'If only we could get in touch with the right people,' sighed Iolanda. 'People with connections. It's hard for two girls all alone, with no friends or family to help…'
The voices faded as Zen walked upstairs to his own flat. The door was open and the lights on, but there was no sign of anyone home. Then he continued up the spiral staircase giving access to the roof extension and there they were, standing out on the terrace, smoking cigarettes and gazing up at the twinkling lights of a passing plane.
Given the delays considered normal at Capodichino, it might even be the one entrusted with the safety of their darling girls.
Che figure interessanti Twenty minutes later, as Aurelio Zen walked up the steps and down the street to the turn-of-the-century palazzo where Valeria Squillace lived, it was with a sense of a job, if not well done, at least well begun. Putting Dario De Spino on the payroll had definitely been an excellent inspiration, and the crucial negotiations with Gesualdo and Sabatino had gone much more smoothly than he had feared.
Initially the two men had seemed distinctly suspicious of 'Alfonso Zembla', and had asked a great many questions about his life, work, residence in Naples and relationship to the Squillace family. For all of ten minutes they had interrogated him like a couple of cops, while Zen fed them a mixed diet of innocuous facts, half-truths and outright lies. Yes, he was from the North, from Venice. He worked in the port of Naples as a customs inspector, and was distantly related to Valeria Squillace on her father's side.
As for this sudden interest in Orestina's and Filomena's private lives, he explained that he had become a sort of uncle to the two girls, who confessed things to him that they would not tell their mother. He understood the latter's doubts and anxieties about this double liaison, so unsuitable on the face of it, but considered them unfounded. That was why he was taking advantage of a combination of circumstances which had arisen to give Gesualdo and Sabatino a chance to redeem themselves in the eyes of the girls' mother.
As an act of charity, he explained, Signora Squillace had responded to an appeal on behalf of the Albanian refugees who were flocking to Italy, seeking work and a better future. The nuns who sponsored the appeal were housing and feeding many hundreds of these immigrants in their own facilities, but the demand exceeded their capacities and they had appealed for help to many of the city's wealthier families, including the Squillaci, who had responded positively to similar appeals in the past.
Zen hinted obliquely at some dark secret which Signora Squillace felt obliged to expiate by allowing some vacant rental property she owned to be occupied temporarily by deserving cases selected by the nuns. It was only after doing so that she had seen a newspaper report suggesting that some of these supposed 'refugees' were in fact criminals and prostitutes who had left Albania to escape justice, and who were continuing to carry on their trade in Italy.
Her anxieties had been alleviated to some extent by the knowledge that he, Alfonso Zembla, was on the premises to keep an eye on what was going on. Unfortunately an exceptional situation which had arisen at work meant that for some time he was going to have to spend a considerable amount of time away from home, starting tonight…
'What sort of situation?'
The question came from Gesualdo. The tone was dry, almost ironic, as though he already knew the answer. He really would have made an excellent interrogator, thought Zen.
'An undercover operation/ he replied. "I can't say any more. It's all strictly hush-hush.'
Zen was gratified to see that the two men exchanged a significant glance. He had chosen his professional cover partly to explain his presence in the port area, if they should find out about it, but partly with a view to giving them a further incentive to comply with his request. Given their presumed line of work, the prospect of having an ally in the Customs might be expected to exercise a powerful appeal.
Now it was time to emphasize the other benefits which they stood to gain.
'What I want to be able to do is tell Valeria — Signora Squillace — that I've left the place in safe hands, and she has no reason to worry that it's being used as a whorehouse, or worse. So we kill two birds with one stone. I can concentrate on my job, while you two get the credit for defending the Squillace family property against the depredations of the Muslim hordes.'
'We can't just sit around here all the time,' Sabatino protested. 'We've got work to do, too.'
'That's no problem. The main thing is that you spend the night here, and check up on the situation whenever your other responsibilities permit. I take it that your families can spare you for a few days? That's all it'll take, just until this emergency situation at work blows over…'
A lot more negotiation, maneuvering and mutual mendacity had followed on both sides, but in the end the two men agreed, albeit somewhat grudgingly, to what Zen proposed. He had given them a brief tour of the flat, pointing out such details as the tricky gas tap and the trip switches which went if you attempted to use more than one electrical appliance simultaneously, reminded them to double-lock the door and turn off the lights when they went out, then picked up the overnight bag he had packed earlier and left before they had time to change their minds.
Some weeks earlier, when they had first discussed this idea, Valeria had mentioned that since he was putting himself out in this way on behalf of the family, the least she could do in return was to provide him with a roof over his head. He had assumed that she was thinking in terms of a hotel room, but when the issue came up again she had pointed out that with her daughters away there were two vacant bedrooms in her apartment, and that he was welcome to stay there.
It had never for one moment occurred to Zen that this invitation was the result of anything other than expediency, and perhaps the thrift which notoriously characterized wealthy families. What with the costs of the girls' trip to London, to say nothing of Zen's incidental expenses, which Valeria had agreed to underwrite, this was going to end up costing her several million lire. What more natural than that she should wish to save the additional extravagance of hotel accommodation for her collaborator?
It was only when Valeria came to the door to greet him that another possible scenario occurred to Zen. It was indeed thrust upon him, in the form of the formidable and breathtakingly visible bosom which nuzzled him in the ribs as Valeria leaned forward to give and receive their usual — and, as he had always thought, entirely conventional — peck on the cheek. Her black gauze gown, cut very low both front and back, left just enough to the imagination to arouse interest. A pervasive scent, subtle but heady, completed these discreet provocations.
'So how did it go?' she asked, bolting the door behind Zen and taking his bag.
'Fine, excellent, perfect, great, no problem,' he burbled incoherently.
Valeria produced a smile he had never seen before, like someone unwrapping a fragile family heirloom from its cocoon of tissue paper.
'You're a wonder!' she said.
The Squillace apartment could not have offered a greater contrast to the building in which it was situated, a ponderous and brooding edifice seemingly cobbled together from discarded designs for a museum, railway station or opera house. Its pointlessly grandiose dimensions suggested the pretensions and insecurity of recent riches rather than real power and permanence, an impression strengthened by the large quantity and low quality of the decorative details, which betrayed a vulgar terror of the unadorned and the asymmetrical.
But once inside the apartment, everything was light, bright, sparse and stylishly luxurious. The overall tone was Milan: ranks of cupboards in white polyester resin with bare wood fittings, lots of glass and steel shelving and tables, long low sofa units, bare parquet floors with one or two oriental rugs, pale grey walls enlivened with a few large modern oils.
'We used to entertain a lot when Manlio was alive, so we needed the space/ Valeria said as they entered the salon, which stretched some thirty feet across the entire width of the apartment, divided into a sitting and dining area. Through the open win
dows, a scattering of lights and a vast blankness hinted at the fabulous view which the place must command by day.
Valeria guided Zen to a corner of the sofa set and seated herself beside him.
'But it's not worth moving now/ she continued. 'As soon as the girls get married, I'll go home.'
'Where's that?'
Terrara.'
He looked surprised.
"I didn't realize you were from the North.'
'Oh, yes, and o/it, too. I only moved down here because of Manlio. For the girls it's different, of course. They were born and brought up here. To them it's their home.'
'So how did you meet your late husband?' Zen asked politely.
'At a wedding. He was the best man and I was one of the bridesmaids. The groom was a cousin of Manlio who looked after certain business interests he had in EmiliaRomagna.
Manlio proposed to me two weeks later.'
She looked at Zen intently.
'That's who it is!' she exclaimed, laying her hand on Zen's arm.
'Who what is?'
'I knew you reminded me of someone, but I couldn't think who. Of course, it's Orlando! You could be twins.
I've got a photograph somewhere, I'll show you.'
She got up to fetch it, but at that moment the telephone sounded, a confident rich burble. The call wasn't for Zen, although plenty of people were desperately trying to contact him at that very moment. But his own phone was out of action, and he had been careful to avoid telling anyone where he was staying.
Valeria was on the phone for some time, evidently talking to her daughters in London. She had, Zen realized, a good body, but he still wasn't interested. No more romantic complications for him. He was very comfortable with the role he had been playing since coming to Naples: the philosophical observer who looks on with wry amusement at the follies of others but is too wily and cynical to risk becoming entangled himself.
She turned towards him, catching him eyeing her, and smiled unexpectedly.
'I'm sure it'll all seem better in the morning, darling. Anyway, I've got to run, there's someone at the door. Try and get some sleep, and give me a call in the morning. Bye!'
She hung up and drifted back towards Zen.
'So how are they finding London?' he asked.
'They say it's just as dirty as Naples, the traffic's even worse, there are more beggars and it's cold and raining.'
'But they're going to stick it out?'
'Filomena sounded a bit homesick. She's always been the weaker one. She gets moody quite easily. But Orestina's made of sterner stuff, and proud too. And in the end Filomena will go along with whatever her sister decides.'
She stood over him, smiling.
'Now, then, would you like something to drink? Some tea? A nightcap?'
'Tea would be wonderful. And then I must get some sleep. I have rather an important case on at the moment, and I'll need to be up early.'
'Is it something to do with this Strade Pulite business?'
Valeria asked, heading off towards the far end of the room.
'No, no. That has nothing to do with me.'
He got up and followed her across the dining area into a luxuriously equipped kitchen.
'Well, I don't know who's behind it/ Valeria remarked, filling a kettle, 'but I wish them the best of luck. The people they claim to have abducted are the very ones poor Manlio worked with for years and trusted like his own family, and who then left him to fend for himself against the judges without lifting a finger to save him!'
She set the kettle on the stove.
'Which reminds me, come in here and I'll show you that picture.'
She led the way into a small room furnished with a desk, filing cabinet and a small set of bookshelves. The air smelt faintly of cigar smoke.
"This was Manlio's office/ Valeria said. "I don't need the space, so I just left everything as it was, what was left of it.
The Guardia di Finanza came and took everything away.'
She turned and pointed to a large framed photograph mounted on the wall behind the desk.
'That's the one.'
The picture showed a convivial group of men in what looked like a restaurant. There were ten or more of them, all men, all looking towards the camera, all smiling or laughing.
'See that man in the centre?' said Valeria, pointing with one fleshy heavily ringed finger. 'The one sitting at the end of the table? That's Orlando Pagano. Actually he's a little heavier than I remembered, but don't you think he looks like you?'
Zen narrowed his eyes obediently There was a certain resemblance, he supposed, although the man in the picture was both fleshier and swarthier than Zen himself.
'Here's Manlio/ Valeria went on, pointing. 'And this is the supposed victim of that Strade Pulite group, Ermanno Vallifuoco.'
Vallifuoco was a complacently corpulent man with an expression of inscrutable serenity. Manlio Squillace was leaner and slighter, with a pencil moustache and gleaming eyes. Zen leant forward, scrutinizing the picture intently.
An unearthly sound made itself heard next door, a long rising whine like some primitive lament.
'The kettle!' said Valeria, hurrying out. 'Would you like some cake? I baked it myself, an old Ferrarese recipe.'
Zen did not reply. He was still staring at the photograph, but not at the illustrious victim of terrorism or the late-lamented Signor Squillace. His attention was focused on a man who, judging by his distance from the head of the table, had been one of the less important guests, a minor character brought in to make up the numbers in this boisterous scene of underworld conviviality.
He had been forced to look sharply back over his left shoulder in order to face the camera, and even so was partially obscured by his neighbour. But enough of his face was visible to leave no doubt in Zen's mind that he was none other than the man who had knifed the Greek sailor a few days earlier and then mysteriously disappeared from his cell at the police station.
XV
Sogno o son desto?
The chic austerity on display in the 'public' areas of the Squillace apartment was gleefully abandoned once past the door to the family's own rooms, which sported an amazing range of high-tech, low-taste gadgets, gimmicks and gizmos ranging from novelty telephones to auto flushing toilets, from remote-control light fixtures to a set of interactive operas on CD-ROM.
So it came as no particular surprise to Zen, when he went to the bathroom early next morning, to find a miniaturized waterproof television set attached to a bracket in the shower cubicle. The idea struck him as both idiotic and irresistible — we may be half the men our fathers were, but they couldn't watch TV in the shower — and he turned it on in the middle of the local news. What with the hiss of the water and the assorted noises associated with his ablutions, it was some time before he tuned in to the story which the gorgeously coiffed presenter was reading. .. approached the truck following the collision, when a group of men — estimates vary as to the exact number leapt out and opened fire. The officer was killed instantly.
The assailants then ran off into the neighbouring Forcella area, abandoning their vehicle. Another official travelling in the police car was unharmed, but in the confusion a prisoner they were transporting is thought to have escaped. A search was instituted, but so far all attempts to trace the authors of this savage crime have been unsuccessful. The victim has been named as Armando Bertolini, twenty nine, resident in Fuorigrotta and married with one…'
Valeria Squillace was assembling the coffee machine when the apparition occurred: a naked man, dripping wet, sprinting past the kitchen and down the hall. She dropped the caffetiera, spilling grounds all over the floor and hurting her foot quite badly. Even once the pain had subsided, she had no idea what to make of it. She wondered for a moment if the whole thing was a dream. But the splashes of soapy water on the parquet, not to mention the pain in her toes, were realenough.
Back in Filomena's bedroom, where he was sleeping, Zen searched frantically for the phone, which took
the form of a pink plastic rabbit. Judging by the decor, it was very hard to believe that Filomena Squillace could possibly be old enough to give her mother any cause for concern.
Every available surface was piled high with stuffed toys and brightly coloured knick-knacks decorated with cartoon animals and wide-eyed infants. The only hint of sexuality came in a series of posters featuring a variety of intense-looking young men struggling to look less wholesome than they actually were.
Zen perched naked on the bed and pressed a series of buttons protruding from the rabbit's chest and pressed the creature's head to his ear. The number rang for a considerable time before being answered with a tentative 'Si?'.
'Who's this?' demanded Zen into the grille on the rabbit's stomach.
'Who's calling?'
'Is this the port police?'
"I think you have a wrong number.'
That was quite possible, given the fact that the keys were cutely disguised as buttons on the bunny's outfit.
Zen muttered an apology and was about to hang up when the voice at the other end said, 'Is that you, dottore?'
'This is Aurelio Zen. Who's speaking?'
'Oh, thank God! This is Caputo.'
'Why the hell didn't you answer properly?' "I thought it might be the Questura. They've been after you all night.'
There was a faint knock at the door, but Zen did not register it.
'When did this happen?' he demanded.
'Last evening, while we were driving Pas… the prisoner to the hospital. We got in a fender-bender with this rubbish truck. Bertolini went to give them hell and suddenly these guys jump out and riddle him with bullets. I put in a call for backup…'
'And Pastorelli?'
'He ran off. I haven't heard from him.'
The door opened and Valeria Squillace appeared with a cup of coffee.
'OK, listen, Caputo/ Zen said. 'I'll be there as soon as I can. Until then, the arrangements we made yesterday still stand. Got that?'
Valeria stood looking on with a small, fixed smile. Perhaps he's some sort of nudist, she was thinking, although he didn't seem the type.
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