Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (27 page)

Siete d’ossa e di came, o cosa siete?

The last lingering trace of light, a greenish glimmer above the bank of thick haze out to the west, had faded from the sky. Night settled on the town, muffled and dense, smothering sounds, it seemed, as much as sight. Certainly the

three figures descending the steps of the Salita del Petraio made so little noise that they startled Don Castrese’s cat which was out on the prowl, having detected the faint but unmistakable odour of fellow creatures in heat. It was

only at the last moment that some sixth sense alerted the beast to the presence of the advancing trio, masked by

silence and cloaked in darkness. It leapt nimbly on to a window ledge and immersed itself in an exacting ritual of washing and grooming, as though to exorcize the malignant power of this encounter.

The three strangers who had crossed the cat’s path

came to a stop outside the house opposite. The shutters of the first floor windows were closed, but a faint light filtered out through the slats and occasional outbreaks of

laughter punctuated the muted hush of the night. The top floor, by contrast, was perfectly dark and silent, the windows standing open to let the air flow in.

‘This is the place.’

The cat paused in its obsessional licking as the speaker, a shorter, bulkier, older figure than the other two, stepped up to the door and pushed each of the two buttons

mounted on the frame, the superscribed names illegible in the dark. Abell and a buzzer sounded distantly, cutting off a further burst of laughter inside. For a moment nothing happened, except perhaps some quiet, hair-raising modulation perceptible only to cats. Then the windows on the

first floor were flung open and a man’s head appeared.

‘Yes?’ he barked.

‘We’re looking for Aurelio Zen,’ said a female voice

from the darkness below.

‘Who?’

The name was repeated by the other two in chorus.

Another head appeared at the window, a girl in her twenties with long hair and sharp, lively features.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked her companion.

‘There’s no one here by that name/ he called down.

The three figures below consulted briefly in an inaudible mutter. Then the one who spoke first looked up at the

window.

‘ZEN, AURELIO/ she said, pronouncing every syllable

with exaggerated distinctness.

‘You’ve got the wrong opera, grandma!’ the girl above

jeered.

‘I am Aurelio Zen/ said a new voice.

Everyone looked up at the top floor of the house, where another young man, naked to the waist, had appeared at

the window.

‘That’s not him!’ exclaimed one of the women indignantly.

‘If

only!’ added another.

‘He was never that good-looking/ commented the

third, ‘even at that age.’

The man at the lower window leant out as far as he

could, craning up towards the upper Storey.

‘Oh, Gesua, what the hell are you playing at?’

The three figures below again consulted briefly.

‘We’re going now,’ the one on the left announced.

‘But we’ll be back,’ added her companion.

‘What’s that man doing in Aurelio’s house?’ asked the

shorter one in the middle.

They moved away down the hill, still conferring in an

undertone, and were soon lost to sight.

‘Maybe we should have told them he’s at the opera/

said Sabatino.

‘How do you know where he is?’ Libera asked.

Sabatino smiled in a superior way.

‘Because a friend of ours is currently listening in to all his phone calls, my dear. There are already quite a few little mysteries about our Don Alfonsetto. This just makes

one more.’

Gesualdo’s voice drifted down from the upstairs window.

‘Maybe

we should have followed them, found out who

they are ..
p>

‘Well, if you’ve got nothing better to do, Gesua…’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Are you alone up there?’

There was a pause. Sabatino and Libera exchanged

glances.

Tolanda’s here too/ Gesualdo finally replied, as though making an official declaration.

‘Well, in that case/ said Sabatino languidly, ‘I’d suggest you forget about volunteering for overtime work and

take advantage of that fact, just as I’m about to with my companion/

With another of her rippling laughs, Libera pulled him

inside and closed the window.

Eccoci alia gran crisi

Higher up the Vomero, on Via Cimarosa, the streets were more brightly lit and there were still a few people about.

Nevertheless, Pasquale circled the lugubrious palazzo which was his passengers’ destination for so long that they finally grew restless.

‘There’s no point in trying to bump up the fare, since

the meter’s not even running/ Valeria Squillace

remarked tartly. She had not taken to Pasquale, whom

she regarded as low class and over-familiar.

‘Pasca and I have an informal arrangement/ Aurelio

Zen intervened in a diplomatic tone. ‘The fare is calculated on a sliding scale agreed in advance and payable

within a mutually acceptable period subject to financing and handling costs where applicable, right Pasca? So why the hell don’t you take us straight home?’

‘And those thugs, duttb?’ demanded Pasquale. ‘The

two we had to shake this afternoon?’

Zen frowned. He had already forgotten them.

‘They followed us from outside this very building/ the

cabby reminded him. ‘Once they lost us at the hotel,

they’ll most likely have come back to wait. They must

have found out you’re staying here.’

‘You’ve been watching too many movies, Pasca.’

‘Never, duttbl My wife took me to the cinema once, back in the fifties. I couldn’t sleep for weeks afterwards. Even now I have nightmares about it.’

He continued to weave his way down side-streets and

alleys, peering attentively into the cars parked higgledy piggledy to either side. Unable to find any excuse for further delay, he finally drew up outside the door. Zen got

out and held the door open for Valeria.

‘Goodnight, Pasca.’

The driver rooted around in his pocket and handed Zen

a small battered oval box of what appeared to be silver.

‘What’s this?’ asked Zen.

Pasquale shrugged.

‘Keep it on you at all times. Don’t even go to bed without it, understand? As long as you have it with you, you’ll be all right/

Zen smiled broadly, but there was no question that

Pasquale was absolutely serious.

‘Are you coming, Alfonso?’ Valeria demanded pointedly.

Zen

put the box in his pocket.

‘Thanks/ he said.

The taxi pulled away, leaving Zen standing on the kerb

with a sense of dread which had nothing to do with

Pasquale’s imaginary assassins. The feeling was accentuated when he turned to find Valeria Squillace smiling at

him in a way that needed no translation. But there was

nothing for it but to follow her inside. In the cavernous entrance hall, a host of plaster statuary he had not noticed before leered down at him: prancing putti, writhing Hercules, ample Junos whose last scrap of drapery was about

to slip off their heavily engorged nipples.

‘What a fabulous evening!’ Valeria enthused. ‘And

those seats, Aurelio! They must have cost a fortune/

The tickets provided gratis by Giovan Battista Caputo

had proved to be the best in the house, right in the centre of the dress circle. Zen smiled and shrugged.

‘An experience like that is priceless/ he replied, even though he had personally found the opera to be poor

stuff, thin and old-fashioned, with weak orchestration

and no big tunes.

The elevator clacked to a halt behind them. Zen opened

the metal concertina gate and the glass-plated doors, ushered Valeria inside and activated the machinery into jerky

life by dropping a fifty-lire coin in the slot. While the elevator rose in its wrought-iron cage, like a vertical coffin,

towards the ceiling bedecked with writhing nudes, Zen

took out the silver box Pasquale had given him and examined it in the yellowing light of the ceiling bulb. He

pressed a catch on the side and the lid yawned open.

Inside was a wad of cotton wool stained with some dark

brown substance. It smelt musty and vaguely sweet, like rotten meat.

‘What’s that?’ demanded Valeria, wrinkling her nose.

‘Some fake saint’s relic, I suppose. Your new acquaintance is just the type to believe in nonsense like that/

Zen shrugged and put the box away as the elevator

came to a stop at the fourth floor.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Valeria, unlocking the front

door. ‘There’s some parmigiana di melanzane I can heat up.’

Zen shook his head.

“I had some pizza earlier, thanks. I wouldn’t mind a

glass of something, though…’

Valeria opened a hatch in the fitted unit which covered the end wall, revealing a selection of bottles.

‘Help yourself. This one is particularly good. One of

my cousins makes it with fruit from his country estate. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I want to call the girls/

Zen opened the elegantly asymmetrical decanter she

indicated. The contents were as clear as the container, and keenly perfumed with cherries. He poured a small quantity into one of the hollowed knobs of crystal on the shelf

above.

‘Signorina Orestina Squillace, please/ Valeria said into the phone in heavily accented English. ‘Squillace. I don’t understand. Room 302. What? That’s impossible! Please

check again. Really? Are you sure?’

She hung up and turned to Zen.

‘The hotel says they’ve checked out/

‘What? Where have they gone?’

Valeria massaged her fingers nervously.

‘They didn’t say. Of course they may just have moved

to another hotel, or maybe taken off on a trip somewhere, but it’s strange they didn’t phone and tell me. My God, I hope they’re all right! Maybe we should never have sent them off in the first place. If anything happens to them, I’ll never forgive myself/

His earlier scruples forgotten, Zen came over and took

her hand comfortingly.

‘They may have phoned while we were at the opera.

Try not to worry. I’m sure they’ll be all right/

She sighed and squeezed his hand. Their eyes met. Zen

swiftly knocked back the rest of the cherry liqueur.

‘Superb!’ he said, disengaging his hand from hers.

‘Have some more/

Twill/

‘And then come and sit down with me.’

She dimmed the lights and put on some music.

‘Recognize this?’ she asked with a flirtatious glance.

‘Verdi?’

Valeria laughed girlishly.

‘It’s what we heard this evening, silly! The seduction

scene in the second act/

Zen filled the liqueur glass right to the brink, drank half of it and topped it up again. Glass in hand, he began circling the room as though searching for the exit.

‘Come and sit down/ Valeria told him. ‘You’re making

me nervous, prowling about like that. Besides, I’m still worried about the girls. Do something to distract me.’

With a sense of impending but inevitable doom, Zen

went to sit beside her on the sofa, his own sensation one of panic. Despite his age and experience, there were some situations he had never been able to handle gracefully.

Turning down an offer like this was one.

‘You’ve been smoking/ Valeria remarked, drawing

closer to him.

‘Just the odd one.’

‘Have you got some on you?’

‘You want me to throw them away?’

“I want you to give me one.’

He looked at her in amazement.

‘But you told me you didn’t smoke! You told me…’

She smiled charmingly.

‘That was just a test, to see if I had any power over you.

As a matter of fact I used to smoke like a chimney. It was Manlio who made me give it up. He said it was unattractive in a woman. But Manlio’s dead, and I’m in a mood to

do something silly/

Zen passed her his packet of Nazionali.

‘Nothing fancy, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically.

“I don’t need anything fancy. Just plain, simple pleasures.

If it’s a little rough, that’s fine too.’

When Zen held out his lighter she grasped his hand,

although the flame was perfectly steady. Replacing the

lighter in his pocket, his fingers touched the mysterious silver box which Pasquale had insisted on lending him.

Zen rubbed the smooth metal fervently. It was going to

take a miracle to get him out of this one.

Valeria leant forward so that her left breast pushed negligently against Zen’s jacket, which immediately began to

emit the rising sequence of electronic chirps whose origin and meaning he had by now learned to recognize.

The disturbing effect of midsummer night, to say nothing of the full moon, may have caused confusion to humans and even cats, but out at Capodichino the planes, thanks to their more advanced equipment, kept right on landing and taking off. Which was good news for Concetta Biancarosa Ausilia Olimpia Immacolata Scarlatti in Higgins,

who had picked up a fare to the airport shortly after the conference at the pizzeria broke up.

Now she was cruising the arrivals hall, watching for

likely prospects among the passengers on an international flight which, according to the board, had just

landed. If she had taken her turn in the rank outside, it would have made more sense to drive straight back into

town without a fare, but Immacolata was not born yesterday nor yet the day before, and knew how to take care of

herself in more ways than one, to say nothing of putting her linguistic talents to good use.