Cosi Fan Tutti Page 9

  ‘So you were in town yesterday and didn’t even bother to come and see your poor mother who you’ve abandoned here like some old coat you’ve no more use for now you’ve gone native in the sunny south with some slut you’ve picked up like that time in Venice with Rosalba’s baby who may I remind you happens to be my God-daughter apart from anything else which makes you her great-Godfather but of course that didn’t stop you from going right ahead and ditching Tania who I’d just begun to think of as part of the family and someone who might one day take the place of your poor wife Luisella who just happens to be in Rome for a week and actually took the trouble to come round here and visit me unlike some I could mention even though you walked out on her fifteen years ago the same way you do on all the women in your life including your mother who I’d have thought might feel entitled to a little consideration seeing as how you wouldn’t even be here today if it hadn’t been for me carrying you in my belly all those long months and in wartime too with the shortages and the fear and my husband disappearing the way he did which is I suppose where you get it from not that that’s any excuse and I certainly don’t see why I should be punished for something I suffered enough from at the time God knows instead of which you hide there behind the answering machine like the coward you are while I sit here all alone and unloved at my age in a strange city with no one to care for me – sola, perduta, abbandonata!’

  This was the recorded version. When he called her back, Zen was treated to a live encore, preceded by a lengthy recitative explaining how she heard about his visit from Rosa Nieddu, who ‘accidentally let it slip’ when she came by to drop off the girls that morning so that she could drive Gilberto to the airport and how at first she couldn’t believe what she’d heard and then Rosa tried to pretend she hadn’t said it and then broke down and confessed everything and they had both burst into tears and hugged each other.

  ‘Ah, the female mafia on the job again!’ murmured Zen, feeling drenched in oestrogen as though in cheap scent.

  Fortunately his mother was not listening.

  ‘Then later on Luisella called to say she needed to get in touch with you about the divorce settlement …’

  ‘What? I haven’t seen her for ten years! We haven’t lived together for …’

  ‘But you’re still married to her, Aurelio, and now she’s met someone else and wants to have children before it’s too late. I hope you don’t mind, but I did just say that as you’ve made all that money from that American family I’m sure you’ll have no trouble agreeing to any suggestions which her lawyers may make.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind, mamma?’

  ‘Then that evening Tania dropped round so naturally I told her about you coming all the way up here to chat about video games with your pal Gilberto and not even bothering to come and see your poor mother who you’ve abandoned here like some old coat you’ve no more use for now you’ve moved to the sunny south and gone native …’

  And so on, for some time. And when Zen finally succeeded in getting the conversation back on track, it promptly ran right over him.

  ‘So then Tania told me her news. You’ll never guess what’s happened!’

  ‘I suppose she wants to get married so that she can divorce me and get her hands on the American money you no doubt told her about too.’

  ‘She does want to marry you, Aurelio, but not for your money. It’s for the child.’

  ‘Whose child?’

  ‘Yours, of course! She’s pregnant.’

  During his previous sojourn in Naples, many years ago, Zen had investigated a particularly unpleasant killing in which an informer was tied to a table and his skull perforated by an electric drill. Zen’s present sensations appeared to approximate, however feebly, the experiences of the victim. He did a number of rapid mental calculations involving dates, times and places. It was, he concluded, just possible.

  ‘You didn’t tell them where I am, did you? Don’t give them this number! Don’t even tell them I’m in Naples!’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I tell them? Luisella’s your wife and Tania’s the mother of your child – my grandchild. They’re family, Aurelio.’

  ‘For God’s sake, mamma! They’re just trying to get their hands on my money now I finally have some after all these years. Women are all the same!’

  ‘Don’t you use that tone of voice with me, Aurelio! None of this would have happened if you’d had the simple common decency to pay me a visit when you were in town. I don’t expect much, God knows, only a few minutes of your time once every couple of weeks. Is that too much to ask?’

  Many years’ experience of interrogations had left Aurelio Zen with a keen sense of when and how to turn the tables.

  ‘Why don’t you come down here?’ he suggested.

  The flow of aggrieved verbiage ceased. There was a shocked silence.

  ‘To Naples?’ his mother demanded at last, her voice a whisper. ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it’s made out, mamma. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the …’

  ‘First you drag me down to the South, now you expect me to move to Africa!’

  ‘Not to live, of course. But you might think about spending a few days here some time …’

  ‘If anything, I’ll go back to Venice! I can’t see any less of you than I do already, and if I’ve got to live all alone I might as well do it there as here …’

  And so on, for another five minutes. As Zen listened, he realized for the first time the extent to which he had already become ‘meridionalized’. He saw it all with a different eye now, this dark, disturbing stuff boiling up like mud churned up by a power boat roaring up a shallow canal – with a clear, unforgiving Southern eye. These were extracts from another narrative, another life, redundant here.

  Nevertheless he went through the usual motions, assuring his mother that he would call more often and visit her in person just as soon as the demands of the extremely vital and urgent case he was presently working on permitted. He told her that he loved her and missed her and would never ever come to Rome again without coming to see her, however rushed he might be, because she was more important to him than anything or anyone else. He told what she wanted to hear, then hung up and went to tear the cord out of the wall. He couldn’t leave it here in his absence anyway. The last thing he needed was for Gesualdo and Sabatino to be fielding calls for someone called Aurelio Zen.

  But before he could disconnect the instrument, it started to ring again. It’s mamma, he thought, calling back for further reassurance. His heart sank at the prospect, but it was idle to pretend that he wasn’t there.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good evening, dottore. This is Pastorelli.’

  ‘Well?’ barked Zen.

  ‘Many apologies for the interruption, dottore. I know we’ve been given very strict instructions never to disturb you at home, but I can’t get hold of Giovan Battista … of Inspector Caputo, that is. He’s out somewhere, his wife said, and she doesn’t know when he’ll …’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, the thing is, we have a bit of a problem. It’s in relation to that case involving the stabbing of that Greek sailor on the night of the …’

  ‘Has he died?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Greek!’

  ‘No, no. That’s to say, I don’t know. We’ve had no word as to his condition.’

  ‘Then why the hell are you wasting my time, Pastorelli? If you’re lonely, go upstairs and chat up the whores.’

  ‘It’s the prisoner, dottore.’

  ‘What about the prisoner?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ boomed Zen. ‘Who authorized his release?’

  ‘No one, dottore. He escaped.’

  Come? Perché? Quando? In qual modo?

  Pasquale had gone off duty after dropping the Squillace girls at the airport. He apologized profusely for not being able to drive Zen in person, but promised he would ring around and send someone reliable, thus sparing hi
s client the indignity of having to call a taxi company himself, like some nobody without any standing or contacts in the city. Before leaving, Zen went across the alley and explained to the toothless Don Castrese that he was expecting friends to call that evening and that he might be delayed. He left a key and instructions to admit two young men answering to the names Gesualdo and Sabatino.

  The cab dispatched by Pasquale was waiting for Zen in Via Cimarosa. The driver, a squat, tough-looking woman of indeterminate age and few words, confirmed his destination and did not speak again until they arrived at the port. It was the first time that Zen had had occasion to visit his place of work after dark, and he was astonished at the transformation. The shutters of the windows on the top floor of the police station were all closed, but cracks of light escaped here and there and the sound of disco music mingled with voices and laughter floated down through the soft evening air.

  Pastorelli, a short intense-looking man with a permanently worried expression, was waiting in the entrance hall, visibly perturbed. Zen made no attempt to mitigate the man’s embarrassment or to respond to his explanations and excuses, merely leading the way upstairs to his office as though it were quite normal for him to be there. Not until he was ensconced behind his desk did he deign to address a word to his subordinate.

  ‘As duty officer in charge of this post, you are personally accountable for ensuring that the statutory regulations are enforced and a proper degree of security maintained.’

  He lifted the phone.

  ‘In fact, I think we might be able to set a precedent here. You know how hard it is to get fired from the police. Many attempts have been made, but they nearly always result in mere demotion or transfer. But if I call the Questura and report that you have not only been turning a blind eye to the fact that a brothel is operating on the premises, but have allowed the suspect at the centre of the most important case this section has ever handled to escape from under your nose, I’m pretty sure that you’ll be on the street tomorrow – if not in jail yourself.’

  Pastorelli blanched visibly but said nothing.

  ‘On the other hand, I’m not sure that’s in my own best interests,’ Zen went on, setting down the receiver again. ‘So we may have to pass up this chance to make the record books and settle for the usual cover-up. Where’s Caputo?’

  ‘On his way, sir. His wife passed on the message and he called in to say he’d be here as soon as he can.’

  Zen took out the pack of Nazionali he had bought earlier that day and lit up.

  ‘The only way to lie effectively is on the basis of the truth,’ he observed philosophically. ‘If I’m going to condone a cover-up, I don’t want it blown because some essential detail was concealed from me. You will therefore tell me exactly what happened, step by step, holding nothing back.’

  Pastorelli nodded earnestly.

  ‘I came on duty at five,’ he began.

  ‘Was the prisoner still here then?’

  ‘I didn’t check. The night shift is always very quiet …’

  He broke off as a particularly raucous laugh from the top floor rent the night air.

  ‘Go on,’ said Zen.

  ‘The prisoner’s meal was taken down to him at seven-thirty, as per regulations. Pasta, chicken, bread, half a litre of wine.’

  ‘Except that the prisoner decided to dine out this evening.’

  Pastorelli looked down at the floor.

  ‘When Armando didn’t return …’

  ‘Who’s Armando?’

  ‘Bertolini, sir. He’s the other man on nights this week. He took the prisoner his meal tray. About eight I wanted to step out for a coffee, so I went looking for him to man the front desk. The corridors and offices on the first floor were all dark, and I knew he wouldn’t have gone upstairs …’

  ‘Get on with it, Pastorelli! Where was he?’

  ‘In the prisoner’s cell, sir. Handcuffed to the bars and gagged with strips torn from his undershirt. His uniform was missing.’

  Zen rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

  ‘He said that when he’d come down with the meal, the prisoner was rolling about on the floor of his cell, apparently in agony and claimed that he’d been poisoned. Bertolini knew this was a very important case, and of course you keep hearing rumours about people who know too much getting poisoned in jail, so he sort of lost his head …’

  ‘And instead of reporting back to you, went right ahead and tried to administer first-aid himself, at which point the prisoner made a miraculous recovery and hit our Armando over the head with the chamberpot, right?’

  ‘No, sir. It was a stool.’

  A maniacal light appeared in Zen’s eyes.

  ‘Ah, a stool! That changes everything.’

  ‘It does?’ queried Pastorelli with a puzzled expression.

  Zen smiled horribly.

  ‘You know, Pastorelli, you remind me of some cartoon character. One of those lovable, gormless, anthropomorphic rodents. If you do end up getting fired, I bet we can find some lonely old lady who’d be happy to keep you as a pet.’

  He crushed out his cigarette on the floor.

  ‘So the prisoner tied up Bertolini and took his uniform. How did he get out?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You were on duty at the front desk from the time Bertolini took the meal down until you went looking for him. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did anyone enter or leave the building in that time?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And I take it you had the wit to search the premises since then, to check he’s not hiding out somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  Pastorelli hesitated.

  ‘Spit it out,’ Zen told him.

  But at that moment the door swung open and Giovan Battista Caputo appeared, waving a news paper, his face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘We’re off the hook, dottore!’

  He laid the newspaper on Zen’s desk.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Mattino,’ he said. ‘You can get it early, if you know where to go.’

  He ran a stubby forefinger under the banner headline.

  POLITICAL TERRORISM RETURNS, it read, and in slightly smaller type below, NEW ORGANIZATION BEHIND THE MYSTERY OF THE ‘ILLUSTRIOUS DISAPPEARANCES’?

  Inset in the text were three photographs, one larger than the rest, showing three men, all in their fifties, all wearing suits and ties. One was visibly ducking away from the photographer’s flash, another was smiling and relaxing at a party, the third and largest was staring deadpan into the camera, as though sitting for an enforced portrait.

  Zen skimmed rapidly through the accompanying article. Apparently the local media had received a communiqué from a previously unknown group calling itself Strade Pulite, claiming responsibility for the recent disappearances of three leading social and commercial figures in the city:

  Two years after the political events which promised so much, it is clear that nothing has changed but the names. The work of the judges and investigators continues to be obstructed and blocked at every turn. The list of those accused of corruption and criminality grows ever longer, but so far not one of them has been brought to trial, much less condemned and sentenced. In short, the usual cover-up and procrastination is taking place, while the guilty continue to walk the streets of our city, as free men!

  Since the law cannot – or will not – touch them, we have decided to take the law into our own hands. Three of the most scandalous examples of civic putridity have already been removed: Attilio Abate, Luca Della Ragione and Ermanno Vallifuoco. Their fate and their present whereabouts are of no more concern than those of any other item of garbage. It is enough that they defile the streets of our city no longer.

  But our work has only just begun. There are many other instances of such ordure still to be dealt with. We know who they are, as does every Neapolitan who has studied the sad history of our city in recent years. They are the men who grew fat on the sufferings of the earthquake vi
ctims in 1980, the men who grew rotten on the money which the Christian Democrats handed out to save their henchman Cirillo from the clutches of his kidnappers, the men whose greed and arrogance have made our city a national and international byword for public and private corruption, waste and inefficiency.

  For years they flouted the law with impunity, secure in the protection of their allies in Rome. Berlusconi promised to make a new start, a clean sweep, but as always this turned out to be just another proof that ‘Everything must change so that nothing will change’. And nothing has, until now. But now things are changing! We have seen to that, and we will continue to do so. Our enemies – the common enemies of every right-thinking Neapolitan – cannot escape us. We go about our work as invisibly as the men who clean our gutters and remove our rubbish. Indeed, our job is the same: to return the city to its citizens, pristine and purified, a source of civic pride once more. Strade Pulite per una città pulita!

  Zen pushed the paper away.

  ‘“Clean streets for a clean city.” Well, it’s a good slogan. Sounds as if some Red Brigade cell went to a PR firm who told them to drop the Marxist rhetoric and get snappier copy.’

  He looked at Caputo.

  ‘But what’s it got to do with us?’

  ‘It’ll buy us time, dottore. Some foreign sailor getting knifed in the port is going to look small time in the context of a full-blown terrorist campaign dedicated to wiping out all the local politicians’ nearest and dearest cronies.’

  Zen nodded.

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  He turned to Pastorelli, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.