Michael Dibdin: And then you die

Noting Gemma's serious expression, he decided to lighten the tone.

'Come August, I'll be sweltering in my office, the one with the windows painted shut, while everyone else is at the beach or in the mountains’

He drank some wine.

'And what about you?'

'I own a pharmacy which I inherited from my father’

Zen smiled sourly.

'I've always thought that a permit to run a pharmacy or a tobacconist's was the next best thing to a licence to print money.' Gemma smiled aloofly.

'Well, I don't know about that, but we do quite nicely. The location is excellent, on Via Fillungo, one of the main streets, and I employ three very bright, competent women to look after the shop. The clients trust them, rightly, and their wages reflect that. The business more or less runs itself. Apart from keeping an eye on inventory and sales, I'm not that involved these days.'

Zen smiled and nodded. He was astonished at how well the evening was going. It was because they were where they were, he supposed. In Versilia, any encounter was by definition a holiday event, with no implications for the future. If he and Gemma had met anywhere else, and had been having dinner on such a casual basis, the whole evening would have been fraught with implied or perceived meanings, but here it was innocent. Nothing that mattered happened at the beach, and nothing that happened there mattered. It was as simple as that.

Zen had just launched into a rather amusing anecdote concerning a dentist in his native Canareggio district of Venice, when he realized firstly that Pier Giorgio Butani had not grown up in Venice, and secondly that Gemma was not listening. Or rather she was not listening to him. Her attention was completely distracted by an expansive women in her late forties who had materialized at their table. Zen vaguely remembered having seen her on the beach.

'Gemma, my dear, have you heard the news?' she cried. 'What news?'

Gemma seemed less than enchanted by this turn of events.

'Massimo Rutelli!'

'What about him?'

'You haven't heard? He's dead!'

Gemma gave a facial shrug.

'Really?'

The woman looked offended at Gemma's lack of response. 'You don't understand! He was dead all afternoon! Sitting there right beside us on the beach!' 'What do you mean?'

'He was lying on his lounger at Franco's and apparently he had a stroke or something! I saw him there with that towel stretched over his back. I thought oh yes if s Signor Rutelli, although I didn't know which one and all the time it was a corpse lying there! If s horrible, just horrible! I feel sort of unclean, you know what I mean? That such a thing should happen here, of all places.'

'Yes, well, death can come at inconvenient times. My maternal grandfather passed away on the lavatory. He always used to spend a long time in mere, and it was hours before we found him. Now that really did make us feel unclean. Never mind, it’ll all be forgotten in a few days.'

She flashed the woman a cool and very final smile, and turned back pointedly to face Zen. But the intruder was not to be put off so easily.

'Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?' she enquired cattily. 'The mystery man! We've all been wondering who was usurping the Rutellis' place.'

Zen stood up and held out his hand.

'Pier Giorgio Butani, signora. I am Girolamo Rutelli's cousin. I knew his brother only slightly, but needless to say I'm appalled at this dreadful news.'

This too was true. Anything which brought attention to the Rutelli family risked bringing attention to Zen and thereby blowing his cover.

'Teresa Pananelli,' the woman returned with a decidedly flirtatious smile. 'I'm so glad that you at least are treating this tragedy with the proper gravity, Signor Butani. But then Gemma's always been frivolous and flippant, haven't you, my dear? We were at school together, and I remember some of the tricks she used to play on our poor teachers…'

Zen smiled politely. Gemma said nothing. Signora Pananelli emitted a sound rather like a hiss. She leaned forward to Zen, touching him on the sleeve.

'And it didn't end there,' she confided in a stage whisper. "The stories I could tell! Particularly since Tommaso and she split up.'

She laughed loudly and insincerely.

'Anyway, be warned! When it comes to men. Gemma eats them up and spits them out. There was a tennis pro at the Club

Nettuno who lasted almost the whole season, but normally the turnover's much faster than that. Well, I must be getting back to my friends. A pleasure to have met you, Signor Butani. Ciao, Gemma!'

Zen sat down again.

'Well, she was certainly…' he began.

'Don't say anything!' snapped Gemma. 'Just don't say anything.'

She was staring at the tablecloth so furiously that it seemed she might burn a hole in it. Zen signalled the waiter to take their plates.

'Per secondo?' the waiter queried. 'Fish,' said Zen. 'What kind?' 'The freshest.'

'All our fish are fresh’ the waiter retorted grittily. 'Then it doesn't matter which kind. Grilled, with patate fritte and a dish of insalata di fagiolini verdi. And more and better wine.' The waiter took himself off in a huff. 'I hope you don't mind me ordering,' Zen said to Gemma. 'Why should I?' 'Some women might.'

'I'm not interested in tokenistic gestures. If I want to assert myself, you won't be in any doubt about it. Besides, your choice was perfectly correct’

'Thank you’ Zen replied with a smidgen of irony.

'That bitch.'

'La Pananelli?'

'What a fucking nerve. I mean, really! She was right, we were at school together. What she didn't mention was that she left a year after I arrived.'

'She was expelled?'

An abrupt shake of the head.

'A little question of age, caro. And she's been on my case ever since, peeking and prying, gossiping and insinuating. I don't know what her problem is. Except I do, which just makes it worse. Thank God I only see her here at the beach’

'What is her problem?'

'Don't try and pretend you're interested!'

Zen looked at her neutrally and said nothing. 'I'm sorry’ Gemma went on. 'She really got to me and I'm taking it out on you. I apologize.' 'That s all right'

'Her problem is that she sees me as her vicarious double. She's too stupid to realize it, of course, but that’s the situation all right. Teresa married her childhood sweetheart, a consulting engineer who knows everything there is to know about reinforced concrete. I was once at a birthday party she threw for him where he showed a selection of slides he had taken all over the world showing different types of rebar.'

'What’s that?'

Gemma laughed.

'Be thankful you didn't ask Sandro that question. It's the metal gristle that holds concrete together. It comes in various shapes and forms. Each country has its preferred kind. The differences are slight but extraordinarily significant.'

‘I get the picture.'

Their main course arrived, a succulent mullet grilled to perfection.

'But Sandro's own rebar seems to have rusted out, judging by various remarks which Teresa let drop in an attempt to get me interested in her affairs. Not that I needed her to tell me. Look at her, sitting over there. Go ahead, stare! Christ knows she and her pals are staring at us. Note the tremulous, pouting lower lip? A sure sign of the unfucked. Sad but true.'

She drank some wine as though to quench her thirst.

'Forgive me being so frank. I would have preferred to have carried on with the civilized evening we were having, but since Teresa made those comments about me, I thought I'd better try and put them in perspective.'

Zen noted that although Gemma had explained why her nemesis had made the allegations about her, she hadn't attempted to deny them.

'Anyway, at least we know who took my place at the beach and why,' he replied brightly. 'He paid a stiff price, the poor bastard.' He grinned at Gemma.