Michael Dibdin - Dead Lagoon

The breeze had knocked the Giudecca channel into short, choppy waves which slapped resoundingly into the stone embankment, occasionally dumping swathes of water on the promenade. A faint mist dulled the light of the infrequent lamps, and the moon had disappeared behind a raft of cloud. To the right, the flares of the oil refinery at Marghera punctuated the darkness. As Zen followed Tommaso Saoner past the florid ocean terminal of the Adriatica line, he felt a sense of weariness and despondency creeping over him. He had been up since the crack of dawn, and it had not been an easy day. He began to realize that he couldn’t keep this up all night, as he had planned. He had to find some way to force the issue, to try and shake Tommaso’s blind devotion to Dal Maschio, if necessary by deceit.

As they rounded the curving prow of Dorsoduro, the lights of the Riva degli Schiavoni came into view on the other side of the broad channel of San Marco. Where they were, all was dark and deserted. The massive facade of the former Customs warehouses dominated the landward side, while to the right the expanses of the lagoon opened out into chilly vistas of windy immensity. Saoner seemed to have forgotten where he was, for he marched resolutely onwards until he was abruptly brought up short at the brink of the high stone quay forming the tip of the triangular island of the Salute.

Aurelio Zen caught up with Saoner as he looked down at the black water seething fitfully below. For a time they stood side by side in silence.

‘It’s a scam, Tommaso,’ Zen said eventually. ‘Can’t you see that?’

‘You think everything’s rotten, because you’re rotten yourself,’ muttered Saoner.

Zen looked at him.

‘Do you really think I’m rotten?’

Saoner nodded. He glanced at Zen.

‘You’ve spent too much time serving the old system, the old masters. But things are changing at long last. You can’t see that. When you look at someone like Dal Maschio, your first thought is to try and tear him down. He’s too new, too threatening. If you allowed yourself to actually listen to what he says, you might end up realizing that it all makes sense. You would have to change the habits and ideas of a lifetime, and that would be too much trouble.’

He wagged a finger at Zen.

‘You called me weak just now. Well, you’re lazy. You’d rather have the devils you know than a man who, whatever his faults, is worth more than the whole of the old gang put together!’

At their feet, the unquiet water swirled and splashed.

‘You talk of Dal Maschio like a lover,’ Zen murmured.

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘He’s won your heart, and you can’t understand why I can’t see what you see in him.’

He shrugged.

‘It’s an old story, and harmless enough in private life. But this is a question of politics. Remember those Greek lessons we sweated through at school, when it seemed the bell would never ring? Polis, a city. Polites, a citizen. It’s not your personal feelings about Dal Maschio that are at issue here, Tommaso. It’s your public duties, your responsibilities as a citizen.’

Saoner barked a laugh.

‘I don’t need moral lectures from you, Zen,’ he snapped, turning away.

The pursuit began again. At the same deliberate, purposeful pace, Saoner led the way along the other side of the Punta della Dogana, past the Salute church and into the tangled skein of alleys leading to the Accademia, where he crossed the bridge for the second time that night. When they reached Campo San Stefano, he stopped and seemed to hesitate. This was the spot where the leader of the Nuova Repubblica Veneta had taken leave of his acolytes earlier, and for a moment Zen thought that Saoner might try and make a dash to Dal Maschio’s house, and moved to the left to cut him off. In the event Saoner turned the other way, towards the Piazza, bringing them into a district quite unlike any through which they had passed so far, into streets lined with banks, restaurants, hotels and a succession of shops and boutiques catering to the needs of the international shop-till-you-drop brigade.

But the water seemed to be calling Saoner, and when they reached the lugubrious monstrosity of San Moise he veered right down a passage leading out on to the quayside. They walked past the ferry landing-stage and the harbour-master’s office, beneath a grove of trees where a mob of starlings squabbled invisibly and along a broad promenade curving away as far as the eye could see. As though in response to these unfettered vistas, Saoner increased his pace until Zen had difficulty keeping up with him.

They crossed the bridge over the canal leading to the Questura, and then the Rio dell’Arsenale. Here the lighting was sparser and dimmer, and at moments Saoner’s figure disappeared altogether into the rushing darkness. Zen began to lose all sense of reality, as though his night’s dreams, denied, were seeping out to taint his waking consciousness. He dimly remembered what he was doing and why, but only as one remembers some fact about a country one has never visited.

‘Tommaso!’

There was no response. Zen broke into a run.

‘Stop, Tommaso! Let’s talk!’

Saoner neither turned back nor changed his pace. Zen kept on running until he caught up with him.

‘This is ridiculous, Tommaso! Let’s not go any further.’

Like an automaton, Saoner kept striding on. By now they had reached the area laid out by the invading French as a formal public garden with walks, fountains and statues in a vain attempt to make an honest city of the Serenissima. In the depths of winter and the dead of the night, the place looked even more bizarre than usual. Zen grabbed Saoner’s arm and pulled him to a stop. The moon slid out from behind the cloud again, turning the darkness to dusk. The two men stood there breathing fog into the silvery air. The serried trees lining the promenade had been pruned back to an equal height, making them look like giant candelabra.

‘All this talk of morality!’ Saoner exclaimed bitterly. ‘You hypocrite!’

Zen stared at him, genuinely surprised.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know why you’re out to destroy Dal Maschio! Because you’ve got the hots for his wife, that’s why!’

‘That’s bullshit!’

‘She spent the night at your place on at least two occasions, according to my informants. They say you were fucking so hard it made waves in the canal.’

Forcing himself to remain calm, Zen took out a cigarette and lit up.

‘That’s very flattering, Tommaso, but unfortunately not true. Signora Dal Maschio and I met socially on a number of occasions — our mothers are close friends — but I’m afraid to say that her only interest in me was as a spy acting on her husband’s instructions to find out what progress I was making in the Durridge case.’

He released a rippling ribbon of smoke.

‘Mind you, in the course of our conversations she did let fall a few stray bits of information herself. I vividly remember her telling me some of her husband’s unguarded comments on his associates in the Nuova Repubblica Veneta. Would you like to hear what he thinks of you, Tommaso?’

Saoner stamped his feet, as though to warm them.

‘I know what Ferdinando thinks of me.’

‘I have to say that he was fairly dismissive of his supporters in general. “Clerks and shopkeepers hitting their mid-life crisis. The ones with balls have affairs, the rest give themselves to me.”’

‘Ferdinando would never talk like that,’ snorted Saoner.

‘As for his views on you in particular…’

Saoner turned brusquely away.

‘I don’t want to know!’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Zen chuckled, pulling him back to face him. ‘Cristiana told me that he’s very appreciative of all the work you’ve done so far. “We would never have got where we are today if it hadn’t been for men like Tommaso, simple and strong, dull but dependable, incapable of independent thought but quick to follow orders.” He’s aware of your shortcomings and limitations, you see, but he also fully appreciates your merits. That’s why he was initially so reluctant to get rid of you.’