Back to Bologna

24

The moment the automatic doors of the Policlinico Sant’Orsola swished to behind him, Zen felt at home. It was good to be back in that calm, purposeful, well-ordered world, where an atmosphere of assured competence prevailed and questions of life and death were discussed in cool, measured undertones. Of course, it wasn’t like that in Palermo or Naples-or even Rome, which is why Zen had gone to a private clinic-but the high civic values of the Bolognese ensured that their public hospital was a model of its kind.

Nevertheless, the lowly and marginal status of non-patient, lacking the talismanic plastic wrist-strap, meant that passing through the various internal frontiers took a lot longer. Zen’s police identity card helped to an extent, but when he finally reached the waiting room outside the surgery where Gemma was being treated, admission was categorically refused. To make matters worse, the orderly in charge made it clear that this was at the patient’s request.

‘Nonsense,’ Zen retorted. ‘She doesn’t even know I’m here.’

‘The patient stated upon admission that if someone named Aurelio Zen asked to see her, permission should be refused.’

‘But that’s absurd! We live together!’

‘The policy of the hospital is to respect the patient’s wishes in such matters.’

The orderly turned away and began looking through a pile of files.

‘How long will it be before the preliminary diagnosis is complete?’ Zen demanded.

‘That depends on the physician.’

‘I’m asking for an estimate.’

‘At least half an hour.’

Zen sighed loudly and wandered to the doorway shaking his head, nearly colliding with a tiny, wizened woman whose worn-out coat was at least five sizes too large for a physique heavily discounted by age.

‘Bastards, they think they own you,’ Zen muttered.

The woman tittered, an unexpectedly liquid ripple of sound. Zen suddenly recognised her as the person who had been talking to an apparently stuffed Pekinese in the bar near the football stadium the night before.

‘Eh, no, it’s the undertaker who owns you!’ she replied.

Zen noted the time and went outside to have a cigarette, the ban on smoking inside the hospital apparently being observed in Bologna even by the doctors.

An ambulance had drawn up to the ramp outside the Pronto Soccorso department, and staff and paramedics were unloading a stretcher case under the supervision of two officers of the Carabinieri. In the tradition of policemen the world over, they had parked their car where it was most convenient for them and least so for everyone else, in this case blocking the wheeled route into the hospital. One of the officers went to move it, and on his way back Zen waylaid him and, having displayed his warrant card, enquired with mild professional curiosity what was going on.

‘Gunshot wound,’ the Carabiniere replied as the victim was conveyed inside.

Zen eyed the familiar bulging plastic bag that one of the paramedics held high, filled with colourless fluid feeding the intravenous drip, formerly his sole sustenance for days on end.

‘Self-inflicted?’

‘We don’t know yet. He was in no condition to answer questions.’

‘All part of the job,’ Zen commented in a tone of trade solidarity.

‘It’s going to be news, though,’ the other officer went on, seemingly piqued by the implication that this was just another routine chore.

‘How so?’

‘We checked his documents in the ambulance. Professor Edgardo Ugo. A big noise at the university, apparently.’

Zen frowned. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it there and then. So much had happened in the past few hours.

‘Well, I’d better go and see about taking a statement,’ the patrolman remarked, straightening his cap.

‘I’ll tag along,’ said Zen. ‘I’ve got someone in there too.’

He was hopeful that Gemma might be undergoing treatment in one of the curtained-off areas of the emergency ward, and that by circumventing the orderly at the desk he might be able to talk to her. There must have been some mistake or confusion when she was checked in. She had very likely been mildly concussed. In any case, she would never refuse him in person.

Unfortunately the efficiency of the Bologna hospital and its deplorably adequate manning levels brought this scheme to nothing. Zen was intercepted and asked his business by a nurse, and once his identity and intent had been established he was referred to the ward sister, who ordered him to leave in no uncertain terms. As she escorted him to the door, they passed the cubicle where the Carabinieri patrolman stood watching the most recent admission being given an injection prior to the doctors cutting his clothing away. Zen smiled nostalgically. He had come to love those gleaming pricks of pain, as bright and shiny as the freshly unwrapped hypodermic itself, particularly when morphine was involved.

‘That’s him! That’s him!’

The patient had raised himself up and was gesticulating wildly. Everyone turned to look, but by this time Zen and his wardress were out of sight behind the curtained side-screens, and a moment later the patient had slipped into unconsciousness.