Michael Dibdin - And then you die

Zen introduced himself to the receptionist. She touched her computer screen in three places, like a priest blessing a communicant. A moment later, the inner door opened and a short, energetic man with receding hair and a jovial smile emerged.

'Dottor Zen! What a pleasure! You've had a smooth trip, I hope? The way back always seems shorter and sweeter than the way out, I find.'

He caught Zen staring slack-jawed at his open-necked shirt, stonewashed jeans and black running shoes.

'Dress-down Friday,' he explained. 'One of my little innovations around here. It has encountered a certain amount of resistance from some of the older team members, I'm afraid, but of course I don't insist. That's my whole philosophy of the workplace environment. "Personal choice, personal empowerment, personal responsibility." All that counts is results. Come in, come in!'

Zen followed Brugnoli through the doorway, feeling like a superannuated bank clerk in his fifteen-year-old suit, a shirt that felt as though it consisted mostly of starch, and shoes of the now extinct variety that could be and indeed had been resoled.

The room they entered was completely different from the reception area outside, but just as much of a surprise. It was about the same size and height as the entire upper floor of the Rutelli family's villa in Versilia, but looked as though it had been redecorated by Snaebjorn Gudmundsson. The floor was tiled, the walls studiously bare and neutral. A minimalist desk in some synthetic black material supported a flat-screen computer terminal and nothing else. No telephone, no drawers, no paperwork. There were no filing cabinets in evidence either, nor any of the usual bookshelves groaning under a weight of identically bound legal tomes. No portrait of the current occupant of the Quirinale Palace visible though the floor-length windows, no crucifixes or flags, no framed documents in cursive script certifying that

Dottor Brugnoli had been the recipient of this or that honour or award. In fact the only other objects on view in the huge space were a terracotta bust of a man's head, mounted on an exiguous metal stand which seemed to be performing a balancing act like a juggler on a high wire, and a framed Fascist-era poster showing two men in uniform chatting in the street while a sinister eavesdropper lurked in the shadows. 'Be Vigilant!' warned the caption in mock three-dimensional characters. 'Walls Have Ears.'

So this was what it had come to, thought Zen glumly. The received but always unspoken wisdom of his professional generation had now been recycled as public postmodern irony. It was definitely time for him to quit.

Meanwhile his host had retreated to the far corner of the room, where he was walking up and down talking intensely to himself. By now familiar with this epidemic which had recently started to afflict large numbers of the population, Zen turned politely away, pretending not to notice. That seemed to be the form. You'd be walking along the street, and this well-dressed and apparently successful man would come at you, head up and briefcase in hand, talking to himself. Sometimes even arguing with himself in a loud and insistent voice. It was as if all the drunks and schizos had been given million-lire clothing allowances and a middle-management job. Except that just as in the old days, when they lay in piss-stained doorways mumbling obscenities or screaming abuse, no one took the slightest notice. 'Pay no attention, he's harmless,' he recalled his mother telling him as a child in Venice about some veteran of the Great War whose mind had slipped its moorings. 'Just don't ever turn your back on them, that's all. Don't look them in the eye and never turn your back.'

He froze, frowning at some unrecovered thought. The gist of it was that he had ignored his mother's advice. That there was someone into whose eyes he had looked, and on whom he had then turned his back. One of 'them'. But that was as far as the insight went, and it made no sense.

Brugnoli terminated his conversation with a curt, 'It'll have to wait, I've got someone with me', then adjusted the microphone of his headset and turned back to Zen with a convivial smile.

'Can't offer you a chair, I'm afraid. I don't go in for that sort of thing. You know, the low chair, the high chair, the big desk, the status symbols and hierarchical markers. If you need that sort of nonsense to proclaim and bolster your standing, then you haven't got any. Besides, standing is more natural and more productive. Keeps oxygen flowing to the brain instead of the bum, don't you think?'

'I suppose so.'

'But of course I was forgetting your injuries! How thoughtless of me. Feel free to use the stool by the desk if you wish. If s a revolutionary design. You sort of kneel down into it. Works wonders for the spine and circulation.'

'I'm fine, thank you.'

'Completely?'

'More or less. I still get the odd twinge, but the doctors say that will pass. Apart from that, I'm back to normal.' Brugnoli gave a pleased smile.

'Excellent! In that case, dottore, I can give you some rather good news.'

He stood poised, his face densely pensive, as though posing for a news photographer.

'I have been thinking for some time,' he said, 'of setting up a rather special unit within Crirninalpol, and I would like to take this opportunity of inviting you to become its founding member.'

Zen said nothing. Brugnoli swung round with a dramatic, self-deprecating gesture.

'No, "unit ' isn't the right word. You'll have to forgive me, dottore. Even I sometimes fall into the old habits of speech. What I have in mind is enabling a team of experienced, dedicated individuals with a proven track record for intelligence, intuition and above all initiative. My own version of the famous "Three I's".'

He smiled wryly for the hypothetical camera.

'Personal initiative, like personal responsibility, is something which I fear has not traditionally been prioritized within this department. But believe me, that is about to change. In the new climate, with the new government, the new culture, the new society in the making, this Ministry is, in the last resort, simply a business organization like any other. We have goals to achieve, issues to address, targets to meet and, most important of all, a vision to implement The fusty old managerial skills of the past cannot rise to these challenges. We have to start thinking outside the box! We need fresh blood, fresh ideas and a fresh approach.

'Not all our present staff have proved to be responsive to this new outlook, I regret to say. To be perfectly frank, some have been downright hostile. I am therefore currently drawing up a plan for a phased retirement scheme designed to offer such individuals a non-negotiable golden handshake amounting to eighty per cent of the salary they would receive for their remaining years of service. I shall be putting it to the Minister shortly, but I'm happy to say that he has already indicated his agreement in principle. The union also seems favourably disposed, thanks to various peripheral clauses, so there's every chance that within a year or so at the most we'll be able to start cutting away a lot of the dead wood around here – and at a price considerably less than paying them to continue not doing their jobs!'

Brugnoli abruptly dropped the public persona and turned round with a man-to-man expression, as if Zen were a privileged viewer who was being shown the sections of the televised interview that were 'off the record'.

'But we must be careful how we wield the axe. The last thing I want is to deprive this concern of the services of more mature operatives who might well prove to be an invaluable asset as we confront the varying demands for our products and services in the future. Men like you, dottore.'

He stared pointedly at Zen, who nodded.