Ratking az-1

by Michael Dibdin

  From the kitchen came a clatter of pans supplemented by Maria Grazia’s voice alternately berating the ancient stove, encouraging a blunt knife, singing snatches of the spring’s big hit and calling on the Madonna to witness the misery to which her life was reduced by the quality of the vegetables on offer at the local greengrocer’s. He would have to eat something here before sneaking out to meet Ellen. His mother’s birthday was in a week, he realized. He would almost certainly still be away. At all events, he would have to tell her about the change of plans, which meant hearing once again how he should have got a nice job on the railways like his father. Did she really not realize that she told him this every single time he returned? Or was she, on the contrary, having a good laugh at his expense? That was the trouble with old people, you could never be sure. That was the trouble with living with someone you loved more than anyone else in the world, but had nothing in common with now but blood and bones.

  ‘But I don’t understand. Surely you’re not a real policeman? I mean, you work for the Ministry, don’t you? As a bureaucrat. That’s what you told me, anyway.’

  Ellen’s implication was clear: she would never have had anything to do with him if she had thought he was a ‘real’ policeman.

  ‘And it’s the truth. Ever since I’ve known you that’s what I’ve been doing. Going the rounds of provincial headquarters checking how many paperclips are being used, that sort of thing. Inspection duty, popularly known as Housekeeping, and just about as glamorous. The nearest I’ve got to real police work was smashing the great stolen toilet-roll racket at the Questura in Campobasso.’

  She didn’t smile.

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Well, before it was different.’

  ‘You were a real cop? A police officer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was so much shock in her look that he could not tell what else it might contain.

  ‘Where was this?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Oh, various places. Here, for example.’

  ‘You worked in the Questura, here in Rome?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Christ! Which department?’

  She was looking hard at him.

  ‘Not the Political Branch, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  It was, of course. Ellen’s circle of expatriate acquaintances already regarded it as rather bizarre that she had got involved with an official from the Ministry of the Interior, just as Zen’s few friends were clearly at a loss to know what to make of his liaison with this American divorcee, a classic straniera with her bright little apartment in Trastevere filled with artistic bric-a-brac and books in four languages and her Fiat 500 illegally parked in the street outside. The only answer in either case had been that whatever it was, it worked for both of them. It had seemed to be the only answer necessary. But now, without the slightest warning, Ellen found herself facing the possibility that her official had once been an active member of La Politica: one of those who beat up demonstrating students and striking workers and pushed suspects out of windows, while protecting the neo-fascists responsible for the indiscriminate bombings of public squares and cafeterias and trains.

  ‘I asked you what you did do,’ she insisted, ‘not what you didn’t.’

  Her manner had become that of the tough brutal cop she perhaps assumed him to have been, bullying a statement out of a suspect.

  ‘I was in the section concerned with kidnappings.’

  At this, her features relaxed slightly. Kidnappings, eh? Well, that was all right, wasn’t it? A nice uncontroversial area of police work. Which just left the question of why he had abandoned it for the inglorious role of Ministry snooper, spending half his time making exhausting trips to dreary provincial capitals where his presence was openly resented by everyone concerned, and the other half sitting in his windowless office at the Viminale typing up unreadable and no doubt unread reports. But before Ellen had a chance to ask him about this, Ottavio appeared in person at their table and the subject changed to that of food.

  Ottavio outlined in pained tones his opinion that people were not eating enough these days. All they ever thought about was their figures, a selfish, short-sighted view contributing directly to the impoverishment of restaurateurs and the downfall of civilization as we know it. What the Goths, the Huns and the Turks had failed to do was now being achieved by a conspiracy of dietitians who were bringing the country to its knees with all this talk of cholesterols, calories and the evils of salt. Where were we getting to?

  Such were his general grievances. His more particular wrath was reserved for Zen, who had told the waiter that he did not want anything to follow the huge bowl of spa¬ ghetti alla carbonara he had forced himself to eat on top of the vegetable soup Maria Grazia had prepared at home.

  ‘What are you trying to do?’ Ottavio demanded indignantly. ‘Put me out of business? Listen, the lamb is fabulous today. And when I say fabulous I’m saying less than half the truth. Tender young sucklings, so sweet, so pretty it was a sin to kill them. But since they’re dead already it would be a bigger sin not to eat them.’

  Zen allowed himself to be persuaded, largely to get rid of Ottavio, who moved on to spread the good word to other tables.

  ‘And how have you been?’ Zen asked Ellen, when he had gone.

  But she wasn’t having that.

  ‘Why haven’t you told me this before?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. Besides, it’s all past history now.’

  ‘When did all this happen, then?’

  He sighed, frowned, rubbed his forehead and grimaced.

  ‘Oh, I suppose it must be about… yes, about four years ago now. More or less.’

  Surely he had overdone the uncertainty grotesquely? But she seemed satisfied.

  ‘And now they’re suddenly putting you back on that kind of work? This must be quite a surprise.’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  There was no need to conceal that, at any rate!

  ‘So it was 1979 you quit?’

  ‘The year before, actually.’

  ‘And you got yourself transferred to a desk job?’

  ‘More or less.’

  He tensed himself for the follow-up, but it failed to materialize. Fair enough. If Ellen didn’t appreciate how unlikely it was that anyone in that particular section of the Rome police would be allowed to transfer to a desk job in 1978 of all years, he certainly wasn’t going to draw her attention to it.

  ‘What made you do that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was just fed up with the work.’

  The food was brought to their table by Ottavio’s youngest son, a speedy little whippet who, at fourteen, had already perfected his professional manner, contriving to suggest that he was engaged on some task of incalculable importance to humanity carried out against overwhelming odds under near-impossible conditions, and that while a monument in the piazza outside would be a barely adequate expression of the debt society owed him, he didn’t even expect to get a decent tip.

  They ate in silence for several minutes.

  ‘So, what have you been up to?’ Zen insisted. ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Very quiet. There’s a big sale on Tuesday, though.’

  Ellen made a living acting as representative for a New York antique dealer, but it was a case of profiting from a lifelong hobby, and one that she had tried in vain to get him to share. Zen had had his fill of old furniture!

  ‘How long will it be altogether?’

  ‘Not long, I hope.’

  ‘Do you know Perugia?’

  Perugia, he thought. Chocolates, Etruscans, that fat painter, radios and gramophones, the University for Foreigners, sportswear. ‘Umbria, the green heart of Italy’, the tourist advertisements said. What did that make Latium, he had wondered, the bilious liver?

  ‘I may have been there on a school trip, years ago.’

  ‘But not for work?’

  ‘Not a chance! Ther
e’re two of us on Housekeeping. Zuccaroni is better regarded than me, so he gets the soft jobs, close to home.’

  ‘Will it be difficult?’

  He pushed his plate away and topped up their glasses with the flat, bland white wine.

  ‘There’s no way of knowing. A lot depends on the magistrate who’s directing the investigation. Some of them want to take all the decisions themselves. Others just want to take the credit.’

  She also finished eating and at last they could smoke. He took out his packet of Nazionali. Ellen as usual preferred her own cigarettes.

  ‘Can I come and visit you?’ she asked with a warm smile.

  ‘It would be wonderful.’

  She nodded.

  ‘No mother.’

  He suddenly saw which way the conversation was heading.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s ridiculous, at our age?’ Ellen continued. ‘She must know what’s going on.’

  ‘I expect she does. But as far as she’s concerned I’m still married to Luisella and that’s that. If I spend the night with you it’s adultery. Since I’m a man that doesn’t matter, but one doesn’t mention it.’

  ‘It matters to me.’ Her tone had hardened. ‘I don’t like your mother thinking of me as your mistress.’

  ‘Don’t you? I quite enjoy it. It makes me feel young and irresponsible.’

  The remark was deliberately provocative, but he had long ago decided that he was not going to be talked into matrimony a second time.

  ‘Really?’ she retorted. ‘Well, it makes me feel old and insecure. And angry! Why should I have my life dominated by your mother? Why should you, for that matter? What’s the matter with Italian men, letting their mammas terrorize them their whole life long? Why do you give them such power?’

  ‘Perhaps we’ve found over the centuries that they’re the only people who can be trusted with it.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You can’t trust me? Thanks very much!’

  ‘I can’t trust anyone in quite that way.’

  It seemed perfectly obvious to him. Why was she getting so angry?

  ‘Not because my mother’s a saint,’ he explained. ‘It’s just that mothers are like that. They can’t help it, it’s biological.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! Now you’ve insulted both of us.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’ve complimented both of you. My mother for being what she is, and you for being everything else. And above all for being so understanding in what is a very difficult situation for both of us, but one that won’t last for ever.’

  She looked away, disarmed by this allusion, and Zen seized the opportunity to signal Ottavio for the bill.

  The air outside was deliciously cool and fresh after the small, stuffy restaurant. They walked in silence towards the roar of traffic on Viale Trastevere. In Piazza Sonnino an office building was being refitted after a fire, and the hoarding put up by the builders had attracted the warpaint of rival political clans. The Red Brigade’s five-pointed star was the most conspicuous, but there were also contributions from Armed Struggle (‘There’s no escape – we shall strike everywhere!’), the Anarchists (‘If voting changed anything they’d make it illegal’), and the neo-fascist New Order (‘Honour to our fallen companions – they live on in our hearts!’).

  To Zen, the clash of slogans seemed eerily appropriate. Because if the events of 1978 had had a secret centre, and part of their horror was that he would never be sure, then in a sense it had been here, at the terminus of the 97c bus and the San Gallicano hospital opposite. If there had been an unspeakable secret, then one of the two men who had guessed it had died there. And since that moment, day and night, whatever else he might be doing or thinking, Zen had remained uneasily aware that he was the other.

  TWO

  ‘The entire resources of the Questura of Perugia are at your disposal. Eager to obey, my men await only your commanding word to spring into action. Your reputation of course precedes you, and the prospect of serving under your leadership has been an inspiration to us all. Who has not heard of your brilliant successes in the Fortuzzi and Castellano affairs, to name but two? And who can doubt that you will achieve a no less resounding triumph here on Umbrian soil, earning the heartfelt thanks of all by succeeding where others, less fortunate or deserving, have failed? The city of Perugia has a long and historic relationship with the capital, of which your posting here is a concrete symbol. My men will, I am sure, wish to join with me in bidding you welcome.’

  There was a feeble flutter of applause from the group of senior officials assembled in the Questore’s spacious top-floor office, all discreetly modern furniture, rows of law books, and potted plants. Aurelio Zen stood in their midst like a Siamese cat dropped into a cage full of stray dogs: tense and defiant, his eyes refusing to meet those fixed on him with expressions of more or less successfully concealed mockery. They knew what he was going through, poor bastard! And they knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  Salvatore Iovino, their chief, a corpulent, vivacious fifty-year-old from Catania, had given a masterly performance. Fulsome and vapid, laden with insincere warmth and hidden barbs, his speech had nevertheless left no legitimate grounds for complaint. He had spoken of Zen’s ‘reputation’, without actually mentioning that his abrupt departure from the Rome Questura in 1978 had been the subject of the wildest rumours and speculations throughout the force. The two cases he had mentioned dated from the mid-seventies, underlining Zen’s lack of recent operational experience. He had referred to the transfer as a ‘posting’, thus emphasizing that it had been imposed on him by the Ministry, and had called it a symbol of the historic relationship between Rome and Perugia, a relationship consisting of two thousand years of bitterly resented domination.

  ‘Thank you,’ Zen murmured, lowering his head in a proud and melancholy gesture of acknowledgement.

  ‘And finally,’ the Questore continued, ‘let me introduce Vice-Questore Fabrizio Priorelli.’

  Iovino’s bland tone did nothing to prepare Zen for the glare of pure hostility with which he found himself transfixed by Priorelli. The Questore’s next words followed an exquisitely judged pause during which the silence in the room assumed a palpable quality.

  ‘Until today he was handling the Miletti case for us.’

  Iovino laughed weightlessly.

  ‘To be perfectly frank, that’s one of the many problems your unexpected arrived has caused us. It’s a matter of protocol, you see. Since Fabrizio outranks you I can’t very well make him your second-in-command. Nevertheless, should you wish to consult him he has assured me that despite his numerous other duties he is in principle at your disposition at all times.’

  Once again Zen murmured his thanks.

  ‘Right, lads, lunch!’ the Questore called briskly. ‘I expect you’re about ready for it, eh?’

  As the officers filed out Iovino picked up the phone and yelled, ‘Chiodini? Get up here!’ Then he turned pointedly away and stood gazing out of the window until there was a knock at the door and a burly man with a bored brutal face appeared, at which point the Questore suddenly appeared to notice Zen’s existence again.

  ‘I’ll leave you in Chiodini’s safe hands, dottore. Remember, whatever you need, just say the word.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As they walked downstairs Zen studied his escort: hair closely cropped on a head that looked muscle-bound, ears cauliflowered, no neck to speak of, shoulders and biceps that formed one inflexible block, the ‘safe’ hands swinging massively back and forth. Chiodini would be the one they sent for when old-fashioned interrogation methods were required.

  At the third-floor landing the man jerked his thumb to the right.

  ‘Along there, three five one,’ he called without turning or breaking his stride.

  Zen just managed to stop himself intoning another ‘Thank you.’

  Yes, it had all been consummately handled, no question about that. Iovino’s speech had been a brilliant set piece, systematicall
y exploiting all the weaknesses of Zen’s position. Words are not everything, however, and the Questore had by no means neglected other possibilities of making his point, such as the contrast between the bombastic formality with which he had rolled out the red carpet and beaten the big drum and the perfunctory way he had then dismissed Zen into the ‘safe hands’ of the local third-degree specialist. The message was clear. Zen would be offered the moon and the stars, but if he wanted a coffee he’d have to go and fetch it himself.

  He opened the door of the office and looked around warily. Everything seemed normal. On one wall hung the mandatory photograph of the President of the Republic, facing it on another the inevitable large calendar and a small crucifix. There was a grey metal filing cabinet in the corner, the top two drawers empty and the bottom one stuffed with plastic bags. In the centre of the office, dominating it, stood a desk of some sickly looking yellow wood which had seemingly been grown in imitation of one of the nastier synthetic materials. Like every other piece of furniture in the room this carried a tag inscribed ‘Ministry of the Interior’ and a stamped serial number. Screwed to the back of the door was a list itemizing every piece of furniture in the room, down to the metal rubbish bin, together with its serial number. It was not that the Ministry did not trust their employees. They were just tidy-minded and couldn’t sleep at night unless they were sure that everything was in its place.