Ratking az-1

by Michael Dibdin

  But Zen remembered hearing Crepi tell Silvio that afternoon, ‘But not Daniele, eh? God knows what he’s capable of!’ So whatever sort of thing it was, the youngest Miletti was being deliberately kept out of it.

  Gianluigi Santucci’s raucous voice suddenly cut loose, as if someone had flicked the volume control on a badly tuned radio.

  ‘Well, that’s his tough shit, in my opinion! If people arrive late they can’t expect everyone else to wait for them. It’s not as if he’s the head of the family or an honoured guest!’

  Crepi explained to the others that they had been discussing whether or not to wait any longer for Ubaldo Valesio.

  ‘What’s the point in waiting?’ Cinzia’s husband demanded. ‘These lawyers are always stuffing themselves, anyway. Lawyers and priests, they’re the worst!’

  ‘Yes, let’s get on with it!’ Silvio agreed. Judging by his tone, he meant ‘Let’s get it over with’.

  Crepi turned to Zen.

  ‘Dottore, you’re the neutral party here,’ he said with exaggerated heartiness. ‘What do you say?’

  Fortunately Cinzia saved him.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure the Commissioner feels just the same as the rest of us!’ she cried. ‘Let’s eat, for heaven’s sake! I’m starving, and you know Lulu’s digestion is always a problem. Standing around waiting just gets the juices going, you know, eating into the stomach lining. Horrible, disgusting. But he bears it like a lamb, don’t you, Lulu?’

  The dining room was cold and smelt damp. It was lit by a large number of naked bulbs stuck in a chandelier whose supporting chain ran up several metres to an anchorage planted with surreal effect in the midst of the elaborate frescos which covered the ceiling. Zen had plenty of time to study these buxom nymphs and shepherds disporting themselves in a variety of more or less suggestive poses as the meal proceeded at a funereal pace, presided over by an elderly retainer whose hands shook so alarmingly that it seemed just a matter of time before a load of food ended up in someone’s lap.

  The tagliatelle was home-made, the meat well grilled on a wood fire, Crepi’s wine honest and his bottle-green oil magnificent, but the dinner was a disaster. Ubaldo Valesio did not arrive, and without him, by tacit consent, the kidnapping of Ruggiero Miletti could not be mentioned. With this tremendous presence unacknowledged there was nothing to do but be relentlessly bright and superficial. Cinzia Miletti thus came into her own, dominating the table with a breathless display of frenetic verbiage which might almost have been mistaken for high spirits. Antonio Crepi punctuated her monologues with a succession of rather ponderous anecdotes about the history and traditions of Umbria in general and Perugia in particular, narrated in the emphatic declamatory style of university professors of the pre-1968 era.

  Silvio sat eating his way steadily through his food with an expression midway between a squint and a scowl, as though he were looking at something repulsive through the wrong end of a telescope. Gianluigi Santucci contributed little beyond occasional explosive comments that were the verbal equivalent of the loud growls and rumbles emanating from his stomach. The woman in the grotesque trouser-suit, who was apparently Silvio’s secretary, said not one word throughout, merely smiling ingratiatingly at everyone and no one, like a kindly nun watching children at play. As for Zen, he studied the ceiling and thanked God that time passed relatively quickly at his age. He could still remember half-hours from his childhood which seemed to have escaped the regulation of the clock altogether and to last for ever, until for no good reason they were over. Crepi’s dinner party made the most of every one of its one hundred and thirteen minutes, but shortly after half past ten its time was up and they all filed back into the other room.

  But despite the slightly more relaxed atmosphere, the situation remained blocked. There was continued speculation about what could have happened to Valesio, whose thoughtlessness in not ringing to apologize and explain was agreed to be typical. The origins of the problem were traced back to his mother, a Swede who had fallen in love first with Perugia and then with a Perugian, and who as a foreigner could not be expected to know how to bring up her son properly. But Zen was beginning to suspect that Crepi had been outmanoeuvred, that Valesio was staying away deliberately under orders from the Milettis in order to prevent any discussion of the kidnapping. So why didn’t they all go, for God’s sake? The farce had been played out to the bitter end and there was nothing to stop them making a graceful exit. The fact remained that no one appeared to have the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind.

  At last the sound of a motor was heard outside, and everyone perked up.

  ‘Ah, finally!’ cried Cinzia. ‘He’s impossible, you know, really impossible, and yet such a nice person really. My mother always told me whatever I did never to marry a lawyer. He’ll be late for his own funeral, she used to say, and I must say Gianluigi for all his faults is always on time.’

  This paragon of punctuality exchanged a glance with Silvio.

  ‘That’s a motorcycle engine,’ he remarked.

  Crepi got up and walked over to the window.

  ‘Well?’ Cinzia demanded. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘There’s nobody there.’

  ‘Exactly, there’s nobody here!’ a new voice exclaimed.

  Six heads turned in unison towards the other end of the room, where the door had opened a crack.

  ‘Or rather I’m here,’ the voice continued. ‘It comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Stop playing the fool, Daniele!’ cried Cinzia sharply. ‘You know what my nerves are like. What must you think of us, dottore? You must forgive him, he’s a good boy really. It’s my mother’s fault, God rest her. A good woman, a wonderfully warm person, but she hadn’t read Freud of course. I shudder to think how she must have toilet-trained us all.’

  The door swung open, but Daniele remained standing on the threshold. He was tall and shared his sister’s good looks, which were set off by about a million lire’s worth of casually elegant clothing: Timberland shoes, tweed slacks, a lambswool sweater and a Montclair skiing jacket.

  ‘What are you doing?’ exclaimed Silvio in a tone of sullen irritation. ‘Come in and close the door!’

  A contrived look of surprise and puzzlement appeared on Daniele’s handsome features.

  ‘What do you think I am, some kind of gatecrasher? Someone who just barges into parties he hasn’t been invited to? I wasn’t brought up on a farm, you know.’

  Antonio Crepi gestured impatiently.

  ‘Oh, come along, Daniele! We haven’t got time for this kind of thing. You know very well that I invited the whole family. If you couldn’t be bothered to come that’s your business, but don’t waste our time with these childish scenes.’

  ‘Oh, the whole family, eh? That’s not what I was told.’

  He came in and closed the door, staring pointedly at Silvio.

  ‘If you’re so fussy about your manners suddenly, then you might at least greet Antonio’s guest,’ chirped Cinzia. ‘This is Commissioner Zen, who’s come up specially from Rome to help save father. He’s from Venice, lucky man. What a beautiful city! I’m just crazy about Venice.’

  Daniele swung around and peered at Zen’s feet with comically exaggerated interest. He frowned.

  ‘That’s odd. I’ve always been told that the policemen in Venice have one wet shoe. You know, because when they’ve finished their cigarettes they throw them in the canal and…’

  He mimed someone stubbing out a cigarette with his foot and started to laugh loudly.

  ‘But Commissioner Zen’s feet are perfectly dry!’ he resumed. ‘So clearly he can’t be from Venice. Either that or he’s not a policeman.’

  ‘Shut your face!’

  The reprimand came not from Silvio or Crepi but from Gianluigi Santucci. Daniele continued to smile genially as though he had not heard him. He did not speak again, however. Neither did anyone else, and so silence fell.

  In the end it was left to Silvio’s secretary to save the situat
ion.

  ‘Well, I expect Commissioner Zen would like to get an early night,’ she remarked, as she stood up.

  It was the first thing Zen had heard her say all evening, and he realized with a shock that she was not Italian. Of course! With those clothes he should have guessed.

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, signora,’ he said, rising to his feet to ensure that her gesture did not go for nothing.

  ‘She’s not a signora,’ Cinzia corrected him. ‘She’s not married. Are you, Ivy?’

  It was a horrible and quite deliberate insult. Any woman of a certain age is entitled to be addressed as signora whether or not she is married. Everyone tensed for the reaction, but it never came. The woman stood there like a statue, smiling as beatifically as she had all evening.

  ‘That’s quite true, Cinzia,’ she replied evenly in her deep, chesty voice, enunciating every word with almost pedantic clarity. ‘But the Commissioner hasn’t been here long enough yet to know all these little details. However, I expect in a few days he’ll know more about us than we do ourselves!’

  It was a remarkable performance. The woman’s foreignness made Zen think of Ellen, and so it was with genuine warmth that he replied, ‘Good night, signora,’ and received a beaming smile in return.

  Everyone stood up, except for Daniele.

  ‘I don’t want to leave yet,’ he complained. ‘I only just got here.’

  Gianluigi Santucci strolled over to the sofa where he was slumped and grabbed him by the ear.

  ‘Ah, these young people today!’ he cried with vicious playfulness. ‘No energy, no initiative. It makes me sick!’

  With a mocking laugh he hauled Daniele to his feet and pushed him over to join the others.

  At the front door hands were shaken and formulas of farewell exchanged. At the last moment Crepi plucked at Zen’s sleeve, holding him back.

  ‘Not you, dottore.’

  The Milettis exchanged a flicker of rapid glances.

  ‘I thought he wanted to get anearly night,’ Silvio objected.

  ‘Don’t you worry about Commissioner Zen,’ Crepi smiled, all cheerful consideration. ‘Mind how you go yourselves, that driveway of mine is quite dangerous in places. I keep meaning to have it resurfaced but what with one thing and another I never get around to it.’

  ‘And if Valesio comes?’

  Gianluigi Santucci’s question, unlike that of his brother-in-law, had real meaning.

  ‘If Valesio comes he’ll get a dish of cold tagliatelle and a piece of my mind! But we won’t discuss the kidnapping behind your backs, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  Santucci grimaced.

  ‘Worried? Why should I be worried? It’s for others to worry, not me!’

  A few minutes later the disparate noises of the Fiat, the Santuccis’ Volvo and Daniele’s Enduro Trail bike had all faded to a distant intermittent drone that was finally indistinguishable from silence.

  ‘Well, what did you think of them?’ Crepi demanded as they returned to the living room. ‘But first let me offer you something to drink. Do you like grappa? I’m told this one is good. It’s from your part of the world. My youngest girl married a dentist from Udine and they send me a bottle made by one of the uncles every Christmas. Actually, my doctor has forbidden me to drink spirits, but I haven’t the heart to tell them that.’

  He handed him a glass of liquid as limpid as spring water.

  ‘Now listen, dottore,’ Crepi continued. ‘You must be wondering why I should want to ruin your first evening in Perugia like this.’

  Zen sniffed the grappa appreciatively.

  ‘I’m even more curious to know why they agreed to come.’

  ‘The Milettis? Oh, they came because each thought that the others were coming and no one wanted to be left out. This afternoon on the Corso, just before we spoke, I ran into Silvio. I mentioned the dinner and let him think that Cinzia and her husband were coming. Silvio didn’t care for the idea of Cinzia and Gianluigi discussing matters with you behind his back, so he agreed to come. Then I phoned Cinzia and told her that Silvio was coming, with the same result. And no one wanted to be the first to leave. If it hadn’t been for the foreigner I might have had to throw them out!’

  He did not make this prospect sound too displeasing.

  ‘And Daniele?’

  ‘Daniele’s less predictable. But you can usually get him to do something by convincing him that you don’t want him to do it. I told Cinzia not to mention the dinner to him, which is like asking someone to carry water in a sieve. He assumed he was being excluded and barged in trying to be as rude as possible to everyone. Little did he suspect that that was precisely what I wanted! But there you are, you see. They think they’re so clever, these children, but once you understand how they work you can do anything you like with them. It’s just a shame that Valesio couldn’t make it. If only we’d been able to discuss the kidnapping you’d really have seen what we’re up against.’

  Zen considered this for a moment.

  ‘I thought we were up against a gang of kidnappers.’

  ‘If only we were!’ Crepi exclaimed. ‘How simple that would be. But that’s why I invited you here this evening. Because if you’re to help, really help, the first thing you have to realize is that this is no ordinary kidnapping, for the simple reason that the Milettis are no ordinary family. Let’s start with Silvio. Of the whole brood, he’s the one who resembles his father most, physically I mean. In every other way they couldn’t be more different. Silvio hasn’t the slightest interest in the firm, or in anything else except his stamp collection, and one or two nastier hobbies. Ruggiero has never understood him. For example, when the time came for Silvio to do his military service everyone assumed that his father would make a few phone calls and get him exempted. Well, Ruggiero made the phone calls all right, but to make sure that Silvio not only did his full time but did it in some mosquito-ridden dump in Sardinia. He’d just begun to realize that his son was a bit of a pansy, you see, and he reckoned that was the way to make a man of him. I don’t think Silvio’s ever forgiven him for it. Not just the time in Sardinia, but above all the humiliation of having a father who thought so little of him he wouldn’t even play a few cards in Rome to get him off the hook.’

  Crepi stood up, opened a small ceramic jar on the mantelpiece and extracted a short cigar. He offered one to Zen, who shook his head and extracted one of the four Nazionali remaining. He realized with dismay that he had forgotten to bring a supply of those deliciously coarse cigarettes made from domestic tobacco, costing only a few hundred lire a pack but as difficult to find as wild mushrooms. In Rome he could count on getting them from a tobacconist to whose son he had once given a break, but in Perugia what would he do?

  ‘I won’t waste time on Cinzia,’ Crepi continued. ‘She’s just a pretty child who’s growing old without ever having grown up. There are only two important things about her. One is that husband of hers. I must admit to a sneaking admiration for Gianluigi, although he’s undoubtedly one of the most appalling shits ever invented. He’s not from round here, of course. You spotted those ugly Tuscan ‘c’s, like a cat being sick? Santucci’s been on the make since the day he was conceived. Marrying Cinzia Miletti hasn’t done his career any harm, of course, but he would have risen anyway, anywhere, under any circumstances.’

  Zen smiled slyly.

  ‘We have a saying in Venice. Whether the water is fresh or salt, turds rise to the top.’

  He immediately regretted the comment. What was he doing talking to Crepi in this familiar fashion? But his host’s laughter sounded genuine enough.

  ‘Quite right, quite right! I’ve been at the top myself, so I should know! Oh yes, Gianluigi has done all right for himself. With Silvio taking no interest and Pietro abroad, he’s wormed his way into the senior management level at SIMP. But of course Ruggiero still makes all the final decisions, and there’s no love lost between those two, needless to say. It must be quite a relief for Gianluigi to have
the old man out of the way. But we mustn’t forget the other important thing about Cinzia, which also applies to her little brother. It’s simply that when Ruggiero passes on, God forbid, they’ll each inherit twenty-five per cent of SIMP. A quarter of the company each! That’s quite a thought, isn’t it? Particularly when you realize that our foxy little Tuscan is married to one quarter and has the other very firmly under his thumb. Daniele ignores me and treats Silvio like shit, but he obeys his brother-in-law.’

  Zen took another little sip of grappa, rolling it around his mouth. The rough, stalky taste burned down his throat and up into his brain. Why was Crepi telling him all this?

  ‘What about Pietro?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it rather surprising that he’s not here in Perugia during his father’s ordeal?’

  Crepi nodded.

  ‘He did come back at first, but when the negotiations began to drag out he claimed that he had to go back to London to look after his business interests. He takes after his father in that. Silvio inherited Ruggiero’s looks, Pietro got the brains. He’s extremely sharp, but much too intelligent to let it show. Ruggiero has a slow country manner which has deceived a lot of clever Milanese into not reading the fine print. Pietro trades on his ten years in London. He originally went there to organize the distribution of SIMP products that end, then talked his father into letting him set up a semi-autonomous subsidiary to import a range of products. But that’s just a cover. His real business is currency manipulation. He’s organized a chain of more-or-less fictitious companies and shifts funds around between them, turning a tidy profit each time. Clever, eh? But Pietro is clever, and fiercely ambitious, although you’d never guess it from his manner. He acts like the model of an English gentleman, all vague and shy and diffident. But don’t let it fool you. You could use his ego to cut glass.’

  Zen felt his head beginning to swim.

  ‘I don’t expect to have much to do with the family. They’ve made it quite clear that they’re not prepared to cooperate with the authorities.’

  ‘I know. What bothers me is that they’re not prepared to cooperate with the kidnappers either.’