Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (7 page)

Despite this, Zen had come to Naples in a mood of bitterness and defeat. At first he had dealt with this by pretending that he was not really there at all. He put in token

appearances at the office, and spent the rest of his time in the hotel where he had made an advantageous arrangement for a single room Monday to Thursday nights inclusive.

Each Friday he caught the train back to Rome, remaining there until Monday, when he caught an early morning express back to Naples.

Not that the situation back home was exactly ideal, either. Most of his friends and acquaintances were linked with his previous job in the Criminalpol squad, and seeing them inevitably served to remind him of the effective demotion he had been forced into taking. Nor were the prospects any brighter romantically. Thanks to an opportunistic dalliance in Venice - misconceived and ill-fated, like everything else that had happened to him there - Tarda Biacis was now out of the picture, seemingly for good.

So he was largely thrown back on the company of his mother, who viewed the whole country south of Rome as a bottomless pit of vice and degradation, with Naples as one of its deepest and most vicious abysses. That her son had been transferred there was cause for endless complaint and commiseration. When he revealed that he had requested the transfer himself, she concluded that he must have taken leave of his senses (a remark he let slip about his father not being dead provided further proof of this) and started treating him with a creepily solicitous reserve.

Then, imperceptibly, things began to change. The first sign was when he started returning to Rome less often and for shorter periods. But it was Valeria Squillace’s offer of the house on Salita del Petraio which tipped the balance decisively. This property was eventually intended for the use of Orestina and Filomena when they completed their education and got married to young men the family approved of. Since there was no immediate prospect of this, and perhaps as a gentle hint to her daughters, Signora Squillace had kept her word and given Zen a short-term lease on the upper apartment, renewable quarterly, at a rate considerably less than he was paying at the hotel.

Even once he had moved in, it was a while before he regarded the place as anything more than a dormitory.

But gradually that too began to change. He started rearranging the furniture to suit his needs, removed a couple of pictures that were getting on his nerves, and even

smuggled a few items out of the flat in Rome to make his new home more attractive or convenient. His visits there became ever rarer and more grudging, an onerous duty which he soon came to resent having to perform every month. If it hadn’t been for his mother, he eventually realized, he wouldn’t have gone at all.

For, much to his amazement, he found himself liking Naples. Not as he had on his previous sojourn there, as an up-and-coming officer with every prospect of a brilliant career ahead of him, for whom Naples was one of a series of appointments to major provincial cities paving the road to Rome. Now he liked it for its own sake, not for what it could do for him but for what it was. He was enchanted by every aspect of the city which he had expected to drive him mad. He loved the noise, the crowds, the traffic, the chaos, the pushiness and resilience of the people, their innate sense of tolerance, negotiation and endurance.

Above all he prized his anonymity in the midst of a city which neither knew nor cared where he was from, what he did, or even who he was.

Since Zen had never got around to correcting his new landlady’s impression that his name was Alfonso Zembla, this was the name inscribed on the rental contract, and which eventually appeared on the bell-push outside the front door. Partly to avoid confusion, partly on a whim, he had decided to adopt it. He knew no one in Naples and no one knew him. Why not accept the pseudonym which fate had handed him? It would serve to mark the radical break between his old and new lives, and also between his professional persona and his private life, and to keep the latter private. At work he would remain Aurelio Zen, a dedicated slacker. In every other aspect of his life, he would become Alfonso Zembla, whose personality and attributes remained, for the

moment, fascinatingly vague.

When the phone rang that morning, Zen was sitting out on the terrace sipping coffee, enjoying the sun and planning his weekend. At ten the carpenter, a nephew of Don Castrese, was coming to give an estimate of cost and time - above all time - needed to extend the shelves in the living room. After that, he’d go to the local restaurant he usually patronized, and then, if he felt up to it, wander around the side-streets around Via Duomo in search of a bedside lamp to replace the bronze horror he had deposited at the back of a cupboard. After so much frenetic activity, a slow start to Sunday seemed in order, punctuated by a visit to the cafe at the top of the steps which did such wonderful pastries. Then a stroll in the gardens of the nearby Monastery of San Martino, followed by a leisurely lunch somewhere at one of the good places down by the water before proceeding to the rendezvous where Orestina and Filomena Squillace were to break the news of their imminent departure to their undesirable lovers.

So it was with both incredulity and dismay that he answered the phone and heard Giovan Battista Caputo telling him that his presence was ‘urgently required’ at work. The deadline which he had given the Questura, and then completely forgotten, was about to expire, and according to his deputy the case was no further advanced than it had been then.

‘The bastard just sits there grinning at us! We’ve tried everything - sweet-talking him, knocking him about but nothing works.’

This, evidently, was as far as Caputo’s interrogational skills extended. The carrot and the stick having both failed to produce any result, he was at a loss.

‘But it’s Saturday!’ Zen protested. ‘You don’t mean to tell me the Questore’s working today?’

‘Not in person,’ Caputo replied. ‘But Piscopo is. She’s his deputy, and a regular martinet. She’s already phoned twice to find out what progress we’re making.’

‘Christ, what’s happening to this country? Work isn’t everything. I’ve got my own life to lead, you know.’

‘Eh, eh! Me too, chief, believe me. But this case has raised a lot of dust, and until we either wrap it up or figure out a way to pass it on to someone else

He left an expressive silence. Zen sighed deeply.

‘Very well. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

He depressed the rest on his phone and called Pasquale, the taxi driver of the night before, who had given him a card on receipt of a 10,000-lire tip.

‘Any time you need a car, dottore, just call my mobile           direct and as long as I’m free we can forget about all this, nonsense,’ he said, gesturing contemptuously at the meter and the logo of the taxi company.

Zen was not surprised to hear that Pasquale was free, having got the distinct impression that he went out of his way to remain in this state to service the no doubt lengthy list of ‘special clients’ on which Zen was now enrolled. He promised to be at the top of the Salita del Petraio in five minutes.

He was, too, or at least in fifteen, which amounts to the same thing in Naples.

‘So how do you square all this private enterprise with the company?’ Zen enquired as they swept down the double bends of the boulevard towards the coast.

“I don’t bother them, dottore, they don’t bother me. And the consumer benefits! Take the meter, for instance. If you call through the company, I need to show mileage on the meter consistent with the trip booked. Now the meter is a Northern invention, no doubt admirably suited to the conditions of life in that culture. Ma cca’ stamme a Napule, duttbl The meter can only measure straight lines, which in Naples is never the shortest distance between two points/ it simply measures the length of a trip/ Zen objected philosophically. ‘How can a given trip be any shorter with the meter turned off?’

‘Because nothing is given here, duttb, it’s fought over.

Take this journey. There are a hundred and twenty-eight ways of getting from the Vomero to the port, not counting those which are seriously illegal. Now then, if I have the meter on, which one am I going to choose?’

Zen shrugged.

“I don’t really know the city yet.’

“I know you don’t!’ Pasquale retorted triumphantly. ‘So you’d get taken the most direct, least intelligent, slowest route, down to the sea and then along the shore. You

know how long that would take at this time of day? Half an hour minimum! But why should I care? As long as the meter’s running, I’m earning money.’

Still talking non-stop, he drove casually through a red light and turned sharp left down an almost vertical alley paved with cobblestones.

‘But once we’ve agreed a price, it’s in my interest to get you to your destination as soon as possible. So instead of sitting in a traffic jam while the meter ticks, I’m using every trick in the book, racking my brains for short cuts and alternative solutions - in short, exploiting every last drop of my professional skill and experience, and all for you, duttbV

The cab shot out into a wider street. Pasquale wound down his window. In the distance, Zen could just hear the freakish ululations of an ambulance siren. Pasquale appeared to sniff the air briefly, then turned right down a narrow street.

‘Plus the firm’s switchboard is always busy/ he continued as though without a pause. ‘It can take you ten, twenty minutes to get through sometimes. The boss won’t put anyone but his own nieces and cousins on that work, and there just aren’t enough of them when things get busy.

Fortunately I happen to know someone with an interest in the mobile phone business who fixed me up with the equipment and hook-up, all at rates you wouldn’t believe!

I’d have been a fool not to take advantage.’

He negotiated another red light at the intersection of two traffic-clogged streets near the former royal palace.

The sound of the siren was louder now.

‘Speaking of which, duttb, I can get you the same great deal if you’re interested. You’re in the police, right? I heard you telling those two whores so last night.’

Zen glanced up at the man’s wary, intelligent eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. The cab slowed to a crawl as the ambulance appeared in the traffic behind, its siren and lights forcing the cars to give way. The moment it passed, Pasquale accelerated savagely, darting into the slipstream of the speeding emergency vehicle.

I’m not really a policeman/ Zen replied. “I just told those girls that to impress them.’

‘Whatever. You’ll still find it invaluable, both professionally and personally.’

‘Is this really a good idea?’ Zen asked as they thundered along, almost touching the rear bumper of the constantly swerving ambulance.

‘A good idea? At just a hundred and twenty for the instrument, brand new, Korean manufacture, with a five year guarantee, plus access fees that are the lowest in the Zen started to say something, then broke off, horrified to discover that Pasquale was not looking at the road ahead, where the ambulance had just slammed on its

brakes, but at his passenger.

‘Believe me, duttb, it’s not just a convenience but a necessity/ the cabby exclaimed. ‘A regular life-saver!’

Parla un linguaggio die non sappiamo

This was the first time that Aurelio Zen had set foot in his nominal place of work at the weekend, when it seemed even more cavernous and deserted than usual, reduced to a purely symbolic status, a mere sign of the State’s vacuous omnipresence. It didn’t help that Zen felt himself to be an imposter of a particularly phoney and convoluted variety, someone reduced to impersonating himself. It was therefore a relief to see Giovan Battista Caputo swaggering along the corridor with his chilling grin, raptor’s eyes and quick, decisive movements.

‘The Questura just called again. I told them you’d gone to Rome for an urgent consultation with someone at the ministry and weren’t expected back until tonight.’

Zen nodded and pushed open the door to his oppressively large and empty office.

‘And the prisoner?’

‘He finally opened his mouth/ ‘Ah!’

‘But only to say that he doesn’t speak Italian/

‘So what does he speak?’

‘English, so he claims.’

Zen sighed massively as he hung up his coat and hat.

‘Get him up here/ he told Caputo. ‘Also all his belongings, clothes, everything he had on him. And bring me the arresting officer’s report/

‘It’s there on your desk, chief/ While he waited for Caputo to bring the prisoner up from the cells, Zen skimmed through the report. It was as impressively precise and detailed as a railway timetable, with every event timed to the nearest minute, every distance measured to the last fraction of a metre - and probably just about as reliable. The only features of interest were the fact that the Greek sailors had selected their victim because he was the first American they had come across who was about their fighting size, and that the man had been attacked while heading away from the dock area, apparently towards the main gate. The guard had been unable to say when he had arrived. With the aircraft carrier in port, American sailors had been coming and going all evening, and he had simply waved them through.

Zen looked up as Caputo led in the prisoner. Although on the short side, he was anything but puny in appearance.

His limbs were muscular, his belly firm and his chest robust. His copper-coloured skin was covered with black hair everywhere except for his head, which was impressively bald. He was wearing handcuffs, underpants, a vest and nothing else. Caputo pushed him unceremoniously into a chair facing Zen and dumped a black plastic sack on the desk. Zen gazed at the prisoner, who was apparently studying the plasterwork with great attention.

‘I’m told you don’t understand Italian/ he said, watching the man’s eyes.

There was a long silence.

‘Spik only Ingleesh/ the prisoner replied at length, still giving his full attention to a patch of wall just to the right of one of the room’s three windows.

Zen heaved another enormous sigh. Like all Italians, he had been protected from any bruising contact with spoken English thanks to a law - passed originally by the Fascists but, like so many of their laws, never subsequently rescinded - which required all films and other material shown publicly to be dubbed into Italian. On the other