Cosi Fan Tutti

by Michael Dibdin

  Zen nodded. The professor seated himself at the other end of the table.

  ‘Very good. Now then, what can you tell me about the missing individual? Have you a picture, or better yet some object belonging to him or her? An article of clothing, a piece of jewellery …’

  ‘This is all I have.’

  He took out the Missing Persons bulletin on the escaped prisoner and passed it up the table.

  ‘I don’t even know the man’s name …’ Zen began.

  ‘I do.’

  Zen stared at Professor Esposito, who was scowling at the photograph.

  ‘His name is Giosuè Marotta, also known as ‘o pazzo.’

  ‘“The madman”?’

  ‘“The joker”, rather, although there’s nothing particularly amusing about Don Giosuè. He boasts of having killed over a hundred men. Eighty is probably nearer the mark, but his technique is more remarkable than his sheer output. He works in various media, but his speciality is the garrotte. They say he can make the process last as much as fifteen minutes.’

  Zen gaped at him.

  ‘You mean this man is well-known?’

  Professor Esposito shrugged.

  ‘Notorious, in certain circles.’

  ‘But we had him in custody for days, and were unable to identify him!’ Zen protested. ‘We sent his prints and that mug shot over to the Questura. They said they had nothing on him.’

  ‘Naturally. These people are not film stars or politicians. In the circles I just referred to, fame is inversely proportionate to how much is known about you, especially officially. With the very top people – Don Gaetano or Don Fortunato – the only data extant are the time and place of birth, and both are almost certainly false.’

  Zen acknowledged the point with a nod.

  ‘Have you any idea where this Marotta is now?’ he asked.

  The professor stared at the photograph for a long time. Outside in the street, above a cacophony of car horns, shouts, whistles and revving engines, a lone cock crew three times. Inside the room all was still except for the buzzing of a fly circling in the hot air above the lamp. It plunged sideways and fell, spiralling down to land on its back on top of the mug-shot of Giosuè Marotta, legs waving feebly.

  ‘In Hades.’

  The voice appeared to come from a great distance.

  ‘You mean hell?’ queried Aurelio Zen, frowning.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘That’s the best sense I can make of it,’ Professor Esposito said with a sigh. ‘The images are very faint. Good reception is almost impossible without an object of reference, something imprinted with the subject’s personal aura. But I see him somewhere deep underground, with flames and figures milling around. Do you know The Last Judgement they have up at Capodimonte? Or you may be familiar with the Roman copy by Michelangelo. In the glimpse I had, Don Giosuè might have been posing for one of the figures towards the bottom of the picture.’

  Zen made no attempt to hide his disappointment.

  ‘That doesn’t help me much.’

  ‘A time may come when it all makes sense,’ the professor replied blandly, pushing the photograph back down the table. ‘May I offer you a refreshment of some kind?’

  Zen hesitated a moment.

  ‘As a matter of fact, there’s someone else I’m anxious to trace.’

  ‘Then you’re in luck, dottore. This week only I’m offering a thirty per cent discount on the second consultation. Who is it this time?’

  ‘My mother. But I have no photographs, no personal belongings, nothing.’

  The professor smiled.

  ‘Stand up and come here.’

  Zen obeyed. Professor Esposito undid the two middle buttons of his client’s shirt and inserted the little finger of his right hand into Zen’s belly-button.

  ‘Where your mother is concerned,’ he remarked, closing his eyes in concentration, ‘you yourself are the only object of reference required.’

  Cor di femmina

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ demanded Libera as Iolanda walked in looking, as her companion tactfully added, like a cigarette butt fished out of a urinal.

  ‘Mind your own fucking business!’ was the angry reply.

  ‘It is my business, darling,’ Libera reminded her. ‘They’ve both got to come across or we don’t get paid.’

  ‘If it’s the money you’re interested in, you can kiss it goodbye right now!’ snapped Iolanda, throwing herself down on the sofa, legs akimbo.

  ‘What else would I be thinking about?’ Libera asked innocently.

  ‘Well, forget it! Gesualdo is straight as a die.’

  Libera put her head on one side and nodded slowly.

  ‘Not even a hint of any action?’

  ‘Not a damn thing. You want to hear about it?’

  ‘I’m all ears, darling!’

  She came to perch on the edge of the sofa. Iolanda sighed mightily.

  ‘I caught up with him on the steps outside and gave him the big sob story. Pretended to weep and be nervous and tongue-tied, the whole production.’

  ‘Well done. And?’

  ‘At first he took a really tough line. Said he couldn’t help me, it was nothing to do with him, and he was sure De Spino would fix us up with something. “I can imagine what that creep has in mind,” I told him. “Do you want to force my sister and I out on the streets?”’

  ‘The very idea!’ murmured Libera.

  ‘He seemed to soften a bit at that. I mean, he’s basically a really decent guy, you know? That’s what makes it so tough.’

  She looked away distractedly. Libera’s jaw hardened.

  ‘You’re not falling for him, are you?’ she said insinuatingly.

  Iolanda flashed her a furious look.

  ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid!’

  ‘All right, dearie, all right. No need to get your tackle in a twist. So what happened?’

  Iolanda sighed again.

  ‘He said he felt very sorry for us. I told him to stuff his pity. And he said …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He said it wasn’t just pity.’

  Libera’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘He did?’

  ‘So of course I went ahead and made a total fool of myself. I told him I’d always known there was something between us from the first moment I’d set eyes on him, and that someone so handsome couldn’t be cold and selfish, blah, blah. And then it all came out.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘A big speech about how he was engaged to be married and would never do anything that might hurt his future wife and the mother of his children. Then he turned on his heel and walked off without a word or a look, as though I was a piece of dog shit …’

  She started to weep.

  ‘And now he’s probably on the phone to that bitch in England, giving her an earful about how beautiful and sweet and feminine she is …’

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on to her blouse. Libera embraced her briefly and patted her back.‘

  Never mind, dear. You’ll get over it.’

  Iolanda sniffed.

  ‘What about yours? Same story, I suppose. Bastards! They’re all the same!’

  Libera inspected her nails.

  ‘Well, maybe not quite all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ snapped Iolanda.

  Libera tossed her hair and laughed archly.

  ‘Oh, nothing in particular.’

  Iolanda stared at her intently. Her tears had dried up.

  ‘You expect me to believe that he fell for you?’ she demanded with a harsh laugh. ‘Oh, sure! And you started your period too, I suppose. Another miracle of San Gennaro!’

  Libera shrugged modestly.

  ‘Miracles sometimes happen, nevertheless.’

  ‘Stop pissing me about!’ exclaimed Iolanda. ‘Let’s face it, there’s no way those two are ever going to come across for the likes of us.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ replied Libera. ‘That must b
e why he gave me this …’

  She displayed the key, dangling on a chain around her neck, and the address inked on her wrist. Iolanda stared at them in silence.

  ‘That cunt,’ she said at last.

  Rolling up off the sofa, she strode rapidly to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Libera asked in a tone of alarm.

  ‘Back to the streets! At least there I can turn an honest trick and make some honest money.’

  Libera ran and grabbed her.

  ‘Are you crazy? Do you want to throw away the money Zembla promised us when it’s practically in our hands?’

  ‘I’ve had it, understand? All this bullshit about love is driving me round the bend.’

  She threw herself back on the sofa and burst into tears.

  ‘I’ll fetch Dario,’ said Libera, heading for the door. ‘I’m sure he’ll have some ideas. Stay right here!’

  ‘I feel like I’m being torn apart,’ Iolanda muttered to herself. ‘And there’s no one I can confide in or ask for advice, no one at all. To fall for a client! The shame of it! I’ll be the laughing-stock of Naples.’

  She sat up and sniffed loudly.

  ‘But it won’t happen. I’ll just forget the bastard, wipe him out of my memory for ever …’

  Her face collapsed as she started to weep again.

  ‘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, duttò,’ 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.’

  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 G7 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 (0 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, Gesuà, 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?’

  ‘I didn’t believe it, understand? Not for a moment, 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? Gesù, can’t you make it Sunday at least, Gesuà.’

  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, Gesuà? Well, I must be going. Ciao!’

  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.

  Che strepito!

  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.’