Cosi Fan Tutti az-5

by Michael Dibdin

'Only I can't! Whatever I do, I think of him. Whatever I look at, I see his face.'

  The door swung open and in came Libera with Dario De Spino, who had been having a nap in the upstairs flat.

  "I hear we have a little problem,' he said with an encouraging smile.

  'Piss off, you asshole!' shouted Iolanda.

  'Now, now, calm down, signorina. Your sister tells me that she's managed to win over Sabatino, but that you can't seem to make any impression on Gesualdo. Is that right?'

  With a shriek of impotent rage, Iolanda hid her head under the sofa pillows.

  'Don't take it so personally, darling,' said Libera, gesturing languidly. 'You don't really think that any man could resist a woman like me, do you? I don't want to boast, but … well, the fact remains that some of us have got what it takes, while others…'

  'You bitch!' screamed Iolanda, hurling an ashtray at her head.

  Libera stepped back just in time and the projectile flew past and out of the window.

  'Grazzie assaje, duttd/ called an elderly male voice from the house opposite. 'First the cigarettes, now the ashtray.

  Too kind, I'm sure. But listen, next time just give me a call and I'll come over and pick it up, OK?'

  'Ladies, ladies!' De Spino remarked in a soothing tone.

  'We mustn't let a little setback like this ruin everything.

  Don't worry, we can still wrap up this little scam before I find some more, ah, permanent employment for you.'

  XXIII

  Un ladroncello

  Gesualdo was shaking down a small-time scippatore and sneak thief when Sabatino caught up with him. The proceedings had started with Gesualdo reminding Ciro that he was behind with his payments for the para-legal intervention which had kept him out of Poggioreale after being caught in a Carabinieri sting operation designed to clean up the centre for the Gj conference.

  Under pressure — a discreet knee in the crotch, a teasing glimpse of a holstered pistol, the pitiless glint in his interlocutor's eyes — Ciro had conceded that there was indeed a substantial discrepancy between the terms mutually agreed at the time (100,000 lire per week for six months) and the actual reimbursements which had been effected 10 lire per week for two months). But it was not him that was at fault, he protested, it was the market.

  'They promised us rich pickings once the politicians went home! The tourists were supposed to start coming again, they said. The city was going to be a major holiday destination, its bad old reputation a thing of the past, right? You know what? It's worse than ever! Because they cracked down so hard while the big shots were here, everyone had to make up for the lost income afterwards.

  There was a spate of muggings, the foreign press ran scare stories and now there's almost nobody worth robbing in town! I'm sorry, Gesua, but there's only so much I can do. This is a market economy, like they say. When times are bad, we all have to tighten our belts.'

  Gesualdo grinned at him.

  'You don't need to do that, Ciro. If you don't come up with the cash by the end of the week, we'll tighten your belt for you. So fucking tight that your lungs are sticking out of your mouth like bubble-gum while your intestines fill your pants at the other end. Understand?'

  'You'll get the money, no problem! Just give me a couple of days. Trade is starting to pick up again. If only the cops hadn't made a big deal of cleaning up the streets, everything would be just fine.'

  Gesualdo nodded.

  'Speaking of which, what have you heard about that?'

  The thief shifted his ferrety gaze this way and that.

  'About what?'

  'About "Clean Streets".'

  Ciro shrugged hastily.

  'Nothing. Nothing at all.'

  Gesualdo ran his forefinger along the side of Ciro's throat.

  "I just thought I'd mention it/ he said casually. 'Because if you do hear anything, it might help in regard to the arrears we were just talking about. Question of a couple of notches on the belt, so to speak. The capo is in a bit of a snit about this. Don Ermanno was a close associate of his.'

  Ciro's expression of terrified confusion grew even more marked.

  'But…' he began, and then thought better of it.

  'But what, Ciro?'

  'Nothing.'

  Gesualdo laughed heartily, as though at a shared joke, and embraced the thief. Ciro emitted a loud groan, covered by Gesualdo's laughter, and collapsed in a limp heap on the cobbles. Grasping his ears good-naturedly, Gesualdo hauled him to his feet.

  'For the love of Christ!' the thief moaned.

  'To every thing there is a season, Ciro,' Gesualdo remarked pleasantly. 'A time to live and a time to die, a time to talk and a time to shut up. This is a time to talk.'

  Ciro nodded.

  'It's just — forgive me, I'm obviously ill-informed — but I've been told — no disrespect intended.. / Gesualdo stared at the man's sweating face.

  'What have you been told, Ciro?'

  'Ididn'tbelieveit,understand?Notforamoment,but.. / 'What were you told?'

  Ciro swallowed hard.

  'Last night over cards, Emiddio 'o Curtiello said that it was Don Gaetano — may God preserve him! — who had given the nod to the whole thing in the first place.'

  He stepped back with the look of a gambler who has placed his bet and awaits the verdict of the wheel. Gesualdo looked at him levelly for some time. Then he smiled slowly and nodded.

  'Get the money to us by Friday,' he said.

  'Friday? Gesu, can't you make it Sunday at least, Gesua.'

  A thought seemed to strike him. He reached into his pocket and produced a laminated card which he handed over.

  'Here, I lifted this this morning, right outside the Questura!'

  Catching the look in Gesualdo's eye, he added hastily, 'The mark had no money to speak of, but this is the genuine article all right. Not one of those cheap fakes they're turning out in Aversa.'

  Gesualdo glanced contemptuously at the card in Ciro's hand, and suddenly became very still. He seized it and scrutinized the writing and the picture carefully.

  'Keep it as a token of goodwill!' Ciro told him, eager to regain the initiative. 'All you need to do is change the photo and you're an honorary Vice-Questore. Eh, Gesua?

  Well, I must be going. Ciaol'

  Before Gesualdo could react, he jumped on to his motorbike and roared off. Sabatino, who had arrived a few minutes earlier and had been watching the encounter from a bar on the other side of the street, came over to join his partner.

  'I trust you put the fear of God into him,' he said lightly.

  Without replying, Gesualdo handed the plastic card to Sabatino, who looked at it with an expression of total shock.

  'Holy shit!' he murmured.

  XXIV

  Che strepitol

  Aurelio Zen strolled along Via Chiaia over the saddle between the Monte di Dio and the lower slopes of the Vomero, and continued up the gentle slope of elegant Via Filangieri. He walked slowly, taking in the myriad dramas and comedies unfolding all around him, a guarded smile on his lips, compact and self-contained.

  As the street veered to the left, becoming Via dei Mille, he paused to inspect the watch which Professor Esposito had returned to him. He had already done this several times, in an attempt to determine whether or not the watch was really his. Even after another inspection, he remained in some doubt about this. The make, style and general appearance were apparently identical, yet the watch somehow felt different from the one he had worn for so many years, and which had previously belonged to his father. Of course, this might be just the effect of the cleaning and repair which the professor's friend had effected, free of charge.

  An elegant young couple brushed past him, one to either side, each speaking animatedly into a mobile phone. Maybe they're talking to each other, he thought, the ultimate yuppie relationship. Well, now he too could play these games.

  'Valeria? Aurelio Zen.'

  'Who?'

  'Alfonso Zembla, I mean.'


  'What's all that noise?'

  'I'm just passing a stall selling bootleg cassettes. Wait a moment… Hello? Hello?'

  'Hello?'

  'Ah, there you are. I'm calling from my new mobile phone. The city's full of dead spaces, I'm finding.'

  'It's lucky you rang, Alfonso. I just got a call from someone who wants to get in touch with you.'

  'Was it my mother?'

  'Pardon?'

  'My mother. She's gone missing.'

  'No, this was a man. He didn't leave a name, but he's going to call back later.' "I went to see a mago and asked him where she was. He told me the Three Furies were on my trail.'

  'Furies?'

  'He stuck his finger in my navel and had a vision of the Erinyes. Do you know about them? Female divinities who punish crimes against close relations. Obviously the professor has a classical turn of mind. The other missing person I asked about he located in Hades.'

  'Have you got a fever, Alfonso?'

  'I'm fine. You haven't forgotten that we're going to the opera this evening, have you?'

  'Of course I haven't. If you're not back here in time, I'll meet you at the San Carlo.'

  'Right. And listen, if anyone calls for me, just give them the number of my mobile. Have you got a pen?'

  'Even if it's your mother?'

  'There's no escaping the Furies, the professor says.'

  In Piazza Amadeo, close to the lower terminus of the other funicular railway up the Vomero, he entered a cafe and ordered a beer. His plan was to drop by the house on Scalini del Petraio and find out whether his hired professionals had managed to make any impression on the Squillace girls' innamorati.

  It's Gesualdo who is going to be the problem, he thought. Sabatino looked like someone who could be talked into almost anything, certainly into bed, but his partner had that sanctimonious facade which conceals a mass of unresolved doubts, conflicts and ambiguities.

  The way he carried on, you'd think he'd invented love after everyone had been satisfied with shoddy imitations for the preceding thousand years.

  But what if Zen blundered in just as Iolanda or Libera he could never remember which was which — was successfully putting the moves on this paragon of rectitude?

  That could ruin everything, and give Gesualdo the excuse he needed to bail out. Perhaps he should phone De Spino and check the lie of the land first. It might have been he who called him at Valeria's. No, that couldn't be right. De Spino didn't know that he was staying there. No one knew, in fact. Except that someone evidently did.

  Another unsolved mystery, thought Zen, paying the bill and walking out into the honking, revving crush of vehicles in the piazza. How was it that everything became so complicated here? A week earlier, his life had been as he had always wanted it: calm, pleasant and predictable.

  And now even the smallest details seemed uncertain, as though subjected to the same bradyism as parts of the city itself, an imperceptible but continual seismic motion which undermined the strongest foundations and rendered every structure unstable.

  He was lining up for a ticket in the dismal grotto which formed the lower terminus of the Funicolare di Chiaia, his transit pass having gone missing along with the other contents of his wallet, when an irritating electronic bleeping started somewhere close by. Very close. In fact, it seemed to be coming from him. He stared wildly down at his body, as though it might have turned into the steel limbs and greased joints of a robot.

  'Eh, signore, do us all a favour!' said the elderly woman in front of him in the queue. 'If you aren't going to answer, kindly turn it off. In my opinion, those damn things have ruined civilized life. You can't go out to eat or even to the opera these days without hearing them. Once upon a time it was considered ill-bred even to answer the phone if you were talking to someone, but now…'

  Zen apologized sheepishly while digging out the phone.

  'Yes?' he barked aggressively, by way of over-compensation.

  'Pasquale, dutto. Where are you?'

  'On my way home. Well, what used to be…'

  'Whereabouts exactly?'

  'Piazza Amadeo/ 'All right, here's what you do. Take the train to Piazza Cavour. I'll be waiting right outside. At this time you'll get here far quicker than I can reach you with the traffic the way it is, plus we'll be at the right end of town, more or less.'

  'No disrespect intended, Pasquale, but would you kindly tell me what the hell you're talking about?'

  'Your missing American, dutto? He isn't missing any more.'

  XXV

  Questa e costanza

  'It's fake, of course.'

  'Has to be.'

  'Odd name to choose. Doesn't even sound Italian.'

  'Same initials, though/ 'They often give themselves away like that. Remember Vito Gentile? Constructed an entirely false personality for himself after he bust out of Procida. There were only two things he couldn't bring himself to change, the village where he was born and his mother's maiden name. And that's how they got him.'

  The scene was a Vini e Cucina on a side-street just north of Via Tribunali: tiled walls, a cheap electric clock, large framed photograph of a dead relative, light filtering in from a net-curtained window high up on one end wall.

  Below, as in the depths of a drained swimming pool, a counter supported three wooden wine barrels with the price per litre chalked on the end. Beyond a serving hatch knocked through to the tiny kitchen area, plates were drying and tempers flaring.

  Gesualdo and Sabarino sat at one of the two long tables, the remains of a snack between them. The only other customer was an elderly drunk with long greasy hair and huge sideburns, wearing a seemingly infinite number of clothing layers wrapped up in a luxurious and apparently new overcoat. Before him was a glass of white wine, an empty half-litre flask and a collection of cigarette butts from which he was removing and recycling the tobacco in a rolling paper.

  'Pure mohair, dutto! he called hoarsely, catching Gesualdo eyeing his coat. 'The new autumn line from Versace.'

  'OK, so what have we got?' mused Sabatino rhetorically.

  'Alfonso Zembla, supposedly some sort of civil servant, although we have no proof of that, is carrying fake identification enabling him to pass himself off as a high ranking cop.'

  'In the shops, a garment like this would cost at least two hundred thousand, maybe three,' said the drunk, finishing his glass of wine. 'And that's if you can get a discount.'

  'Plus he went to a lot of time and trouble getting us to agree to stay at his house,' observed Gesualdo. 'We've assumed all along that he was telling the truth about that, and that he had no interest in us or any idea who we are.

  Maybe we were wrong about that. Maybe this whole thing is just a cover.'

  'Certainly not, duttdV said the drunk. 'Just a cover, indeed. You might as well say that a Bugatti is just a car.

  This is not a coat, it's a style statement!'

  'A cover for what?' asked Sabatino with a look which was suddenly alert.

  'It's warm but it's light, it's chic but sensible, a timeless classic that perfectly complements any ensemble which may grace your wardrobe now or in the future/ the drunk rhapsodized to the empty restaurant. 'And as for the price…'

  'That's what worries me,' Gesualdo told Sabatino.

  "I believe you, dutto Two hundred thousand, you're thinking, maybe more. Brand new, never worn except by yours truly, which doesn't count because technically speaking I'm not wearing it but modelling it. Your worries are quite understandable, yet unfounded, because today only the price on this garment has been slashed to ninety thousand HreY 'If he was aiming to pass himself off as a Vice-Questore, it must be something pretty serious/ Sabatino remarked.

  Gesualdo nodded.

  'And he must have connections, too. Whoever did that ID was a real pro. If we weren't in the business ourselves, I don't think I'd have spotted it for a fake/ 'A fake?' retorted the drunk indignantly. 'This is no fake, duttb. This is an authentic verified copy of a Versace original made right
here in Naples by one of the best sweat-shops! It's no fake, but at eighty thousand there's no question that it's a steal/ 'In short/ said Gesualdo, "I think we need to find out a little more about Don Alfonso Zembla, a.k.a. "Aurelio Zen".'

  'We might start listening in to his phone calls for a start/ suggested Sabatino.

  'Why not? I'll get Gioacchino on it right away. We'll need to get his number, but I can get that out of the Squillace woman by pretending to be someone else. Speaking of which, Orestina called me this afternoon. I told her I was thinking of going over.'

  Sabatino frowned and shook his head.

  'Going over where?'

  'To London/ 'A waste of time, duttb, with all due respect/ the drunk declaimed, triumphantly lighting his completed cigarette.

  'London, Tokyo, Paris, New York — there's nothing you can find there you can't get cheaper right here. But if you're thinking of an English look, I'll throw in a nice Burberry scarf, pure lambswool. Seventy thousand the package, and no packing, no language problems, no delays at the airport/ Gesualdo leant forward across the table and looked into Sabatino's eyes.

  'If I tell you something, will you swear never to tell another soul, on your mother's grave?'

  'Make him swear by something else, duttb/ the drunk advised. 'Mothers don't have the clout they used to/ Sabatino gazed wide-eyed at his partner.

  'What is it, Gesua?'

  Gesualdo looked down at the tabletop.

  'I'm in love/ he murmured. 'And not just with Orestina.'

  'Guglielmo, more wine!' yelled the drunk. 'Oh, Guglie!'

  Sabatino's smile gained a little edge.

  'You mean you've fallen for Iolanda?' "I admit I'm attracted to her/ Gesualdo replied stiffly, as though already regretting this confidence. 'But that isn't going to change anything. I have a commitment to Orestina and I intend to honour it. This is more than a personal issue, it's a political decision. If there's to be any hope for this country, we've got to start accepting our responsibilities and keeping our promises. That's the only way to build a new Italy/ 'You sound like a spokesman for Strade Pulite/ Sabatino observed with a trace of malice.