Ratking (4 page)

‘What are you trying to do?’ Ottavio demanded indignantly. ‘Put me out of business? Listen, the lamb is fabulous today. And when I say fabulous I’m saying less than half the truth. Tender young sucklings, so sweet, so pretty it was a sin to kill them. But since they’re dead already it would be a bigger sin not to eat them.’

Zen allowed himself to be persuaded, largely to get rid of Ottavio, who moved on to spread the good word to other tables.

‘And how have you been?’ Zen asked Ellen, when he had gone.

But she wasn’t having that.

‘Why haven’t you told me this before?’

‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. Besides, it’s all past history now.’

‘When did all this happen, then?’

He sighed, frowned, rubbed his forehead and grimaced.

‘Oh, I suppose it must be about … yes, about four years ago now. More or less.’

Surely he had overdone the uncertainty grotesquely? But she seemed satisfied.

‘And now they’re suddenly putting you back on that kind of work? This must be quite a surprise.’

‘It certainly is.’

There was no need to conceal that, at any rate!

‘So it was 1979 you quit?’

‘The year before, actually.’

‘And you got yourself transferred to a desk job?’

‘More or less.’

He tensed himself for the follow-up, but it failed to materialize. Fair enough. If Ellen didn’t appreciate how unlikely it was that anyone in that particular section of the Rome police would be allowed to transfer to a desk job in 1978 of all years, he certainly wasn’t going to draw her attention to it.

‘What made you do that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was just fed up with the work.’

The food was brought to their table by Ottavio’s youngest son, a speedy little whippet who, at fourteen, had already perfected his professional manner, contriving to suggest that he was engaged on some task of incalculable importance to humanity carried out against overwhelming odds under near-impossible conditions, and that while a monument in the piazza outside would be a barely adequate expression of the debt society owed him, he didn’t even expect to get a decent tip.

They ate in silence for several minutes.

‘So, what have you been up to?’ Zen insisted. ‘How’s business?’

‘Very quiet. There’s a big sale on Tuesday, though.’

Ellen made a living acting as representative for a New York antique dealer, but it was a case of profiting from a lifelong hobby, and one that she had tried in vain to get him to share. Zen had had his fill of old furniture!

‘How long will it be altogether?’

‘Not long, I hope.’

‘Do you know Perugia?’

Perugia, he thought. Chocolates, Etruscans, that fat painter, radios and gramophones, the University for Foreigners, sportswear. ‘Umbria, the green heart of Italy’, the tourist advertisements said. What did that make Latium, he had wondered, the bilious liver?

‘I may have been there on a school trip, years ago.’

‘But not for work?’

‘Not a chance! There’re two of us on Housekeeping. Zuccaroni is better regarded than me, so he gets the soft jobs, close to home.’

‘Will it be difficult?’

He pushed his plate away and topped up their glasses with the flat, bland white wine.

‘There’s no way of knowing. A lot depends on the magistrate who’s directing the investigation. Some of them want to take all the decisions themselves. Others just want to take the credit.’

She also finished eating and at last they could smoke. He took out his packet of Nazionali. Ellen as usual preferred her own cigarettes.

‘Can I come and visit you?’ she asked with a warm smile.

‘It would be wonderful.’

She nodded.

‘No mother.’

He suddenly saw which way the conversation was heading.

‘Don’t you think it’s ridiculous, at our age?’ Ellen continued. ‘She must know what’s going on.’

‘I expect she does. But as far as she’s concerned I’m still married to Luisella and that’s that. If I spend the night with you it’s adultery. Since I’m a man that doesn’t matter, but one doesn’t mention it.’

‘It matters to me.’ Her tone had hardened. ‘I don’t like your mother thinking of me as your mistress.’

‘Don’t you? I quite enjoy it. It makes me feel young and irresponsible.’

The remark was deliberately provocative, but he had long ago decided that he was not going to be talked into matrimony a second time.

‘Really?’ she retorted. ‘Well, it makes me feel old and insecure. And angry! Why should I have my life dominated by your mother? Why should you, for that matter? What’s the matter with Italian men, letting their mammas terrorize them their whole life long? Why do you give them such power?’

‘Perhaps we’ve found over the centuries that they’re the only people who can be trusted with it.’

‘Oh, I see. You can’t trust me? Thanks very much!’

‘I can’t trust anyone in quite that way.’

It seemed perfectly obvious to him. Why was she getting so angry?

‘Not because my mother’s a saint,’ he explained. ‘It’s just that mothers are like that. They can’t help it, it’s biological.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful! Now you’ve insulted both of us.’

‘On the contrary, I’ve complimented both of you. My mother for being what she is, and you for being everything else. And above all for being so understanding in what is a very difficult situation for both of us, but one that won’t last for ever.’

She looked away, disarmed by this allusion, and Zen seized the opportunity to signal Ottavio for the bill.

The air outside was deliciously cool and fresh after the small, stuffy restaurant. They walked in silence towards the roar of traffic on Viale Trastevere. In Piazza Sonnino an office building was being refitted after a fire, and the hoarding put up by the builders had attracted the warpaint of rival political clans. The Red Brigade’s five-pointed star was the most conspicuous, but there were also contributions from Armed Struggle (‘There’s no escape – we shall strike everywhere!’), the Anarchists (‘If voting changed anything they’d make it illegal’), and the neo-fascist New Order (‘Honour to our fallen companions – they live on in our hearts!’).

To Zen, the clash of slogans seemed eerily appropriate. Because if the events of 1978 had had a secret centre, and part of their horror was that he would never be sure, then in a sense it had been here, at the terminus of the 97c bus and the San Gallicano hospital opposite. If there had been an unspeakable secret, then one of the two men who had guessed it had died there. And since that moment, day and night, whatever else he might be doing or thinking, Zen had remained uneasily aware that he was the other.

‘The entire resources of the Questura of Perugia are at your disposal. Eager to obey, my men await only your commanding word to spring into action. Your reputation of course precedes you, and the prospect of serving under your leadership has been an inspiration to us all. Who has not heard of your brilliant successes in the Fortuzzi and Castellano affairs, to name but two? And who can doubt that you will achieve a no less resounding triumph here on Umbrian soil, earning the heartfelt thanks of all by succeeding where others, less fortunate or deserving, have failed? The city of Perugia has a long and historic relationship with the capital, of which your posting here is a concrete symbol. My men will, I am sure, wish to join with me in bidding you welcome.’

There was a feeble flutter of applause from the group of senior officials assembled in the Questore’s spacious top-floor office, all discreetly modern furniture, rows of law books, and potted plants. Aurelio Zen stood in their midst like a Siamese cat dropped into a cage full of stray dogs: tense and defiant, his eyes refusing to meet those fixed on him with expressions of more or less successfully concealed mockery. They knew what he was going through, poor bastard! And they knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Salvatore Iovino, their chief, a corpulent, vivacious fifty-year-old from Catania, had given a masterly performance. Fulsome and vapid, laden with insincere warmth and hidden barbs, his speech had nevertheless left no legitimate grounds for complaint. He had spoken of Zen’s ‘reputation’, without actually mentioning that his abrupt departure from the Rome Questura in 1978 had been the subject of the wildest rumours and speculations throughout the force. The two cases he had mentioned dated from the mid-seventies, underlining Zen’s lack of recent operational experience. He had referred to the transfer as a ‘posting’, thus emphasizing that it had been imposed on him by the Ministry, and had called it a symbol of the historic relationship between Rome and Perugia, a relationship consisting of two thousand years of bitterly resented domination.

‘Thank you,’ Zen murmured, lowering his head in a proud and melancholy gesture of acknowledgement.

‘And finally,’ the Questore continued, ‘let me introduce Vice-Questore Fabrizio Priorelli.’

Iovino’s bland tone did nothing to prepare Zen for the glare of pure hostility with which he found himself transfixed by Priorelli. The Questore’s next words followed an exquisitely judged pause during which the silence in the room assumed a palpable quality.

‘Until today he was handling the Miletti case for us.’

Iovino laughed weightlessly.

‘To be perfectly frank, that’s one of the many problems your unexpected arrived has caused us. It’s a matter of protocol, you see. Since Fabrizio outranks you I can’t very well make him your second-in-command. Nevertheless, should you wish to consult him he has assured me that despite his numerous other duties he is in principle at your disposition at all times.’

Once again Zen murmured his thanks.

‘Right, lads, lunch!’ the Questore called briskly. ‘I expect you’re about ready for it, eh?’

As the officers filed out Iovino picked up the phone and yelled, ‘Chiodini? Get up here!’ Then he turned pointedly away and stood gazing out of the window until there was a knock at the door and a burly man with a bored brutal face appeared, at which point the Questore suddenly appeared to notice Zen’s existence again.

‘I’ll leave you in Chiodini’s safe hands, dottore. Remember, whatever you need, just say the word.’

‘Thank you.’

As they walked downstairs Zen studied his escort: hair closely cropped on a head that looked muscle-bound, ears cauliflowered, no neck to speak of, shoulders and biceps that formed one inflexible block, the ‘safe’ hands swinging massively back and forth. Chiodini would be the one they sent for when old-fashioned interrogation methods were required.

At the third-floor landing the man jerked his thumb to the right.

‘Along there, three five one,’ he called without turning or breaking his stride.

Zen just managed to stop himself intoning another ‘Thank you.’

Yes, it had all been consummately handled, no question about that. Iovino’s speech had been a brilliant set piece, systematically exploiting all the weaknesses of Zen’s position. Words are not everything, however, and the Questore had by no means neglected other possibilities of making his point, such as the contrast between the bombastic formality with which he had rolled out the red carpet and beaten the big drum and the perfunctory way he had then dismissed Zen into the ‘safe hands’ of the local third-degree specialist. The message was clear. Zen would be offered the moon and the stars, but if he wanted a coffee he’d have to go and fetch it himself.

He opened the door of the office and looked around warily. Everything seemed normal. On one wall hung the mandatory photograph of the President of the Republic, facing it on another the inevitable large calendar and a small crucifix. There was a grey metal filing cabinet in the corner, the top two drawers empty and the bottom one stuffed with plastic bags. In the centre of the office, dominating it, stood a desk of some sickly looking yellow wood which had seemingly been grown in imitation of one of the nastier synthetic materials. Like every other piece of furniture in the room this carried a tag inscribed ‘Ministry of the Interior’ and a stamped serial number. Screwed to the back of the door was a list itemizing every piece of furniture in the room, down to the metal rubbish bin, together with its serial number. It was not that the Ministry did not trust their employees. They were just tidy-minded and couldn’t sleep at night unless they were sure that everything was in its place.

Zen walked over to the window and looked out. Down below was a small car park for police vehicles. Facing him was a windowless stone wall with a heavy gate guarded by two men, one in grey uniform with a cap, the other in battledress and a flak jacket. Both carried submachine guns, as did another guard patrolling the roof of the building. So that was it: they had given him an office with no view but the prison. He smiled sourly, acknowledging the hit. Sicilians were notoriously good at this kind of thing.

And the phone? He would never forget those first months at the Ministry, sitting in a windowless office in the basement, his only link to the outside world a telephone which was not connected. The repair men were always just about to come, but somehow they never did, and for over three months that telephone had squatted on his desk like a toad, symbol of a curse that would never be lifted. And when it finally was repaired Zen knew that this was not a token of victory but of total defeat. They could let him have a phone now. It didn’t matter, because it never rang. Everyone knew about his ‘reputation’. He had broken the rules of the tribe and been tabooed.

Here in Perugia his phone worked all right, but the same logic applied. Who was he going to call? What was he going to do? Should he fight back? Call Iovino’s bluff and start throwing his weight around? The Ministry had sent him and they were bound to back him up, if only as a matter of form. With a bit of effort and energy he could soon bring the Questore and his men to heel. The problem was that he lacked the energy and was not going to make the effort. At heart he just didn’t care enough about these provincial officials and their petty pride. He didn’t even care about the case itself. Nine kidnappings out of ten were never solved anyway, and there was no reason to think that this one would be any different. In the end the family would pay up or the gang would back down. As a spectacle it was as uninspiring as an arm-wrestling contest between two strangers.

Outside the Questura he found the driver who had brought him there from Rome, a young Neapolitan named Luigi Palottino, still standing attentively beside the dark blue Alfetta. The sight of him just increased Zen’s humiliation by reminding him of the scene at his apartment that morning when he’d returned, having spent the night with Ellen, to find Maria Grazia and his mother trying to organize his packing while the driver stood looking on with a bemused expression and everyone had to shout to be heard above the cheery chatter of the television, which had apparently turned itself on so as not to be left out of things.

‘What are you doing here?’ Zen snapped at him.

‘Waiting for you, sir.’

‘For me? I’m not in the mood for company, frankly.’

‘I mean waiting for your orders, sir.’

‘My orders? All right, you might as well take me to my hotel. Then you can go.’

The Neapolitan frowned.

‘Sir?’

‘You can go back to Rome.’

‘No, sir.’

Zen looked at him with menacing attention.

‘What do you mean, “no”?’

‘My orders are to remain here in Perugia with you, sir. They’ve allocated me a bed in the barracks.’

They want to keep tabs on me, thought Zen. They don’t trust me, of course.
Of course!
And who could say what other orders Luigi Palottino might have been given?

Half an hour later Zen was sitting in a café enjoying a late lunch, when he heard his name spoken by a complete stranger. The café was an old-world establishment quite unlike the usual chrome-and-glass filling stations for caffeine junkies, a long, narrow burrow of a place with a bar on one side and a few seats and small tables on the other. The walls were lined with tall wooden cabinets filled with German chocolates and English jam and shelves bending dangerously under the weight of undrinkably ancient bottles of wine. There were newspapers dangling from canes and waiters in scarlet jackets who seemed to have all the time in the world, and faded pastoral frescos presided amiably from the vaulted ceiling. Zen took the only free table, which was between the coat-stand and the telephone, so that he was continually being disturbed by people wanting to get at one or the other. But he paid no particular attention to the other clients until he heard his own name being laboriously spelt out.

‘Ζ,Ε,Ν. Yes, that’s right.’

The man was in his early sixties, short but powerfully built with an almost aggressively vigorous appearance that suggested a peasant background not many generations earlier. But this was no peasant. His clothes and grooming suggested wealth, and his manner was that of a man used to getting his own way.

‘So I’ve been told. Perhaps he hasn’t arrived yet? Ah, I see. Listen, Gianni, do me a favour, will you? When he comes back, tell him … No, nothing. Forget it. On second thoughts I’ll call him myself later. Thanks.’

The receiver was replaced, and the man glanced down.

‘Sorry for disturbing you, eh?’

He walked slowly away, greeting various acquaintances as he went.

The elderly cashier seemed to have no idea how much anything cost, and by the time the waiter who had served Zen had told her and she had manipulated the Chinese box of little drawers to extract the right change, the man had disappeared. But as soon as Zen got outside he almost bumped into him, standing just to the left of the doorway chatting to a younger bearded man. Zen walked past them and stopped some distance away in front of a glass case displaying the front page of the local edition of the
Nazione
newspaper with the headlines circled in red ink.

‘TRAGEDY ON THE PERUGIA–TERNI: ATROCIOUS DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE UNDER A TRUCK.’ He could see the two men quite clearly, reflected on the glass surface in front of him, the younger protesting in a querulous whine, ‘I still don’t see why I should be expected to deal with it.’ ‘BUSES IN PERUGIA: EVERYTHING TO CHANGE – NEW ROUTES, NEW TIMETABLES.’ ‘It’s agreed, then?’ exclaimed the older man. ‘But not Daniele, eh? God knows what he’s capable of!’ ‘FOOTBALL: PERUGIA TO BUY ANOTHER FOREIGNER?’ Zen scanned the newspaper for some reference to his arrival. Rivalries within the Questura usually ensured that an event which was bound to be damaging to someone’s reputation would be reported in the local press. But of course there had been no time for that as yet.

When he next looked up he found that the two men had now separated and the older one was walking towards him.

‘Excuse me!’

The man turned, suspicious and impatient.

‘Yes?’

‘I couldn’t help overhearing your telephone call just now. I believe you wish to speak to me. I am Aurelio Zen.’

The man’s impatience turned first to perplexity and then embarrassment.

‘Ah, dottore, it was you, sitting there at the table? And there I was, talking about you like that! Whatever must you have thought?’

His voice drifted away. He seemed to be rapidly searching his memory, trying to recall what exactly he had said. Then with an apologetic gesture he went on, ‘I am getting old, dottore! Old and indiscreet. Well, what’s done is done. Forgive me, I haven’t even introduced myself. Antonio Crepi. How do you do. Welcome to Perugia! Will you allow me to offer you a coffee?’

They returned to the café, where Crepi hailed the barman familiarly.

‘Marco, this is Commissioner Zen, a friend of mine. Any time he comes in I want you to give him good service, you understand? No, nothing for me. You know, dottore, they say we must be careful not to drink too much coffee. I’m down to six cups a day, which is my limit. It’s like a bridge, you know. You can reduce the number of supports up to a certain point, depending on the type of construction, nature of the soil and so on. After that the bridge collapses. For me the lower limit is six coffees. Fewer than that and I can’t function. Anyway, how do you like Perugia? Beautiful, eh?’

‘Well, I’ve only just …’

‘It’s a city on a human scale, not too big, not too small. Whenever I go to Rome, which nowadays is almost never, I feel like I am choking. It’s like putting on a collar that’s too tight, you know what I mean? Here one can breathe, at least. A friend of mine once told me, “Frankly, Antonio, the moment I set foot outside the city walls I just don’t feel right.” That’s the way we are! Provincial and proud of it. But listen, dottore, I want to be able to talk to you properly, not standing in some bar. Can you come to dinner this evening?’