Dead Lagoon - 4

by Michael Dibdin

  For her part, Ada still thinks of Aurelio Battista as that effeminate, long-haired lad she used to dress up in Rosetta’s clothes while his mother went the rounds of the neighbourhood, trying to make ends meet. But apparently for other people, Nanni and Vincenzo included, he is – she giggles at the thought – a Very Powerful and Important Official. Having cleaned the boy’s bottom when he had an accident, Ada remains unimpressed by these trappings of authority, but Nanni and Vincenzo seem to be completely taken in. The happy result is that whenever she wishes to bring her nephews to heel, she has only to drop a passing reference to her friend’s son – the merest casual comment, such as ‘Dottore Zen called by yet again yesterday, but I pretended to be out’ – and in an instant, as though by magic, the boys become completely tractable! It is a weapon all the more effective in that she hardly ever has occasion to use it.

  This evening, though, had been one. Having been molly-coddled as children – Ada had warned her sister time and time again that central heating rots one’s moral fibre, but would she listen? – Vincenzo and Nanni are reluctant to venture out in what they call cold weather. They should have seen the winter of ’47, when the canals froze over and people walked across to the Giudecca! But as usual, all Ada had to do was mention quite casually, in passing, that her friend the policeman had dropped round again and tried to get her to implicate her nephews so that he could have them arrested and thrown into prison to await trial, and how after a while she had started to wonder if it might not be easier just to give him what he wanted and be rid of this new harassment, which was almost as bad as the previous one …

  Speak of the devil! There is Aurelio Battista, picking his way towards them along the snow-encrusted alley. She knows by the way the grip on her elbows tightens that Nanni and Vincenzo have seen him too. A flurry of anxiety, the first for days, troubles the surface of her new-found serenity. She hopes there won’t be a scene, just when everything has worked out so nicely.

  The tall figure striding towards them glances up, taking in the trio ahead. He eyes them each briefly, his gaze lingering a moment on Ada, then passes by without the slightest glimmer of recognition. Vincenzo glances at Nanni, who lets go of his aunt’s arm. Crouching down, he scoops up a double handful of the soft wet snow, moulds it firmly into a ball as hard as a rock and, before Ada can work out what he has in mind, hurls it. She watches bemusedly as it speeds through the darkening air, then Vincenzo yanks her round and marches her along the street towards Daniele’s house.

  Behind them, a cry rends the silence. Ada wriggles free of her nephew’s grasp and looks round. Aurelio Battista stands rubbing the back of his head and staring at her. His hat lies capsized on the snow near by. Ada wonders what can have happened. Perhaps he’s troubled by migraine, poor boy. She suffered from it herself at one time, before that role was usurped by other and greater torments, and she dimly recalls that just this sort of cold, wet weather often brought it on. Something has certainly made Giustiniana’s boy very tense and snappy. Snatching up his hat, he strides towards her.

  ‘Come along, Auntie,’ croons Vincenzo softly.

  They have almost reached their goal. Dear Daniele! How pleased he will be to see them. He used to be rather sweet on her at one time – well, besotted, actually. And under different circumstances she might easily have been tempted, because Daniele Trevisan was then one of the handsomest lads in the neighbourhood, and with very winning manners, considering his origins. But for a Zulian to ally herself with someone whose father was in trade was of course quite out of the question.

  They have arrived. Nanni is already ringing Daniele’s bell, while Vincenzo brushes a trace of fluff off the sleeve of her coat. What dear, thoughtful boys they are!

  But what’s this? Aurelio Battista suddenly shoves his way rudely between them, fixing her with his eyes, waving his finger in her face. ‘Give them to me, Ada!’ he spits out.

  ‘Give them to me, and I’ll tell you what really happened to Rosetta.’

  At least, that’s what he seems to say, but of course it’s quite impossible that he could have spoken those words, or indeed anything remotely resembling them.

  ‘Don’t you want to know the truth, Ada, after all these years? Give me your nephews and I’ll tell you!’

  It is only now that she belatedly realizes that the figure before her is not Aurelio Battista at all, but some species of demon which has assumed his form. As always, the knowledge that she is not faced with anything real and irremediable is both disturbing and obscurely comforting. She is determined to retain the initiative, however. She is an old hand when it comes to dealing with this sort of thing.

  ‘What do you know about it?’ she demands with a sneer.

  The creature before her leans closer.

  ‘I know about Rosa Coin.’

  It steps back, nods once, then turns and walks off, merging almost immediately into the massed shadows.

  ‘Come on, Auntie dear,’ urges Nanni.

  Before her, in the open doorway, Daniele stands looking at her with the same smile as all those years ago, when he used to stand for hours beneath her window, waiting for her to show her face.

  ‘You’ll catch your death standing out there in the cold,’ he tells her kindly.

  But she is not standing. She is sliding, slipping to the icy pavement where she thrashes about like a landed fish, gasping for air, biting her tongue in a vain attempt to silence the endless screaming in her head.

  *

  By the time Zen reached home he had got the trembling under control, but his breath was still spastic and his heart clamoured for attention. It was only when he saw lights on in the house that he remembered that Cristiana was waiting for him.

  Her presence, so ardently desired just a little while ago, now seemed an inconvenience he could well have done without. After what had just happened he needed time to unwind, to unclench his knotted psyche and become himself again, the self he recognized and was prepared to take responsibility for. The last thing he wanted at such a moment was to have to play sophisticated and ambiguous courtship games with the daughter of an old family friend.

  Cristiana must have heard the front door open, for she was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. The tight-fitting red sweater and jeans she was wearing emphasized the contours of her figure. As Zen reached the landing, she stepped forward and laid her hand on his shoulder. She was bending forward, as if to kiss him, when she saw the expression on his face and drew back.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He led her inside the living room and closed the door behind them, shutting out the world.

  ‘I ran into Ada Zulian out walking with her nephews,’ he said as he took off his coat and hat. ‘One of them threw a snowball at me. It sounds childish, but it actually hurt quite badly. It hit me on the ear, and he’d squeezed it down to a ball of ice.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Zen shrugged awkwardly.

  ‘There were only one thing to do, really, and that was ignore it.’

  ‘You could have thrown one back.’

  ‘That would really have been stupid. Besides, it would have missed. I’m a hopeless shot.’

  Cristiana disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘Isn’t there a law against assaulting police officials?’

  ‘Of course, but I can’t invoke it. Everyone knows that I tried and failed to bring that pair to court. If I charged them with assaulting me with a snowball, I’d make myself a complete laughing-stock. Which is precisely what the little bastard was counting on.’

  Cristiana reappeared with a bottle of spumante and two glasses. Zen forced a smile.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘My freedom.’

  As she untwisted the wire cage securing the cork, Zen had an involuntary mental image of Enzo Gavagnin’s blue, partially severed thumbs.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Cristiana popped the cork
and filled their glasses.

  ‘Finish telling me about Ada Zulian. What did you do in the end?’

  ‘Oh, I was wonderful! I ignored the nephews and went for Ada herself.’

  She handed him his drink.

  ‘Cincin!’

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘What do you mean, you went for her?’ asked Cristiana.

  Zen sighed deeply.

  ‘I’ve had quite a stressful few days, one way and another, and getting hit by that snowball was the last straw. I’m afraid I went completely over the top.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I …’

  He broke off, biting his lip.

  ‘Christ, it was unforgivable!’

  Cristiana took his hand and drew him down to the sofa.

  ‘I’ll forgive you.’

  He sat staring blankly at the worn patch of carpet which covered the centre of the floor.

  ‘I told her that I knew what had happened to her little girl, the one who disappeared.’

  He turned to meet Cristiana’s eyes, then looked away again.

  ‘I said I’d tell her if she agreed to testify against her nephews.’

  Cristiana nodded briskly, as though all this was quite in order.

  ‘And what did she say?’

  Zen laughed harshly and gulped at his wine.

  ‘She didn’t say anything. She threw a fit. Collapsed in the snow, writhing around, foaming at the mouth, screaming her head off.’

  ‘God!’

  ‘It happened right in front of Daniele Trevisan’s house. He and the nephews took her inside.’

  He glanced at Cristiana.

  ‘I’d like to know how she is. I don’t suppose they’d talk to me, but …’

  ‘Of course.’

  She picked up the receiver and dialled.

  ‘Mamma? I’m over at Wanda’s. She says that Lisa Rosteghin heard from Gabriella that Ada Zulian has had some sort of fit in the street right outside Trevisan’s place. Have you heard anything about it? No? Well, listen, could you phone Daniele and find out? We can’t, you see, because he’d want to know how we found out and then it might come out about Gabriella and Beppo Raffin, the kid who lives across the street, whereas you could make out you heard from Signora Vian …’

  She paused, gazing vaguely into indeterminate space.

  ‘No, don’t call us. We’re … we’re not actually at Wanda’s. We went out. I’ll phone back in a few minutes. Okay? Ciao.’

  She turned back to Zen and sipped her wine.

  ‘And your freedom?’ he asked.

  She laughed.

  ‘That was just an excuse to open some bubbly. Do you know what my bastard husband has done? Flown to Rome with that bitch Populin! He’s got a cover story – some televised debate on the break-up of Italy – but basically we’re talking dirty weekend.’

  She touched Zen’s hand.

  ‘Have you got a cigarette?’

  He dug out his battered pack of Nazionali. It had a rumpled, collapsed look. Zen squeezed the sides experimentally.

  ‘Precisely one,’ he said, shaking the remaining cigarette free.

  ‘Oh, I won’t take it if it’s your last.’

  He removed the cigarette from the packet and placed the tip against her lips.

  ‘Let’s share,’ he said.

  ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t been trying so hard to act the good little wife for the benefit of the press,’ Cristiana went on, inhaling deeply.

  Zen squeezed her hand sympathetically.

  ‘Quite apart from that,’ he murmured, ‘it might not be such a bad idea to keep a certain distance from Dal Maschio.’

  Cristiana passed him the cigarette.

  ‘You mean he’s in some sort of trouble?’

  He put the tip, damp from her saliva, into his mouth.

  ‘Would that bother you?’

  She glanced at her watch.

  ‘I’d better see what Mamma has found out before she gets impatient, tries Wanda’s number and discovers that she hasn’t seen me since yesterday.’

  Rosalba Morosini had evidently found out quite a lot, and proceeded to give her daughter a lengthy account which Cristiana subsequently passed on to Zen in abridged form.

  ‘Ada’s all right. They were about to call a doctor when she came out of it. The nephews tried to get her to lodge a complaint, but Daniele refused to testify against you.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  Cristiana stared at him.

  ‘Do you really know what became of the little girl?’

  Zen handed her back the cigarette.

  ‘No more than I know what became of my father.’

  She crushed out the cigarette and poured them more wine.

  ‘And Nando?’

  Zen tried to shrug it off.

  ‘Oh, I expect I’m just jealous, that’s all.’

  She looked at him acutely.

  ‘That’s not all.’

  He looked away.

  ‘Not quite all, perhaps.’

  She took his hand between hers and carried it to the upper slope of her breast. They looked at each other.

  ‘This is strictly confidential, of course,’ he began.

  ‘Of course.’

  Somewhere in the distance, a ship’s hooter sounded a long, mournful note.

  ‘There is no evidence against Dal Maschio himself,’ Zen murmured, moving his hand slightly. ‘But some of his associates appear to be implicated in a number of investigations currently proceeding …’

  He broke off.

  ‘I sound like a policeman,’ he said.

  ‘You are a policeman.’

  ‘I don’t want to be. Not now.’

  ‘Have you got any more cigarettes?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘Upstairs,’ she said.

  He was woken by a cry below the window.

  ‘Spazzino PRONTI!!!’

  Zen lay back in bed, listening to the other tenants tossing down their bags of rubbish for the street sweeper to add to the pile in his hand-cart. He felt clear-headed, relaxed and lucid. There was no doubt about it: Cristiana was good for him.

  This time she had not been able to stay the night. Rosalba was expecting her home and would have phoned Wanda Dal Maschio if her daughter had not reappeared. It would have been perfect if she had still been there, a warm, sleepy presence, a token that what had happened the night before had indeed been real. Unlike the previous occasion, Zen now had no anxieties about facing Cristiana by the cold light of morning. On the contrary, he was already missing her. They had stayed up talking late the night before, and there had been no moment of awkwardness or strain. Everything had seemed perfectly easy and normal, as though they had known each other all their lives.

  The house did not feel quite as cold as the day before, and when he threw open the window it was clear that a thaw had set in. All but the largest heaps of snow were already gone, leaving only a faint sheen of water which made the worn paving stones gleam like a fishmonger’s slab. Diffuse sunlight lent a vernal suppleness to the bright, clean air. It was a day for assignations and excursions, a day to tear up your plans and arrangements and make things up as you went along, preferably in the company of a friend or lover.

  As he set out in search of his morning coffee, Zen’s heart sank at the very different prospect before him. It seemed absurd to spend such a day sitting in poky, neonlit offices being lied to by the likes of Giulio Bon. He no longer cared one way or the other about the Durridge case. But there was no alternative. It would be as dangerous now to abandon the investigation as to pursue it – perhaps more so. The only way he could justify the measures he had already taken was by seeing the thing through to the end.

  At the Questura, he surveyed the various options open to him and tried to decide how to proceed. Based on the way the men had reacted to being taken into custody the day before, Bugno seemed the weakest link in the chain, so Zen sent for him
first. While he waited, he skimmed through the man’s file. Born in 1946, married with three children, an employee of the muncipal transport company ACTV, Bugno had no previous convictions. The only black marks against him were a failure to vote in a recent general election and the complaint of trespass made the previous year by Ivan Durridge.

  Massimo Bugno had a big bald head, a deeply-indented broken nose, a weak chin, bushily compensatory moustache and the general air of someone who fears that he has forgotten to turn off the bath water. He was evidently considerably less refreshed than Zen by the night he had spent in a cell in the windowless annexe behind the Questura. Zen invited him to sit down. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘What shift are you on this week, Massimo? Your workmates will be starting to wonder what’s become of you.’

  ‘Why are you holding me here?’ Bugno whined. ‘What have I done?’

  Zen lifted the file off the desk in front of him.

  ‘On the 27th of September last year, you and two other men landed on a private ottagono near Malamocco. The owner called the police, and you were subsequently apprehended by a patrol boat.’

  Bugno frowned.

  ‘That’s all over!’ he protested. ‘No charges were ever brought. It was all a fuss over nothing, anyway. We were …’

  He hesitated.

  ‘We were fishing. The motor packed up. We drifted on to the island. We left as soon as we could.’

  Zen raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Fishing? That’s not what you told us at the time.’

  Bugno dampened his lips rapidly with his tongue.

  ‘Well, it was something like that. I don’t exactly remember.’

  Zen nodded.

  ‘Let’s see if your memory is any better when it comes to your next visit to the island.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. I’ve never been back there.’

  Zen was surprised and dismayed in equal measure. For the first time, Massimo Bugno had spoken with a casual ease which carried complete conviction. Suddenly Zen had the horrible sensation that his whole theory about the Durridge kidnapping was totally and utterly wrong. His reaction was to lash out.