‘You’re not a child.’
She nodded, holding his eyes.
‘And while being an adult has its drawbacks, the great advantage is that you can do what you like.’
‘Within reason.’
‘Even without, sometimes.’
He stood staring at her, beaming like an idiot.
‘It’s wonderful to see you, Cristiana!’
Judging by the slightly severe suit and silk blouse she was wearing, she had come straight from work.
‘Have you had dinner?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘You?’
‘No. And there’s nothing in the house.’
‘I brought some stuff. Nothing fancy, but at least we won’t starve.’
Embarrassed by his emotion, Zen walked over to the sofa and picked up the book which Cristiana had been reading, a thick volume entitled The History of the Venetian Republic, 727–1797. The title page was inscribed ‘To my dear wife, this testimony of our glorious heritage, with love, Nando.’
Zen looked up at Cristiana.
‘Gripping stuff?’ he inquired ironically.
‘It’s not bad. Your family’s mentioned quite a lot. One of them was a rabble-rousing reformer and another one a famous admiral.’
‘And if I remember correctly, they both made a habit of winning all the battles and then losing the war. It must be a family trait. Living proof of that “glorious heritage” your husband makes so much of.’
Cristiana raised her eyebrows slightly.
‘You really don’t like Nando, do you?’
Zen shrugged.
‘I don’t like politicians in general.’
‘But there’s more to it than that.’
He nodded.
‘Yes, there’s you.’
She smiled and turned away. There seemed to be something about her which did not quite fit the crisply professional clothes, some hint of intimacy, some chink in her armour.
‘I’m starving,’ she said. ‘I’ll put the pasta water on.’
Zen followed her out to the kitchen. On the table stood a stoppered litre bottle of red wine, a packet of spaghetti, a fat clove of purple-skinned garlic, a small jar of oil which was the opaque green of bottle glass abraded by the sea, and a twist of paper containing three wrinkled chillis the colour of dried blood.
‘Aglio, olio e peperoncino,’ he said.
‘I told you it was nothing fancy.’
As she set the heavy pan on the stove and tossed a hail-flurry of coarse salt into the water, Zen suddenly understood the rogue element in her appearance. Her breasts moved waywardly inside the sheath of silk, belying the brisk message of her formal clothing with their seditious whisper.
‘Presumably all this overtime means that your work is going well,’ she remarked casually. ‘Or are you just trying to beef up your pay cheque?’
‘I thought I was on to something today, but then someone stepped in and spiked it. Local politics.’
‘Politics?’
‘I mean interests, alliances,’ he said, taking a broad-bladed knife out of a drawer. ‘Mutual protection.’
‘Nando says that’s all politics is anyway.’
‘And he ought to know.’
‘I mean that’s all he thinks it should be. He says the rest is just dogma and outdated ideology.’
Zen laid the blade of the knife on the clove of garlic and hit it sharply with the heel of his hand.
‘Where did you learn that trick?’ asked Cristiana in a tone of admiration.
Zen lifted the tissue-thin skin away and set about chopping up the clove.
‘From my mother.’
‘Nando can’t even make coffee. “I fly planes, you look after the house,” he always says. “Any time you want to swop, just let me know.”’
‘He’s a pilot?’
‘He flew ground-attack helicopters for the air force. He often says it was the high point of his life. That’s why he went into politics, I think, in search of new thrills. He tried business, but it didn’t have enough edge.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He’s a partner in a firm called Aeroservizi Veneti. They cater to rich people needing to be taxied to and fro, businessmen wanting to charter a small jet to Budapest, that sort of thing.’
She laughed.
‘I remember the day he proposed, he took me for a tour all over the lagoon in a helicopter, flying low. As we were hovering over the water in the middle of nowhere he suddenly got up from his seat, leant over me, kissed me and asked me to marry him. Later he told me that he’d put the helicopter on automatic, but I didn’t know that at the time. I was terrified. So of course I said yes, just to get him back at the controls!’
Zen poured the olive oil into a small pan, set it on a low flame and added the chopped garlic.
‘Quite the lad, eh?’
‘Oh yes. And with all the girls.’
The lid of the pasta pan started to rattle. Cristiana tore the spaghetti packet open with her sharp white teeth. She emptied half the golden rods into her palm and lowered them into the pan, where they gradually unbent and began to move freely, like underwater weed. She looked up at Zen, who had been watching the swell and sway of her breasts. Their eyes held a moment, then he turned back to the counter and began to shred the chillis.
‘Are these really hot?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no idea. Those small ones are often the worst.’
‘How many shall I put in? Three? Four?’
‘I can take it if you can.’
Dense with gluten, the pasta water gurgled like hot mud. Zen scattered the flakes of chilli over the slices of garlic, which had turned a pale gold in the warm oil. Cristiana laid a large bowl, two plates, glasses, forks and spoons on the kitchen table and unstoppered the wine. She fished a strand of spaghetti out of the water and tested it.
‘What do you think?’
She passed the rest to Zen, who bit into the clammy filament.
‘Still a bit chewy.’
‘It should be. The oil will finish it.’
She drained the spaghetti and dumped the tangled mass into the bowl, where Zen anointed it with the scalding oil.
‘Ready!’
They sat facing each other across the table, the steaming tub of pasta between them. While Cristiana served them each a plateful, Zen poured the wine.
‘So what have local politics to do with Ada Zulian’s ghosts?’ Cristiana asked, winding spaghetti on to her fork.
‘Ada? Nothing!’
He frowned suddenly, realizing his slip.
‘No, that was … I was talking about a different case.’
‘You’re working on something else?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Is that what that fax was about?’
He nodded.
‘It’s all a bit confidential, actually.’
‘I can keep a secret.’
He looked over at her and smiled, holding her eyes for a moment.
‘It concerns that American who disappeared a few months ago from an island in the lagoon.’
Cristiana gasped.
‘Swallowed a bit of chilli,’ she explained.
‘It was all over the papers for a while. Everyone assumed he had been kidnapped, but there was never a ransom demand.’
‘I seem to remember reading something about it. Has something new come up?’
‘Yes and no.’
She shot him a glance.
‘Meaning you don’t trust me.’
‘It’s not that,’ he said quickly – too quickly.
Cristiana gave the facial equivalent of a shrug and went on eating.
‘The American’s boat disappeared at the same time he did,’ Zen told her after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I think I’ve found it.’
She opened her eyes wide.
‘Where?’
‘Here in the city. The man who took it was probably supposed to scuttle it, but he was greedy. He sold it instead.’<
br />
He took a gulp of wine to cut the aromatic oil coating each strand of pasta.
‘But where does politics come into all this?’ asked Cristiana.
‘The man in question has friends.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I don’t know, but they had a lawyer there ten minutes after I’d started my questioning. And this was one of those lawyers you normally make appointments with a year ahead. Name of Gorin.’
‘Carlo?’
‘You know him?’
She frowned.
‘We … Nando knows him, I think.’
She hoisted a last forkful of pasta to her mouth. A dribble of oil ran palely green down her chin. Zen reached over and wiped the oil away with his fingers, then licked them clean.
‘Wonderful,’ he said, setting his own plate aside. ‘I haven’t had that for ages. So simple, yet so good.’
Cristiana smiled and poured them both some more wine. Zen held up his packet of cigarettes.
‘Do you mind?’
‘I’ll have one, if I may. I’m an occasional smoker.’
‘I know the feeling. I’m an occasional non-smoker.’
They smoked in silence for some time.
‘You miss your husband,’ said Zen abruptly.
It was not a question.
‘In a way,’ replied Cristiana. ‘It’s not easy being a single woman in this place. It’s like being a child again. Everything you do is subject to scrutiny and comment.’
‘Does your mother know that you’re here?’
Cristiana shrugged.
‘I expect so. There’s always someone watching.’
In the next room, the phone started ringing shrilly.
‘Damn!’ said Zen, getting up. ‘Don’t go away.’
Cristiana smiled ruefully.
‘Where would I go?’
The moment Zen picked up the receiver, he knew it had been a mistake to answer the phone.
‘Aurelio? Where the hell have you been? Why haven’t you been in touch?’
‘Hello, Tania.’
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day! We both have.’
‘Both?’
‘Your mother and me.’
‘The old firm.’
‘What?’
‘How are things? Rome still there? I suppose it must be. Eternal city and all that.’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘I’m happy.’
‘Happy? Why?’
‘Why am I happy?’
Laughter pealed out from the kitchen.
‘Who’s that?’ demanded Tania. ‘Have you got someone there with you, Aurelio?’
‘Of course not. It was someone in the street outside. The windows are open.’
‘I see. Well, you may be happy, but I’m certainly not, and neither is your mother. Maybe you should think about that.’
‘Maybe I should.’
‘All you seem to care about is yourself. Out of sight is out of mind as far as you’re concerned. I’ve been talking about you to your mother, Aurelio, and I have to say that I find what she’s told me extremely disturbing. It confirms a lot of things I’d already suspected about you.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the fact that you’re deeply selfish. That you don’t give a damn about other people. They’re just a means to an end, as far as you’re concerned.’
‘That’s what my mother told you?’
‘Not in so many words, but the things she told me made it quite clear that you’d been ruthlessly self-centred and manipulative ever since you were a child.’
‘It didn’t occur to you that she might have an axe to grind herself, Tania?’
He was angry by now, and his tone showed it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that she’s jealous of this woman who’s threatening to alienate the affections of her darling son and do disgusting things to him in bed, so she’s doing everything she can to frighten you off so that she can have me all to herself again.’
There was a brief silence.
‘That is the most shocking thing I’ve ever heard anyone say about their mother. For God’s sake, Aurelio! What kind of monster are you? Are you seriously suggesting that your mother is sexually jealous of me? That’s just totally sick! It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever …’
Zen quietly replaced the receiver on its rest and walked back to the kitchen. Cristiana raised her eyes to meet his.
‘What was that all about?’
He shook his head wearily.
‘Don’t ask.’
He slumped down in his chair again. He had just lit another cigarette when the phone began to ring again. He sat staring tight-lipped at the table. The phone rang eleven times before stopping.
‘Persistent,’ commented Cristiana when the noise finally stopped.
As though in response, the phone started trilling again. This time it rang fifteen times.
‘Not to say obstinate,’ Cristiana added.
After a brief pause, shrill bursts of ringing jarred the silence once again. Cristiana stood up.
‘May I?’
Zen breathed a long sigh. He waved at the open doorway. Cristiana marched into the living room and lifted the receiver.
‘Yes? Who? No, there’s no one here by that name.’
She slammed the phone down and unplugged the cord from the socket. When she straightened up again, Zen was standing behind her. He caught hold of her shoulders, turned her towards him and kissed her on the mouth. They measured each other with their eyes in a final brief interval of lucidity, then blindly collided again.
It was the strangeness that woke him, the presence of another body in that bed where he had always slept alone, and which was not quite wide enough for two. He closed his eyes and lay back on the pillow, smiling at some memory from the night before. The sheets were still damp with sweat, the whole bed perfumed with evocative scents.
Cristiana shifted slightly in her sleep, as though the memories which were keeping Zen awake had reached into her dreams too. And indeed it might all have been a dream, so unlikely did it seem in the chill darkness of – was it really only ten to six? He put his watch back on the bedside table and rolled over, seeking the precise position which would enable him to complete the jigsaw of sleep.
But whichever way he turned, images of Cristiana darted through his mind like silver fish. All the other women in his life had made him feel that however much they seemed to be enjoying themselves in bed, in the end they were only doing him a favour. With Cristiana, it had been abundantly clear from that very first kiss that everything she did was done for her own pleasure as well as his. She displayed an eager greed for caresses of all kinds, an inclusive sensuality which had brought a succession of climaxes in its wake and raised Zen to a state of exaltation he had never experienced before.
Shying away from the memory of some of the things he had said and done, he sat up in bed. Sleep was clearly out of the question. He had a momentary urge to grasp Cristiana’s plump white shoulder, to turn her over and start feeding on her breasts and belly. Instead, he forced himself to turn back the covers and stand up. What had happened had happened, but to start acting like an adolescent in heat at his age, and at this time in the morning, would be ridiculous.
He walked quickly across the icy tiles to the bathroom. But even beneath the tepid spray of the shower, thoughts of Cristiana’s languorous, compliant body gave him no peace. It occurred to him for the first time that he might be making a complete fool of himself. This prospect finally succeeded in calming the tumult in his loins. He had no precise idea what sort of humiliation might be in store for him, only a lurking sense that he was vulnerable in various ways.
He dressed and went downstairs to make coffee. By the brutal light of the bare bulb in the kitchen, love’s sweet dream faded still further. What had they done? What were they going to do? Above all, what were they going to say to one another? The prospect of greeting Cristiana, of
having to sit down and make small talk, filled Zen with limitless dread. The conversation of their bodies the night before had been as effortless and natural as the soft declension of surf on a beach, but to convert that exchange into the hard currency of language and everyday life seemed a daunting prospect.
The coffee gurgled and gushed. He poured himself a cup which fumed in the chill air and scribbled a note to Cristiana, explaining that he had had to go in to work early and would ring her later that morning. Deciding that this looked cold and bureaucratic, he tore it up and wrote another, attempting to explain the riot of emotions in his heart. That ended up in the bin too. The note he eventually left on the table owed more to the first draft than the second, but with several allusions to his feelings about what had happened the previous night.
Outside, the darkness was still untouched by signs of dawn. It was much colder than it had been the day before, a still, rigid cold. There was hardly a breath of wind. The only sounds were the lapping of water and the cries of gulls circling high above. Zen set off walking fast, burning off the energy surging through his body. Thinking about his youth, as he had often done in the past few days, it seemed like a film overlaid with grandiose gushing music which flooded every banal scene with emotion and made it seem transcendent and unique. Being older, he thought, meant living the same film without the music.
Now, though, the soundtrack was back in place. He felt strong and vigorous, invincible and serene. The doubts and difficulties which had beset him earlier now seemed trivial. A woman had offered herself to him and he had satisfied both her and himself. What could touch him? He kept up a cracking pace all the way to Santa Maria Formosa, his breath blossoming thickly in the frigid air. He passed a street-sweeper mending his broom, a convocation of feral cats, a somnambulant barman setting out his tables, a kid of eighteen folding back the tarpaulin over a moored boat. All seemed to eye him with admiration and envy, waving him past, wishing him well.
At that hour, the isolated palazzo on the San Lorenzo canal which housed the Questura di Venezia was to all appearances as deserted as the rest of the city. Zen walked upstairs to the first floor, and then along the passage to the door marked GAVAGNIN – RUZZA – CASTELLARO. Inside, a solitary fly buzzed in feeble bursts against the window whose glass was bleary with the first hints of dawn. Enzo Gavagnin’s territory was immediately discernible by the extent of the damage surrounding it. The wastebin was dented, the ashtray overflowing, the scar and burn marks on the surface of the desk that much more numerous and profound, the litter of memos, notes and files on top of it that much messier and more impenetrable.
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