32
Flavia looked up from her battered paperback at the clock above the alcove where the proprietor was busily crafting raw pizzas beside the maw of the oven. One of the two waiters reappeared, the skinny Stan Laurel lookalike. He regarded her quizzically.
‘Ready to order?’ he asked, when Flavia did not react.
‘I’m waiting for someone.’
And he was more than twenty minutes late, she thought, as the waiter sidled off. It had been absurdly naïve to imagine that he would come at all. Her relationship with Rodolfo had been intense, diverting and instructive, but she had never allowed herself any illusions about the ultimate outcome, even before he started acting in this strange, angry, icily controlled way. But with his university career in ruins, there was no longer any reason for him to remain in Bologna, or with her. That was what he had been hinting at last night, taunting her with lying about her origins and then refusing to sleep with her. As for this evening, he simply wouldn’t show up, leaving her to get the message. But she already had.
She glanced up hopefully as the door opened, but it was a stranger, as tall and austere in appearance as her own dead father. Flavia finished the chapter she had been reading and then consulted the clock again. The thirty minutes grace she had allowed Rodolfo had passed. She put on her coat and headed for the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the fat waiter, who was serving two pasta dishes to a nearby table. ‘My boyfriend just phoned to say he can’t make it.’
Ollie inclined his head sideways in a way that could have meant anything or nothing.
In the street just outside, she literally ran into Rodolfo. He dropped the duffle bag he was carrying and kissed her on the mouth.
‘Everything’s all right!’
They returned together to the table that Flavia had vacated, the only one free now that half of the rest had been pushed together to form a large rectangular area seating about a dozen, presumably for a group that would arrive later. Rodolfo stowed the nylon bag in the corner and then, in a breathless rush, told Flavia that he had been to see Professor Ugo in hospital, had been readmitted to the course, and could finish his thesis and graduate.
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Flavia coolly. ‘Then what?’
Rodolfo shrugged.
‘Come the summer, I’ll want to go back to Puglia, at least for a while. My father says he needs me, although who knows how long that will last. Anyway, I’m sick of this damned place. Afterwards we’ll see.’
Flavia nodded vaguely.
‘What’s the weather like in Puglia?’
‘Ah, much warmer than here! The people too.’
She pointedly did not respond.
‘And in Ruritania?’ he asked with a self-deprecating smile.
‘The weather in Ruritania? It doesn’t exist.’
Rodolfo took her hand.
‘I’m sorry, Flavia. I was so angry about what had happened, almost insane, and I took it out on you. I apologise.’
There was a silence.
‘What’s in the bag?’ Flavia asked at length.
‘Oh, just some clothes Vincenzo asked me to bring him. Apparently he’s going to be away for a while and couldn’t get back to the apartment. The reason that I was so late getting here is I had to go back and pick that up after visiting Ugo.’
He smiled at her.
‘Anyway, enough about all that. Let’s talk about us.’
‘Us?’
‘Will you come with me to Puglia?’
She gazed at him for at least a minute, levelly and without the slightest expression.
‘As what?’
Rodolfo mimed exaggerated shock and horror, silent film style.
‘As my fidanzata, of course! They’d stone us both to death otherwise.’
Stanlio manifested himself at the table.
‘Two margheritas with buffalo mozzarella,’ Rodolfo told him, not breaking eye contact with Flavia. ‘And a bottle of champagne.’
‘…a bottle of spumante,’ the waiter repeated, writing on his pad.
‘No, not spumante. French champagne.’
The waiter looked doubtful.
‘I could get some from the bar down the street. But the price…’
Rodolfo produced a well-stuffed designer wallet, an evidently expensive item that Flavia didn’t recall having seen before.
‘Is irrelevant,’ he said.
33
As a newcomer to La Carrozza, Aurelio Zen had been allocated a small table set apart between the end of the bar and the front door. This afforded a close-up view of interactions between the overworked waiters and the foulmouthed owner, with much interesting commentary on both sides, and a blast of freezing air whenever the door opened to offset the searing heat of the wood-burning pizza oven at Zen’s back. He ordered a glass of beer but no food, on the grounds that he was waiting for someone.
‘Eh, like everyone!’ the thinner of the two waiters had replied cryptically.
Zen looked around the premises, but the only person who seemed to fit the waiter’s comment was a young woman sitting at a table near by, who kept glancing up from her book at the front door. She had surveyed Zen for a moment when he entered, with a look of hopeful eagerness that immediately faded as recognition failed. She had blue eyes of the most astonishing clarity, as bright and guileless as ice, but much warmer. She was very attractive in other ways too, and Zen found his own gaze returning to her both for this reason and because the title of the book that she was reading seemed to be The Prisoner of Zen, although her plumply elegant forefinger partially covered it.
In the end she gathered up her things and left, rather to his disappointment, only to collide in the street outside with a young man who kissed her spectacularly and then led her back to her table, where the couple were now canoodling and chatting enthusiastically over a bottle of bubbly wine. ‘Ah, youth!’ thought Zen, glad to have someone to feel happy for. Now that his brief interlude of high spirits–probably a delayed reaction to the shock of his arrest–had passed, his own prospects for the evening seemed considerably less promising. The news that Stefano’s girlfriend had miscarried promised to add a vast new uncharted minefield to the blighted warzone that his relationship with Gemma had become. He had apparently acquired an almost infinite capacity for saying or doing the wrong thing, and this new development, which could hardly fail to be the main topic of conversation between them in the immediate future, offered plenty of scope for his talents in this respect.
It was then that a thought occurred to him. As matters stood, he had no real standing in the Santini family, but as Stefano’s stepfather he would have to be accorded at least a grudging toleration. So if the situation started to get out of hand back at the hotel later that evening, he would simply make a proposal of marriage to Gemma. That would at least clarify the situation, whatever the result. If she turned him down, they would have to part. If she accepted, they would have to put up with each other. It might not be the most romantic solution, but it was eminently practical.
Another ten minutes passed before Bruno Nanni finally turned up.
‘So what’s this “important lead” you mentioned?’ Zen demanded once they had ordered their pizzas. ‘You were very mysterious about it on the phone.’
Bruno leant forward.
‘Well, apparently some anonymous informant called the Questura this afternoon…’
‘Claiming he knows who shot Edgardo Ugo,’ Zen interrupted. ‘Stale news, Bruno. The Carabinieri told me hours ago.’
‘You’ve been in touch with the Carabinieri?’
‘They got in touch with me. The officer in charge of the Ugo shooting is an old friend of mine and a fellow Venetian. He naturally wanted to compare notes.’
‘Did they tell you the name that the caller mentioned?’
Zen thought back.
‘No, actually they didn’t mention a name.’
Bruno smiled smugly.
‘They couldn’t, because we haven�
�t told them.’
‘How come you know all this, Bruno?’
‘Got it out of the duty sarge who took the call.’
Their pizzas arrived, and for some time both men were absorbed in eating.
‘Do you also know the name involved?’ asked Zen when his first wave of hunger had passed.
Bruno was in the middle of chewing a gargantuan bite and couldn’t reply immediately.
‘Vincenzo Amadori,’ he finally replied in a choked whisper.
‘Probably just a nuisance call.’
Bruno shook his head.
‘There’s been no public reference to the ballistics tie-in between the two cases,’ he pointed out. ‘The buzz around the Questura is that the same gun was definitely involved, but they’re not going to release that news to the media for fear of setting off an Uno Bianca feeding frenzy. It looks like they’re going to keep it under wraps for a while, with the excuse that further tests are needed, and hope to get a quick break in the case before they have to come clean.’
He finished his beer and signalled the waiter to bring a refill.
‘And without the knowledge that the same gun was used, there would be no point in anyone trying to smear Vincenzo with the Ugo affair. I doubt he even knew who Ugo was, never mind had a motive to shoot him.’
Zen felt a sudden sense of lassitude and indifference, a brief backwash from the storm that had so recently threatened to overwhelm him.
‘Well, that’s the basic problem with the whole investigation,’ he heard himself say, as though at a great distance. ‘On the face of it, the two victims had nothing whatever in common beyond the fact that they were well-known public figures in Bologna. There are plenty of killers who attack only certain demographic groups, usually prostitutes, but celebrity stalkers are invariably obsessed with one particular person. No others need apply.’
‘Perhaps there were two men involved,’ Bruno suggested, waving a forkload of pizza in the air. ‘One shot Curti for reasons of his own, the other Ugo ditto, but with the same pistol.’
‘You should retire and write thrillers,’ said Zen sarcastically. ‘Anyway, it no longer has anything to do with us. On the basis of the possible analogy you mentioned, the judicial authorities have handed over the Ugo case to our colleagues in the Carabinieri. Assuming that the ballistics tests verify the identity of the weapon concerned, they will get de facto control of the Curti murder as well, leaving us free to deal with such really important issues as policing football games.’
He broke off as a party of about a dozen entered the establishment, laughing and chatting loudly, filed past Bruno and Zen and took their places at the large table that had been assembled at the back of the room. One of the waiters appeared and collected the empty pizza plates.
‘Tutto bene, signori?’
Zen nodded, but Bruno scratched the back of his neck.
‘You go if you want, capo, but I’m still hungry.’
Aman in a filthy apron had just emerged from the rear of the premises to lay two plates of pasta on the counter next to the pizza oven. He was pudgy, with a bald head, a vestigial moustache, no eyebrows and an air of immense resentment.
‘Who’s that?’ Bruno asked the waiter.
‘The new help. Normo’s mother’s been taken poorly, so we had to get someone at short notice to do the made dishes.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘He’s only just started. A foreigner. I haven’t had any complaints. La nonna is keeping a close eye on him.’
‘God help him. Well, let’s see how good a team they make. Bring me a bowl of penne all’arrabbiata and half a litre of red.’
‘In that case, I’ll have a dessert,’ said Zen. ‘That chocolatey thing on the bottom shelf of the cooler.’
Behind them, the whoops, giggles and guffaws from the large table soon rose to such a level that there was no need for Bruno and Zen to try and find something to talk about.
34
‘One penne all’arrabbiata,’ the waiter shouted to the chef.
Shit, thought Romano Rinaldi, how the hell do I make that? But the vigilant crone perched on a tall stool in the corner was already on the job.
‘Don’t just stand there gawping! Get the pasta in! Two handfuls. Stir it well until it comes to the boil, the water’s getting gluey and it might stick. Drain that pot, refill it and switch to the backup. Warm up a ladleful of tomato sauce, add a pinch of chilli and…’
For the second time that day, Romano Rinaldi set a huge pan of pasta boiling. This time, though, he made sure that it didn’t boil over. This totally sucks, he thought. From being the celebrated and beloved Chef Che Canta e Incanta to being bullied and ordered around by some vicious granny who had once again got her hands on a man whose life she could make a misery, and was relishing every opportunity to do so.
And Romano gave her plenty. Not only did he not know how to cook, he deeply and indeed viscerally loathed the entire process. What he loved was celebrating the idea of tradition, of authentic shared experience and a stable and loving home life around the family hearth. Cooking was the medium he had chosen for this, but in itself it was a messy, painstaking, unrewarding and–as he had demonstrated so spectacularly that morning–potentially very dangerous form of drudgery that demanded total concentration and offered at best a sense of relative failure. Who has not always the impression of having eaten a better meal than the one set before them? It was a mug’s game, which was no doubt one reason why it had traditionally been left to women.
These large philosophical questions apart, Romano Rinaldi had ample specific reasons for feeling utterly miserable. A splitting headache for one, the result of his earlier indulgences and current lack of either drugs or alcohol to satisfy his urgent medical needs. Then there was la nonna, of whom the less said the better, and the unutterably vile surroundings in which he was forced to go about his distasteful and humiliating chores.
The pizzas that were the mainstay of the establishment were prepared and baked by the owner and his son in a spotlessly clean extension of the bar, in full view of the clientele. The kitchen area at the rear of the premises where he was penned up, well out of sight, was substantially smaller than any of the walk-in cupboards in Rinaldi’s Rome residence, and every surface was exuberantly filthy. The place looked like the scene of some Mafia settling of accounts after the bodies had been removed. Red splashes covered the pitted plaster walls, which were marked by long vertical gouges that might well have been made by the fingernails of some dying mobster. The floor was sprinkled with what at first looked like capers flung about with mad abandon, but turned out on closer inspection to be rat droppings. Rinaldi had been sorely tempted several times already to walk out and take his chances with the police. Even if he ended up getting convicted, could a prison term with hard labour be any worse than this?
When he had asked about the job a few hours earlier, the surly proprietor had at first shaken his head, then abruptly changed his mind and told the supposed illegal immigrant that he would give him a trial, starting immediately, but only because there was a large birthday party booked for that evening and he was desperate for someone, anyone, to help out in the kitchen. It had also been made clear to Rinaldi that he was to follow the orders of Normo’s grandmother to the letter, she being ninety years old and unable to do the work herself. ‘She’s the brain, you’re the robot,’ was how the charmless owner had succinctly summed up the situation. ‘And don’t even fucking dream of showing your horrible face in the dining area. Just bring the dishes out when they’re ready, set them down here on the counter and get straight back to work.’
The only upside of the whole situation was that his anonymity appeared to be complete. No one had given the slightest sign of realising who he was, or indeed of being aware of him at all except as an object for their use or in their way. He had become part of the immigrant stealth population, fully visible yet barely perceived, less real in his actual being than he had been as a two-dimensional image on televis
ion. Certainly no one would ever remark on the similarity between the two, or if they did would instantly dismiss the thought as a category error of the most basic kind. For the moment, anyway, he was safe.
But not from la nonna.
‘Don’t stand there scratching your arse! Drain the pasta, then empty and refill the pot, saving a splash of the cooking water to loosen the sauce.’
As usual, her orders were not in sequence, and he had to try and work out what to do first. Being a good cook was all about timing, he was beginning to realise, and his was terrible. Worse was to come. The pot of pasta water, as thick as soup after many uses, was hotter and heavier than Rinaldi realised, until a blossoming cloud of steam from the sinkward gush scalded his face and he dropped it on his foot.
‘Macché?’ the stooled crone howled, glaring at her cringing serf. ‘Did your mother have to teach you to shit? Leave it, leave it! Dish the pasta, add the sauce and a sprig of parsley and take it out. Quick, quick, before it gets cold!’
Then, in a terrible screech: ‘ANTOOOOOOONIO!!!’
It was a blessed relief to escape from the kitchen, even limping and for only a few seconds. Having set the plate down, Rinaldi stole a look at the group assembled for the birthday festivities, exactly the kind of extended family occasion that he had so often hymned on his show. To think that just that morning he, Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta, would secretly have despised such people and their vulgar piccolo-borghese jollifications.
The waiter snatched the dish of pasta from the counter and handed Rinaldi a piece of paper.
‘Nine orders for the large party. All to be ready together, so move it!’
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