Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (4 page)

‘What progress have we made?’

He eyed Caputo desperately.

‘Well, the individual responsible …’

Caputo held up his arms, crossed at the wrist.

‘… is in custody…’

Caputo ran one finger across his closed lips as though tugging at a zipper.

‘… but has so far refused to talk.’

Caputo was now pacing up and down the floor, darting glances this way and that, one hand shading his eyes.

‘My men are conducting a thorough search of the scene …’Zen went on.

Caputo made writing motions on the palm of his left hand.

‘… and taking detailed statements from witnesses.’

‘What leads are you working on?’ demanded the Questore.

‘What leads are we working on?’

‘Must you repeat everything I say? Yes, leads! Theories, ideas, hypotheses. Something which might begin to explain this incident and which I can communicate to the Prefect for subsequent transmission to Rome.’

Caputo stood on the other side of the desk, his arm thrust forward, holding up three fingers.

‘We are working on three main theories at the moment/ Zen replied evenly. ‘The first is that the perpetrator…’

He glanced at Caputo, who was waddling bow-legged around the room with his hands clutched like claws beside his hips.

‘… was a cowboy/ concluded Zen.

‘AwhatT

Caputo shook his head furiously. Zen covered the mouthpiece of the phone.

‘An AmericanV hissed Caputo.

‘… that he was an American/ Zen told the Questore.

‘But the United States naval authorities have explicitly denied that he was one of their men!’

‘Exactly!’ retorted Zen. ‘According to this theory, the suspect was an undercover CIA agent who had been entrusted with the mission of murdering one of the Greek sailors, the son of an influential Communist politician.’

He looked triumphantly at Caputo, who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

‘And the second theory?’ pursued the Questore after a pause which suggested that he was taking notes.

‘The second…’

Caputo had transformed himself into a smaller, slighter, quicker individual moving around the room with exaggerated naturalness, glancing furtively from side to side, his hands occasionally darting out to one side or the other as though of their own accord.

‘… is that the man was a common pickpocket/ Zen went on, ‘who had infiltrated himself into the port area disguised as an American sailor. He approached the

Greek sailors, intending to make a touch, and when they started roughing him up under the mistaken impression that he actually was an American, he reverted to type and pulled a knife.’

“I don’t like that one so much/ the Questore replied neutrally. ‘Reflects badly on the city. What about the third theory?’

‘The third?’ replied Zen. ‘Ah, you’re going to love the third.’

He gazed helplessly at Caputo, who was prancing gaily about, his hands indicating the contours of a generous bosom and rearranging the folds of an invisible skirt.

‘According to this theory, the man was in fact a woman/ Zen informed his superior.

‘A woman?’

‘A prostitute. We try to keep them out of the port area, of course, but…’

‘Surely to God you can at least ascertain the sex of the individual in your custody?’ demanded the Questore icily.

‘His sex? Yes, of course.’

Caputo quickly sketched an enormous male organ in the air,

‘He’s a man. No question about that.’

‘But you just told me that you were working on the theory that he was a prostitute!’

Zen hesitated a moment.

‘Exactly, a transvestite prostitute.’

‘But he was dressed as a manY

‘Outwardly, yes. But he was wearing female undergarments.’

The Questore was briefly silent.

‘In other words …?’

‘In other words, he was a man dressed as a woman dressed as a man.’

‘But that’s absurd!’

‘Oh, there’s a demand for that sort of thing/ Zen replied in a worldly tone. ‘But unfortunately on this occasion he had mistaken his clientele. They started beating

him up, and he drew his knife in self-defence. But be that as it may, all the indications are that this was merely a banal crime of mistaken identity. I’ll have a full report on your desk within twelve hours…’

Seeing Caputo signalling frantically, Zen broke off.

Caputo held up the first two fingers of his left hand and whirled the right round and round.

‘… or twenty-four at the very most/ Zen concluded.

“I shall pass on what you have told me to the relevant parties/ said the Questore curtly. ‘But I must remind you that if a satisfactory solution has not emerged within the period you mention, it is you and not I who will be held responsible. I am not prepared to cover for you on this case, and I regret that my department is too overstretched to permit me to dispatch one of our operatives to put your house in order for you. So I trust that you will give this matter your fullest and most urgent attention.’

‘You may depend on it, sir.’

He hung up and turned to Giovan Battista Caputo.

‘That’s all right, then/ he remarked, stretching luxuriously.

‘You’ve got till tomorrow to stitch something together.’

Caputo’s face fell.

‘What about you, chief? Don’t you even want to interview the suspect?’

‘Impossible, I’m afraid/ Zen replied, reaching for his coat. ‘I have a prior engagement which I just can’t get out of. Which reminds me, do you have any contacts at the opera? A friend of mine mentioned that she’d like to go, and I said I’d take her. Then I phone the box office and they tell me the whole run’s been sold out for a month.’

Caputo grunted sympathetically.

I’ll see what I can do.’

Amico Don Alfonso

‘But are you sure it’ll work?’

‘When it comes to love, no one can be sure of anything.’

A short silence.

‘Two weeks isn’t much time.’

‘The shorter, the better. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. If they were gone for a month, the lads might start to grow sentimental.’

A longer silence. It wasn’t really silence, of course, not even this far up the Vomero, on one of the steep, stepped alleys inaccessible to the most daring or desperate of Neapolitan drivers. From the streets below, on the foothills sloping down to the bay, rose a muffled cacophony of car horns, all at slightly different pitches, a rhythmic urban symphony in some indecipherable time signature. Punctuating this medley, nearer at hand, came the gruff staccato barking of the shaggy, semi-feral dog kept chained up on the flat roof surrounding the cupola of Santa Maria del Petraio, presumably to ward off burglars.

And, overlaying all, the cries of a gang of boys playing football on the steps below, a fast and demanding game whose main challenge was to prevent the ball going missing in one of the inaccessible walled gardens all around, or plunging precipitously down the entire length of the salita, 287 steps to the point where it crossed the broad curve of paved street looping up the hillside.

Most dramatic were the intermittent appearances of aircraft on their final approach to Capodichino, monstrously large, deafening and unpredictable apparitions, seemingly near enough to touch. And yet, despite everything, the terrace where they were sitting seemed an oasis of calm and stillness, a secluded refuge miraculously isolated from the stress and stridency of the city all around.

Calling it a terrace was a bit of an exaggeration, too. In reality it was merely a section of flat tarred roof extending around two sides of a partial one-storey extension added illegally twenty years earlier to allow the original building to be converted into two apartments. The extension housed the kitchen and bathroom, while the bedroom

and sitting room were on the floor below. There was a small eating area adjoining the kitchen, but now the summer had arrived Aurelio Zen preferred to take his meals

outside, at an old marble-topped table in the shade of the green-and-white striped canvas awning.

The silence which still persisted between him and his guest was not at all awkward, and neither showed any urgency to break it. It was a large, comfortable silence, as unconstrained and embracing as the hazy sunlight which coated every surface around them, or the blowsy air which shifted caressingly to and fro. In the extreme distance, the ghostly outline of the peninsula of Sorrento could just be made out, like an old print bleached out by the sun. The peak of Vesuvius loomed above the imposing perimeter wall of the San Martino monastery. To the right, Capri was almost completely obscured in the haze, a fading memory. In the strait between the island and the peninsula the dark rectangular block of a ship seemed to hover on the horizon, perhaps the ferry which Zen had seen that morning, now on its way to Sicily, or even farther south, to Malta and Tunisia.

‘Anyway, I suppose we had to do something,’ said the woman sitting beside Aurelio Zen, as though concluding a lengthy internal debate.

‘Of course we did/ he agreed idly. ‘Whatever the truth about that pair may be, they certainly aren’t the sort you want your daughters associating with. Family background unknown, consorting with known criminals, frequenting some of the worst streets in the city, no visible means of support but plenty of money to throw around…’

‘Not to mention handsome and charming/ added Valeria.

Zen nodded slowly.

‘It’s a deadly combination all right. One which both demands and justifies the measures we’re taking.’

‘Yes, but will it work?’

They had met by the purest chance at a party given by the British Consulate. Zen had been invited through an official whom he had helped to uncover a scheme to

smuggle illegal Asian immigrants into Britain on cargoships plying between Naples and Liverpool. As for Valeria, she was there thanks to her friendship with the wife of some politico in the economic affairs department of the Campagnia regional government, who had made a polished, vapid, interminable speech of the kind which such functionaries can turn out at a moment’s notice to suit any occasion from a conference marking the anniversary of the birth or death of X to the inauguration of a new building, bilateral agreement, cultural artefact, exhibition or plaque to, by, in or about Y

The idea behind the gathering, as far as Zen could make out, was to sip industrial-grade sparkling wine, nibble at fiddly, self-destructing canapes and socialize at the top of your voice with people you already knew or who were eager to know you. This left Zen, a nobody who knew no one, at a distinct disadvantage. He was just wondering

how soon he could decently leave when his contact appeared and led him across the room to be introduced to Signora Valeria Squillace.

The Englishman was a bluff, burly, jovial type who had recently been transferred to Naples in a fit of bureaucratic whimsy after many years in Finland, whose  idiosyncratic language he had apparently mastered to the degree that foreigners ever can. His Italian, however, was still rudimentary, and Zen’s English - to say nothing of his Finnish - practically non-existent. Their official dealings had been through an interpreter, but now they were on their own. To make matters worse, the room was crowded and noisy, while Signora Squillace was slightly deaf in one ear and too vain to wear a hearing aid.

As a result, Zen discovered once they were alone together that his new acquaintance was under the illusion that his name was Alfonso Zembla and that he was looking for a house to rent. For a while he kept waiting for a suitable opportunity to correct her, but eventually gave up. The matter was of no consequence. He had no interest in finding somewhere permanent to live in Naples, and no reason to suppose that he would ever see the woman again. She was in her forties, tall and well-proportioned, with hazel eyes, wavy black hair with the odd streak of silver, and an expressive mouth which seemed to be perpetually struggling to suppress an ironic smile.

But none of this was enough to persuade Zen to try and follow up on the encounter, nor had Valeria Squillace given the slightest hint that she would welcome such an attempt. So it came as a complete surprise when he received a telephone call from her two days later at the hotel where he was staying at the time. She reminded him of their meeting, explained that she had got his number from their mutual acquaintance at the Consulate, apologized for disturbing him at home and then got to the point.

“I understand you work for the police, Dottor Zembla. I have a personal problem which you might be able to help me with. In return, I would be prepared to offer you a limited lease at a very reasonable rent on a small property I own near San Martino.’

Zen was lying on the bed, nude except for his socks, watching a Japanese cartoon featuring children with enormous eyes engaging in hand-to-hand combat with evil adversaries whose eyes were undesirably small.

‘What sort of problem?’ he said guardedly, flipping over to the neighbouring channel, where an overweight egomaniac with insincere hair was direct selling a 64piece set of silver-plated cutlery.

‘It’s something I’d rather not discuss on the telephone/ his caller replied coyly. ‘Do you think it would be possible for us to meet briefly, say tomorrow?’

They made a date for the following afternoon in the bar of Zen’s hotel. That morning at work he asked Giovan Battista Caputo if he knew anything about the Squillace family.

Caputo screwed his face into a mask of mental effort.

‘Name rings a bell/ he said. ‘Let me make a few calls.’

He returned fifteen minutes later with a precis of his efforts. Manlio Squillace, the capofamiglia, had died of a heart attack two years earlier following his arrest on

 charges of ‘financial irregularities’. He had been an eminent local entrepreneur who had made a fortune from speculative land transactions in the sixties and seventies, and was widely rumoured to have been associated with organized crime. He was survived by his wife Valeria and two daughters, Orestina and Filomena.

It was the latter, Zen discovered that afternoon, who were the problem which Signora Squillace hadn’t been prepared to discuss over the phone. They were in their