Cosi Fan Tutti az-5

by Michael Dibdin

  'According to the official record, you are listed as a disgrace to the regiment and rotten to the core, a deserter to be shot on sight, no questions asked/ "I don't believe this!' Viviani exclaimed. 'The guy's an imposter! Tell him to show me some ID. Unfortunately Immacolata had just swallowed some pizza the wrong way and was temporarily indisposed, although she recovered in time to deliver Aurelio Zen's concluding remarks.

  'However, seeing as how your granddad was from Naples and therefore you're one of the family, so to speak, I'm prepared to bend the rules, turn a blind eye and look the other way as long as you keep your end up and do your part. In short, you scratch mine and I'll scratch yours.'

  'Is this guy some kind of pervert?' whispered Viviani.

  Zen produced the mug-shot of the escaped prisoner and handed it to the American with a sense of growing futility.

  It was by no means clear what, if anything, John Viviani had made of the proceedings so far. His grasp of Italian appeared to consist of a few words such as vino and grazie, and Immacolata Higgins' English was apparently not much less foreign to him. On the other hand, after an initial moment of panic when he seemed to think he was about to be robbed, he had not made any objection to being brought to this suburban pizzeria and subjected to an informal interrogation across the red-and-white checked tablecloth.

  "I get it!' he said at one point. 'Living here is kind of a West Coast thing, like surfing. You either ride the waves or you get crushed by them.'

  But now, suddenly, that fluid ease had gone. As Viviani gazed at the photograph of Giosue Marotta, he seemed to awaken from a long and restless sleep, the dream fled and his worst fears were confirmed. He began babbling in English, ragged, incomplete phrases that seemed to make no sense even to himself. His translator, however, had no difficulty in identifying and articulating the gist of Viviani's incoherent diatribe.

  'It weren't 'im!' shouted Immacolata Higgins, clasping the American to her formidable bosom. 'He didn't do it!

  He's got friends who saw 'im not do it! For Gawd's sake, sir, don't break the 'art of 'is poor old white-'aired mum by sending my only boy to the Scrubs! He'll go straight in future, as San Gennaro's my witness. And if there's anything you need in a dry goods or bespoke line, yer 'onour, a nod's as good as a wink, know what I mean?'

  When she finally fell silent, Viviani wrestled free of her surrogate maternal grip and turned to confront Aurelio Zen.

  'OK, what's the deal?' he asked stonily.

  'The deal,' Zen replied, 'is that you tell me everything you know about this affair — what, when, how, why and with whom — unabridged and unedited, from start to finish.

  In return, I shall contact the US Navy with the news that you have been safely recovered following a tip-off, although the kidnappers who had been holding you unfortunately escaped.'

  This was filtered through la Igginz a few times before comprehension, followed by incredulity and then immense relief, finally dawned on the American's face.

  'Sounds good to me/ he said.

  XXX

  Siete d'ossa e di came, o cosa siete?

  The last lingering trace of light, a greenish glimmer above the bank of thick haze out to the west, had faded from the sky. Night settled on the town, muffled and dense, smothering sounds, it seemed, as much as sight. Certainly the three figures descending the steps of the Salita del Petraio made so little noise that they startled Don Castrese's cat which was out on the prowl, having detected the faint but unmistakable odour of fellow creatures in heat. It was only at the last moment that some sixth sense alerted the beast to the presence of the advancing trio, masked by silence and cloaked in darkness. It leapt nimbly on to a window ledge and immersed itself in an exacting ritual of washing and grooming, as though to exorcize the malignant power of this encounter.

  The three strangers who had crossed the cat's path came to a stop outside the house opposite. The shutters of the first floor windows were closed, but a faint light filtered out through the slats and occasional outbreaks of laughter punctuated the muted hush of the night. The top floor, by contrast, was perfectly dark and silent, the windows standing open to let the air flow in.

  'This is the place.'

  The cat paused in its obsessional licking as the speaker, a shorter, bulkier, older figure than the other two, stepped up to the door and pushed each of the two buttons mounted on the frame, the superscribed names illegible in the dark. Abell and a buzzer sounded distantly, cutting off a further burst of laughter inside. For a moment nothing happened, except perhaps some quiet, hair-raising modulation perceptible only to cats. Then the windows on the first floor were flung open and a man's head appeared.

  'Yes?' he barked.

  'We're looking for Aurelio Zen,' said a female voice from the darkness below.

  'Who?'

  The name was repeated by the other two in chorus.

  Another head appeared at the window, a girl in her twenties with long hair and sharp, lively features.

  'What's going on?' she asked her companion.

  'There's no one here by that name/ he called down.

  The three figures below consulted briefly in an inaudible mutter. Then the one who spoke first looked up at the window.

  'ZEN, AURELIO" she said, pronouncing every syllable with exaggerated distinctness.

  'You've got the wrong opera, grandma!' the girl above jeered.

  'I am Aurelio Zen/ said a new voice.

  Everyone looked up at the top floor of the house, where another young man, naked to the waist, had appeared at the window.

  'That's not him!' exclaimed one of the women indignantly.

  'If only!' added another.

  'He was never that good-looking/ commented the third, 'even at that age.'

  The man at the lower window leant out as far as he could, craning up towards the upper Storey.

  'Oh, Gesua, what the hell are you playing at?'

  The three figures below again consulted briefly.

  'We're going now,' the one on the left announced.

  'But we'll be back,' added her companion.

  'What's that man doing in Aurelio's house?' asked the shorter one in the middle.

  They moved away down the hill, still conferring in an undertone, and were soon lost to sight.

  'Maybe we should have told them he's at the opera/ said Sabatino.

  'How do you know where he is?' Libera asked.

  Sabatino smiled in a superior way.

  'Because a friend of ours is currently listening in to all his phone calls, my dear. There are already quite a few little mysteries about our Don Alfonsetto. This just makes one more.'

  Gesualdo's voice drifted down from the upstairs window.

  'Maybe we should have followed them, found out who they are.. / 'Well, if you've got nothing better to do, Gesua…'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Are you alone up there?'

  There was a pause. Sabatino and Libera exchanged glances.

  Tolanda's here too/ Gesualdo finally replied, as though making an official declaration.

  'Well, in that case/ said Sabatino languidly, 'I'd suggest you forget about volunteering for overtime work and take advantage of that fact, just as I'm about to with my companion/ With another of her rippling laughs, Libera pulled him inside and closed the window.

  XXXI

  Eccoci alia gran crisi

  Higher up the Vomero, on Via Cimarosa, the streets were more brightly lit and there were still a few people about.

  Nevertheless, Pasquale circled the lugubrious palazzo which was his passengers' destination for so long that they finally grew restless.

  'There's no point in trying to bump up the fare, since the meter's not even running/ Valeria Squillace remarked tartly. She had not taken to Pasquale, whom she regarded as low class and over-familiar.

  'Pasca and I have an informal arrangement/ Aurelio Zen intervened in a diplomatic tone. 'The fare is calculated on a sliding scale agreed in advance and payable within
a mutually acceptable period subject to financing and handling costs where applicable, right Pasca? So why the hell don't you take us straight home?'

  'And those thugs, duttb?' demanded Pasquale. 'The two we had to shake this afternoon?'

  Zen frowned. He had already forgotten them.

  'They followed us from outside this very building/ the cabby reminded him. 'Once they lost us at the hotel, they'll most likely have come back to wait. They must have found out you're staying here.'

  'You've been watching too many movies, Pasca.'

  'Never, duttbl My wife took me to the cinema once, back in the fifties. I couldn't sleep for weeks afterwards. Even now I have nightmares about it.'

  He continued to weave his way down side-streets and alleys, peering attentively into the cars parked higgledy piggledy to either side. Unable to find any excuse for further delay, he finally drew up outside the door. Zen got out and held the door open for Valeria.

  'Goodnight, Pasca.'

  The driver rooted around in his pocket and handed Zen a small battered oval box of what appeared to be silver.

  'What's this?' asked Zen.

  Pasquale shrugged.

  'Keep it on you at all times. Don't even go to bed without it, understand? As long as you have it with you, you'll be all right/ Zen smiled broadly, but there was no question that Pasquale was absolutely serious.

  'Are you coming, Alfonso?' Valeria demanded pointedly.

  Zen put the box in his pocket.

  'Thanks/ he said.

  The taxi pulled away, leaving Zen standing on the kerb with a sense of dread which had nothing to do with Pasquale's imaginary assassins. The feeling was accentuated when he turned to find Valeria Squillace smiling at him in a way that needed no translation. But there was nothing for it but to follow her inside. In the cavernous entrance hall, a host of plaster statuary he had not noticed before leered down at him: prancing putti, writhing Hercules, ample Junos whose last scrap of drapery was about to slip off their heavily engorged nipples.

  'What a fabulous evening!' Valeria enthused. 'And those seats, Aurelio! They must have cost a fortune/ The tickets provided gratis by Giovan Battista Caputo had proved to be the best in the house, right in the centre of the dress circle. Zen smiled and shrugged.

  'An experience like that is priceless/ he replied, even though he had personally found the opera to be poor stuff, thin and old-fashioned, with weak orchestration and no big tunes.

  The elevator clacked to a halt behind them. Zen opened the metal concertina gate and the glass-plated doors, ushered Valeria inside and activated the machinery into jerky life by dropping a fifty-lire coin in the slot. While the elevator rose in its wrought-iron cage, like a vertical coffin, towards the ceiling bedecked with writhing nudes, Zen took out the silver box Pasquale had given him and examined it in the yellowing light of the ceiling bulb. He pressed a catch on the side and the lid yawned open.

  Inside was a wad of cotton wool stained with some dark brown substance. It smelt musty and vaguely sweet, like rotten meat.

  'What's that?' demanded Valeria, wrinkling her nose.

  'Some fake saint's relic, I suppose. Your new acquaintance is just the type to believe in nonsense like that/ Zen shrugged and put the box away as the elevator came to a stop at the fourth floor.

  'Are you hungry?' asked Valeria, unlocking the front door. 'There's some parmigiana di melanzane I can heat up.'

  Zen shook his head.

  "I had some pizza earlier, thanks. I wouldn't mind a glass of something, though…'

  Valeria opened a hatch in the fitted unit which covered the end wall, revealing a selection of bottles.

  'Help yourself. This one is particularly good. One of my cousins makes it with fruit from his country estate. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I want to call the girls/ Zen opened the elegantly asymmetrical decanter she indicated. The contents were as clear as the container, and keenly perfumed with cherries. He poured a small quantity into one of the hollowed knobs of crystal on the shelf above.

  'Signorina Orestina Squillace, please/ Valeria said into the phone in heavily accented English. 'Squillace. I don't understand. Room 302. What? That's impossible! Please check again. Really? Are you sure?'

  She hung up and turned to Zen.

  'The hotel says they've checked out/ 'What? Where have they gone?'

  Valeria massaged her fingers nervously.

  'They didn't say. Of course they may just have moved to another hotel, or maybe taken off on a trip somewhere, but it's strange they didn't phone and tell me. My God, I hope they're all right! Maybe we should never have sent them off in the first place. If anything happens to them, I'll never forgive myself/ His earlier scruples forgotten, Zen came over and took her hand comfortingly.

  'They may have phoned while we were at the opera.

  Try not to worry. I'm sure they'll be all right/ She sighed and squeezed his hand. Their eyes met. Zen swiftly knocked back the rest of the cherry liqueur.

  'Superb!' he said, disengaging his hand from hers.

  'Have some more/

  "I will.And then come and sit down with me.'

  She dimmed the lights and put on some music.

  'Recognize this?' she asked with a flirtatious glance.

  'Verdi?'

  Valeria laughed girlishly.

  'It's what we heard this evening, silly! The seduction scene in the second act/ Zen filled the liqueur glass right to the brink, drank half of it and topped it up again. Glass in hand, he began circling the room as though searching for the exit.

  'Come and sit down/ Valeria told him. 'You're making me nervous, prowling about like that. Besides, I'm still worried about the girls. Do something to distract me.'

  With a sense of impending but inevitable doom, Zen went to sit beside her on the sofa, his own sensation one of panic. Despite his age and experience, there were some situations he had never been able to handle gracefully.

  Turning down an offer like this was one.

  'You've been smoking/ Valeria remarked, drawing closer to him.

  'Just the odd one.'

  'Have you got some on you?'

  'You want me to throw them away?'

  "I want you to give me one.'

  He looked at her in amazement.

  'But you told me you didn't smoke! You told me…'

  She smiled charmingly.

  'That was just a test, to see if I had any power over you.

  As a matter of fact I used to smoke like a chimney. It was Manlio who made me give it up. He said it was unattractive in a woman. But Manlio's dead, and I'm in a mood to do something silly/ Zen passed her his packet of Nazionali.

  'Nothing fancy, I'm afraid,' he said apologetically.

  "I don't need anything fancy. Just plain, simple pleasures.

  If it's a little rough, that's fine too.'

  When Zen held out his lighter she grasped his hand, although the flame was perfectly steady. Replacing the lighter in his pocket, his fingers touched the mysterious silver box which Pasquale had insisted on lending him.

  Zen rubbed the smooth metal fervently. It was going to take a miracle to get him out of this one.

  Valeria leant forward so that her left breast pushed negligently against Zen's jacket, which immediately began to emit the rising sequence of electronic chirps whose origin and meaning he had by now learned to recognize.

  The disturbing effect of midsummer night, to say nothing of the full moon, may have caused confusion to humans and even cats, but out at Capodichino the planes, thanks to their more advanced equipment, kept right on landing and taking off. Which was good news for Concetta Biancarosa Ausilia Olimpia Immacolata Scarlatti in Higgins, who had picked up a fare to the airport shortly after the conference at the pizzeria broke up.

  Now she was cruising the arrivals hall, watching for likely prospects among the passengers on an international flight which, according to the board, had just landed. If she had taken her turn in the rank outside, it would have made more se
nse to drive straight back into town without a fare, but Immacolata was not born yesterday nor yet the day before, and knew how to take care of herself in more ways than one, to say nothing of putting her linguistic talents to good use.

  Taking up a position near the automatic doors through which incoming passengers re-enter the real world, she assumed the long-suffering aspect of a Neapolitan matriarch awaiting the arrival of relatives on a flight already delayed for hours if not days. Her hunched stance, grimly stolid expression and air of defiant endurance made her as invisible as the official notices on the wall which no one ever read. 'Eh, 'a nonna,' everyone thought, and looked away Which was just as well, because if she had been spotted touting and reported to the Camorra clan which regulated cab traffic at the airport, and took a cut of the resulting trade, the consequences were likely to have been extremely limiting both socially and professionally Naples was a challenging city for those confined to a wheelchair.

  Passengers from the flight she had noticed had started emerging in dribs and drabs, but so far none of them looked suitable for her purposes, and Immacolata had learned to wait for exactly the right client before moving in. She couldn't risk making her pitch more than once, so it had to stick. Her patience was rewarded in the form of two young women pushing a trolley laden with expensive suitcases and looking about them with an air of slight trepidation.

  One of them was more or less conventionally dressed, although with that fatal lack of focus of which the English seemed to make a virtue. Her companion's appearance represented another aspect of those alien cultural codes which, even after almost ten years, Immacolata had been forced to admit that she would never crack. Taller and sparer, she had cropped black hair, with two silver rings in her pierced nostril and a tattoo of some fabulous reptile on her throat. Her jeans had holes torn or cut at the knees, above which she wore a man's shirt left open to her evidently unsupported breasts and a black leather jacket sporting an aggressive quantity of zippering and other metal accoutrements.

  Not, at first sight, what Immacolata was looking for.

  But a quick check of the women's shoes — always the key — revealed that between them the couple were carrying upwards of three quarters of a million lire underfoot.