Cosi Fan Tutti

XVIII

It was not yet two when Zen left the Squillace apartment, replete with several bowls of pasta e ciceri, a celebration of making the most of what you have: chunks of chickpea bathed in oil and pasta under a dusty blanket of aged Parmesan. The sanctity of lunchtime might have been eroded farther north, where people hastily gobbled sandwiches at work just like Americans, but here in Naples the traditional three-hour ora di pranzo still commanded widespread respect. The streets outside were quiet, the corridors and stairs of the building deserted. It was therefore a surprise to Zen to find the porter already on duty.

He had already had one unnerving encounter with this Cerberus, who evidently took his responsibilities extremely seriously. When Zen had appeared on his way in, an hour or so earlier, he had leapt out of his wooden sentry box in the hall and quizzed him with an air of haughty scepticism as to his business there. As agreed, Zen explained that he was Signora Squillace's cousin from Milan, down here on business for a few days. The porter telephoned upstairs to check that Dottor Zembla was indeed known and expected, and only then, with some evident reluctance, allowed him to enter.

So the sight of the porter patrolling the hallway was not at first a welcome one. But it immediately became clear that the attitude of this functionary had changed dramatically.

Perhaps he too had had a good lunch, or perhaps a few glasses of wine had softened his mood. At all events, he greeted Zen with deference and even warmth, and escorted him in person to the street door with a variety of bland but amiable comments about the weather.

Zen had summoned Pasquale before coming down, and the familiar yellow Fiat Argenta was already waiting at the kerb. The porter hurried over to open the rear door for Zen, and made a great fuss about accepting the tip offered in return for these courtesies. Then he closed the door behind Signora Squillace's suddenly honoured guest, and looked across at two young men sitting in a red Alfa Romeo parked on the other side of the street. The driver, wearing a white sweater with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattooed arms, said something to his companion, in dark glasses and a Lacoste T-shirt, who put down the magazine he had been reading. Gravely, deliberately, the porter nodded once.

Inside the cab, Pasquale reached back and handed his passenger a blue plastic bag marked 'Carmignani Toys Since 1883'.

'Don't worry, duttd. It isn't a toy/ Zen opened the bag and looked at the box inside. It showed a photograph of a mobile telephone.

'Already?' he said in astonishment.

'Eh, eh! We make a sale, we deliver the product.'

Zen sighed.

'Unfortunately I can't pay you, Pasquale. My wallet got snitched outside the Questura and I can't get to the bank until tomorrow. I've already had to borrow some money from a friend to pay someone else off.'

'Gesu, Gesu! A few years ago, I could have made a few phone calls and your wallet would have been returned within the hour with every last lira intact. But that was the old days, before they locked up Don Raffaele. Nowadays everything's chaotic. There's no respect, no organization!

I'll put the word about, duttd, but I'm afraid you can kiss your money goodbye.'

'The money's not that important. The real problem is that my police identification card was in there too, and without that…'

He broke off, realising his slip.

'So you are in the police!' exclaimed Pasquale triumphantly.

"I was sure of it/

Zen gestured awkwardly.

"I didn't want to… inhibit you. Sometimes when people know you're a policemen, they feel less free to offer certain services of an irregular nature/ Pasquale put the car in gear.

'Very thoughtful, duttd. I appreciate your delicacy. So your ID was taken too. Is that all?'

'All? It'll take months to get a new one/ The taxi accelerated violently away. 'Ma quante maje?' Pasquale demanded rhetorically. 'A few days at most/ Zen laughed.

'You've obviously managed to avoid too many dealings with officialdom very successfully, Pasca. From the day I put in my application for a replacement card, it will take a minimum of…'

'Twenty-four hours, duttdl Maybe even less, depends on the workload. I'll need a photograph, of course/ A pause.

'You're offering to get me a fake?'

Pasquale took both hands off the wheel and turned around indignantly to protest.

'A fake? Do you think I'd try and fob you off with a fake? This is the real thing, duttd, indistinguishable from the original. Handmade in Aversa by some of the best artisans in the business. The printing, the paper, the stamp — all genuine! A work of art that's even more authentic than the original!'

'How much?'

'We can talk money later,' Pasquale said expansively, glancing in the rear-view mirror. 'Nothing excessive, though. And think of all the trouble you'll save yourself.'

Zen did so.

'All right/ he said, holding up the plastic bag. 'But I already owe you for this/ Pasquale shrugged.

'Forty-eight hours, same as cash. After that I might need to apply a little interest, just to cover my outgoings. But if you want to run a line of credit, I can get you the best terms in town. What name would you like on the card?'

As they sped down the slope of the Vomero, Zen replied that his own name would do nicely, thank you very much, and then mentioned the other little matter which he was hoping that Pasquale might be able to help him with. But Pasquale did not seem to be listening to Zen's story of a missing American sailor with his usual deferential concentration.

His replies were perfunctory and abstracted, and he kept glancing in the rear-view mirror. His driving had become uncharacteristically erratic, too, involving apparently unmotivated stops, last-minute turns down side streets, and several complete rotations of a roundabout.

'Have you got an escort, duttd?' he asked at length.

'An escort?'

'Couple of men detailed to follow you about in a red Alfa. No, don't look round!'

Zen shook his head.

'Hmm/ said Pasquale.

They drove along the seafront to Via Partenope, where Pasquale abruptly pulled up in front of one of the luxury hotels facing the bay.

'Get out here/ he told Zen. 'Make as though you're paying me off. Then go into the hotel and walk straight through the lobby to the rear exit. I'll meet you there.'

Bemused but compliant, Zen got out and pretended to hand Pasquale some money through the window. On the other side of the street, a red Alfa Romeo had come to a stop opposite them. Zen turned and entered the hotel while Pasquale roared away, ignoring the pleas of a waiting couple who needed a ride to the airport. Through the revolving door, a wide strip of carpet led across a marble lobby with lots of uncomfortable-looking reproduction antique chairs. A doorman in livery loomed. Zen handed him a 10,000-lire note and pointed outside, where the youth in dark glasses and the Lacoste shirt was trying to cross against the ferocious traffic.

'That rent boy's trying to blackmail me,' Zen whispered.

'He's threatening to tell my wife if I don't pay him twice what we agreed. Can you kindly stop him pestering me?'

'No problem, sir,' the man replied suavely. 'But in future, kindly consult the concierge. He can provide someone whose discretion is guaranteed, twenty-four hours a day, with room service if desired/ As Zen retreated towards the lifts, the doorman moved to block the path of the youth in the Lacoste shirt, who was now marching towards the revolving door. But instead of retreating in awe of this formidable personage, the intruder merely paused briefly and murmured something in his ear. The effect was electric. The doorman appeared to shrink visibly, like a leaking balloon. His look became glassy and his limbs seemed unsteady.

The youth walked by as though he were not there and ran swiftly past the registration desk and around the corner to the stairs and lifts. The right-hand lift was open and ready for use, but its companion, according to the illuminated indicator, was ascending past the second floor to come to rest at the third. The youth sprinted up the stairs, taking the shallow carpeted steps four at a time.

Just beyond the lifts and the stairs, an illuminated green sign suspended from the ceiling read 'Emergency Exit'. Below the sign was a closed door fitted with a metal push-bar. On the other side stood Aurelio Zen, looking down the narrow alley behind the hotel. At the far end, a yellow Fiat taxi was just turning in from the main street.

'Who do you reckon they are, duttd?' asked Pasquale once they were under way again.

"I can't imagine. Probably they mistook me for someone else. Anyway, we've lost them, thanks to you. Now then, as I was saying, I have another commission for you.'

He handed Pasquale the poster of John Viviani he removed earlier from the notice-board at the police station.

'This man went missing yesterday. Run off copies of this poster and distribute them to as many of your colleagues as possible. If any of them recognize him, and above all if they pick him up, have them get in touch. I'll make it worth their while.'

Pasquale nodded absently.

'Very good, duttd. Just the same, I wish we knew who those two in the Alfa were.'

He glanced suspiciously at a car coming in the oncoming lane. It was also red, and the two men aboard were young and tough-looking. But the car was some sort of flashy import, the men were dressed differently, and, in any case, they were going at high speed in the opposite direction and showed no interest whatsoever in the yellow taxi.