End games az-11

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘Well… yes. I mean, I suppose so.’

  ‘Wonderful! Now let’s go to lunch, and then you can tell me what you want in return. There’s a place just round the corner where I’m a regular.’

  Tom had half-hoped that the brunette would still be outside the building, but there was no sign of her. They turned left into a side-street and entered a restaurant which kept such a low profile that Tom supposed that all the clientele must be regulars. This theory appeared to be supported by the number of people who greeted or were greeted by Nicola Mantega as he led the way to their table.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ the older man said after rattling off some orders to the waiter in dialect.

  ‘Well, Signor Mantega — ’

  ‘Call me Nicola.’

  ‘The thing is this. I really like it here and I want to be able to stay, only not as a tourist. So I’d have to get one of those work permits. That would be one thing I’d need you for.’

  Mantega appeared admirably unperturbed.

  ‘What kind of work do you have in mind?’

  Tom smiled bashfully.

  ‘Well, this may sound like a crazy idea, but I think it just might work. I can’t remember if I told you this, but I’m a trained chef. I’ve worked in a number of famous restaurants in New York and I’ve picked up a pretty good idea of how the business operates. So my idea is to open a place here, only — and this is maybe where it sounds a bit crazy — it would be an American restaurant. The idea would be to serve steaks, ribs, burgers, salads — ’

  He broke off, realising that Mantega wasn’t listening. For a moment Tom was offended, then he noticed the general silence. All the other customers in the crowded restaurant had stopped talking and were gazing at something behind them. Turning, he saw a police officer in uniform accompanied by two others wearing combat fatigues and carrying machine guns. The trio walked down the aisle and stopped at their table.

  ‘Nicola Mantega?’ the officer asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are under arrest. Come with us.’

  For some reason, Tom expected Mantega to make a fuss, but he evidently understood and accepted the rules of the game.

  ‘I’m so sorry about this nonsense,’ he told Tom as he got up. ‘Don’t worry about the bill. It will all be taken care of.’

  Three o’clock, the police chief had said. There was no clock on the wall, Maria didn’t own a watch and she certainly wasn’t going to stoop to asking the unmannerly lout manning the desk, who had been spying on her with a hard look and a contemptuous smirk throughout the many hours she had spent there. She rolled up the paper wrappings in which she had brought her frugal lunch and stuffed them back into her bag.

  At least it didn’t appear that she had been followed. This had been the aspect of returning a second day that had preoccupied her most. The family had of course made their usual futile fuss, but Maria had told them that the doctor she needed to see in order to get the new arthritis medicine had not been available the day before, so she was going to return and try again. This time her son had insisted on driving her, and in the end she’d given in. She wouldn’t let him park outside the clinic and wait for her, though, claiming that it might well take hours. After she had assured herself that he had driven away, she had followed much the same routine as on the previous day, but using a different set of buses around the city centre before finally completing her journey to the Questura on foot, with many detours and false starts. One thing about living in a mountain village was that it kept you agile. Despite her seventy-eight years, Maria could still put on a better turn of speed than most of these languid city dwellers, and she hadn’t noticed anyone hurrying to keep up with her.

  In short, it seemed that her elaborate precautions had all been for nothing. Most likely her journey would prove to be too, even supposing that the police chief kept his word. Probably nothing that she had to tell him would seem relevant to what was happening now. It was, after all, ancient history, like the war itself. Bad things had happened but most people had survived, as they always did, and since then the world had moved on. ‘You’re living in the past, nonna!’ was one of her daughter-in-law’s favourite taunts. Maria knew that was true, but she couldn’t help it. Where else was she to live? There was no other environment that would support virtually extinct life forms such as her own. But in the course of the time she had spent waiting yesterday and again today, she had finally worked out what she would tell this Aurelio Zen. It was a mixture of truth and falsehoods, but the falsehoods were of no concern except to the dead.

  A clacking of heels presaged the appearance of a uniformed officer, who checked Maria’s identity card and then told her that the chief of police was ready to receive her. They went up two flights in a lift and then down a long corridor into a smart modern office, the sort you saw on television, with incredibly brilliant bulbs embedded in the ceiling like so many tiny suns in heaven and furnishings that clearly hadn’t been made either by or for human beings. The air was stuffy and blue with smoke, but Maria didn’t mind. Her late husband had been a heavy smoker, which was why he was now late, and she still enjoyed the smell.

  The chief of police rose politely as she entered, invited her to be seated and told her escort to leave. He was a handsome man with the appearance of a certain kind of priest: tall, lean, of indeterminate age, his aquiline features superficially severe but suggesting a basic bent towards such kindness and indulgence as he might be able to reconcile with the strict rules of his calling. Had she been fifty years younger, Maria would have fallen for him in a moment. As it was, she wanted to mother him, so utterly exhausted and depressed did he look, as though holding himself together only by a stubborn act of will, a quality she herself possessed and admired in others. For a moment she almost felt ashamed to be adding to his problems by demanding this audience. Then she reminded herself of their relative positions on the scale of power and hardened her heart.

  ‘This has been a very busy day, signora,’ Zen said crisply. ‘I fear I can only spare you a few minutes. Unless, of course, what you have to tell me is of quite extraordinary value and relevance.’

  Maria felt herself rising to the challenge thus presented.

  ‘It is both.’

  Zen unclasped his hands in a brief prayer-like gesture, implying that he would be the judge of that.

  ‘Please proceed.’

  ‘What I have to say concerns the man found dead up in the old town. On the television the other day, you said that he was a member of the Calopezzati family. That is untrue.’

  Zen’s gradually hardening stare seemed to indicate that Maria had already demonstrated the first of the two qualities he had named as essential to retain his interest.

  ‘Have you any evidence to support this assertion?’

  ‘I was there when it happened.’

  The police chief said nothing, just sat there staring at her with those fascinating, implacable eyes. Not a priest, she thought, an inquisitor.

  ‘It was just before the war ended. I was then in service at la bastiglia in the old town. Only in a lowly position, you understand. Washing and ironing the bed linen, dusting, sweeping and cleaning. The Calopezzati’s personal attendants were all unmarried sons and daughters of impoverished local gentry, another class of people altogether. They treated us even worse than the baron, to speak the truth. Anyway, my family put me out to service, like I said, and it was hard, particularly at first. I knew they had to do it, because there were too many of us at home, but it was still hard.’

  Zen laid his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘ Mi scusate, signore,’ said Maria, scared. ‘Here I am rambling on…’

  Zen looked up at her with a bleary smile and then said something that utterly melted her heart.

  ‘No, you must excuse me. It’s just that I’m very tired. Talk as much as you want. If I may say so, you have a lovely voice. Like fish.’

  ‘Fish?’

  ‘Succulent, but with a str
ong backbone. I’m Venetian, and it was intended as a compliment. My time is no longer of any account. Just tell me, in your own words, whatever it is that you have come to say.’

  Dear God, she thought, where were you when I wanted babies? It took a moment to compose herself and remember the story that she had decided to tell.

  ‘I was lonely and frightened. I made friends with one of the other skivvies in that cold sepulchre, where in the first few months I sometimes got lost amongst all the corridors and stairs. Her name was Caterina Intrieri. I was fifteen years old, she was eighteen. After that we looked after each other. It made life a little easier for both of us. And then one day in the week after Pentecost, Caterina told me that she was with child. She wouldn’t say who the father was. As far as I know, she told no one else but a levatrice, a wise woman who said that she would be brought to bed about Christmas. And so she would have, except for what happened.’

  Maria clasped the battered bag she held on her knees like a chicken she was bringing to market and now feared might escape.

  ‘What did happen?’ prompted Zen.

  ‘Caterina died, but the child survived and was taken by la baronessa as her own. What with the war and the constant changes of government, life was chaotic in those days. No one knew who was in charge, no one cared for anything but their own survival. With an unknown father and a dead mother, it was easy for Signora Ottavia to claim Caterina’s child as her own and have it registered with the authorities as Pietro Ottavio Calopezzati.’

  ‘How did the boy’s mother die?’

  ‘In the usual way.’

  ‘In childbirth?’

  Maria did not respond to this question.

  ‘The baby was given to a wet-nurse in Camigliatello,’ she said. ‘He was with her when the fire broke out.’

  Zen coughed and then lit a cigarette.

  ‘Tell me, what was it like, la bastiglia? I’ve never seen a photograph or a sketch. What did it look like? How did it strike the eye?’

  Maria tried to remember. This was not a question she had expected to be asked, or even the same kind of question. But she was talking to the chief of police for the entire province. She wasn’t sure of the answer, but she couldn’t just sit there and say nothing. It was like being back in school.

  ‘There were many storeys,’ she began. ‘Four in all, not counting the underground. But we were only allowed to visit three of them. The piano nobile on the first floor was only for the family and their personal attendants.’

  ‘What else do you remember about it?’ asked Zen sleepily.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘I remember the way the facade changed, depending on the time of day.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It looked like something that had come from the heavens and been stuck down here like the heel of a boot. It faced west, so in the morning it was a blank wall, only with all those windows, like some insect’s eyes! During the day, it was just there. At sunset all the windows gleamed and glinted red, and at night under the full moon it looked like a ghost with its arms raised up to scare you.’

  Zen smiled faintly.

  ‘What a pity it burned down. How did that come about, by the way?’

  Maria preferred to lie as little as possible, but she had to see the matter through.

  ‘It was a dark and stormy night. The most violent thunderstorm that’s ever been seen in these parts. La bastiglia was by far the tallest building up in the old town. It was struck several times. Many fires broke out all at once. We servants did what we could, but all water had to be fetched one bucket at a time from the deep well that supplied the palace. It was a hopeless task.’

  ‘And Ottavia Calopezzati was unable to escape in time?’

  Maria nodded. Stunned by a blow from a fire-iron whilst she was sleeping and then trussed like a chicken with baling twine, the murderess had indeed been unable to escape the flames.

  ‘So what became of her adopted child?’

  ‘I have no idea. After the fire, the household broke up and returned to their families, if they could find them. As I said, everyone was looking out for themselves.’

  Now the police chief seemed to be suffering from a headache, no doubt brought on by overwork. He leant forward, scowling, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I wonder how relevant all this is, signora. The motive for this murder is still unclear. Kidnappings go wrong for all kinds of reasons. For example, the victim may see or overhear something which would make his release perilous for the gang at any price. The question of whether or not he was the son of someone called Caterina Intrieri seems moot, to say the least.’

  ‘No,’ said Maria firmly. ‘He was killed because they thought he was a Calopezzati, but they were wrong.’

  ‘Who are “they”?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then how can you know what they may or may not have thought?’

  ‘I’m just telling you what everyone says.’

  ‘Everyone is of no use to me. What I need is someone, a specific individual prepared to come forward and identify those responsible for this crime and for the atrocities that happened in your own town shortly afterwards. I had hoped that you might be that someone, signora. Why else would you have come here yesterday, and again today, and spent hours on end waiting to see me?’

  ‘I wanted justice for Caterina. Her only child has been killed because it was tainted with the name of the family that made her life a misery, and the lives of everyone who lived around here then, if you could call it living.’

  Zen glanced at his watch.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘It’s all I know,’ Maria replied stubbornly.

  ‘I don’t believe that for a moment, but I don’t intend to press you. However, I may need to get in touch at some point in the future. Doing so in the normal way might cause difficulties for your family. Do you understand my meaning?’

  Maria got a pen and a used bus ticket out of her handbag, wrote down a telephone number in large, plump numerals and handed the ticket to Zen.

  ‘Call this number. If someone else answers, tell them that you work at the hospital and need to speak to me about the results of those tests I had. They’ll fetch me and then we can talk.’

  Zen stood up to indicate that the interview was over.

  ‘You’re an interesting person, Maria,’ he said, using her name for the first time. ‘What you’ve said is extremely interesting. What you haven’t said might well be more interesting still. Do you know someone called Giorgio?’

  Maria almost faltered then, dazzled by the feints setting up the knockout punch. But she too could hold herself together by sheer willpower.

  ‘It’s a very common name,’ she replied.

  The chief of police seemed to acknowledge her fortitude with an ironic smile.

  ‘Excessively common, I’m inclined to think. The world would be a better place if there were fewer Giorgios in it. Or at least one fewer. I wish you a safe and speedy journey home.’

  Since his son had made his own arrangements for the day, Professor Achille Pancrazi spent the afternoon working on a rather tricky review of a book by a former colleague at the University of Padua. He had initially been slightly taken aback by Emanuele’s announcement that he was going to spend the day with an unnamed school friend, largely because even after years of separation he still lived in fear of his ex-wife and knew that he would be held to account if anything went wrong. But of course nothing would, and frankly an interval of free time in these welcome but somewhat tiring visits was always welcome.

  Needless to say, he hadn’t bothered to read Fraschetti’s latest effusion. He was familiar with both the subject and the author, so a perusal of the introduction and table of contents sufficed as far as content went. As for style, a brief skim of a few paragraphs taken at random was enough to show that his rival’s love affair with the jargon of the trade was by no means over. He was particularly amused by the constant referenc
es to ‘desire’, given that he knew for a fact that Fraschetti had never desired anyone of either sex in his life. But Pancrazi’s real problem was how to pitch his critical response, which would be published in the Cultura insert of a national newspaper and read by just about everyone in the scholarly world for whom the subject matter was relevant. In other words, it wasn’t so much a question of how he wanted to make his eminent — but well past his peak, despite his current fame — colleague look, but of how he wanted it to make him look. If he sounded too negative, then charges of professional envy could and would be brought, and not without a certain justification.

  From way back in their far-off days together at Padua, Pancrazi had always considered Fraschetti his intellectual inferior. He didn’t gloat about this any more than he did about the fact that he was the taller of the two, but in the event it was he who’d had to move all the way down the boot to the University of bloody Cosenza to get his professorship while Fraschetti had landed the post in Turin that they’d both applied for, and then gone on to be a media don into the bargain. And why? Because the half-smart bastard had more connections than a telephone exchange, plus a superficial talent for memorable soundbites and an easy-to-grasp high concept, in this case the idea that the early Romans, far from having any sense of manifest destiny or even a coherent culture, had simply muddled along from year to year, the results being cleaned up much later by Livy and others into a neat corporate history for imperial PR purposes.

  Achille Pancrazi had written and revised four drafts of his review and was just starting a fifth, in a marginally more nuanced tone, when his phone rang. The screen showed that the caller was his son. Despite the interruption, he answered with genuine pleasure.