Michael Dibdin: And then you die

'And now let's change the subject, and try and at least pretend to be enjoying ourselves. After all, if that woman was trying to ruin your evening, we don't want to give her the satisfaction of thinking that she's succeeded.' Gemma grinned back.

'I like the way you think. God this fish is good! They've done nothing to it, just a hint of coriander and fennel. And have you tried the potatoes? Light as a feather.'

'All right, all right, don't overdo it'

'So where are you from?'

'Venice,' he answered without thinking.

'Really? But no one's from Venice any more.'

'I am that no one.'

'That explains why we're both so stubborn. Lucca's the only city in Tuscany that was never conquered by the Florentines, and Venice was never conquered by anyone.'

'Until the end.'

'Yes, and when it happened we both chose a championship conqueror in Napoleon, who handed both cities over to his uninspiring but well-intentioned Habsburg in-laws. Not a bad way to finish up, when you look at the alternatives.'

She pushed her plate aside.

'Now let’s get out of here.'

'No dessert, coffee, nothing?'

"There's a good gelateria just up the road, near where I parked. Lef s go there and get some ice cream and coffee, and then I'll run you home.'

'I can walk.'

'I wouldn't mind seeing the Rutellis' villa. From the outside, I mean. Is it nice?'

'Very pleasant. And you can come in, if you want. The interior's really good. All of a piece.'

'Well, let’s see how we feel.'

Zen obviously couldn't use any of his own credit cards, and his minders hadn't gone to the lengths of getting him any in his cover name. They had however provided an ample supply of large-denomination bank notes for his use, and he tossed a few of these on top of the bill before following Gemma outside.

It was now dark, the air mild and smooth as silk, the streets saturated with people standing or wandering about in animated clusters. Gemma and Zen joined them, she clacking along in her high-heeled beige sandals with delicate straps criss-crossing her feet and encircling her trim ankles. When they arrived at the gelateria they had a spirited argument about the appropriate choice of flavours. Zen attempted without success to enlist the owner's support in favour of his thesis that only fruit-based ice cream was healthy and proper at this time of year, and that by opting for hazelnut, pistachio and dark chocolate Gemma was making a fundamental dietary error which she would be lucky to live long enough to regret.

They took their overstuffed cones outside and sat licking them like a couple of children, giggling as they bent this way and that to try and avoid the melting ice cream from dripping on to their clothing. But behind Zen's mask of frivolity, he felt a little hollow. It was now clear what the situation was. Assuming that what Teresa Pananelli had said was even half true, men Gemma was a rapid recycler of summer lovers, and indeed possibly came to the beach at least partly with that in view. She seemed to like Zen, and he was certainly attracted to her. If he tried, they would probably end up going to bed together.

There was of course nothing whatever wrong with that, particularly for someone who hadn't been with a woman for over a year. Even the nuns who served as nurses at one of the sanatoria where he had stayed had started to look pretty good towards the end of his stay. The melancholy he could feel fermenting beneath his superficial gaiety was based on the clear and absolute realization that the affair would go no further than that. It would be a pleasant diversion, but no more. Afterwards they would go their separate ways, and the odds were that they would never meet again. And even if they did, nothing would come of it. Gemma had her own life, Zen his. And at their age, there was no force strong enough to fuse these disparate realities and bind mem together for good.

When they had finished their ice creams, Gemma led the way back up the street to a blue sports-utility vehicle which she unlocked and then manoeuvred out of a space which from inside seemed slightly smaller than the automobile itself. They threaded their way at a respectful crawl through the crowd of pedestrians taking full advantage of their unwritten right of way, then turned off down a side street and worked their way back to the villa where Zen was staying. Gemma parked and turned off the motor.

'I think I will come in for a quick coffee after all, if that’s all right'

'That would be wonderful,' Zen replied.

Maybe I'm going to get lucky, he thought His gloomy reservations of a few minutes earlier now seemed absurd. Why did he have to make everything so hard for himself? Other people just grabbed whatever they could, enjoyed themselves, and thought no more about it What was he trying to prove by doing otherwise?

He walked up to the gate and was searching for his keys when a car door opened across the street and a man in uniform got out.

'Buona sera, signora, signore’ he said in a tone of voice which Zen recognized instinctively. Sure enough, as the man came closer and caught the light of the security lamp on the exterior of the villa, his uniform turned out to be that of a junior officer in the carabinieri. Zen returned the greeting guardedly.

'Signor Pier Giorgio Butani?' the man continued.

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, but my superior needs to ask you some questions regarding an investigation we have in progress. I must therefore ask you to accompany me to headquarters.'

Zen's first thought was that they had come for him, and this was an elaborate charade made necessary by Gemma's presence.

'Very well,' he said. 'In that case, I take it that you have no objection to Signora Santini going home.'

The carabiniere peered at Gemma for the first time.

'Gemma Santini?' he asked.

Gemma nodded.

'That s a stroke of luck. You're on the list too, signora. Do you want to take your car and follow me? That way you can go straight home afterwards.'

'What’s all this about?' Gemma demanded tetchily.

‘I expect they'll tell us that when we get there,' Zen told her soothingly.

He turned to the carabinieri officer.

'We'll follow you.'

'Very well. If s not far. Just keep my tail lights in view.'

Gemma walked back and unlocked her vehicle, then turned back to Zen, who was still standing where he had been before, staring into space.

'What's the matter?' she said, as the carabiniere revved up his motor.

Zen shook his head and walked over to her.

'I don't know. I just had this incredibly strong sense of deja vu.'

'Get in,' Gemma said dismissively. 'Never mind your psychic experiences, let’s just deal with whatever bullshit this is.'

'It can't be anything serious or they wouldn't have let us drive there.'

'Didn't you say you worked for the Ministry of the Interior? Why don't you show them your documents and tell them to stop messing us about?'

"These are the carabinieri, cara. Different force, different ministry, no love lost. If I tried to pull rank, they'd keep us there all night. See his signal light? He's turning left.'

'Yes, I do see it. I like you calling me cara, but I don't like you telling me how to drive.'

'I'll never do so again.'

'Yes, you will.'

They followed the lead car a few kilometres south along the lungomare, finally turning off into one of the uglier developments of what had obviously been coastal marshland until very recently. Signora Pananelli's husband would have been in his element here. Tower-block apartment buildings and hotels divided the space with huge parking lots and supermarkets. They stopped in front of a relatively modest, and by the standards of the place old, two-storey concrete block sporting the carabinieri crest above the doorway.