Michael Dibdin - Dead Lagoon

He opened his eyes again, reached out a hand for the phone and dialled. Once again, no reply. He let it ring a long time, seeing the deserted apartment in Rome, hearing the bell shrilling periodically in the traffic-troubled stillness. At length he replaced the receiver and glanced at his watch. There were still almost two hours before his train left. He felt like a child again, waiting for school to end, for the bell to sound and real life to begin.

As if in response to his thoughts, a bell did ring, gurgling throatily in the stairwell. Zen looked up apprehensively. On the wall opposite hung a large canvas supposedly painted by his mother’s uncle. He realized for the first time that he had no idea what, if anything, the turbid whorls of colour were supposed to represent. It had never occurred to him to ask. He had taken the thing for granted all his life, as though it had come with the wall.

The bell rang again. He stood up and walked over to the window, but there was no one to be seen. He opened the window and dipped his face into the cold, clear air outside. On his doorstep, dressed in a grey tweed coat and a green headscarf, Cristiana Morosini stood gazing up at him. They looked at each other for a time without speaking. Then Zen turned back inside and pushed the door release button.

When she entered the room, he was still standing by the window, facing the door. Cristiana hesitated in the doorway for a moment, then walked a little way into the room, coming to rest with her feet in the patch of sunlight. She looked around nervously, opening and closing her lips several times without any sound emerging. Then she saw the open suitcase.

‘You’re leaving?’

Zen eyed her in silence for a moment.

‘Why didn’t you use your key to get in?’ he asked. ‘Or has your husband still got it?’

Cristiana waved her hands vaguely. Zen felt a sentimental stab of pity for those plump white fingers which had explored his body so thoroughly and so satisfyingly. Whatever had happened certainly wasn’t their fault.

‘I was going to phone and let you know he’d be here,’ Cristiana faltered, ‘but Nando said he wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘And what Nando wants, Nando gets.’

Her expression hardened slightly.

‘He’s still my husband.’

‘And what does that make me, Cristiana? What does it make you?’

His voice was so strident that it made the windowpane shiver. Cristiana shrugged peevishly.

‘I don’t know what to say, Aurelio. I thought it was just a fling. I liked you, and Nando had hurt me badly. I thought I deserved to get my own back, and to have a little fun too.’

Zen looked away, shaking his head in simulated disgust.

‘Oh come on!’ Cristiana exclaimed with something like anger. ‘Imagine what you’d be saying now if this had turned out the other way round, and I was being possessive and clingy when all you wanted was to go home and forget it ever happened. I knew all along you had someone in Rome. It never occurred to me that you were taking it seriously.’

‘Of course I wasn’t!’

He looked back at her with a fixed smile.

‘Apart from the sex, Cristiana, my interest in you was purely professional. I hoped you might let drop something about your husband which would be helpful to me in my investigation.’

She gazed numbly at him.

‘No doubt you cultivated me for precisely the same reason,’ Zen went on, ‘to keep dear Nando informed about the progress I was making. We were each using the other. No one got hurt and neither of us has any right to complain.’

‘That’s not true!’ Cristiana retorted. ‘You told me you were investigating Ada Zulian’s problems. Why on earth should Nando care about that?’

Zen shrugged.

‘Have it your own way. What does it matter, since you’ve won? I went to see Mamoli this morning. The judiciary is dropping the case. Bon and the others have been released. Your husband’s election triumph is assured and you can look forward to being Signora Dal Maschio, loyal wife of the local political supremo. Only you and I will know that you’re married to a kidnapper and a murderer.’

‘What?’

Her face was rigid with shock.

‘Didn’t he mention that little exploit?’ murmured Zen. ‘How odd. I’ll bet he tells all his other women. Just the sort of thing to get them going.’

Cristiana walked towards him.

‘What are you talking about? What are these horrible lies?’

Zen held up his hands.

‘Since you’ve branded me a liar, there’s no point my saying any more. Why don’t you ask Tommaso Saoner? He knows all about it.’

Cristiana stopped and stared at him, shaking her head slowly.

‘That’s an appalling thing to say.’

‘It was an appalling thing to do, Cristiana. Durridge may have been a war criminal, but…’

‘To joke about Tommaso like that, I mean!’

He frowned.

‘Like what?’

They confronted each other in silence.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ she said at last.

‘Heard what?’

‘It’s been on the local news and…’

‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Zen irritably.

Cristiana lowered her head.

‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead? Who’s dead?’

‘Tommaso Saoner.’

He laughed.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Why, I saw him only…’

His voice trailed away.

‘The body was washed up at the Lido this morning,’ said Cristiana. ‘Nando is devastated. Tommaso was one of his closest and most trusted associates. They met just last night. Nando even walked part of the way home with him.’

She looked at Zen.

‘When did you see him?’

He turned to the window.

‘Oh… before that.’

There was a long silence.

‘What happened?’ he muttered almost inaudibly.

‘It looks like suicide. The body was fully clothed, and there was no sign of violence. But Nando says he seemed perfectly normal last night. He even made a joke about you.’

She shivered.

‘What could have suddenly driven him to do something like that? And what was he doing on the Lido in the first place? It doesn’t make sense!’

There was a long, sombre silence. Cristiana looked at Zen, who was still facing the window.

‘I thought he was supposed to be a friend of yours,’ she remarked sharply.

‘He used to be.’

‘Well you don’t seem to care particularly that he’s dead!’

This time the silence was even more oppressive.

‘I’m not sure I really know you,’ Cristiana muttered. ‘I’m not sure I really like you.’

Zen turned slowly and looked at her.

‘Neither am I,’ he said.

They exchanged a long glance, then Cristiana abruptly turned and walked out. The front door slammed shut. Zen stood gazing down at the quadrilateral of sunlight on the floor. It had moved slightly to the left, and was shorter and squatter than before. Zen stepped carefully around it and picked up the phone.

‘Mamma? At last! It’s me, Aurelio. I’ll be home this evening. In time for dinner, yes. Can you get Maria Grazia to make something really nice? I haven’t eaten properly all week. Rosalba? I ate there the first day, but since then… She’s fine. Who? Cristiana? She’s the daughter, isn’t she? I met her briefly. Anyway, how are you? Good. Are they? Glad to hear it. I’m looking forward to seeing you both this evening. You and Tania. What? What? Moved out? Where’s she gone? Why did she leave? I thought you two were getting on well together…’

He sat down on the sofa, the receiver clamped to his ear.

‘Me? What did I do? I wasn’t even there!’

His face gradually grew hard as he listened.

‘Sorry, Mamma, but I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my train,’ he said in a different voice altogether. ‘Goodbye. Yes. Goodbye. And you. Goodbye.’