Cosi Fan Tutti

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘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 café 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 façade 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 illbred 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 overcompensation.

  ‘Pasquale, duttò. 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, duttò? He isn’t missing any more.’

  Questa è 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 Sabatino 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, duttò!’ 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, duttò!’ said the drunk. ‘Just a cover, indeed. You might as well say that a Buggatti 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, duttò! 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 lire!’

  ‘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, duttò. 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, duttò, 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, duttò,’ the drunk advised. ‘Mothers don’t have the clout they used to.’

  Sabatino gazed wide-eyed at his partner.

  ‘What is it, Gesuà?’

  Gesualdo looked down at the tabletop.

  ‘I’m in love,’ he murmured. ‘And not just with Orestina.’

  ‘Guglielmo, more wine!’ yelled the drunk. ‘Oh, Gugliè!’

  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.

  ‘Personally I’m for the Fascists or whatever they’re calling themselves these days,’ the drunk interjected. ‘But the main thing is to get someone in there who can get things done. To take a simple example, if you have the chance to pick up a fabulous Versace lookalike today at a knockdown sixty thousand lire, you don’t want it next month at a hundred, am I right?’

  ‘It’s a question of principle,’ Gesualdo replied primly. ‘Whatever happens, I am not going to deceive Orestina. No matter how much I may be tempted, I’ll always be able to control myself.’

  ‘You won’t be able to do a damn thing,’ said Sabatino with a cynical smile. ‘But what’s the big deal, anyhow? I love Filomena just as much as you love Orestina, and I can’t wait to see her when she gets back. But in the meantime I aim to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Just be sure you inspect the merchandise carefully before taking delivery,’ the drunk intoned. ‘Not everything is what it seems at first sight, particularly here in Naples.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Gesualdo.

  Sabatino shrugged.

  ‘I gave Libera the key to my place in Mergellina. We’re meeting there this evening.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why not? There’s no way Filomena will ever find out. It’s as if it never happened.’

  Gesualdo looked at him for some time in silence, then sniffed loudly.

  ‘Well, that’s your business.’

  The street door opened and a young man appeared. All conversation immediately ceased. The intruder walked to the centre of the room, looking about him in a pleasant, dopey way.

  ‘Vino?’ he said tentatively, waving a 50,000-lire note.

  The drunk perked up at once.

  ‘You want to drink?’ he said in English. ‘Maybe eat something? Sit down! Later I tell you of the war. Oh, Gugliè! Addò cazzo staje? Puortace ’n’ato litro ’e chellu bbuono, pecchè ccà ce sta ’n’amico mije ca è arrivate mo’ dall’America ca se sta murenne ’e sete!’

  Vi par, ma non è ver

  Dario was at a loss. This was doubly disturbing for a man who prided himself on always knowing what was what and who was behind it, even on those rare occasions when he himself wasn’t directly or indirectly involved. But now not only could he not get hold of either Gesualdo or Sabatino, but he was beginning to have an uneasy sense that everything that had been happening was merely a diversion designed to distract attention from the real action, which was taking place somewhere else entirely. In short he sensed that he, Dario De Spino, was in this case no better off than the hapless fauna on whom he was accustomed to prey, people dumb enough to think that they knew what was going on because they followed the news.

  His two friends had not returned his calls, and the only person he had been able to trace who had any information on their whereabouts was Ciro Soglione, amateur of big bikes, busty blondes and other people’s wallets. And even Ciro was conspicuously unhelpful, merely saying that he had met Gesualdo briefly in Forcella that afternoon and that the latter had ‘tried to get heavy’.

  ‘I soon put a stop to that,’ Ciro continued airily. ‘Gesualdo’s a good guy, we all know that, but if you haven’t got respect out here on the streets, you haven’t got anything, right? I showed him he couldn’t push me around, then when he backed off I eased up and told him not to worry so much. “Oh, Gesuà,” I said, “you’ve got to learn to relax, kid!” But it was no good, he was too pissed off. What’s the deal? Is his girl screwing around on him or something? Some guys come on so fucking tough, you know, but they let women push them around! I don’t get it.’

  In the time he had known them, Dario had learned that it was not unusual for Gesualdo and Sabatino to drop out of circulation for hours or even days at a time. He had always assumed that this had to do with their work, into which he was careful not to pry. There were things you could discuss and others you couldn’t. Dario respected their privacy and expected them to do the same in return. Plus he got the impression that the stuff they were working on was way out of his league. There were occasions when it was better even for Dario De Spino not to know what was going on, still less who was behind it.

  But it was something the thief had said just before they parted which worried Dario most – or rather what he had not said. Swivelling around on the saddle of his motorbike, Ciro had smiled in a knowing way and called out, ‘How about those Strade Pulite guys, eh?’ Like it was a football team or something.

  And that was all, except for the valedictory roar of the bike. Dario had walked away deep in thought. What was the purpose of that teasing reference to the ‘Clean Streets’ group? It must have something to do with Gesualdo, otherwise Ciro would have clarified it. Instead he had deliberately left it hanging there, vague but suggestive, right after their discussion about their mutual acquaintance. That could only mean one thing: he was implying that Gesualdo was linked in some way to the terrorists who had ‘disappeared’ three prominent local figures, with two of whom Dario had had professional dealings. And if Gesualdo was involved, then Sabatino must be too.

  Once again Dario De Spino asked himself just how well he really knew these two young men. Not that there had ever seemed anything very much to know. They had always seemed absolutely typical young middle-management hoodlums, perhaps a trifle smarter and more reserved than some, but in no way exceptional. If they had been, Dario wouldn’t have had anything to do with them. They were affable and efficient in exactly the sort of way you’d expect of people who knew the sort of people they said they knew and worked for the class of operation they let it be understood that they worked for.

  Tough, it went without saying, and no doubt capable of ruthless viciousness if the circumstances called for it, but basically just a couple of average Neapolitan lads trying to get on in life and make a decent living. Certainly not terrorists! The whole idea was ridiculous. The South might have its problems, but ideological fanaticism had never been one of them. People down here were too smart to waste their time trying to change t
he world. They came to terms with life as best they could, each in his own way. History had taught them what happened to anyone who failed to do so.

  Nevertheless it remained, this feeling which Dario couldn’t explain but had learned to trust, an almost physical sense that all was not what it seemed. He plunged into the pullulating life of the Forcella market area, greeted friends and enemies alike, ate a pizza and drank a beer, made various deals on a cargo of microwave cookers and CD players due to fall overboard from a freighter shortly, scored three complimentary tickets for Sunday’s big game, appreciated a variety of passing bums and biceps, picked up some cheap Gucci forgeries which would delight and impress the Albanians, and discussed some possibilities for their long-term placement in positions offering them security and assorted fringe benefits and Dario a reasonable consideration up-front plus a percentage of the resulting action.

  All of this took several hours, at the end of which his feeling was still in place, a stabbing internal pain of the kind you initially dismiss as just a passing twinge but which ends up looking like a symptom of something more serious. Dario distractedly caressed the red horn-shaped amulet dangling from a gold chain around his neck, an antidote against the evil eye. In view of the proposals he had just discussed, he was understandably reluctant to give up on the two girls and the very lucrative returns, both immediate and deferred, which they represented.

  On the other hand, he was well aware that ragazze and ragazzi were not to be separated, particularly in this case. And where the latter were concerned, everything he believed in and depended on for his everyday and long-term survival was telling him to get the hell out at the earliest possible opportunity without leaving a forwarding address. On yet another hand – how many hands you needed in this business! – he didn’t have a single scrap of evidence to suggest that anything whatever was wrong.

  In short, Dario was facing a dilemma familiar to every Neapolitan: reason was telling him one thing, instinct another. The resulting struggle was short, painful and – despite a lifetime’s training and the tradition of centuries – obscurely humiliating, but the outcome was never in any real doubt.