And Then You Die

by Michael Dibdin

  He laughed.

  ‘A bit like turning up for mass on Sunday. And no one will make a fuss if you miss a week or two, as long as you make a full and frank confession of course! Apart from that you will operate strictly on a case-by-case basis. You will be fully briefed, then given a free hand to proceed as you see fit. Needless to say, you can depend on the full backing of this organization at all times, but there will be no attempt to monitor or control your activities. “Personal choice, personal empowerment, personal responsibility.” As I’ve told you, that’s my slogan. But it’s not just a slogan, dottore, it’s a way of life.’

  Brugnoli held out his hand to Zen with a vigour which somehow suggested the eagle reaching for Prometheus’s liver.

  ‘I want to thank you for your valuable input and collaboration, dottore, and to be the first to congratulate you on your promotion to this challenging position. You will naturally need a transitional period to make the necessary arrangements before assuming your new duties, and I’m happy to tell you that the villa in Versilia where you were staying earlier is at your disposition for the remainder of the month. Go back to the beach, relax and recharge. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, and I can’t wait to welcome you aboard again just as soon as you are fully recovered.’

  Zen gracefully took both the hint and his leave. Outside in reception, the faux blonde called him over to the desk and gave him an envelope.

  ‘You need to pick up some equipment that has been allocated to you.’ she said. ‘Take this docket down to Supplies.’

  It’s a gun, thought Zen as he made his way out into the corridor and down the stairs. They’re giving me a gun so that I can do the decent thing and shoot myself.

  ‘Supplies’ turned out to be the department in the basement which had previously been known simply as the depository, presided over by Tullio Rastrelli, a sour, scrawny sottufficiale who had lost his right arm when he ran his patrol car into a train at a level crossing while in hot pursuit of a teenage driver who had made a rude gesture at him. Now, though, the counter was manned by a young woman who alarmed Zen by flashing one of those insincere smiles of the sales clerks you see in television commercials, and then asking in what way she could assist him. Zen handed over the envelope. The woman tore it open and read the contents.

  ‘If you’ll be so good as to wait one minute, I’ll be right back.’ she said with another smile.

  ‘And if I’m not so good, you’ll never return?’

  She gave him a startled glance.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Zen shook his head.

  ‘Never mind.’

  The woman walked off along the shelving stacked with weapons, ammunition, handcuffs, batons, shields, helmets, and all the other dismal tools of their brutal trade. Zen thought about other times he had come down here, then decided to stop thinking.

  Some time later, the woman returned with a small cardboard box which she placed on the counter.

  ‘If you’d be so good as to sign here,’ she said, pointing to the docket.

  ‘Yes?’ said Zen.

  She looked at him.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What’s in the box?’

  ‘Oh, I’d be delighted to demonstrate the various features.’

  ‘If I did what?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  The woman opened one end of the box and shook out a black plastic oblong that looked rather like one of the early mobile phones, except that there was no keypad. In its place were three large buttons, one green, one yellow and one red, the last covered by a clear plastic shield. She clicked a further button on the side and the other three glowed with a pale radiance.

  ‘This unit combines functional efficiency with rugged durability and extreme ease of use,’ she said in a practised tone. ‘As you see, there are just three user options. The green button allows you to respond to an incoming call, the yellow initiates an outgoing call, while the red activates the dedicated alarm. Full range over the entire national territory is ensured by the use of military frequencies and facilities, but the really exciting feature is the GPS function.’

  ‘Excite me.’

  The woman smiled nervously.

  ‘A chip in the unit continuously monitors the system of Global Positioning Satellites, and calculates the exact position and height above sea level to within a few metres. When the red button is depressed, that information is automatically encoded along with the distress call and forwarded to headquarters for the use of the designated back-up personnel. The installed cadmium battery lasts for up to seventy-two hours with average use. It’s fully charged now, and can be recharged in under an hour with the adaptor pack included. And all this in a unit weighing less than three hundred grams!’

  ‘Do you offer a quantity discount?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Never mind. So if the phone rings, I press the green button.’

  ‘It doesn’t ring, it vibrates.’

  ‘Pardon? No, that’s your line.’

  ‘If you keep it in an inside pocket or on your hip, anywhere in contact with your body, you will feel a gentle tingling sensation.’

  ‘That’ll be the first time for a while.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sorry. You were saying?’

  ‘The reason for this feature is the operative may be in a situation where it is not expedient to reveal the fact that he is in communication with headquarters. In such a case, simply ignore the call and report back in when you are able by pressing the green button.’

  She turned the unit off and replaced it in its box.

  ‘Any other questions?’

  ‘What happened to Tullio?’ asked Zen, pocketing the box.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Tullio Rastrelli. He used to run this place.’

  The woman’s face almost imperceptibly glazed over.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘He took early retirement.’

  ‘When Dottor Brugnoli arrived.’

  ‘That’s right. It was probably a wise decision. Like a lot of the older members of staff, he didn’t really fit into the new ethos here.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Dottor Brugnoli’s philosophy is that we should think as individuals but act as a team.’

  ‘And Tullio wasn’t a team player.’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  Zen nodded.

  ‘Brugnoli’s full of new ideas, isn’t he?’

  The woman’s eyes glowed.

  ‘Oh I know! He’s just so inspirational. He’s even having signs printed up for every workplace with phrases like that one, to help keep the staff motivated and focussed. I’m hoping to get one soon.’

  Zen left the cardboard box on the counter and slipped the communication device and adaptor pack into his coat pocket.

  ‘Don’t get too motivated,’ he said, turning towards the door. ‘Brugnoli’s ambitious, and this ministry is a political dead end. Come the next cabinet reshuffle, he’ll be gone. But those “older members of staff” you mentioned will still be around.’

  Ten minutes later, he walked into the Bar Gran Caffè dell’Opera. Giorgio De Angelis was sitting at a table by the window.

  ‘Tell me all,’ he said as Zen sat down, ‘then let’s see if we can work out what it really means.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be too difficult,’ Zen replied sourly.

  He gave Giorgio a paraphrased version of what Brugnoli had said, inserting a few of the choicer lines verbatim for comic effect, and they were duly effective.

  When he’d stopped laughing, De Angelis said, ‘I see you’re already fluent in the new dialect, Aurelio.’

  ‘There was just one phrase I didn’t understand. Something about “the Three I’s”.’

  ‘That’s their motto for the way forward in this country,’ De Angelis retorted in a tone of disgust. ‘“Inglese, impresa, Internet”. This is the new Right, Aurelio. Statism with a human face. Well, with a business sui
t, anyway. No more canny old spiders like Andreotti spinning their intricate webs. Now it’s all feel-good slogans and photo-ops carefully stage-managed by Publitalia. Christ, whoever would have thought that we’d miss the former regime so soon? Listen, if this new job doesn’t work out, you’re welcome to mine. When this retirement plan they’ve been threatening us with comes into effect, I’m going to cash in.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Giorgio. I can’t have your job, or even my old one. That’s the whole point.’

  De Angelis looked at him, suddenly serious.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’m being promoted out of harm’s way.’

  ‘They’re kicking you upstairs?’

  ‘Upstairs and to the left, all the way down the corridor to that little room at the end where no one ever goes. At least, that’s the way I read it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What harm could you do them?’

  ‘I have no idea. That’s what’s so worrying. If they simply wanted to get rid of me, they could have told me to take indefinite sick leave until this retirement deal comes through – the least we could do for un mutilato di guerra e del lavoro, etcetera, etcetera – and then handed me a cheque and kissed me goodbye. But for some reason I don’t understand, they seem to want to keep me in the organization but not of it, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Out of touch but under control?’

  Zen nodded.

  ‘As I say, I have no idea why, but I can’t read it any other way. Can you?’

  De Angelis pondered this for some time.

  ‘Maybe you’re being too cynical,’ he said at last.

  ‘One can never be too cynical.’

  ‘That’s pretty cynical. Try to be more positive. Maybe they really do respect your abilities and skills and want to put them to the best possible use.’

  Zen fixed him with a glassy eye.

  ‘“To facilitate positive interactions and innovative strategies fostering enhanced productivity in the crime issue resolution sector”? I don’t think so, Giorgio.’

  He turned to the window beside them.

  ‘Anyway, who cares?’ exclaimed De Angelis. ‘It sounds like a hell of a deal to me, whatever their motives may be. No staff meetings, no routine paperwork, no supervision and no bullshit? Anyone in Criminalpol would kill for an offer like …’

  ‘Giorgio.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look out there.’

  De Angelis followed Zen’s gaze to the street outside.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many people can you see?’

  Giorgio De Angelis attempted a laugh, which did not come off.

  ‘What kind of question is that?’ he demanded.

  ‘How many?’ insisted Zen, not turning to look at him.

  De Angelis sighed.

  ‘One, two, three, four, five. Now four. Now six. Now five again. No, now it’s …’

  ‘Can you see someone leaning against the wall right opposite, between that blue Fiat and the scooter?’

  ‘That young jerk in the green shirt? Yes, Aurelio, I can. My distance vision is still remarkably good, although I have some difficulty reading small print. Speaking of which, would you mind telling me what this is all about?’

  For a moment Zen was tempted to try and explain, but by now he was sane enough to restrain himself.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I just thought I recognized him, that’s all.’

  De Angelis regarded him with unmitigated perplexity.

  ‘How am I supposed to know whether you recognized him? Anyway, that’s not what you said. You asked if I could see him.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did. Never mind. Let’s just forget it.’

  Giorgio De Angelis gave a perfunctory nod.

  ‘Very well. He’s gone now anyway. So you’re not off to America after all?’

  ‘No. One of the two brothers I was supposed to testify against has apparently worked out a sistemazione with the prosecutors.’

  ‘As a result of which they don’t need you any more.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Shame. I was there a few years ago. A private trip to visit relatives in Chicago. You’d have liked it.’

  Zen sniffed.

  ‘I’ve never had any desire to go anywhere that wasn’t part of the Roman Empire.’

  As soon as the sentence was spoken, he realized how pompous it sounded. De Angelis looked at him in a way that made Zen realize suddenly that their friendship, if not over, had at least shifted in some important way. A moment later, he thought: he’s envious.

  ‘But if you’d been around at the time of the Roman Empire,’ De Angelis replied, ‘where would you have wanted to live? Carthage? Barcelona? Marseilles? London? Byzantium? Antioch? Alexandria? All very nice provincial cities with a low crime rate, state-of-the-art amphitheatres and immaculately maintained forums, and regularly topping the list of “Ten Most Livable Cities in the Empire”. No, you’d have wanted to live in Rome, at the heart of the beast, where the horrible action was. Well, today America is Rome.’

  Zen nodded abstractedly.

  ‘Have you heard about La Biacis?’ De Angelis murmured.

  The last thing Zen wanted to hear about was Tania Biacis, yet another former girlfriend who’d toyed with him for a while and then decided she could do better. But it would of course have been fatal to display the least reluctance to hear whatever Giorgio had to say.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Rich,’ De Angelis replied. ‘And I mean seriously rich. Remember that start-up company she founded to export authentic food and drink from the Friuli? Well, she branched out and started handling small quality producers in other areas of the country, nearly all in the south. When the Internet came along she saw her chance, hired a firm to design a killer web site, and started selling online. Agrofrul – now branded as Delizie – got big write-ups in a bunch of those glossy food-porn mags, and the next thing you know she was deluged with orders from all over the world. I mean she was shipping Calabrian honey to America and Sicilian bottarga di tonno to Japan!’

  Zen smiled thinly. He was thinking of his interview with þórunn Sigurðardòttir, the Icelandic policewoman. Maybe Tania’s private impresa, which she had used to run from her desk at the Ministry, had been the inspiration for the cover story he had given her. He hadn’t thought consciously about Tania for years, though, and certainly didn’t want to hear about her now. Nevertheless, he nodded.

  ‘Good for her.’

  De Angelis laughed.

  ‘No, no. That’s just the set-up. Then she got really smart. Just before the dot.com market crashed, she sold out to a multinational distributor looking for a high-end flagship line.’

  ‘But why would she do that, if the business was so successful?’

  De Angelis held up his right hand, the fingers outspread. Zen shrugged impatiently.

  ‘Cinque miliardi,’ pronounced De Angelis distinctly. ‘Five billion lire. She’d already quit her job here, of course. The last I heard, she’s bought a fabulous abandoned monastery near her native village in the Friuli and is restoring it as a luxury hotel and resort for the discerning rich.’

  Zen nodded vaguely. De Angelis slapped him on the stomach with the back of his hand.

  ‘You should have stuck with her, Aurelio. Then you could have told Brugnoli where to put this McJob he’s dreamt up for you.’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Well, I must be going.’

  ‘All right. But keep in touch. Come up to Versilia for the weekend some time. I’ll be there till the end of the month. Bring the wife and kids too, if you want. There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘I might take you up on that.’

  ‘You should.’

  The two men shook hands with a certain constraint, and then Zen walked back to the railway station, where he picked up his bags from the left-luggage office and took a cab to his home in the Prati district.

>   It was as his ‘home’ that he still thought of it, but the moment he turned the key in the lock and stood on the threshold, he realized that here, too, things had changed. A shaft of sunlight created a rectangle of brilliance on the floor, casting the rest of the room into comparative obscurity. The light looked as still and solid as a marble plinth, and yet it was changing even as he gazed at it. That was the real problem, he thought. The boundary between the darkness and the light was shifting all the time, but too subtly for us to be aware of it, except when it was too late.

  He had not been in the apartment for almost a year, and then only to make the necessary arrangements for his mother’s funeral. Every horizontal surface was covered in a fine layer of dust, while cobwebs hung like wisplets of high grey cloud from the ceiling. Maria Grazia, the housekeeper and latterly Giuseppina’s nurse, had long wanted to retire to her native village, but given the demands of Zen’s job and his mother’s state of health had loyally agreed on various occasions to stay on ‘for the time being’. Following Signora Zen’s death, however, she had finally given her notice. Oddly, Zen found himself missing her presence more than he did that of his mother.

  He lifted the phone and was greeted by silence. Evidently it had been cut off for non-payment of bills. He walked over to the kitchen door and flicked the light switch. Nothing. Probably the gas and water didn’t work either. This bothered him less than the phone being dead. He already felt sufficiently isolated and forgotten, an honorary member of the huldufolk.

  On instinct, he dug his mobile phone out of his baggage and dialled Gilberto Nieddu.

  The number rang and rang. Zen was just about to give up when a voice answered.

  ‘Fuck off,’ it said. ‘I don’t care any more, understand? It’s over. Just leave me alone, all right? Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘You’re not talking to me, Gilberto,’ said Zen.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Aurelio.’

  ‘Who?’

  Zen didn’t answer. There was a silence.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Hi, Aurelio.’

  Well, thought Zen, this is different. Since emerging from his shadow persona as Pier Giorgio Butani, everyone he’d spoken to so far had been all over him with questions and theories and opinions about what had or hadn’t happened to him in Sicily and since. Yet here was Gilberto, his closest friend, acting as though Zen had just got back from a week’s walking holiday in the Dolomites.