Cosi Fan Tutti

by Michael Dibdin

  There was a moment of respectful silence.

  ‘But if you knew about Strade Pulite from the first, why couldn’t you protect the other three victims?’ another voice demanded.

  The Questore raised one finger.

  ‘It is essential to distinguish here between knowledge of the group’s existence and precise intelligence as to its goals or targets. Thanks to our extensive intelligence efforts, we have been aware of these fanatical throwbacks to the anni di piombo for some considerable time, but it is only within the last few days that we have been in a position to predict where they would strike next.’

  ‘What can you tell us about the method of assassination they employed?’ asked the plant, helpfully changing the subject.

  ‘It was the same in every case,’ the Questore replied, as though reading from a tele-prompt. ‘A truck belonging to the municipal cleaning department would be stolen at gunpoint. In the present case, the attackers disguised themselves as policemen performing a routine traffic control. Meanwhile the prospective victim had been followed, his movements noted, and a suitable time and venue selected. He would then be knocked unconscious and thrown into the truck, there to be crushed to death by the compacting machinery. The whole thing took only a few seconds. Afterwards the truck was driven to an abandoned factory site in the Pendino area, where there was vehicular access to a series of underground quarries. The contents were then deposited in the disused cistern where we discovered them today.’

  A female reporter held up her hand and received the Questore’s nod.

  ‘Three of the victims – Attilio Abate, Luca Della Ragione and Ermanno Vallifuoco – were all under judicial investigation for alleged offences ranging from bribery and tax evasion to association with organized crime,’ she noted. ‘The other, Giosuè Marotta, was a known confederate of Vallifuoco. How do you explain this choice of targets? What were the terrorists’ longterm aims?’

  The Questore assumed an air of intense gravity.

  ‘The men arrested this morning are still under interrogation, and we hope to have more precise answers to your questions soon. However, the overall object seems quite clear. It is true that the victims had been accused of various offences, but we must not forget that these allegations had not been tested in a court of law. Without wishing to prejudge the findings of the investigating magistrates, I suggest that the aim of these terrorists was to ensure that they never were.’

  ‘You mean that these were political acts?’ prompted the plant.

  ‘Without doubt. This was a classic campaign of destabilization, such as we have seen so many times before in recent years. In short, it was the work of ideologically motivated extremists determined to demonstrate that the rule of law had broken down and that only direct vigilante action could “clean the streets” of our cities. And unfortunately there were many ready to believe them, to call for a suspension of due legal procedure and the implementation of new, so-called “élite” law-enforcement agencies, operating independently of the police and unaccountable to our democratically elected representatives in Rome.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Not the least of the triumphs we have achieved here today is to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that good old-fashioned policing, using tried and true methods, is capable of obtaining the desired results without any recourse to such new and potentially risky experiments.’

  ‘So how did you trap them in the end, dottore?’ asked a reporter from RAI Uno.

  ‘Thanks to a combination of diligent and tireless work by the staff of this service, and the exceptional heroism of the operative whom I personally seconded from Criminalpol.’

  Another nod in Zen’s direction.

  ‘Despite all our stringent security measures, we learned a few days ago that our targets had identified him, that they were aware of the threat which his presence in Naples posed, and that they were preparing to eliminate it. I personally communicated these facts to Dottor Zen in a conference late last night. I told him that I was not prepared to order him to proceed with an operation which put his life in imminent danger, but that if he agreed to volunteer, then we might draw the terrorists into a trap and smash the whole operation once and for all. I am proud to say that, faced with such a terrible choice, he did not hesitate for a single moment.’

  The serried faces all turned towards Zen with expressions of awe and admiration. Flash bulbs exploded, cameras whirred, microphones were pushed forward.

  ‘The Questore is too generous,’ Zen said with an embarrassed shrug. ‘I only did my duty, as I hope and believe that any other member of the force to which I am proud to belong would have done in the same circumstances. But let us not exaggerate the contribution of any one individual. A coup such as this is dependent not on the exploits of one person, but rather on teamwork, dedication, discipline and efficiency. I would like to add that I have never seen these qualities more abundantly or effectively employed than here in Naples, under the inspirational leadership of my esteemed superior and colleague.’

  ‘What about the identity of the terrorists?’ someone called out. ‘Have they any links to other organizations, domestic or foreign?’

  The Questore shook his head and held up his hands.

  ‘That’s all we have time for now,’ he declared firmly. ‘I and my men have pressing work to do to clear up the remaining questions surrounding this case. As for Dottor Zen, as I am sure you will appreciate, he is in need of rest and recuperation after his heroic ordeal.’

  The Questore sweeps out with his retinue, the reporters hasten away to break the news he has given them to a waiting world, and the various soldiers, servants, sailors, wedding guests, street people and hangers-on who have somehow squeezed in all withdraw, leaving Aurelio Zen alone upon the bare, brilliantly lit stage.

  Finale

  Not for long, however, for almost at once the doorbell sounds, unleashing a bustle and scurry of activity. First the food arrives, carried upstairs in deep trays balanced on the shoulders of two strapping lads who proceed to lay it out on silver platters under the direction of an elderly retainer distinguished both by his uniform – significantly more pleated and layered than theirs – and by the expression of transcendental dignity which he retains throughout these proceedings, contrasting pointedly with the air of barely controlled panic with which his underlings go about their business.

  Before long, bottles of spumante make their appearance, arrayed in beds of cracked ice, together with yards of snowy starched linen to cover the trestles hastily erected at one end of the terrace to accommodate all these goodies. And not a minute too soon, for the guests are already starting to roll up. The first to arrive is Valeria, who has only with difficulty been dissuaded from bringing a selection of snacks and appetizers of her own devising in a well-meaning attempt to bail out the helpless bachelor who has impulsively decided to throw a party for the entire cast, and now appears awed and slightly resentful at having so misjudged both the competence of the host and the scale of the hospitality which he has laid on.

  But this mood does not last. As she tells Zen, her daughters have been in touch and assured her that all is well, and with that anxiety dispelled she is in a mood to celebrate. Pasquale and Immacolata Higgins are the next to appear, the former almost unrecognisably elegant thanks to a very nice near-Armani suit and all the accoutrements. La Igginz has just spent all day, not to mention a lucrative part of the night, behind the wheel and is wearing a rather less fetching ensemble designed with a view to comfort rather than style, terminating in a pair of garish yellow plastic sandals. Valeria Squillace starts to feel even better.

  Zen returns the silver box which Pasquale gave him, slightly battered by the experiences he went through, and explains how it saved his life.

  ‘So what’s the secret?’ he asks.

  Pasquale shrugs.

  ‘It’s not something to speak about at an event like this, duttò. A bit of respect is called for. Let’s just say that every year the corpse of a certain saint,
preserved here in Naples, exudes a liquor which the priests soak up with cotton wool and make available to a few select people who …’

  Aurelio Zen is already beginning to look as though he was sorry he asked, but luckily for him Dario De Spino now emerges from the interior of the house, whose front door downstairs has been left open to save the host from having to run up and downstairs every time someone rings. Dario, it must be said, thought long and hard before agreeing to show up at all. His sixth sense still told him that it would be better to lie low for a while, particularly at any function to which Gesualdo and Sabatino will inevitably have been invited.

  Nevertheless, the promise of a lavish party with lots of free eats and booze was a powerful inducement, and the flattering pleas of the two Albanians, who phoned him personally and practically burst into tears when he hesitated, was just enough to swing the balance, albeit against his better judgement. He does not want to lose contact with Iolanda and Libera, for whom he still has plans whose scope is validated by the spectacle they offer, entering with a studied air of confidence and sophistication, resplendent in the outfits which Dario has had knocked up for them through a friend of a brother-in-law’s friend’s cousin’s business associate.

  ‘Quite the party, Don Alfonso!’ he exclaims, voicing the thoughts of the other guests, none of whom, however, has been vulgar enough to express them.

  Zen shrugs modestly.

  ‘It’s not every day one survives a murder attempt.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Why?’

  The guests, including Professor Esposito, who has just joined the gathering, crowd eagerly around Zen.

  ‘Shortly after midnight this morning,’ he begins, sending Valeria a meaningful glance, ‘I was on my way home when I encountered a team of garbage collectors at work.’

  The newcomer laughs.

  ‘Impossible! I’m sorry, dottore, but you’ll have to do better than that. City employees at work at such an hour here in Naples? Unheard of!’

  Zen smiles and nods.

  ‘Exactly, Professor. They weren’t garbage collectors at all, but a team of killers from the terrorist organization known as Strade Pulite.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ objects Dario De Spino. ‘I saw the TV news story about that. It happened all right, but not to you. It was some policeman from Rome, a certain Aurelio … I don’t recall … Aurelio …’

  ‘Zen,’ says Gesualdo, coming out on to the terrace with Sabatino. ‘His name’s Aurelio Zen, and he’s a policeman.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Valeria exclaims. ‘He’s called Zembla. Aren’t you, Alfonso?’

  She is furious at the unexpected appearance of her daughters’ unsuitable suitors, even though Zen has explained that that’s all over now that they’ve fallen head over heels for the fascinating Albanian immigrants installed in the lower apartment and have completely forgotten the Squillace girls, far away in a foreign land, thank heavens, blissfully ignorant of how quickly and with what little trouble they have been displaced in their lovers’ affections.

  ‘Why would terrorists want to kill someone like you?’ demands Iolanda. ‘They only go for big shots, people of real importance.’

  The majestic majordomo advances, holding a telephone on a long extension cord.

  ‘For you, cummendatò,’ he says, handing the instrument to Zen.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Aurelio?’

  ‘Is that you, Gilberto?’

  ‘I just … check you’re … after the … congratulations on …’

  ‘Speak up, can you? It sounds like you’re calling from Russia!’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s how I was able to get the passport so quickly, courtesy of my partners here. If you know the right people, Moscow’s even better than Naples these days. Anyway, I was watching CNN here at the hotel and who should I see but you!’

  ‘They ran that in Russia?’

  ‘You’re world-famous, Aurelio! And after smashing those terrorists they’ll have to give you your old job back, maybe even with some promotion.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about …’

  ‘So it seemed a good moment to make a small confession.’

  Zen wiggles his empty glass at a passing waiter, who fills it with scintillating wine.

  ‘When you brought me that video-game cassette,’ Nieddu says faintly, ‘I was at a very low ebb, as you know. Times were difficult, not just for me but for Rosa and the kids …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, like I told you, the cassette I returned to you was not the same as the one you brought me. What I didn’t tell you was that it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘I’m only human, Aurelio. The temptation was too strong. Anyone would have done the same. It was just too good a chance to pass up. The first version of this particular game sold millions, billions! And now I had my hands on a usable prototype of the sequel, months before it was scheduled to hit the shops anywhere! Can you imagine the possibilities? Of course I wasn’t in a position to manufacture and market it myself, but I’d heard that they had the facilities here in the former Eastern bloc, plus a progressive, libertarian approach to things like copyright laws. So …’

  Zen hangs up and hands the phone back to the grave retainer.

  ‘I am not taking any further calls,’ he says.

  The paid functionary bows silently and withdraws as though he has been in the service of the family his whole life.

  Meanwhile Gesualdo and Sabatino have paired off with their respective mates, and the rest of the party are disputing vociferously about their host’s identity. The exchange on this subject between Pasquale and Professor Esposito is characterized by a particularly colourful and inventive display of rhetoric, which is unfortunately lost on the subject himself since it is conducted not merely in dialect, nor yet that variant common to the Borgo San Antonio Abate neighbourhood, but a sub-species of the latter, a sort of family jargon spoken only by persons of a certain age and social class from a particular couple of streets in the shadow of the eponymous church – and only then in moments of great emotion.

  The resulting encounter is both competitive and cohesive, at once an affirmation of a common heritage incomprehensible to outsiders and a struggle for dominance in terms of criteria which only the other is capable of judging. It is also incredibly loud and animated, suggestive of imminent bloodshed to ears untuned to its finer nuances. Zen makes the mistake of going over to calm them down, and immediately becomes the centre of attention once again, deflecting questions and fielding comments, gesturing hugely and maintaining a confident, unproblematic smile while he tries to work out who knows what about which aspect of whatever it is that has happened to whom.

  Meanwhile the young people, left to their own devices, gravitate by unspoken agreement towards an outlying area of the terrace overlooking the cascade of steps far below, the tiled roofs of the house opposite and the seeming avalanche of the whole city petrified whilst scurrying down the hill towards the level expanse of the bay. The exhausted evening air, laden with an intimate, insinuating heat, coils and swirls around the quartet as they stand together, chatting and nodding, ignoring the stunning vista in a grand, proprietorial way.

  Although their words are inaudible, the thoughts which they convey and conceal in equal measure are fairly clear to any casual onlooker. Gesualdo is in love with Iolanda. Look how he leans forward and brushes his lips against the nimbus of her long hair, how his eyes always seek hers out and then focus afresh when they meet, how the motions of his hands seem at once to respect and caress the contours of an emanation which surrounds her body, perceptible only to him.

  His beloved, on the other hand, is more problematic. The open stance and glowing, shocked expression convey a message which that muscular tautness and those convulsive gestures appear to call in question, if not contr
adict. This ambiguity might be explained in various ways, from the banal ‘Does he really love me?’ to the rather more suggestive ‘Would he still love me if he knew …?’ But the exact nature of the revelation Iolanda so obviously fears, but also desires, remains for the moment unclear.

  The young buck to her left, on the other hand, leaning over the edge of the terrace with breathtaking disinvoltura, presents no such problem. He eyes up Libera with a disconcertingly frank appreciation which is neither tainted nor redeemed by any ambiguity. ‘I’ve had this,’ his eyes say, ‘and if it came my way again, and there was nothing better on offer, I’d have it again.’ Unappealing as this may sound, it must be said that Sabatino is easily the least constrained and most charming of the four. If you were there, scanning the company, glass in hand, he’s the one you’d head for.

  It is when we come to the object of his salacious homage that the whole thing threatens to fall apart. The other three are each, in their varied ways, paying tribute to the object of their desires, with whatever unspoken and perhaps unspeakable reservations. But Libera … She isn’t even looking at Sabatino, for a start-off, but at Iolanda, and her gimlet stare expresses no love for anyone, with whatever qualifications or reservations, only the purest, crassest … well, frankly, bitchery. It’s as though Iolanda had done her some wrong, scored a point over her in some way. But how can this be? Libera certainly isn’t in love with Gesualdo. Why should she care? What’s going on?

  ‘Mannaggia ’a Madonna!’

  This cry comes from Sabatino. Having told everyone what he wants them to know in a shameless survey of his conquest’s charms, he is now gazing down at the alley below on the lookout for fresh game. And here it comes, in the form of two young women making their way down the steps through the hushed, expectant dusk. Sabatino stares at them fixedly for a long moment, his face a collapsed parody of the complacent mask he was wearing a moment earlier. He whirls around, staring wildly at Gesualdo, who is lost in the mists of love’s young dream. Sabatino runs up to the other end of the terrace, where Aurelio Zen is holding forth to a confused but still attentive audience. The young man whispers urgently into his ear.