Back to Bologna

by Michael Dibdin

  35

  It was a tribute to the vigorous if crude skills of Vincenzo Amadori’s hair stylist that when he entered La Carrozza, neither Bruno nor Rodolfo recognised him at first. Vincenzo had spent much of the afternoon at a hair salon in an unfashionable suburb having his rug cut, dyed pink and spiked in retro-punk mode. Spotting Rodolfo and his Ruritanian tart at their usual table, Vincenzo slouched over and plonked himself down.

  ‘Got the bag?’

  Rodolfo jerked a thumb at the corner behind his chair.

  ‘Right then, I’ll be off,’ said Vincenzo, getting to his feet again.

  ‘Oh, calm down!’ Rodolfo replied. ‘And sit down. No one’s going to pick you up here looking like that. In either sense of the phrase. So stay and have a drink with us, at least. Flavia and I have something to celebrate.’

  He signalled to the waiter to bring another glass. Vincenzo leered at the bottle.

  ‘Veuve Clicquot? Sort of pricey shit my parents and their set drink to impress each other. What the fuck’s this all about? You win the lottery or something?’

  ‘In a way,’ Rodolfo replied with a long look at Flavia. ‘We just got engaged.’

  Vincenzo slewed his head like a startled horse. The extra glass arrived, and Rodolfo did the honours.

  ‘Here’s to all of us!’ he proposed gaily.

  He and Flavia clinked glasses. Vincenzo downed his dose in one, scowled and lit a cigarette.

  ‘You don’t seem very happy for us,’ Flavia remarked.

  Vincenzo shrugged.

  ‘For you, maybe. Not for me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Other people’s happiness brings me bad luck.’

  A soggy silence followed.

  ‘So what exactly is all this about?’ asked Rodolfo, jerking a finger at Vincenzo’s hairdo and a thumb at the bag of clothing he had brought.

  Vincenzo drew a small bottle of some clear spirit from his pocket and had a long slug.

  ‘I told you, fuckwit!’

  ‘You said that the private detective your parents hired to check up on you claims to have evidence that you committed a crime. What crime?’

  Vincenzo squirmed uneasily in his chair.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Meaning you don’t trust us.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, that’s all. Okay, it was the thing that happened today. That prof at the uni got plugged.’

  ‘You didn’t do that!’ Rodolfo exclaimed.

  ‘Of course I didn’t! Even if the cops find me, they’ll never be able to prove a thing. I just don’t need the hassle, that’s all. That’s why I’m going to lie low for a while.’’

  ‘Can’t you prove that you were somewhere else at the time?’

  ‘I was asleep.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Listen, I didn’t fucking do it, okay? This time I’m completely and utterly innocent.’

  Rodolfo nodded seriously.

  ‘I know you are,’ he said. ‘You see…’

  ‘This time?’ Flavia put in.

  Vincenzo gave her a hard look, as though recognising her as an equal. He’s never looked at me like that, Rodolfo thought.

  ‘Well, I did Curti! I’ve been telling everyone that until I’m blue in the face, but of course the bastards don’t believe me when it’s the truth. Instead they try and nail me over this lie.’

  ‘So you killed Lorenzo Curti,’ Rodolfo remarked, just to remind them both that he was still there.

  ‘Sure. I’d been carrying that Parmesan cutter around for weeks. My first idea was to carve up the paintwork on his car when he was at one of the games down here and leave the knife at the scene to make a statement.’

  He laughed raucously.

  ‘Get under his skin a bit, know what I mean? But I never had a chance. He always had one of his minders with him, or some business buddy.’

  He jerked back another drink.

  ‘But that night in Ancona everything came together. After the game I hung around the VIP entrance to the stadium, and for once Curti came out alone. He knew my father and he’d seen me around the house back when I used to live there. So when I told him that I’d missed the fan bus and asked for a lift back to Bologna he waved me into his Audi. He came off the autostrada at San Lázzaro to let me out, and when he pulled over I let him have it. Then I stuck the cheese cutter in his chest and walked home. Nice touch, don’t you think? The Parmesan knife, I mean.’

  ‘What did you talk about on the drive back?’ Flavia enquired.

  Vincenzo stared at her in utter bewilderment.

  ‘What the fuck’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Where did you get the gun?’ Rodolfo demanded, in an intentionally ironic parody of the typical commissario di polizia, given to fixed ideas and the third degree. Vincenzo laughed uneasily and flashed one of his rare radiant smiles, switching effortlessly into his alternative persona as someone gifted with beauty to burn, who could not only get away with anything but make you long for him to try.

  ‘I came by it,’ he said, waving his hand as though to suggest that firearms regularly fell into it by some process that he did not understand but was powerless to prevent.

  ‘Oh come on!’

  ‘No, really. There was this old guy in the bar, right?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Ancona, after the game. He was taking photographs of me and the boys with that camera I showed you and I sussed that he must be the snooper my parents had hired. They hadn’t told me, natch, but the housemaid gave me a heads-up. So when the guy goes to pee I go in after him and smash his head against the wall, then go through his pockets. And I find the camera, very nice job too, full of digital shots of us, and also a pistol.’

  Vincenzo frowned.

  ‘And then someone took it! From our apartment. I’d hidden it behind the books in your bedroom.’

  He shot Rodolfo a glance.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘The private detective, of course,’ said Flavia. ‘He must have been keeping a watch on the house, because he followed me back to mine and then came round later and tried to pump me for information.’

  ‘You never told me that!’ Rodolfo protested.

  ‘I thought it might disturb you after your bad news at the university. Anyway, Dragos must have recognised your friend here when he attacked him, then raided the apartment when you were both out and taken his gun back.’

  ‘Who’s Dragos?’ both men asked in unison.

  ‘Oh, that’s just my name for him. I thought he was a secret policeman.’

  Vincenzo drained the last drops from his bottle.

  ‘Anyway, the only thing for sure is that this Ugo business had nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know the old fart. Was he really famous?’

  ‘In some circles,’ Rodolfo replied airily.

  He was tempted to end Vincenzo’s anxieties by confessing the truth, but that would start a crack in his relationship with Flavia that could never be made good. He decided to let Vincenzo sweat it out overnight and contact him in the morning. Besides, there was just the remotest possibility that he was telling the truth about the Curti killing. The pistol definitely existed, after all, and he had presumably concealed it in Rodolfo’s room to throw suspicion on him if it were discovered in the course of a police search. No, he didn’t owe Vincenzo any favours.

  A gale of laughter swept over from the large table in the centre of the room.

  ‘Who are these wankers?’ yelled Vincenzo, whirling around. ‘More happy fucks! Jesus, my luck’s certainly run out tonight.’

  ‘It’s that young girl’s birthday,’ said Flavia. ‘They’re just having fun.’

  ‘Fun? Fun? You think that’s what life’s about, having fun?’

  ‘Then what?’

  Vincenzo’s lips crinkled in a contemptuous sneer.

  ‘Stopping other people having fun,’ he said. ‘That’s what it�
��s all about, sweetheart.’

  Flavia sniffed dismissively.

  ‘Well, you’re not going to stop us having fun. Is he, Rodolfo?

  But Rodolfo did not seem inclined to answer. His eyes held Flavia’s, and his gaze was deeply disturbed.

  36

  ‘…and add the garlic. Now the oil. No, not like that! In a slow drizzle, like the rain from heaven! Did your mother have to teach you to pee? How can anyone be so cack-handed? Listen to nature, only to nature! She always tells you what to do.’

  Rather her than you, thought Rinaldi.

  ‘Now a fine grating of nutmeg, like the winter snow dusting down from the mountains…’

  ‘How much?’

  Her lullaby-like reverie disturbed, the crone glared at him.

  ‘How much what?’

  ‘How much nutmeg!’ screamed the chef.

  She stared at him in apparently genuine amazement.

  ‘Ma quello che basta, stupido!’

  Just enough. Thanks, grandma.

  ‘Enough, but not too much,’ Rinaldi’s mentor continued dreamily. ‘For us it’s traditional. How could a foreigner like you understand? Are you a Catholic or a Turk? Never mind, you’re a man, that’s the problem. Men should stay out of the kitchen. They don’t have a clue about cooking. How can they, when they’re not in tune with the rhythms of nature? We women have them in our bodies like the tides. Listen to nature, only to nature! Follow your innermost impulses and you can never go wrong!’

  Romano Rinaldi just succeeded in resisting the temptation to follow this advice by swinging the frying pan round and beating the old bat to death with it, but it was touch and go. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Somehow he finished the order and carried the dishes out to the serving counter two at a time. As he took the last one, the now familiar howl erupted from his tormentor. The waiter duly appeared and arranged four of the plates on each arm, but the ninth defeated him.

  ‘Bring that,’ he ordered Rinaldi.

  Lo Cheffollowed him out into the dining area, where the birthday celebrations were now in full swing. The waiter curtly directed Rinaldi to present the dish he was carrying to a girl of about sixteen who was sitting at the head of the table, a string of pearls which might or might not have been genuine about her neck, and a glow that certainly was on her face. The padded case in which the necklace had been presented lay open on the table.

  Romano Rinaldi laid her pasta down with a flourish.

  ‘It’s your birthday, signorina?’ he enquired.

  The girl nodded. Rinaldi bowed deeply.

  ‘Tanti auguri. May I ask your name?’

  She shrugged awkwardly and blushed.

  ‘Mi chiamano Mimì, ma il mio nome è Lucia.’

  Romano Rinaldi touched her hand for the briefest of moments, then turned to the table in general and launched into the big tenor aria from the end of the first act of La Bohème, wittily changing Rodolfo’s description of himself to ‘Who am I? I’m a chef. What do I do? I cook.’ This provoked much laughter and applause, but the real pleasure for Rinaldi was the realisation that his voice was perfectly adapted to the intimate acoustics of this space, and absolutely on key. In the studio he had to be miked up and his vocal interventions electronically tweaked in post-production to raise flat notes, lower sharp ones, and generally boost the volume, but now he didn’t need any of those tricks. All that mattered here was pitch, range and style, and he had all three in spades.

  As he forged forward, he realised with a certain pleased astonishment that he wasn’t just imagining this in his usual drunken or stoned stupor. It was real, and everyone else in the room felt it. The entire company fell silent, transfixed by the narrative thrust of Puccini’s melodic line and the naked glory of the human voice. Every eye was fixed on Rinaldi in respectful silence as he completed the entire aria with inexhaustible confidence, climaxing effortlessly on the difficult high ‘La speranza!’ which he held for fully ten seconds, bringing cries of ‘Bravo!’, before lowering his voice to a tender pianissimo for the concluding bars.

  The result was a spontaneous and prolonged ovation from everyone in the restaurant. Standing there in his sauce-spattered apron, Rinaldi acknowledged his audience with appreciative bows, then turned to the overwhelmed birthday girl, kissed her hand lightly, and floated back towards the kitchen. As he passed the pizza oven, Normo stared at him in stunned silence. Rinaldi smiled casually and rounded the corner into the corridor, where he promptly slammed into some punk dropout with pink hair on his way back from the lavatory.

  The youth, who was evidently drunk, ended up on the floor. When Rinaldi offered him a hand he received a torrent of obscene abuse in return, but just ignored it and walked on down the passageway. In that moment of exaltation, nothing could touch him. This was even better than la coca! Not only was he the star of the evening, but he’d just had a fabulous insight that would save his career from the disgrace of that disastrous cookery contest and propel it to still greater heights of glory and riches. Real Work: a new concept, a new show, a new book, a new…

  Something hot, wet and sticky exploded on the wall beside him. The street kid he’d accidentally knocked over grabbed another of the plates of pizza that Normo had set out on the counter and hurled it at Rinaldi.

  ‘Stronzo di merda, vaffanculo!’

  ‘You’re barred, you bastard!’ screamed Normo ritualistically, but he couldn’t take any action, shut away as he was behind the counter. As for the two waiters, they seemed disinclined to enter the fray. The aggressor reached for another pizza. Rinaldi stepped smartly into the kitchen and dug the replica pistol out of the pocket of his jacket. Waiting until the third pizza and its plate exploded against the door to the lavatory, he stepped back into the corridor.

  ‘Out,’ he said decisively, waving the barrel of the pistol at the intruder.

  The youth stared at the weapon with fascination rather than fear.

  ‘Hey, that’s my gun!’

  ‘Out!’ Rinaldi repeated, whirling the troublemaker around by his left arm and marching him towards the door.

  37

  ‘Remember what I said about us being left free to concentrate on public order issues?’ Zen murmured to Bruno sarcastically.

  He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.

  ‘Here’s your chance to make the big arrest that brings promotion.’

  The patrolman rolled his eyes.

  ‘It’s just one of those little punkabestia creeps who hang out under the portico of the Teatro Communale and in Piazza Verdi. We don’t bother much with them. The drug dealers take care of the really violent ones. They don’t want any trouble on their turf.’

  ‘Neither, apparently, does lo chef,’ Zen remarked as the troublemaker passed their table on his way to the front door, escorted by the foreign cook who was screaming ‘Out! Out!’ and prodding the younger man in the back with what was presumably some kitchen implement.

  ‘Holy Christ!’ said Bruno. ‘That’s Vincenzo Amadori.’

  ‘What a charmer.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  Zen shrugged.

  ‘No longer our case, is it?’

  ‘Don’t forget your stuff, Vincenzo!’

  The cry came from the boyfriend of the young woman whom Zen had noticed earlier. He had grabbed the blue nylon duffle bag he had brought and was now squeezing through the tables towards the door.

  ‘There could be evidence in that bag,’ said Bruno urgently. ‘We should take him!’

  Zen lit a cigarette. Time to buy a new pack, he thought. The tobacconists would be closed by now, which just left the machines.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a lot of paperwork, you can say goodbye to the rest of your evening, and in the end the Carabinieri will get all the…’

  But Bruno was already on his feet and gone. Ah, youth!

  38

  Out in the street, the situation had already changed. The shortorder cook stumbled on the edge of
the doorstep and the yob he was ejecting took advantage of this momentary loss of balance to turn on him. He emerged from the ensuing scuffle holding an automatic pistol. Aurelio Zen stubbed out his cigarette and called in on his work mobile to explain the situation and order the immediate dispatch of a squad car. Rising from the table, he collided with the young woman he had been eyeing earlier, who was now rushing towards the door with the skinnier of the two waiters in hot pursuit.

  ‘And the bill?’ he called plaintively. ‘Over a hundred with the champagne!’

  Zen followed the woman out to the street, where her companion had been grabbed and hoisted under the armpits by the punkabestia person, who was holding the pistol to the side of his head.

  ‘Back off or the puppy gets it!’ he yelled.

  ‘Police!’ Bruno retorted, keeping his distance and evidently uncertain what to do next. ‘Lay down the gun! You’re under arrest!’

  The gunman didn’t even glance at him, his attention entirely absorbed by the imposing spectacle of the young woman closing in on him.

  ‘Put my boyfriend down this instant or you’ll have me to deal with!’ she shouted.

  Apatrol car swept around the corner, light bar pulsing but siren stilled, and screeched to a halt a few metres away. Vincenzo Amadori surveyed the situation, then lowered his weapon, released Rodolfo and burst into laughter.

  ‘Ah, fuck!’ he said.

  Flavia took the pistol from his fingers and handed it to Bruno. Nobody else approached Vincenzo, who stood swaying about, alternately screwing up and widening his eyes like someone learning a potentially enthralling new skill.

  ‘Are you a friend of his?’ Zen asked Rodolfo.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A police officer.’

  ‘We share an apartment.’

  ‘What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Just some clothes he asked me to bring him.’

  While Bruno, aided by his fellow patrolmen, handcuffed Amadori, Zen started looking through the contents of the duffle bag. He lifted out a striped cream silk shirt bearing the Versace label and held it up to the light of the restaurant’s neon sign. Several brown stains were visible on the right-hand chest panel.