The New Collected Short Stories (58 page)

Assume they know nothing until you’re cornered. Even then, deny everything. As he rounded the next corner, police headquarters loomed up in front of him. If he was going to make a dash for it, it would have to be now or never. He pedalled on, until he was only a few yards away from the steps leading up to the front entrance. He tugged firmly on the tired brake handles until his bike came to a slow, unsteady halt. He climbed off, and padlocked his one asset to the nearest railing. He walked slowly up the steps to police headquarters, pushed his way through the swing doors and headed nervously towards the reception desk. He told the duty officer his name. Perhaps there had been a mistake.

‘I have an appointment with—’

‘Ah, yes,’ the duty officer replied ominously, without needing to consult his roster. ‘The Commissioner is waiting to see you. You’ll find his office is on the fourteenth floor.’

Malik turned and began walking towards the lifts, aware that the duty officer’s eyes never left him. Malik glanced at the front door. This would be his last chance to escape, he thought, as the doors of one of the lifts slid open. He stepped into a crowded elevator, which made several stops on its slow interrupted journey to the fourteenth floor. By the time Malik reached the top floor, he was sweating profusely, and it wasn’t just the crowded space and lack of air conditioning that caused his unease.

When the doors finally parted, he was on his own. Malik stepped out onto the only thickly carpeted corridor in the building. He looked around and then recalled his last visit. He began to walk slowly towards an office at the far end of the corridor. The word Commissioner was printed in bold stencilled letters on the door.

Malik knocked quietly – perhaps something more important had arisen, causing the Commissioner to leave the office without warning. He heard a female voice invite him to enter. He opened the door to find the Commissioner’s secretary seated behind her desk, tapping away furiously She stopped typing the moment she saw Malik.

‘The Commissioner is expecting you,’ was all she offered. She didn’t smile and she didn’t frown as she rose from her place. Perhaps she was unaware of his fate. The secretary disappeared through another door and returned almost immediately. ‘The Commissioner will see you now, Mr Malik,’ she said, and held the door open for him.

Malik walked into the Commissioner’s office, to find him seated at his desk, eyes down, studying an open file. He raised his head, looked directly at him and said, ‘Have a seat, Malik.’ Not Raj, not Mr, just Malik.

Malik slipped into the chair opposite the Commissioner. He sat in silence, trying not to appear nervous as he watched the second hand of the clock on the wall behind the desk complete a full minute.

‘Malik,’ the Commissioner eventually said as he looked up from the papers on his desk, ‘I’ve just been reading your supervisor’s annual report.’

Malik remained silent, although he could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his nose.

The Commissioner looked back down again. ‘He’s very complimentary about your work,’ said Kumar, ‘full of praise. Far better than I could have hoped for when you sat in that chair just a year ago.’ The Commissioner looked up and smiled. ‘In fact, he’s recommending that you should be promoted.’

‘Promoted?’ said Malik in disbelief.

‘Yes, though it may not prove that easy, as there are not too many appropriate jobs available at the present time. However, I do believe I have come across a position that is ideally suited for your particular talents.’

‘Oh, thank you, sir,’ said Malik, relaxing for the first time.

‘There is a vacancy –’ the Commissioner opened another file and smiled – ‘for an assistant in the city morgue.’ He extracted a single sheet of paper and began reading from it.

‘It would be your responsibility to scrub the blood off the slabs and clean the floor immediately after the bodies have been dissected and stored away. I’m told the stench is not all that pleasant, but a face mask is supplied, and I have no doubt that, in time, one gets used to it.’ He continued to smile at Malik. ‘The appointment comes with the rank of sub-supervisor, along with a corresponding rise in salary. It also has other perks, not least that you would have your own room directly above the morgue, so you wouldn’t have to bed down any longer at the YMCA.’ The Commissioner paused. ‘And, should you continue to hold the post until your sixtieth birthday, you would also be entitled to a modest pension.’ The Commissioner closed Malik’s file and looked directly at him. ‘Any questions?’ he asked.

‘Only one, sir,’ said Malik. ‘Is there any alternative?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the Commissioner. ‘You can spend the rest of your life in jail.’

O
THER THAN THE FACT
that they had been to school together, the two of them had little in common.

Gian Lorenzo Venici had been a diligent child since his first roll call at the age of five, whereas Paolo Castelli somehow managed always to be late, even for his first roll call.

Gian Lorenzo felt at home in the classroom with books, essays and exams, where he outshone his contemporaries. Paolo achieved the same results on the football field, with a change of pace, a deceptive turn and a shot at goal which beguiled his own team as well as the opposition. Both young men progressed to St Cecilia’s, the most prestigious high school in Rome, where they were able to display their talents to a wider audience.

When their school days were over, they both graduated to Roma: Gian Lorenzo to the nations oldest university as a scholar, Paolo to the nations oldest football club as a striker. Although they didn’t mix in the same circles, they were both well aware of the other’s achievements. While Gian Lorenzo collected honours in one field, Paolo won them on another, both achieving their goals.

After leaving university, Gian Lorenzo joined his father at the Venici Gallery. He immediately set about converting those years of study into something more practical, as he wished to emulate his father and become the most respected art dealer in Italy.

By the time Gian Lorenzo had began his apprenticeship, Paolo had been appointed captain of Roma. With the cheers and adulation of the fans ringing in his ears, he led them to championship and European glory. Gian Lorenzo only had to turn to the back pages of any newspaper, on an almost daily basis, to follow the exploits of his former classmate, and to the gossip columns to discover who was the latest beauty to be found dangling from his arm: another difference between them.

Gian Lorenzo quickly discovered that in his chosen profession long-term reputation would be built not on the occasional inspired goal, but on hours of dedicated research, combined with good judgement. He had inherited from his father the two most important gifts in any art dealer’s armoury – a good eye and a good nose. Antonio Venici also taught his son not only how to look, but
where
to look, when searching for a masterpiece. The old man only dealt in the finest examples of Renaissance painting and sculpture, which would never appear on the open market. Unless a piece was exclusive, Antonio didn’t venture out of his gallery. His son followed in his footsteps. The gallery bought and sold only three, perhaps four, paintings a year, but those masters changed hands at around the same price as one of Roma’s strikers. After forty years in the business, Gian Lorenzo’s father knew not only who possessed the great collections, but more important, who might be willing or, better still, needed to part with the occasional masterpiece.

Gian Lorenzo became so engrossed in his work that he missed the injury Paolo Castelli sustained while playing for Italy against Spain in the European Cup. This personal setback placed Paolo on the sidelines of the football field, as well as the newspapers, especially when it became clear that he had reached his sell-by date.

Paolo left the world stage just as Gian Lorenzo strode onto it. He began to travel around Europe representing the gallery in an endless quest to seek out only the rarest examples of genius, and, having acquired a masterpiece, to find someone who could afford to purchase it.

Gian Lorenzo often wondered what had become of Paolo since he’d stopped playing football and the press no longer reported his every move. He was to discover overnight when Paolo announced his engagement.

Paolo’s choice of marriage partner ensured that his exploits were transferred from the back pages to the front.

Angelina Porcelli was the only daughter of Massimo Porcelli, president of Roma Football Club and chairman of Ulitox, the largest pharmaceutical company in Italy.
A marriage of two heavyweights
, declared the banner headline in one of the tabloids.

Gian Lorenzo turned to page three to discover what merited such a comment. Paolo’s bride-to-be was six foot two – an advantage for a model, I hear you say – but there the comparison ended, because the other vital statistic the reporters latched on to was Angelina’s weight. This seemed to vary between three hundred and three hundred and fifty pounds, according to whether it was reported by a broadsheet or a tabloid.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Gian Lorenzo studied several photographs of Angelina, and concluded that only Rubens would have considered her as a model. In every picture of Paolo’s future bride, no amount of skill displayed by the couturiers of Milan, the stylists of Paris, the jewellers of London, not to mention the legions of personal trainers, dietitians and masseurs, was able to transform her image from sugar plum fairy to prima ballerina. Whichever angle the photographers took, however considerate they tried to be, and some didn’t, they only emphasized the transparent difference between her and her fiancé, especially when she stood alongside Roma’s former hero. The Italian press, clearly obsessed by Angelina’s size, reported nothing else about her of any interest.

Gian Lorenzo turned to the arts pages, and had quite forgotten about Paolo and his future bride when he strode into the gallery later that morning. As he opened the door to his office, he was greeted by his secretary, who thrust a large, gold-embossed card into his hand. Gian Lorenzo glanced down at the invitation.

Six weeks later Gian Lorenzo joined a thousand guests in the grounds of the Villa Borghese. It soon became clear that Signor Porcelli was determined his only child would enjoy a wedding that not only she, but everyone else present, would never forget.