‘There’s no need to go to all this trouble,’ Zen remarked awkwardly, aware of his ambiguous status.
‘It’s no trouble,’ Manlio returned. ‘On the contrary. You have no idea of the pleasure in something as simple as making an omelette without having to think twice or explain what I’m doing or how I’m doing it. But the real reason for all this is that I want to try to get across to you that rather dry subject I broached earlier, but in a more liquid way.’
He carved off a chunk of the Parmesan and grated it into a bowl, then added the beaten eggs, tipped in the cooked vegetables in their oil with some salt and pepper, then stirred it all up and returned the mixture to the pan.
‘You need to taste the wine,’ he declared, as though uttering a philosophical imperative. ‘After all, that’s what it’s all about, in the end.’
With the same darting energy, he set about carving slices of raw ham and salami which he laid out on chipped, hand-painted platters. Then he opened the two bottles of red wine and poured Zen a glass from each.
‘Try this one first,’ he directed.
Zen did as he was told, and almost spat it out. To his palate, the wine tasted like ink: intense and bitter, sincero but distinctly uncharming.
‘Now this,’ said his host.
Once again Zen raised his glass, more cautiously this time. But this wine was much more welcoming, with a rounder, fuller, fruity flavour. Relieved, Zen immediately took a second gulp.
‘Well?’ Manlio Vincenzo enquired archly.
Zen pointed to the second glass.
‘I prefer this one.’
His host grinned.
‘Clearly you don’t know much about wine, Dottor Zen.’
‘I know that,’ Zen admitted sheepishly.
‘The first glass I offered you is our 1982 riserva. It recently fetched almost two thousand dollars a case at an auction in New York.’
Zen looked suitably impressed.
‘And how much does the wrong one cost?’
A pause and a distant smile.
‘No one knows. It’s never been put on the market, partly because it’s “wrong” in a legal sense as well. I made it myself from some stalks I brought back from France and planted on a section of land which got washed out in a landslide a few years back. My father was involved in a legal dispute with the local council about compensation and payment for a new retaining wall. I knew that was likely to drag on for at least a decade — my father was extremely litigious — and so I put in my own plants meanwhile. What you’re drinking is the result.’
‘Congratulations.’
Manlio Vincenzo got to his feet and went over to check on the eggs.
‘This is nothing to what I could make on favoured slopes with fully mature vines. What you’re tasting is a blend of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon. It would be interesting to try adding some Syrah, and maybe even mixing that in with the Nebbiolo. That’s what they’ve been doing in Tuscany for years now, having finally realized that Sangiovese usually isn’t terribly interesting, however “traditional” it may be. But up here tradition is still the word of God, protected by the full force of the law — and God help anyone who suggests otherwise.’
He flipped the frittata on to a plate, slipped it back into the pan to cook briefly on the other side, and then brought it to table.
‘Take that vineyard I just showed you,’ he said, serving Zen, ‘the one where my father died. It has good soil and ideal exposure. If we bottled it as a single-vineyard wine and gave it a dialect name, we could charge the same as Gaja does for his Sori Tildin or San Lorenzo. But that would be commercial suicide. We don’t have the marketing clout Angelo has, and we need the quality of that field and a few like it to keep our reserve Barbaresco up to par. So we hobble along, producing a good if no longer absolutely first-rate example of what is, in my opinion, a second-class varietal to begin with. Don’t tell anyone here I said that, though!’
They had just started to eat when the phone rang.
‘Damn!’ said Manlio. ‘If it’s those reporters again…’
But it wasn’t. After some monosyllabic exchanges, he turned to Zen.
‘It’s for you.’
Zen stared at him, then went over and took the phone.
‘Yes?’
‘ Hello again.’
It was the same dehumanized voice which had called him at his hotel that morning, a thin crackle like an aluminium can crushed in the hand.
‘First of all, a word of warning. Last time you hung up on me. That was a mistake I would advise you not to repeat if you are to have any chance of solving this puzzle before the solution is, so to speak, thrust upon you.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
He had spoken without thinking, and was answered with a tinny laugh.
‘You still don’t seem to understand. I ask the questions. You answer them. A bit of a change for someone in your position, but you’ll get used to it. Now, then, have you made any progress with the clue I gave you last night?’
This time, Zen held his tongue.
‘No? Via Strozzi, number twenty-four doesn’t ring a bell? Odd, really, given how many times you rang the bell there. I wonder if you’re really giving this matter your full attention. Let’s try clue number two. A name, this time. Amalia. Surely that must mean something? Amalia. Think about it. I’ll be in touch soon, and I hope that next time you’ll have something to say for yourself. Frankly, these one-sided conversations are becoming rather boring.’
The line went dead. Zen returned to the table and started in on his lukewarm slab of frittata.
‘Work?’ asked Manlio Vincenzo.
Zen took another sip of the Vincenzo Barbaresco.
‘This actually isn’t so bad,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘It stays with you, if you know what I mean. Some wines you drink and they’re gone, but this…’
‘It has a long finish, yes.’
Manlio gouged out another slab of Parmesan from the wheel with the special wedge-shaped tool used for this purpose.
‘Try it with this.’
Zen bit into the pungent, siliceous cheese and drank some more wine.
‘Even better,’ he pronounced. ‘“A long finish”, eh?’
He looked at his host and smiled cunningly.
‘Just what we both need in the present case, Signor Vincenzo.’
‘Are you suggesting that our interests are identical?’
‘Assuming you’re not guilty, of course.’
Manlio Vincenzo gave a light, cynical laugh.
‘Well, let’s assume that, shall we? For the sake of argument. How do our interests coincide, and what do you mean by “a long finish”?’
Aurelio Zen leaned back and lit a cigarette.
‘As I understand it, Signor Vincenzo, you’ve been released on a conditional basis because of a presumed link between the killing of this Beppe Gallizio, which you clearly could not have committed, and that of your father.’
Manlio nodded assent.
‘That’s good news, but it provides only a presumption of innocence in your regard,’ Zen went on. ‘Some piece of evidence could come to light at any moment which would tilt the balance the other way, sending you back to prison and me to Sicily.’
‘Sicily?’
Zen gave a brief description of the reason why he had been sent to Piedmont, this time — since the reference was unattributable — mentioning the name of the famous director in question. As he had hoped, Manlio Vincenzo was suitably impressed, albeit in a negative way.
‘So that’s how the system works!’ he exclaimed. ‘No wonder things are in the state they are.’
Zen smiled thinly.
‘“What matter the road, provided it leads to paradise?” I’ll find out who killed your father, Signor Vincenzo. But I need a little more time to do that, and to let the front-line posts in Sicily get filled. And you need to make your wine.’
Manlio Vincenzo picked up a lump of Parmesan and started to nibbl
e.
‘And just how do we achieve that?’
‘I need more information, in particular in an area which may be delicate or painful for you to discuss. You’ve told me that the real reason for the bad feeling between you and your father was about technical matters relating to wine-making.’
‘No, no! You haven’t understood. That was just one of the symptoms. What really infuriated him was that by sending me abroad, outside his sphere of control, he had created — as he saw it — a monster of ingratitude who refused to toe the paternal line any longer.’
Zen nodded.
‘I’ve been told that at the village festa he specifically accused you of homosexual tendencies, and of a liaison with someone called Andrea. Forgive me prying into your personal life, but is that true or not?’
To Zen’s surprise, Manlio Vincenzo laughed.
‘It’s certainly true that I’m involved romantically with someone called Andrea,’ he said in a tone laden with irony. ‘But the real reason my father made such a fuss about my supposed homosexuality was that it jeopardized his long-term plans for acquiring the Faigano estate.’
‘Gianni and Maurizio Faigano?’
Manlio rose, filled the caffettiera with grounds and water, screwed it together and set it on the stove.
‘They’re neighbours of ours. There’s only one daughter — a very late child — and no other heirs, so when the brothers die, she’ll inherit the entire property. It’s quite extensive, with some very good fields bordering ours, which produce excellent wine.’
‘So your father wanted you to marry Lisa Faigano.’
Manlio Vincenzo laughed.
‘The idea’s absurd! I’ve only met the child a few times. She’s seventeen and I’m almost thirty. My own inclinations aside, there’s no possible reason to suppose that she would have any interest in marrying me. In any case, her father would never agree. Maurizio and his brother are no friends of ours. In fact, we’re barely on speaking terms.’
‘Why’s that?’ Zen asked.
Manlio shrugged.
‘It’s just one of those things which are so common around here. You run up against them every so often, and soon learn not to ask questions. No one wants to talk about it, no one will explain. It’s just a given, like the lie of the land.’
‘Did you point this out to your father?’
‘Of course.’
‘What did he say?’
Manlio Vincenzo did not answer right away. He came back to the table and took another careful taste of wine.
‘He said, “Just get her pregnant, I’ll do the rest.”’
There was a silence.
‘I told him that times had changed, that things don’t work like that any more. “Leave that to me,” he said. “Just get her in the family way, that’s all I’m asking.” That was when I made the mistake of mentioning that I was already involved with someone else.’
The coffee came burbling up the spout and spluttered loudly. Manlio removed the pot and poured out two cups.
‘What did your father say to that?’ asked Zen.
‘He said he didn’t give a damn where I chose to stick it for pleasure. This was business, and my duty to the family was to marry Lisa Faigano, by force if necessary.’
He broke off, his head cocked to one side like a dog on the scent. Then Zen, too, heard the sound of a car engine, very faintly at first, but rapidly confirming its nearing presence.
‘Now what?’ demanded Manlio.
The car — a diesel, by the sound of it — pulled up in the courtyard. Manlio had got to his feet and was heading towards the door when it was flung open by a young woman in her mid-twenties wearing a long beige coat over a pullover and jeans. She shrieked something in English, and rushed to embrace Manlio Vincenzo, who reciprocated fervently.
‘Have you got any money?’ the woman asked, switching to Italian. ‘I forgot to change any at the airport and I have to pay the taxi. It’s so wonderful to see you, and you’re looking so well! I think you’ve lost a bit of weight, in fact. It suits you.’
Manlio Vincenzo turned to his guest in some embarrassment.
‘Do forgive us, dottore!’ he said. ‘I phoned last night when my lawyer told me the good news, but I had no idea…’
Zen stood up and bowed politely.
‘ Molto lieto, signorina. ’
The formal phrase recalled Manlio Vincenzo to the proprieties.
‘But of course you don’t know each other! This is Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen, my dear. Dottor Zen, allow me to introduce my fiancee, Andrea Rodriguez.’
‘Oh, not so bad,’ Minot replied to the brothers’ rhetorical enquiry as to how it was going. ‘Only too many cops, to tell you the truth. I gave one a lift this morning. You remember that character who showed up at the bar, pretending to be a reporter from Naples? He’s trying to pass himself off as a wine dealer now. And no sooner had I got home, than Pascal dropped by.’
Gianni Faigano nodded.
‘Thanks for the tip-off. I was able to lead the nosy bastard a merry dance and get a free feed into the bargain.’
‘I just wish they’d get the whole thing cleared up, one way or another,’ Maurizio said dourly. ‘All these cops hanging around makes things like this even more risky.’
He gestured towards the demijohns of wine in the shed beside which Minot had parked his truck. He was to take them to the cantina run by Bruno Scorrone, who would subsequently work a miracle of the loaves-and-fishes variety on the contents and split the profits with the Faigano brothers. Minot got paid a flat-rate transportation fee.
‘Speaking of which,’ Minot remarked lightly, ‘I need to ask you both a favour.’
The brothers exchanged a glance.
‘What sort of favour?’ asked Gianni.
‘Let’s load the wine, then we’ll talk.’
The job took the best part of twenty minutes. Lifting the hundred litre damigiane on to the bed of the truck was hard enough, but the really tricky part was ensuring that they were set down carefully enough to avoid breakage. In the old days, the glass was covered with a layer of wicker or rope, but now there was just a sheath of coloured plastic matting with little or no give.
Once the truck was safely loaded, the three men went inside for a glass of the product and a smoke.
‘So, two policemen in one day, eh?’ Maurizio remarked once they were seated. ‘What are things coming to?’
This was just an opening gambit in the match they were about to play, of no importance in itself. Someone had to move first. It was what happened afterwards that would determine the result.
‘That’s right,’ said Minot. ‘When I was driving home after a night in the woods, I saw someone walking up from the station towards the village. I naturally stopped and offered him a ride, only to find that it was our friend the spy. I don’t think he recognized me, but I knew him all right, with those stitches in his forehead.’
A silence fell.
‘Terrible business about Beppe,’ remarked Gianni Faigano.
‘Terrible,’ echoed Minot.
‘Why should he want to do something like that?’ Maurizio wondered aloud. ‘I spoke to him only a few days ago, and he seemed perfectly normal then.’
‘Maybe he didn’t do it himself,’ suggested Minot quietly.
Gianni looked at him.
‘How do you mean?’
Minot relit his roll-up, which had gone out.
‘Someone told me that you were driving into Alba that morning, and saw a truck parked close to where Beppe was killed.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ snapped Maurizio. ‘We were busy all day filling those demijohns.’
‘Well, someone saw a truck there,’ said Minot. ‘Told the Carabinieri about it, too. That’s how I found out, from Pascal.’
He finished his wine and poured another glass.
‘Take it easy,’ cautioned Maurizio.
Minot laughed harshly.
‘Don’t worry! If I get arrested, it won’t be
for drunk driving.’
The silence reformed, a swirling opacity like one of the morning fogs for which the region was notorious.
‘What were you two doing the night Beppe was shot?’ asked Minot, not looking at them.
Gianni gave a humourless laugh.
‘Eh, you’ve been spending too much time with cops all right, Minot. You’re beginning to sound like one yourself!’
Minot smiled.
‘Fair enough. But let’s say a cop asked you the same question, what would you tell him?’
‘The truth, of course,’ Maurizio retorted irritably. ‘We spent the evening watching TV and then went to bed.’
‘Was Lisa here?’
‘What the hell is…’ Gianni began.
‘Was she?’ Minot insisted, speaking to Maurizio.
‘She was at her aunt’s house in Alba.’
‘So you don’t have any witnesses to confirm your story,’ Minot concluded. ‘In theory, you could have gone out that night, followed Beppe down to the woods and shot him.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ yelled Gianni Faigano, pushing back his chair and standing up.
Minot held up his hands in a calming gesture.
‘Take it easy, Gianni. I know you didn’t kill Beppe. I didn’t either, but that didn’t stop Pascal from coming round and questioning me about it. Sooner or later it’ll be your turn. Just think how much easier everything would be if we all had a nice, solid alibi.’
‘Well, that’s too bad,’ snapped Maurizio, ‘because we don’t.’
‘I do,’ replied Minot with his nagging smile.
‘Good for you.’
‘I was out after truffles that night, miles from where Beppe was shot. And I wasn’t alone.’
‘Well, that’s a stroke of luck. Who did you go out with?’
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