Cosi Fan Tutti

XIV

By this time, the red Jaguar was over half a mile away.

Thanks to a judicious use of the police wand and the flashing light, which allowed him not only to disregard the rules of the road but to intimidate those similarly bent on ignoring them, Gesualdo had been able to indulge to the full his penchant for massive acceleration, emergency braking, breath-taking near-misses, controlled skids and all the other techniques associated with the chaos theory of urban driving.

None of this seemed to have improved the mood of the two men in the front of the car. The brief effervescence of male camaraderie had gone flat, leaving a thin, sour, strained silence. Both Gesualdo and Sabatino appeared to be sunk in a mood of sullen apathy, punctuated by frequent sighs, which baffled and slightly alarmed their passenger.

Maybe it was a mistake inviting myself along, thought Dario De Spino.

By now he had known the two men for almost a year, but was frequently forced to admit to himself — though not to others, for knowledge was his business — that what he didn't know about them easily outweighed what he did. He had met Sabatino first, actually tried to pick him up in a bar! It rapidly became clear that Sabati was not that way inclined, but it also became clear that he and Gesualdo liked hanging out with Dario, in a spirit of casual, bullshitting camaraderie, and that they were connected to some very big players indeed.

Exactly which players, Dario had never been able to determine exactly, although he wouldn't admit this to anyone else either. On the contrary, being seen with Gesualdo and Sabatino had upgraded his own image considerably in quarters where such enhancement can make the difference between a sweet deal and a kiss-off — or something far worse.

So it wasn't just altruism which made Dario wish to raise his companions' spirits by any possible means. The world in which he had been born and had his being was rich in portents, omens and auguries. Read them wrong and you were dead, often literally. Maybe the lads were simply suffering from indigestion, or maybe someone had, God forbid, put the evil eye on them. In either case, he needed to find out, and fast.

'So how's business with you two?' he asked a trifle too breezily. 'Personally I've been doing a little distribution work for one of the big names in the pharmaceutical sector.'

No harm in hinting that he too had powerful contacts whose identity he could not, needless to say, reveal. In fact the deal was a one-off involving a couple of kilos brought in by a friend of a friend, in both senses of the word, to be marketed through various gay discos, the discretion of whose clientele was assured.

No response.

'What a life!' he went on. 'Up at all hours, from one end of the city to the other, the phone ringing off the hook, trying to keep track of inventory, and God help you if you botch a sale! The only perk is the built-in wastage inevitable in any transportation and repackaging operation.'

Still no response. Dario leant forward between the two front seats.

'Here you go, lads. Something to lift your spirits.'

Gesualdo did not take his eyes off the road. Sabatino glanced down at the plastic sachet of crystalline white powder in Dario's outstretched palm. With a violent motion of his hand he slapped it away.

'What do you think you're doing?' yelled Dario, scooping the sachet up off the floor. 'That's pure coke!'

The silence from the front seats merely intensified.

'What the hell's the matter with you two?' Dario demanded.

The only reply was a massive sigh from Gesualdo.

'What's up?' asked Dario.

'Nothing!'

'What's wrong?'

'Just drop it, will you?' snapped Gesualdo.

Dario leant forward again, scanning the street ahead.

He was really worried now. If the car had been going slowly enough, he would have opened the door and made a run for it. But there was no chance of that, the way this maniac was driving.

'Gesua! Sabari! For God's sake, what's happened?'

'It's personal,' muttered Sabatino.

The Jaguar squealed round a corner, right into the path of an oncoming bus. With a flick of his wrist, Gesualdo cut into an alley on the other side of the street.

'Our girls have left Naples,' he said.

Dario stared at him, then burst into relieved laughter.

'Is that all? They'll be back.'

'Maybe.'

'Where have they gone?'

'To study in London.'

'Lucky them! They'll come back with all kinds of certificates and qualifications and land some great job.'

'Not here, though/ Sabatino replied gloomily. 'Somewhere up North, where all the classy jobs are.'

'Or maybe they'll meet someone in London and not come back at all,' said Gesualdo.

Dario laughed again.

'In that case, lucky you!'

Sabatino turned around.

'What's that supposed to mean, you idiot?'

Dario shrugged broadly and winked.

'There are plenty of other women around.'

'Not like Orestina and Filomena.'

'What have they got that the others haven't?' demanded Dario. 'One's as good as another, since none of them is any good except for one thing. Anyway, that's beside the point. They'll be back all right, and before you know it you'll be knee-deep in mortgage payments and credit-card bills, not to mention a pack of brats. This may be the last chance you ever get to kick off the traces. So instead of making life hell for yourselves and everyone around you, why not get out there and enjoy yourselves?'

'Enjoy ourselves?' repeated Sabatino incredulously.

'Right! Get out there and play the field for all you're worth. Just like your precious females will be doing in London.'

Gesualdo brought the car to a screeching halt and swung round to face Dario.

'Don't you dare insult two of the purest, most faithful women who have ever lived! You have no idea what they've had to go through from their family for taking up with the likes of us.'

'That's probably your main attraction,' commented Dario cynically. 'If you'd been a couple of guagliune per bene, they wouldn't have given you a second look. In short, you're the most interesting men they've ever come across here. But in London? Do you think they're going to waste their time there weeping and worrying about you two? Give me a break! Women need to be the centre of attention. If you aren't around to give it to them, they'll find someone who is. It only makes sense for you to play by the same rules.'

But Gesualdo had already climbed out of the car, followed closely by Sabatino. The front doors slammed with percussive finality.

'Wait for me, lads!' called Dario.

'We've got private business here,' Gesualdo told him coldly. 'Either wait or make your own way home.'

He and Sabatino disappeared down a set of stone steps running steeply downhill between walls overhung with foliage. Dario looked after them for a moment, then shrugged and lit a cigarette. As he did so, he noticed a taxi standing opposite, apparently just paying off its fare.

Dario walked over and started to negotiate with the driver, a no-nonsense babe somewhere in her fifties.

'Oh!'

Dario looked round. The speaker was the passenger who had just got out of the taxi.

'Eh?' retorted Dario.

The man came closer, staring at Dario insistently.

'Maybe I could use you,' he said.

He was tall and spare, with a pale face, grey eyes and a thin wedge-shaped nose. Dario laughed dismissively.

'Sorry, you're too old.'

'I'd make it worth your while.'

"I don't do it for money.'

They exchanged a look.

'Oh!' shouted the driver. 'You want a ride or what?'

Dario regarded her haughtily.

'Not with you,' he said.

There followed a brief but colourful exchange of views on single-gender sexual practices and the personal charms of older women, after which the taxi roared away. Dario looked at the stranger.

'What do you want?' he said.

'Someone I can trust.'

Dario laughed shortly.

'Is that all?'

The man produced a number of large denomination banknotes, as well as an engraved card in the name of Alfonso Zembla. He handed both to Dario.

"I live just down the hill. Your friends Gesualdo and no Sabatino are on their way to my house now.'

'Who said they were my friends?' "I watched you drive up together in that red saloon.

Nice car. They didn't seem to be too pleased with you, to be perfectly honest, and yet they left you there with about fifty million lire's worth of automobile to steal or trash.

Who but friends would do that?'

Dario shrugged.

'So?' he demanded.

Zen paused a moment.

'Would the reason why they weren't pleased have less to do with you than the fact that their girlfriends left town today?'

Dario made a wry face.

'God!', he said.

'They're making a fuss about it?'

'You'd think it was the end of the world. I mean we all know breeders get hung up on relationships, but I've never seen anything like these two. When I suggested that maybe a little flexibility was in order, they accused me of dragging their darling fishes into disrepute and left me to walk home!'

Zen nodded. Taking Dario's arm, he led him across the street towards the flight of steps.

'It sounds as if it's high time they were taught a lesson, and I think you're the man to do it. After the way they've treated you, it would be satisfying as well as lucrative.'

'What do you have in mind?'

'I'm a friend of the Squillace family. They're horrified at the idea of their girls getting mixed up with a couple of low-lifes like your friends, and they're willing to pay good money to ensure it doesn't happen. Now as luck would have it the flat below mine has been let to a couple of young ladies who have just arrived here and are desperate to — how shall I put it? — place themselves under the protection of someone who can help them get on in the world. And they're not too particular how.'

Dario nodded rapidly.

'You aim to fix them up with Gesualdo and Sabatino?'

'Exactly. The problem is that your friends know I'm in with the Squillaci, so they don't trust me. Which is where you come in. I need you to act as go-between, monitoring the situation, smoothing out any difficulties that may arise and generally doing your best to get our star-struck young lovers to fall head over heels for someone new. If you bring it off, the Squillace family will make it well worth your while.'

He paused as they came to a small square halfway down the steps, overlooking the sea. Navigation lights twinkled in the velvet immensity of the night.

'These neighbours of yours,' Dario began. 'Are they young? Pretty? Do they know how to turn it on?'

'They've got everything it takes to drive a man crazy.

But why don't you come and see for yourself? My house is just down there.'

Dario shrugged.

'Why not?'

They heard the music first. It reached up to them, sinuous and insinuating, rhythmic but unsettling, a long melisma skidding around between keys without ever settling down. It got ever louder as they approached, booming and bending off the high stone walls of the alley. Then the house itself came into view. The first floor was a blaze of lights, the shutters and windows thrown open and the strange, oriental music blaring out.

'Oh, ragazzeV Zen called loudly.

Two heads appeared simultaneously at the windows, a blonde to the right, a brunette to the left.

'Let me introduce Dario De Spino,' Zen continued. 'If anyone can fix you up, he can.'

A squeal of excitement from above.

'How wonderful!'

'What it is to have friends!'

Zen unlocked the front door. The note he had left earlier was no longer there.

'So what do you think?' he asked De Spino as they climbed the stairs.

'They're the oddest looking creatures I've ever seen!

And that accent! Where the hell are they from?'

'Albania.'

'Albania!'

'They left earlier this year. Paid someone a fortune to smuggle them over to Bari. But there was no work there, so they've come up to Naples to try their luck.'

'So how come they speak Italian?'

'Watching television. It was never effectively jammed, apparently'

He pushed open the door of the lower apartment.

Dario De Spino entered the room, staring wide-eyed at the two women who stood facing him. They were dressed in late-sixties outfits which no doubt represented the height of underground chic in Tirana: polyester tank tops, extremely short miniskirts and calf-length white boots. Their hair was long and straight, their make-up primitive but copious.

Zen rubbed his hands together and turned back to the doorway.

'Well, I'll leave you three to get acquainted.'

'I'm Libera,' said the brunette, advancing on Dario De Spino. 'And this is Iolanda. We're so pleased to meet you.

We've just arrived in the city, and we don't know a soul here.'

'If only we could get in touch with the right people,' sighed Iolanda. 'People with connections. It's hard for two girls all alone, with no friends or family to help…'

The voices faded as Zen walked upstairs to his own flat. The door was open and the lights on, but there was no sign of anyone home. Then he continued up the spiral staircase giving access to the roof extension and there they were, standing out on the terrace, smoking cigarettes and gazing up at the twinkling lights of a passing plane.

Given the delays considered normal at Capodichino, it might even be the one entrusted with the safety of their darling girls.

Che figure interessanti Twenty minutes later, as Aurelio Zen walked up the steps and down the street to the turn-of-the-century palazzo where Valeria Squillace lived, it was with a sense of a job, if not well done, at least well begun. Putting Dario De Spino on the payroll had definitely been an excellent inspiration, and the crucial negotiations with Gesualdo and Sabatino had gone much more smoothly than he had feared.

Initially the two men had seemed distinctly suspicious of 'Alfonso Zembla', and had asked a great many questions about his life, work, residence in Naples and relationship to the Squillace family. For all of ten minutes they had interrogated him like a couple of cops, while Zen fed them a mixed diet of innocuous facts, half-truths and outright lies. Yes, he was from the North, from Venice. He worked in the port of Naples as a customs inspector, and was distantly related to Valeria Squillace on her father's side.

As for this sudden interest in Orestina's and Filomena's private lives, he explained that he had become a sort of uncle to the two girls, who confessed things to him that they would not tell their mother. He understood the latter's doubts and anxieties about this double liaison, so unsuitable on the face of it, but considered them unfounded. That was why he was taking advantage of a combination of circumstances which had arisen to give Gesualdo and Sabatino a chance to redeem themselves in the eyes of the girls' mother.

As an act of charity, he explained, Signora Squillace had responded to an appeal on behalf of the Albanian refugees who were flocking to Italy, seeking work and a better future. The nuns who sponsored the appeal were housing and feeding many hundreds of these immigrants in their own facilities, but the demand exceeded their capacities and they had appealed for help to many of the city's wealthier families, including the Squillaci, who had responded positively to similar appeals in the past.

Zen hinted obliquely at some dark secret which Signora Squillace felt obliged to expiate by allowing some vacant rental property she owned to be occupied temporarily by deserving cases selected by the nuns. It was only after doing so that she had seen a newspaper report suggesting that some of these supposed 'refugees' were in fact criminals and prostitutes who had left Albania to escape justice, and who were continuing to carry on their trade in Italy.

Her anxieties had been alleviated to some extent by the knowledge that he, Alfonso Zembla, was on the premises to keep an eye on what was going on. Unfortunately an exceptional situation which had arisen at work meant that for some time he was going to have to spend a considerable amount of time away from home, starting tonight…

'What sort of situation?'

The question came from Gesualdo. The tone was dry, almost ironic, as though he already knew the answer. He really would have made an excellent interrogator, thought Zen.

'An undercover operation/ he replied. "I can't say any more. It's all strictly hush-hush.'

Zen was gratified to see that the two men exchanged a significant glance. He had chosen his professional cover partly to explain his presence in the port area, if they should find out about it, but partly with a view to giving them a further incentive to comply with his request. Given their presumed line of work, the prospect of having an ally in the Customs might be expected to exercise a powerful appeal.

Now it was time to emphasize the other benefits which they stood to gain.

'What I want to be able to do is tell Valeria — Signora Squillace — that I've left the place in safe hands, and she has no reason to worry that it's being used as a whorehouse, or worse. So we kill two birds with one stone. I can concentrate on my job, while you two get the credit for defending the Squillace family property against the depredations of the Muslim hordes.'

'We can't just sit around here all the time,' Sabatino protested. 'We've got work to do, too.'

'That's no problem. The main thing is that you spend the night here, and check up on the situation whenever your other responsibilities permit. I take it that your families can spare you for a few days? That's all it'll take, just until this emergency situation at work blows over…'

A lot more negotiation, maneuvering and mutual mendacity had followed on both sides, but in the end the two men agreed, albeit somewhat grudgingly, to what Zen proposed. He had given them a brief tour of the flat, pointing out such details as the tricky gas tap and the trip switches which went if you attempted to use more than one electrical appliance simultaneously, reminded them to double-lock the door and turn off the lights when they went out, then picked up the overnight bag he had packed earlier and left before they had time to change their minds.

Some weeks earlier, when they had first discussed this idea, Valeria had mentioned that since he was putting himself out in this way on behalf of the family, the least she could do in return was to provide him with a roof over his head. He had assumed that she was thinking in terms of a hotel room, but when the issue came up again she had pointed out that with her daughters away there were two vacant bedrooms in her apartment, and that he was welcome to stay there.

It had never for one moment occurred to Zen that this invitation was the result of anything other than expediency, and perhaps the thrift which notoriously characterized wealthy families. What with the costs of the girls' trip to London, to say nothing of Zen's incidental expenses, which Valeria had agreed to underwrite, this was going to end up costing her several million lire. What more natural than that she should wish to save the additional extravagance of hotel accommodation for her collaborator?

It was only when Valeria came to the door to greet him that another possible scenario occurred to Zen. It was indeed thrust upon him, in the form of the formidable and breathtakingly visible bosom which nuzzled him in the ribs as Valeria leaned forward to give and receive their usual — and, as he had always thought, entirely conventional — peck on the cheek. Her black gauze gown, cut very low both front and back, left just enough to the imagination to arouse interest. A pervasive scent, subtle but heady, completed these discreet provocations.

'So how did it go?' she asked, bolting the door behind Zen and taking his bag.

'Fine, excellent, perfect, great, no problem,' he burbled incoherently.

Valeria produced a smile he had never seen before, like someone unwrapping a fragile family heirloom from its cocoon of tissue paper.

'You're a wonder!' she said.

The Squillace apartment could not have offered a greater contrast to the building in which it was situated, a ponderous and brooding edifice seemingly cobbled together from discarded designs for a museum, railway station or opera house. Its pointlessly grandiose dimensions suggested the pretensions and insecurity of recent riches rather than real power and permanence, an impression strengthened by the large quantity and low quality of the decorative details, which betrayed a vulgar terror of the unadorned and the asymmetrical.

But once inside the apartment, everything was light, bright, sparse and stylishly luxurious. The overall tone was Milan: ranks of cupboards in white polyester resin with bare wood fittings, lots of glass and steel shelving and tables, long low sofa units, bare parquet floors with one or two oriental rugs, pale grey walls enlivened with a few large modern oils.

'We used to entertain a lot when Manlio was alive, so we needed the space/ Valeria said as they entered the salon, which stretched some thirty feet across the entire width of the apartment, divided into a sitting and dining area. Through the open windows, a scattering of lights and a vast blankness hinted at the fabulous view which the place must command by day.

Valeria guided Zen to a corner of the sofa set and seated herself beside him.

'But it's not worth moving now/ she continued. 'As soon as the girls get married, I'll go home.'

'Where's that?'

Terrara.'

He looked surprised.

"I didn't realize you were from the North.'

'Oh, yes, and o/it, too. I only moved down here because of Manlio. For the girls it's different, of course. They were born and brought up here. To them it's their home.'

'So how did you meet your late husband?' Zen asked politely.

'At a wedding. He was the best man and I was one of the bridesmaids. The groom was a cousin of Manlio who looked after certain business interests he had in EmiliaRomagna.

Manlio proposed to me two weeks later.'

She looked at Zen intently.

'That's who it is!' she exclaimed, laying her hand on Zen's arm.

'Who what is?'

'I knew you reminded me of someone, but I couldn't think who. Of course, it's Orlando! You could be twins.

I've got a photograph somewhere, I'll show you.'

She got up to fetch it, but at that moment the telephone sounded, a confident rich burble. The call wasn't for Zen, although plenty of people were desperately trying to contact him at that very moment. But his own phone was out of action, and he had been careful to avoid telling anyone where he was staying.

Valeria was on the phone for some time, evidently talking to her daughters in London. She had, Zen realized, a good body, but he still wasn't interested. No more romantic complications for him. He was very comfortable with the role he had been playing since coming to Naples: the philosophical observer who looks on with wry amusement at the follies of others but is too wily and cynical to risk becoming entangled himself.

She turned towards him, catching him eyeing her, and smiled unexpectedly.

'I'm sure it'll all seem better in the morning, darling. Anyway, I've got to run, there's someone at the door. Try and get some sleep, and give me a call in the morning. Bye!'

She hung up and drifted back towards Zen.

'So how are they finding London?' he asked.

'They say it's just as dirty as Naples, the traffic's even worse, there are more beggars and it's cold and raining.'

'But they're going to stick it out?'

'Filomena sounded a bit homesick. She's always been the weaker one. She gets moody quite easily. But Orestina's made of sterner stuff, and proud too. And in the end Filomena will go along with whatever her sister decides.'

She stood over him, smiling.

'Now, then, would you like something to drink? Some tea? A nightcap?'

'Tea would be wonderful. And then I must get some sleep. I have rather an important case on at the moment, and I'll need to be up early.'

'Is it something to do with this Strade Pulite business?'

Valeria asked, heading off towards the far end of the room.

'No, no. That has nothing to do with me.'

He got up and followed her across the dining area into a luxuriously equipped kitchen.

'Well, I don't know who's behind it/ Valeria remarked, filling a kettle, 'but I wish them the best of luck. The people they claim to have abducted are the very ones poor Manlio worked with for years and trusted like his own family, and who then left him to fend for himself against the judges without lifting a finger to save him!'

She set the kettle on the stove.

'Which reminds me, come in here and I'll show you that picture.'

She led the way into a small room furnished with a desk, filing cabinet and a small set of bookshelves. The air smelt faintly of cigar smoke.

"This was Manlio's office/ Valeria said. "I don't need the space, so I just left everything as it was, what was left of it.

The Guardia di Finanza came and took everything away.'

She turned and pointed to a large framed photograph mounted on the wall behind the desk.

'That's the one.'

The picture showed a convivial group of men in what looked like a restaurant. There were ten or more of them, all men, all looking towards the camera, all smiling or laughing.

'See that man in the centre?' said Valeria, pointing with one fleshy heavily ringed finger. 'The one sitting at the end of the table? That's Orlando Pagano. Actually he's a little heavier than I remembered, but don't you think he looks like you?'

Zen narrowed his eyes obediently There was a certain resemblance, he supposed, although the man in the picture was both fleshier and swarthier than Zen himself.

'Here's Manlio/ Valeria went on, pointing. 'And this is the supposed victim of that Strade Pulite group, Ermanno Vallifuoco.'

Vallifuoco was a complacently corpulent man with an expression of inscrutable serenity. Manlio Squillace was leaner and slighter, with a pencil moustache and gleaming eyes. Zen leant forward, scrutinizing the picture intently.

An unearthly sound made itself heard next door, a long rising whine like some primitive lament.

'The kettle!' said Valeria, hurrying out. 'Would you like some cake? I baked it myself, an old Ferrarese recipe.'

Zen did not reply. He was still staring at the photograph, but not at the illustrious victim of terrorism or the late-lamented Signor Squillace. His attention was focused on a man who, judging by his distance from the head of the table, had been one of the less important guests, a minor character brought in to make up the numbers in this boisterous scene of underworld conviviality.

He had been forced to look sharply back over his left shoulder in order to face the camera, and even so was partially obscured by his neighbour. But enough of his face was visible to leave no doubt in Zen's mind that he was none other than the man who had knifed the Greek sailor a few days earlier and then mysteriously disappeared from his cell at the police station.