Cosi Fan Tutti

XXII

Professor Esposito's tall, angular figure was familiar enough in the back streets north of Via Sapienza, where he was regarded with a mixture of awe and mockery.

Everyone had some tale to tell about the legendary powers, both worldly and supernatural, of 'o prufessd, which ranged from predicting the winning number in the lottery to locating a lost will by direct communication with the dear departed, from fixing up someone's worthless nephew (who was nevertheless pate 'efiglie, with a family — God help them — to support) with a safe municipal job, to obtaining tickets for Napoli's big game against Juventus which had been sold out for months. One story even claimed that the professor had brought back to life a child who had swallowed rat poison, simply by passing a magnet over its inert body!

The professor's physical appearance, on the other hand, was a subject of general derision, mingled perhaps with a tinge of fear. His height would not have been considered exceptional farther north, but here, especially accentuated by his extraordinary skinniness, it created a freakish effect reflected in the nicknames which seemed to stick to him like dough thrown at a wall: Piece of Spaghetti, Stilt-Walker, the Lighthouse, Number Twenty- Nine. This last referred to the number popularly known in the local bingo game of tumbulella as 'the source of all trouble', an allusion to the male sexual organ.

On this occasion, though, Professor Esposito's progress through the narrow, crowded alleys of this part of Spaccanapoli caused even more consternation than usual.

'Mamma bella d" o Carmine!' exclaimed an old woman selling contraband cigarettes from a tray on her ample lap. 'The professor has duplicated himself!'

To a casual glance this might indeed appear to have been the case, for at his side was another man of equal height and scarcely greater bulk. They were similarly dressed, too, in long overcoats and grey felt hats, and their stride — long and hurried by local standards — was evenly matched.

'Some long-lost brother?' mused the cobbler, looking up from his work outside the one-room home where five children were playing a noisy game of tag.

'Why not? There's no shortage of foundlings in Naples!' commented his customer, playing on the original meaning of the name Esposito.

But when the professor finally reached his own home, on the third floor of a tenement above a second-hand book shop, he introduced his companion to the woman there — who might with equal likelihood have been his sister, his wife or his mother — as Don Alfonso Zembla. He then dismissed her curtly, with instructions that he was not at home to anyone.

'Not even Riccardo?' the woman queried.

'Least of all Riccardo!' retorted the professor, making the two-fingered gesture against the evil eye.

Once the woman had gone, he set about closing the shutters and the windows, leaving the room in semi-darkness.

'I needn't bother with the costume,' he remarked as though to himself.

His visitor looked puzzled.

'Costume?'

The professor opened a large trunk in the corner and lifted out a long robe in a satiny crimson material.

'There's a hat and boots to go with it,' he said. 'It's useful when you're dealing with the popolino, common folk who are ignorant and credulous. With a man like you there's no need for cheap tricks.' "I don't see why that makes any difference/ his visitor objected. If you get results, your clients will believe in your powers, costume or no costume. And if you don't, fancy dress isn't going to help.'

The professor closed the trunk with a curt shake of the head.

'With all due respect, dottore, there you betray a complete misunderstanding of this science, which is not Newtonian but, if I may use the expression, post-Einsteinian!

What is true for a given person in a given situation is not necessarily true for that person in a different situation, or for another person in the same situation, and still less if both are different.'

He lit an oil lamp and placed it on the table, beckoning his visitor to be seated at one end.

If some illiterate market trader comes to consult me and sees me looking like this, he'll think, "This is no magician, no seer, this is an accountant or a teacher." He won't believe what I tell him, so it's a waste of time for me to tell him anything at all. The relationship is doomed from the start. With you, on the other hand, it's exactly the opposite.

There's no point in me dressing up and going through a lot of mumbo-jumbo, because you would just think, "This man is obviously a fake or he wouldn't need to bother with all this nonsense." Am I right?'

Zen nodded. The professor seated himself at the other end of the table.

'Very good. Now then, what can you tell me about the missing individual? Have you a picture, or better yet some object belonging to him or her? An article of clothing, a piece of jewellery.. / 'This is all I have.'

He took out the Missing Persons bulletin on the escaped prisoner and passed it up the table.

'I don't even know the man's name…' Zen began.

'I do/ Zen stared at Professor Esposito, who was scowling at the photograph.

'His name is Giosue Marotta, also known as 'o pazzo/ "'The madman"?'

'"The joker", rather, although there's nothing particularly amusing about Don Giosue. He boasts of having killed over a hundred men. Eighty is probably nearer the mark, but his technique is more remarkable than his sheer output. He works in various media, but his speciality is the garrotte. They say he can make the process last as much as fifteen minutes/ Zen gaped at him.

'You mean this man is well-known?'

Professor Esposito shrugged.

'Notorious, in certain circles.'

'But we had him in custody for days, and were unable to identify him!' Zen protested. 'We sent his prints and that mug shot over to the Questura. They said they had nothing on him.'

'Naturally. These people are not film stars or politicians.

In the circles I just referred to, fame is inversely proportionate to how much is known about you, especially officially. With the very top people — Don Gaetano or Don Fortunato — the only data extant are the time and place of birth, and both are almost certainly false.'

Zen acknowledged the point with a nod.

'Have you any idea where this Marotta is now?' he asked.

The professor stared at the photograph for a long time.

Outside in the street, above a cacophony of car horns, shouts, whistles and revving engines, a lone cock crew three times. Inside the room all was still except for the buzzing of a fly circling in the hot air above the lamp. It plunged sideways and fell, spiralling down to land on its back on top of the mug-shot of Giosue Marotta, legs waving feebly.

'In Hades/ The voice appeared to come from a great distance.

'You mean hell?' queried Aurelio Zen, frowning.

There was a long silence.

'That's the best sense I can make of it/ Professor Esposito said with a sigh. 'The images are very faint. Good reception is almost impossible without an object of reference, something imprinted with the subject's personal aura. But I see him somewhere deep underground, with flames and figures milling around. Do you know The Last Judgement they have up at Capodimonte? Or you may be familiar with the Roman copy by Michelangelo. In the glimpse I had, Don Giosue might have been posing for one of the figures towards the bottom of the picture.'

Zen made no attempt to hide his disappointment.

'That doesn't help me much.'

'A time may come when it all makes sense/ the professor replied blandly, pushing the photograph back down the table. 'May I offer you a refreshment of some kind?'

Zen hesitated a moment.

'As a matter of fact, there's someone else I'm anxious to trace.'

'Then you're in luck, dottore. This week only I'm offering a thirty per cent discount on the second consultation.

Who is it this time?'

'My mother. But I have no photographs, no personal belongings, nothing.'

The professor smiled.

'Stand up and come here/ Zen obeyed. Professor Esposito undid the two middle buttons of his client's shirt and inserted the little finger of his right hand into Zen's belly-button.

'Where your mother is concerned,' he remarked, closing his eyes in concentration, 'you yourself are the only object of reference required/ Cor difemmina 'What's the matter with you?' demanded Libera as Iolanda walked in looking, as her companion tactfully added, like a cigarette butt fished out of a urinal.

'Mind your own fucking business!' was the angry reply.

'It is my business, darling/ Libera reminded her.

'They've both got to come across or we don't get paid.'

'If it's the money you're interested in, you can kiss it goodbye right now!' snapped Iolanda, throwing herself down on the sofa, legs akimbo.

'What else would I be thinking about?' Libera asked innocently.

'Well, forget it! Gesualdo is straight as a die/ Libera put her head on one side and nodded slowly.

'Not even a hint of any action?'

'Not a damn thing. You want to hear about it?'

'I'm all ears, darling!'

She came to perch on the edge of the sofa. Iolanda sighed mightily.

'I caught up with him on the steps outside and gave him the big sob story. Pretended to weep and be nervous and tongue-tied, the whole production.'

'Well done. And?'

'At first he took a really tough line. Said he couldn't help me, it was nothing to do with him, and he was sure De Spino would fix us up with something. "I can imagine what that creep has in mind," I told him. "Do you want to force my sister and I out on the streets?'" 'The very idea!' murmured Libera.

'He seemed to soften a bit at that. I mean, he's basically a really decent guy, you know? That's what makes it so tough.'

She looked away distractedly. Libera's jaw hardened.

'You're not falling for him, are you?' she said insinuatingly.

Iolanda flashed her a furious look.

'Don't be so fucking stupid!'

'All right, dearie, all right. No need to get your tackle in a twist. So what happened?'

Iolanda sighed again.

'He said he felt very sorry for us. I told him to stuff his pity. And he said 'Yes?'

'He said it wasn't just pity.'

Libera's eyes opened wide.

'He did?'

'So of course I went ahead and made a total fool of myself. I told him I'd always known there was something between us from the first moment I'd set eyes on him, and that someone so handsome couldn't be cold and selfish, blah, blah. And then it all came out.'

'What did?'

'Abig speech about how he was engaged to be married and would never do anything that might hurt his future wife and the mother of his children. Then he turned on his heel and walked off without a word or a look, as though I was a piece of dog shit…'

She started to weep.

'And now he's probably on the phone to that bitch in England, giving her an earful about how beautiful and sweet and feminine she is…'

Tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on to her blouse. Libera embraced her briefly and patted her back.

'Never mind, dear. You'll get over it.'

Iolanda sniffed.

'What about yours? Same story, I suppose. Bastards!

They're all the same!'

Libera inspected her nails.

'Well, maybe not quite all/ 'What do you mean?' snapped Iolanda.

Libera tossed her hair and laughed archly.

'Oh, nothing in particular/ Iolanda stared at her intently. Her tears had dried up.

'You expect me to believe that he fell for you?' she demanded with a harsh laugh. 'Oh, sure! And you started your period too, I suppose. Another miracle of San Gennaro!'

Libera shrugged modestly.

'Miracles sometimes happen, nevertheless.'

'Stop pissing me about!' exclaimed Iolanda. 'Let's face it, there's no way those two are ever going to come across for the likes of us.' "I suppose you're right/ replied Libera. 'That must be why he gave me this…'

She displayed the key, dangling on a chain around her neck, and the address inked on her wrist. Iolanda stared at them in silence.

'That cunt/ she said at last.

Rolling up off the sofa, she strode rapidly to the door.

'Where are you going?' Libera asked in a tone of alarm.

'Back to the streets! At least there I can turn an honest trick and make some honest money/ Libera ran and grabbed her.

'Are you crazy? Do you want to throw away the money Zembla promised us when it's practically in our hands?'

'I've had it, understand? All this bullshit about love is driving me round the bend/ She threw herself back on the sofa and burst into tears.

'I'll fetch Dario/ said Libera, heading for the door. 'I'm sure he'll have some ideas. Stay right here!' "I feel like I'm being torn apart,' Iolanda muttered to herself. 'And there's no one I can confide in or ask for advice, no one at all. To fall for a client! The shame of it! I'll be the laughing-stock of Naples.'

She sat up and sniffed loudly.

'But it won't happen. I'll just forget the bastard, wipe him out of my memory for ever Her face collapsed as she started to weep again.

'Only I can't! Whatever I do, I think of him. Whatever I look at, I see his face.'

The door swung open and in came Libera with Dario De Spino, who had been having a nap in the upstairs flat.

"I hear we have a little problem,' he said with an encouraging smile.

'Piss off, you asshole!' shouted Iolanda.

'Now, now, calm down, signorina. Your sister tells me that she's managed to win over Sabatino, but that you can't seem to make any impression on Gesualdo. Is that right?'

With a shriek of impotent rage, Iolanda hid her head under the sofa pillows.

'Don't take it so personally, darling,' said Libera, gesturing languidly. 'You don't really think that any man could resist a woman like me, do you? I don't want to boast, but … well, the fact remains that some of us have got what it takes, while others…'

'You bitch!' screamed Iolanda, hurling an ashtray at her head.

Libera stepped back just in time and the projectile flew past and out of the window.

'Grazzie assaje, duttd/ called an elderly male voice from the house opposite. 'First the cigarettes, now the ashtray.

Too kind, I'm sure. But listen, next time just give me a call and I'll come over and pick it up, OK?'

'Ladies, ladies!' De Spino remarked in a soothing tone.

'We mustn't let a little setback like this ruin everything.

Don't worry, we can still wrap up this little scam before I find some more, ah, permanent employment for you.'