Cosi Fan Tutti

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘It’s something I’d rather not discuss on the telephone,’ his caller replied coyly. ‘Do you think it would be possible for us to meet briefly, say tomorrow?’

  They made a date for the following afternoon in the bar of Zen’s hotel. That morning at work he asked Giovan Battista Caputo if he knew anything about the Squillace family. Caputo screwed his face into a mask of mental effort.

  ‘Name rings a bell,’ he said. ‘Let me make a few calls.’

  He returned fifteen minutes later with a précis of his efforts. Manlio Squillace, the capofamiglia, had died of a heart attack two years earlier following his arrest on charges of ‘financial irregularities’. He had been an eminent local entrepreneur who had made a fortune from speculative land transactions in the sixties and seventies, and was widely rumoured to have been associated with organized crime. He was survived by his wife Valeria and two daughters, Orestina and Filomena.

  It was the latter, Zen discovered that afternoon, who were the problem which Signora Squillace hadn’t been prepared to discuss over the phone. They were in their early twenties, language students in their final year of university. With their looks and qualifications, to say nothing of the family connections, they could have had their pick of any number of nice boys from good homes and with excellent career prospects.

  ‘Instead of which they want to throw themselves away on a couple of gangsters!’ Valeria Squillace wailed over her cappuccino and brioche. ‘At times I worry that it must be in the blood, something they got from their father. Not that he was a criminal himself, of course, but he had to associate with all sorts of people in his line of work, and some of it must have rubbed off on Orestina and Filomena. How else do you explain them taking up with those hoodlums?’

  It didn’t seem to Zen that an explanation was that far to seek, but he sensed that it wouldn’t be helpful to say so. Instead he asked Signora Squillace how he could help her.

  ‘The worst of it is that they don’t seem to realize what they’re getting themselves into,’ she replied. ‘Whenever I raise the matter with them, they simply accuse me of snobbery and prejudice. And of course I have no proof that those two are criminals, but I can sense it in my bones.’

  She looked at Zen.

  ‘If you were to look through the police records, Don Alfonso, perhaps you would be able to find something definite, some hard evidence I can use to open their eyes to the truth before it’s too late.’

  Intrigued and amused, Zen had agreed. The next day he sent in a routine request to the Questura for information relating to Troise, Gesualdo and Capuozzo, Sabatino. The results were unexpected, to say the least. First came a written reply, via fax, stating that no records existed in those names. Given that the police maintained a dossier on just about every man, woman and child in the country, even if only to list whether or not they had fulfilled their legal duty of voting in every local and national election, the complete absence of the men’s names was itself a form of negative proof that something was amiss.

  But it was the next development which seemed to confirm that Signora Squillace’s suspicions had not been exaggerated. This took the form of a telephone call from an official at the élite Direzione Investigativa Antimafia. He explained that Zen’s request had been routinely copied to him since the two names were on a file of suspected gang members whom the DIA had under long-term surveillance, and wanted to know what had brought them to the attention of the port police. Zen invented a vague but plausible cover story and promised to relay any further information he might have to the DIA before taking any action himself.

  At a second meeting, over lunch in a restaurant beneath the Castel dell’Ovo, he had reported his findings to Valeria Squillace. Oddly, she seemed almost reassured by this proof that her worst fears had been realized. The question was what to do now.

  ‘Why not just forbid your daughters to see them?’ Zen had suggested.

  Valeria merely smiled sadly.

  ‘You’re out of touch, Don Alfonso. The girls simply wouldn’t obey me. They’re in love, or think they are. For the young these days, that’s a licence to do anything. Besides, it might just make matters worse as far as the men are concerned. Gangsters never take no for an answer, even if they’re not really that interested. It’s a question of principle with them.’

  Things had come a long way since that stiff-backed, exploratory rendezvous at La Cantinella. In retrospect, the turning-point had probably been Zen’s agreeing to give up smoking. Valeria’s late husband had been a sixty-a-day man, and the smell of cigarettes, she explained, still evoked disturbing memories. Much to his surprise, Zen had simply shrugged and said, ‘All right.’ It was just another example of how he had changed since moving to Naples. All his habits and attributes had come to seem provisional, decorative impedimenta related to choices he had once made for reasons now forgotten, no more a part of him than his clothes. He’d started smoking at a certain moment, now he would stop. Why not?

  The decision had meant handing over the remaining 320 packets of the contraband Nazionali to old Signor Castrese across the street, but it had been worth it. Never before had Zen had a relationship like this with a woman: warm, intimate, friendly, informal, but completely nonsexual. This is what it would have been like having a sister, he thought as they lay sprawled side by side beneath the green awning, the table between them littered with the remains of the simple meal Zen bought on his way home – a selection of cold antipasti, half a crusty loaf and some insalata Caprese.

  They still had their differences, though, notably over the success of the plan Zen came up with for separating Valeria’s daughters from their unsuitable suitors.

  ‘But will it work?’ she repeated. ‘That’s the question.’

  ‘Of course it will,’ Zen replied lazily.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t feel right, playing with their emotions like this. They’re such darlings. I remember when they were babies …’

  ‘But now they can have babies. And it’s your responsibility to make sure that that happens with the right person and in the right circumstances.’

  ‘You’re so logical, so Northern! Life isn’t that simple.’

  She glanced at her watch.

  ‘I must go. The girls will be home in half an hour. I don’t want to have to lie to them about where I’ve been.’

  ‘The essential thing now is to make sure they don’t try and back out. Take them shopping, let them choose suitable clothes and accessories, pick up a guidebook and maps of London.’

  Valeria sighed.

  ‘But what about the men? I still don’t understand how you’re going to get them to be unfaithful in such a short time.’

  ‘Leave that to me. Just remember to leave me the key to the downstairs flat. Oh, and have you got those snapshots I asked for?’

  Valeria Squillace handed over these items, and Zen led her down the stairs to the front door. The football players had dispersed and the steep basalt steps were deserted. From the sill of a barred window across the alley, Don Castrese’s cat watched them warily.

  ‘I’ll set up a meeting between our four young lovers just before the girls leave,’ Zen told Valeria. ‘But it’s most important they shouldn’t meet until then. If Sabatino and Gesualdo find out what’s happening and get to work on the girls, they could destroy the whole plan.’

  Valeria nodded.

  ‘I’ll take them off to visit their aunt in Salerno. They’ve been promising to go for weeks, and this is the perfect opportunity.’

  She turned to Zen.

  ‘So I’ll see you on Sunday night,’ she said lightly.

  ‘What about the neighbours? The porter is bound to see me coming and going, and it’ll be all over the building in no time.’

  Valeria waved dismissively.

  ‘I’ve told him I’m expecting a cousin from Milan who’s down here on business for a few weeks. That and a large tip from you should do the trick.’

  Zen smiled and nodded.
<
br />   ‘A presto, allora.’

  ‘Arrivederci, Don Alfonso.’

  Due delinquenti

  At about the time Zen and Valeria parted in a quiet alley on the slopes of the Vomero, with only a cat for company, the two men who were the subject of their discussion entered a shop in Spaccanapoli amid the shriek of sirens and the raucous shouts of street vendors. The shop sold wine and beer and filling snacks: balls of cooked rice with a soft heart of melted mozzarella, folded pizzas stuffed with curd cheese and ham, potato croquettes laden with oil and melted cheese.

  The elderly woman behind the counter was adding to the general din by yelling an order to the kitchen, where her husband and a teenage boy were hard at work in the ferocious heat of ovens the size of tombs. Then she saw the two men who had just come in and her face became studiously blank.

  ‘Giosuè here?’ asked the older and taller of the pair. He was dressed in designer slacks and a tight-fitting sweater which revealed his taut, muscled frame to advantage.

  ‘Eh, oh!’ the woman called to the back of the shop. ‘And these pizzette?’

  The other man reached over the counter and took one of the golden rice balls stacked on a plate. He was wearing jeans and a smartly pressed sports jacket over an open-necked shirt.

  ‘Good,’ he said appreciatively, biting into the arancia.

  ‘What do you want?’ the old woman asked.

  ‘A double cone with pistachio and chocolate,’ returned the first man in dialect as thick as her own. ‘Oh, and a scoop of raspberry, what the hell.’

  ‘We don’t have ice-cream.’

  The man looked shocked.

  ‘You don’t?’

  He turned to his companion.

  ‘They don’t have ice-cream, they don’t have Giosuè. So what the fuck do they have?’

  The other swallowed a mouthful of rice before replying.

  ‘They have problems,’ he said, shaking his head.

  The old woman made a face.

  ‘Eh, problems! Of course we have problems, and so many!’

  The first man flicked his forefinger at her face.

  ‘Ah, but you have problems you don’t even know about yet. Maybe you have ice-cream too, without knowing it.’

  ‘Maybe they have Giosuè,’ the other man put in.

  At this point the woman’s husband emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a filthy towel. He was old too, just like his wife, and the neighbour’s kid who was helping out was too young to be any help in a situation like this. Once upon a time he could have seen scum like this off the premises without any trouble, but not any longer. He knew it, and so did they.

  ‘Gesualdo! Sabatino!’ he cried with faked enthusiasm. ‘How’s it going?’

  The taller one gave him a brief expressionless glance.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Giosuè,’ he said. ‘He’s the one who knows how it’s going.’

  The old man shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Eh! I haven’t seen him for a long time.’

  ‘How long?’ demanded Gesualdo.

  ‘Must be a week or more. He didn’t say why. Just stopped coming in.’

  ‘Maybe he lost his appetite,’ said Sabatino, grabbing a calzone.

  ‘Who knows?’ replied the old man, still mechanically rubbing away with the towel. ‘It can’t be the food. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? You guys like it, right?’

  Gesualdo surveyed the shop with a look of bored distaste.

  ‘Sure we like it. We like it just fine. The problem is that nobody really gives a damn what we like or don’t like. They just don’t care. It’s a shame, but there you go. What they care about is what someone else likes. And I can tell you right now that he isn’t going to like it when we tell him Giosuè hasn’t been around recently. Especially if it turns out he has. He really wouldn’t like that. Not even a little bit.’

  The old man nodded vigorously.

  ‘It’s true, I swear it! I haven’t seen him, haven’t heard anything. If I do, I’ll let you know right away.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Gesualdo. ‘Otherwise your insurance rates could soar sky-high. Right, Sabatì?’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed the other man through a mouthful of the stuffed pizza. ‘See, we have two kinds of rates. Low risk and high risk, we call them in the trade. Up to now this establishment has always been regarded as a low risk, but if it turns out that you’re selling ice-cream on the side, it might become necessary to reassess your classification.’

  ‘Ice-cream is a very unstable substance,’ Gesualdo observed solemnly. ‘If it’s not handled properly, the results can be disastrous. Remember what happened to Ernesto’s workshop, just down the street here? The blaze was so intense they never did figure out how many Moroccans he had cooped up in there. Luckily for us, his insurance had just lapsed.’

  He turned to his companion.

  ‘Oh, Sabatì! Still feeding your face? We’ve got calls to make. Let’s go!’

  The men walked out into the crowded street, leaving the old man and his wife alone. They went about their work silently, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  Senza amor, non senza amanti

  ‘Stop here.’

  The driver turned.

  ‘You’re not planning to have her in the cab, are you? That’ll cost you plenty.’

  Aurelio Zen eyed him coldly.

  ‘I’ll pay what’s on the meter when we get back.’

  ‘Eh no, dottore! What am I supposed to do while you’re going at it? Stand around in the street and catch my death of cold? To say nothing of the fear of getting mugged. This is a dangerous area, you know.’

  A thought struck him.

  ‘Unless you want me to stay. Is that it, duttò? You want me to watch while you …’

  Zen got out of the taxi, leaving the door open, and walked over to the open fire of broken-up fruit crates blazing at the street corner. One of the two prostitutes stationed there, a brunette with long slender legs, was feeding the flames from a pile of wood stacked nearby. The other, a busty blonde, watched Zen approach with a keen appraising look.

  ‘Good evening, ladies,’ he said.

  The brunette straightened up and looked at him with an expression of amusement.

  ‘What exquisite manners!’ she enthused. ‘And a very good evening to you, cummendatò.’

  ‘What can we do for you?’ demanded the other. ‘It’s a hundred for a one-off in the car, or a hundred and fifty per hour elsewhere, minimum two hours. And this week only we have a special package, you can have both of us at a twenty per cent discount.’

  Zen flashed his identity card briefly.

  ‘I’m with the police.’

  The brunette fluttered her eyelashes.

  ‘That’s OK. We fuck anybody.’

  ‘I’ve got a proposition I want to put to you,’ Zen went on. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘You want to talk about it?’ the blonde exclaimed in a tone of mock alarm. ‘I think we’ll pass. This is just too kinky.’

  Zen opened another fold of his wallet and extracted two banknotes. He handed one to each of the prostitutes.

  ‘Here’s a little earnest money. If you don’t like my proposal, you can keep this for your time and trouble. If you do, there’s more where this came from.’

  The brunette hoisted her skirt, revealing a further astonishing length of leg, and tucked the banknote under the strap of her suspender belt. She leaned over and murmured something in dialect to the blonde. After a rapid exchange, she turned back to Zen.

  ‘There’s a bar about four blocks from here. We can talk there.’

  Zen pointed to the fire.

  ‘What about your pitch? You want to arrange for someone to keep an eye on it for you?’

  The blonde smiled.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Not after what happened to that newcomer who tried to muscle in while we were out of town one weekend,’ the brunette explained as they walked over to
the waiting cab. ‘She still limps quite heavily, I understand.’

  ‘And you know what?’ the blonde put in. ‘The bitch is making better money now than she ever did before. There’s no accounting for taste.’

  ‘Or the lack of it.’

  The bar was a large, anonymous place near the station, patronized at this hour by a few late travellers, a group of railwaymen, a municipal cleaning crew and a battered, bloated woman of indeterminate age who eyed Zen’s companions with a piercing mixture of envy and malicious contempt.

  Zen ordered a mint tea, the brunette an espresso, the blonde a hot chocolate. The only tables had been taken by the travellers and the hostile older woman, so they headed for a quiet corner above a glass display case where a few sad sandwiches lay curling up on metal trays under damp towels.

  ‘We’d better introduce ourselves,’ the brunette announced abruptly. ‘I am Libera.’

  ‘Iolanda,’ murmured the blonde, peeking down at her extensive cleavage as though for confirmation.

  Zen hesitated an instant.

  ‘Alfonso Zembla,’ he said.

  ‘So let’s hear your proposition, Signor Zembla.’

  Zen removed the tea-bag from his cup.

  ‘In a word, I want you to seduce two young friends of mine.’

  Libera downed her coffee in two large gulps.

  ‘They’re young, you say?’

  ‘In their twenties.’

  ‘Good-looking?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Well off?’

  ‘Loaded.’

  Iolanda sighed-languidly.

  ‘So what’s the catch? The girls should be falling over themselves to get at them.’

  Extending the little finger of his right hand, Zen raised the cup to his lips.

  ‘The catch is that they’re already in love. And faithful. Models of devotion and constancy. Since they met their respective fidanzate, neither has so much as looked at another woman.’

  The two prostitutes exchanged glances.

  ‘And where do you come in?’ asked Libera.

  Zen turned his head and spat to one side.