tunnels, reservoirs and subterranean quarries which underlay the city.

And Zen was not entirely surprised to discover, when he finally made contact with Pasquale outside the station in Piazza Cavour, that the news that John Viviani ‘isn’t missing any more’ also contained an element of euphemism.

“I got the call when I was on my way in from the airport with a couple of tourists/ Pasquale told him. ‘Normally I’d have given them the scenic route via Pozzuoli plus the statutory one hundred per cent surcharge, excess baggage fees, motorway tolls with handling charges and twenty

per cent tip, all rounded up to the nearest hundred thou.

But seeing as it was you, duttb, I let them off lightly.’

‘Remind me to reimburse you, Pasquale. At the rate

things are going, I may need to use that line of credit you mentioned after all.’

Pasquale gestured casually to show that it was unnecessary if not slightly vulgar even to mention such matters.

“I’m sure it was him,” Fortunato told me. “I remember

the face. And he was definitely a foreigner, didn’t speak a word of Italian.” He’d got the poster from Decio at the rank in Piazza Dante, and the moment he saw it he recognized the fare he’d just dropped off in Via Tribunali. Of

course there’s no knowing where the guy is by now, but

sooner or later he’ll have to pick up another ride, and this time we’ll be ready/

‘That’s if he’s still alive,’ his passenger remarked

morosely.

‘Why wouldn’t he be alive? Unless he drinks himself to

death. Fortuna said he was pretty far gone even then/

‘Great. So he’s drunk, lost, doesn’t speak the language, and is probably waving a wad of banknotes around in

one of the roughest parts of town. Plus there’s a fairly good chance that the mob is after his blood/

Pasquale’s eyes narrowed in the rear-view mirror.

‘Wait a minute, dutto, I thought this job was strictly private enterprise. If there’s a corporate interest in this guy, then I don’t want any part of it/

‘I’m not sure there is. But I just found out that a certain item of merchandise for which Viviani may have acted as courier has inadvertently been switched for another. As a result, it’s just possible that the interested parties may believe - wrongly, as it happens - that Viviani double

crossed them/

A complex counterpoint of electronic chirping filled

the air. Both men reached for their mobile phones and

started talking at once.

‘Good evening, Don Orlando,’ said Zen’s caller.

‘I’m afraid you have a wrong number/

‘No, no. I obtained it personally from Signora Squillace, with whom I believe you are staying. I also understand

that you are currently using another name. I will of course respect your wishes in that regard/

The male voice was mature, urbane and intimate, that

of an old friend or relative.

‘Who is this?’ Zen demanded.

‘Under the circumstances, I would prefer not to identify myself on a channel of communication which is notoriously insecure. Let’s just say that I have information

regarding a matter of mutual interest, and wanted to

establish contact. I’ll call you with more details later tonight.’

I’m going to the opera/ Zen replied automatically.

‘Really? I hear the production’s a mess, but a couple of the voices are quite tolerable, particularly the bass. Buon divertimento/

“I still think there’s some mistake. My name is not…’

But the line was dead.

‘Got him!’ exclaimed Pasquale, starting the engine.

‘Don Orlando?’ murmured Zen.

Tmmacolata picked him up five minutes ago. It

couldn’t have worked out better. I told her to take him down east and keep him in a holding pattern until we get there. She’s perfect for a job like this. If it was a man, he might try to cut up rough, but ‘a signora Igginz? Never!’

They drove off along a wide boulevard, cutting and

running through the traffic.

‘Who?’ Zen demanded distractedly. Not only was the

plot slipping from his grasp, even the names of the cast appeared unfamiliar.

‘That was her late husband’s name/ Pasquale

explained. ‘A foreign soldier. She still uses the name to add a bit of chic, but no one teases her about it. You don’t mess with Immacolata.’

They veered off to the right through the dismal back

streets where Zen had recruited the two ‘Albanians’.

Already fires were flickering at every corner and figures loomed out of the shadows as they approached. Pasquale

picked up the phone and dialled.

‘So how’s the grand tour of Naples by night? Really?

Great. Just crossing Piazza Nazionale. How about you?