Medusa - 9

by Michael Dibdin

  He sat back and shut up. Gilberto Nieddu nursed his coffee and his cigarette for so long that Zen thought the gamble lost, but then he put both down and started to talk in an even, unemotional tone.

  ‘I first met Nestore in the late eighties, through a mutual friend. I’d just left the police and gone into the electronic security and espionage business. Soldani had just left the army and was looking for work. He’d been an officer in the Alpini – a volunteer, if you can believe that. Anyway, he had skills I needed and I used him on a few jobs, but he was too ambitious to stick with me for very long. The next thing I heard, he’d moved to Venezuela and had set up a variety of operations similar to those that I’ve been involved with over the years.’

  ‘Meaning illegal,’ risked Zen.

  Gilberto Nieddu modulated one hand in mid-air.

  ‘On the cusp, Aurelio. On the cusp.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Venezuela has rich resources of oil, as you probably know. We have none. Soldani also had contacts, notably a former comrade-in-arms who had even more contacts, some with high management figures in the state petrol firm AGIP. In short, Nestore was able to facilitate a very lucrative and mutually advantageous deal between the respective governments involved, undercutting the price to which Venezuela was officially committed by its agreements with the other OPEC countries. He took an appropriate percentage and then wisely decided to quit while he was ahead and retire to the old coun¬ try before things turned politically nasty in Caracas, which they did very soon afterwards. But of course he couldn’t be sure what his reception would be this end either, so he played it clever. Whilst over there, he changed his name, just to be on the safe side, took out Venezuelan citizenship under his new identity and then moved to Campione d’Italia. He bought a property there, which you have to do in order to become resident, and then got in touch with me out of the blue. I think he may have been a bit lonely. He invited me to come and stay, but I never got around to it. We were never close. As I said, it was a business relationship, while it lasted. But I was still shocked to read about what happened to him.’

  Zen nodded and stood up.

  ‘So who do you think did it?’

  Gilberto Nieddu shrugged.

  ‘Who knows? Nestore probably had other irons in the fire, stuff he hadn’t told me about. He claimed that he’d retired, which he could certainly have afforded to do, but men like that never really retire, any more than you or I ever will. Fine, everything’s perfect and life’s a bowl of cherries, but how are you going to get through the day? Nestore would have been wheeling and dealing within ten minutes of hitting the runway at Malpensa, and he wasn’t one to avoid risk. Rather the contrary, in fact. I can even imagine him courting it, particularly at his age. So I can only suppose that he got entangled with some real nasties, underestimated the threat and got rubbed out.’

  Zen nodded neutrally but did not move.

  ‘That tattoo,’ he said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You recognized it immediately, even from the unenhanced print.’

  ‘Back when he was working for me, Nestore used to wear short-sleeved shirts if the weather was warm. Showing off his biceps and chest hair, the macho look. The tattoo was very distinctive. I commented on it.’

  ‘Distinctive in what way?’

  ‘It was quite small and detailed.’

  ‘What did it show?’

  ‘A woman’s head.’

  ‘No script?’

  ‘No. Just the head, covered in hair in one of those ethnic styles. You know, sort of dreadlocks.’

  ‘Did you ask him what it signified?’

  ‘I can’t remember. No, wait a moment. I think he said it was something he’d had done while he was in the army. Some sort of fraternity for the junior officers. Anyway, I may be mistaken about the resemblance. Once the enhancement’s been done we’ll know for sure. They can do amazing things now, setting off one fragment against another in contrasting colours and so on. I should be able to send you something in the next couple of days, depending on how busy they are. Meanwhile, Ahmed will drive you wherever you want to go. For both our sakes, please keep the blinds closed until you are well clear of this area. You have your life, Aurelio, and I have mine. In either case, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.’

  ‘Is his name really Ahmed?’

  ‘Do you know, I’ve never asked.’

  IX

  Claudia called for the car at eleven. The sun had come out, and the air flowing in through the opened windows of the apartment seemed to be starting to warm up. Not actually hot, of course, not at this time of year, but still possible.

  The traffic, on the other hand, was impossible, as usual. Where had all these people come from? What were they doing there? Where were they going, and why? There were just too many of them, that was the problem. Other people were like food or drink, or lovers for that matter. What you needed was ‘an adequate sufficiency’, as her father used to say. Anything more was not only superfluous, but potentially noxious.

  When her parents were still alive, there had been no need for cars. They would just walk from their town house to Porta San Giorgio, take the chuffing train that went out into the Valpolicella and on to the shores of Lake Garda, and then alight in the straggly village where the villa stood almost opposite the station. But now the train had gone, like her parents, like the villa itself. Like Leonardo.

  Lost in her memories, Claudia was a second or two late noticing that the traffic light had changed. Some sharply- dressed teenage whippersnapper promptly recalled her to her duties as a responsible road user with three aggressive blasts on the horn, and then, while she was still groping for the gear lever, cut in front of her with insolent ease, as if to say ‘Time to check into the nursing home, Grandma!’ Bastards. It wasn’t just that there were so many of them, and the majority so young and contemptuous, but that all sense of decorum had been lost. Everyone was out for what they could get, like a brood of contadini snatching the only drinking mug in the house from each other’s hands.

  It suddenly occurred to her that the reason why she had such happy memories of the villa was that her parents had always seemed happy there. Well, one of the reasons. But perhaps that explained the Leonardo business as well. Like any child, she had desperately wanted her parents to be happy, but she didn’t know how to help them and they didn’t seem able to help themselves. Adults were supposed to know how to do things, but Claudia had realized very early on that her parents were utterly useless when it came to happiness. They didn’t have the first clue. Except at the villa. Which was presumably why, in her mind, it had become a magic place, with limitless and beneficent powers.

  The vanished railway had run alongside the road, so once the gridlock of the city fell behind Claudia was able to follow her childhood journeys in her mind, marking the stops that the train had made and the things which had happened there. That was where the terrifying lady had complimented her on her gloves. One wore gloves then, of course. ‘La contessa Ardigò,’ her mother had whispered, once the fearful apparition had alighted. And that other time, much later, in her teens, when a young contadino had taken something from his trousers and sprayed her with it like a water-pistol. It had smelt alkaline; strong, but not disgusting.

  On this occasion her mother had made no comment, since the incident had happened while Claudia was standing alone on the vestibule at the rear of the train, admiring the view, and she hadn’t felt it necessary to share the experience with her parents. She was already aware that there were many matters in their own lives that they did not share with her, so she had just been returning the compliment really, proving what a well-brought-up young woman she was, thanks to their constant and ‘ruinously expensive’ – her father – provisions for her. There were certain things that a lady did not discuss, even with her parents.

  Thirty minutes after leaving Verona, Claudia reac
hed the outskirts of the village, now even more straggly than before. She turned right past a garish concrete block of apartments into what was still a country road, then left into the lane behind the former property and parked in the shadow of the high wall whose every stone had seemed to her, as a child, to be formed from the compacted essence of those blessed souls dwelling in paradise of which the priests spoke.

  None of the new houses on the other side of the lane – infill from the boom years of the economic miracle that had given the Veneto a higher per capita GPA than Switzerland – showed any sign of life at all. It took her a tremendous effort to acknowledge that they were really there, let alone inhabited. In Claudia’s mind, that space would always be a bare upward slope of farmland lined with vines strung on wires.

  She got out of the car and walked over to the green wooden door in the wall. All this stuff about her parents! She had made an agreement with herself not to think about that. And especially not about Leonardo or the later consequences. But it hadn’t seemed to work. Whatever one was not supposed to think about ended up occupying more brain room than the things you were supposed to think about. It was like a tax that had to be paid on oblivion. Sometimes she wondered if it was worth it.

  She unlocked the garden door, went through and locked it behind her. Then, eyes closed, she turned around and leant back against its wooden boards. At least a minute passed before she opened her eyes again. It was all right. Everything was just as it ought to be, just as she had left it. The principal joy of the garden was that she had absolute control over it. So she did theoretically over the apartment in Verona, of course, but people came and went there, even if by invitation only, and left unmistakable traces of their presence behind. The garden was a pristine zone. No one ever came here except her. And Naldino, once. That had been only fair and natural. Here, after all, he had been conceived.

  Her destination was to her left, but she didn’t glance that way, preferring as always to proceed by indirection. She walked along the gravel path winding beneath the tall sycamores and holm oaks, nodding in a familiar, slightly bored manner to the mould-stained bust on its plinth, as one did to a servant, before moving on towards the pond where obese carp glided past below the screen of water lilies.

  Ahead of her now was the line of cypresses that she had planted to prevent the garden being overlooked from the new apartment block beyond. They were ugly beasts, but had grown out fast over the years, just as the nurseryman had promised, shooting up and filling in so as to completely conceal the high wall that she had insisted that the developers build to seal off her remaining parcel of property. Such had been her idea, and it had worked perfectly. The line of trees served its purpose, but in another sense it didn’t really exist at all, any more than the backdrop at the theatre that everyone is aware of but which no one looks at. What counted was what lay in front of it, not the painted curtain or the strident barricade of bare concrete behind. Only the stage mattered, and that was set, lit and glowing with atmosphere.

  Now it was time to turn back, crossing the grassy sward to reach another path strewn with a thin layer of blackened gravel. The two branches had originally met, further up the property, and had led to the double glass doors of the villa which gave out on to the garden. Her destination was in sight now, but she still didn’t look at it, keeping her eyes on the ground before her or the trees above. Every step she took, each move she made, was strictly choreographed, a ritual dance. For this was sacred ground. The usual rules were suspended here, supplanted by a much more rigid set.

  Once she had passed the huge elm tree that dominated this corner of the garden, it was permissible to look up and take in the miniature house with its green door and shutters. One rationale for this ritual was that she was always irrationally convinced that the house wouldn’t be there. The villa had gone, as had so many other things, and all of the people concerned. Why shouldn’t this, in many ways the most unreal of all, prove to have been just another of the false memories that her imagination was throwing up with increasing frequency these days, in its vain attempts to explain the inexplicable?

  She got the key out of her pocket with her right hand, then transferred it to her left. This too was part of the ritual, for when the little house had magically appeared, on her seventh birthday, she had been mancina. It had taken a lot of time, and much pain, for her parents and teachers to cure her of her perverse left-handedness, with its implication of being one of the sinister, of having been touched by the Adversary.

  But her parents had also given her this house, perhaps in part as recompense. Many of her memories might have been falsified, but not those of that birthday. The work had been done secretly, over the winter, and her parents had played their part to the hilt. When the day came, they had tied a length of muslin across her eyes and then led her down the garden of the villa amid a banter of jokes and teasing phrases, before placing her just right and then removing the blindfold. And she literally had not been able to believe her eyes. Nothing in the rest of her life – not even Leonardo – had been as magical and as sweet as that moment.

  As the front door creaked open, the odours leapt up and assailed her. She stooped to pass under the lintel, then straightened up as much as she could, her hair brushing against the ceiling. The first time she had taken him there, Leonardo had immediately banged his head on a beam and fallen against her, perhaps in surprise. They were wearing only their swimming costumes, and both had laughed excessively at this bizarre accident befalling two adults in a house made for a child. A light sprinkle of plaster dust had coated Claudia’s bare shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts. Leonardo had solicitously brushed it away, with many apologies for his clumsiness.

  Against the wall to her left, between the windows, hung a blank banner of black satin. Her mother had not permitted mirrors in the family apartment in Verona, except in the bathroom, claiming in her sometimes slightly creepy Südtirolisch way that they stole your soul. But in the case of Claudia’s playhouse her father had prevailed, arguing that it would make the main room seem lighter and bigger. After Leonardo’s death, she had not been able to bring herself to remove or destroy this mirror which had witnessed so much, but neither could she bear to meet its implacable gaze, so she had covered it over with a layer of cloth.

  Below it stood a tiny dresser, a perfectly proportioned miniature replica of the one in the living room of the apartment, and indeed by the same manufacturer. She opened the cupboard and retrieved one of the bottles of Cinzano Rosso she kept stacked there, then took a glass from the shelf above. The sweet red liquid, tinged with bitterness at the edges, flowed down her throat and brought a summery glow to her body. The light glowing through the squat four-paned windows was thin and weak, but with the help of the alcohol it created the right effect. The angle of the sun around the equinox was of course identical at either end of the year, but autumn had all the momentum of summer behind it, while winter’s exhaustion held spring back.

  Now she moved across the room, past the fireplace, the table and chairs, and the pretend stove on which she had lovingly cooked pretend meals for her dolls. The door at the end led to the bedroom where she had taken a nap after lunch every summer day as a child. The rules had been clear. Nights had to be spent in her room at the villa, but this house was hers during the day. Her parents were not permitted to intrude, although Claudia had contrived to invite some of her school- friends. She had made the most of that privacy and freedom then, and even more later.

  She closed the door behind her and hung her coat on the peg behind it, despite the fact that the lower half trailed on the tiled floor, then lay down in a foetal crouch on the tiny wooden bed. The pillow absorbed her head and released its own hoarded scents in return. This bedding had never been washed since the first time that she and Leonardo had lain there. She could still smell the hair lotion he had used, and more, the very scent of him. Curiously, her own she could not distinguish, although it must profusely have been there.


  But how had it all begun?

  Her glib memories, when she consulted them, tended to unreel the affair like a film or a play, where every action and phrase is foreknown and inevitable, but they were false. It hadn’t been like that. It couldn’t have been. On the contrary, not the least of the thrills involved had been that they were both finding their way all the time, each of them anticipating an excruciatingly embarrassing rebuff at any moment.

  The very fact that Leonardo had come out from his barracks in Verona to the villa, one weekend when he must have known that Gaetano was away at a NATO conference in Brussels, ‘in order to return some books on military history that Colonel Comai was kind enough to lend me’, incurred a slight risk in itself.

  Claudia had received him on the patio behind the villa. She had been swimming in the small pool that had now been buried beneath the concrete parking lot of the new apartment block, and was wearing her bikini with a towelling robe over it. It was an August afternoon, a still, massy heat that threatened thunder.

  He had apologized profusely for disturbing her and kept rather distractedly insisting that he should leave at once. Claudia had invited him to stay for tea, and had succeeded in making him feel that it would be impolite to refuse. She had then removed the towelling robe, with the excuse that it felt clammy, and clad only in the bikini had basked in the sun for some time, prompting the tongue-tied young lieutenant with a series of questions about his family, background and aspirations. She had not looked at him, but had felt very strongly his eyes upon her. When tea was brought, she had slipped back up to her room in the villa and returned wearing a silk wrap that she allowed to fall open from time to time, particularly when she leaned forward to pour the tea. When he finally left, she had told him that he was most welcome to return at any suitable time.