Michael Dibdin: Ratking

‘I asked you what you did do,’ she insisted, ‘not what you didn’t.’

Her manner had become that of the tough brutal cop she perhaps assumed him to have been, bullying a statement out of a suspect.

‘I was in the section concerned with kidnappings.’

At this, her features relaxed slightly. Kidnappings, eh? Well, that was all right, wasn’t it? A nice uncontroversial area of police work. Which just left the question of why he had abandoned it for the inglorious role of Ministry snooper, spending half his time making exhausting trips to dreary provincial capitals where his presence was openly resented by everyone concerned, and the other half sitting in his windowless office at the Viminale typing up unreadable and no doubt unread reports. But before Ellen had a chance to ask him about this, Ottavio appeared in person at their table and the subject changed to that of food.

Ottavio outlined in pained tones his opinion that people were not eating enough these days. All they ever thought about was their figures, a selfish, short-sighted view contributing directly to the impoverishment of restaurateurs and the downfall of civilization as we know it. What the Goths, the Huns and the Turks had failed to do was now being achieved by a conspiracy of dietitians who were bringing the country to its knees with all this talk of cholesterols, calories and the evils of salt. Where were we getting to?

Such were his general grievances. His more particular wrath was reserved for Zen, who had told the waiter that he did not want anything to follow the huge bowl of spa¬ ghetti alla carbonara he had forced himself to eat on top of the vegetable soup Maria Grazia had prepared at home.

‘What are you trying to do?’ Ottavio demanded indignantly. ‘Put me out of business? Listen, the lamb is fabulous today. And when I say fabulous I’m saying less than half the truth. Tender young sucklings, so sweet, so pretty it was a sin to kill them. But since they’re dead already it would be a bigger sin not to eat them.’

Zen allowed himself to be persuaded, largely to get rid of Ottavio, who moved on to spread the good word to other tables.

‘And how have you been?’ Zen asked Ellen, when he had gone.

But she wasn’t having that.

‘Why haven’t you told me this before?’

‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. Besides, it’s all past history now.’

‘When did all this happen, then?’

He sighed, frowned, rubbed his forehead and grimaced.

‘Oh, I suppose it must be about… yes, about four years ago now. More or less.’

Surely he had overdone the uncertainty grotesquely? But she seemed satisfied.

‘And now they’re suddenly putting you back on that kind of work? This must be quite a surprise.’

‘It certainly is.’

There was no need to conceal that, at any rate!

‘So it was 1979 you quit?’

‘The year before, actually.’

‘And you got yourself transferred to a desk job?’

‘More or less.’

He tensed himself for the follow-up, but it failed to materialize. Fair enough. If Ellen didn’t appreciate how unlikely it was that anyone in that particular section of the Rome police would be allowed to transfer to a desk job in 1978 of all years, he certainly wasn’t going to draw her attention to it.

‘What made you do that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was just fed up with the work.’

The food was brought to their table by Ottavio’s youngest son, a speedy little whippet who, at fourteen, had already perfected his professional manner, contriving to suggest that he was engaged on some task of incalculable importance to humanity carried out against overwhelming odds under near-impossible conditions, and that while a monument in the piazza outside would be a barely adequate expression of the debt society owed him, he didn’t even expect to get a decent tip.

They ate in silence for several minutes.

‘So, what have you been up to?’ Zen insisted. ‘How’s business?’

‘Very quiet. There’s a big sale on Tuesday, though.’

Ellen made a living acting as representative for a New York antique dealer, but it was a case of profiting from a lifelong hobby, and one that she had tried in vain to get him to share. Zen had had his fill of old furniture!

‘How long will it be altogether?’

‘Not long, I hope.’

‘Do you know Perugia?’

Perugia, he thought. Chocolates, Etruscans, that fat painter, radios and gramophones, the University for Foreigners, sportswear. ‘Umbria, the green heart of Italy’, the tourist advertisements said. What did that make Latium, he had wondered, the bilious liver?

‘I may have been there on a school trip, years ago.’

‘But not for work?’

‘Not a chance! There’re two of us on Housekeeping. Zuccaroni is better regarded than me, so he gets the soft jobs, close to home.’

‘Will it be difficult?’

He pushed his plate away and topped up their glasses with the flat, bland white wine.

‘There’s no way of knowing. A lot depends on the magistrate who’s directing the investigation. Some of them want to take all the decisions themselves. Others just want to take the credit.’

She also finished eating and at last they could smoke. He took out his packet of Nazionali. Ellen as usual preferred her own cigarettes.

‘Can I come and visit you?’ she asked with a warm smile.

‘It would be wonderful.’

She nodded.

‘No mother.’

He suddenly saw which way the conversation was heading.

‘Don’t you think it’s ridiculous, at our age?’ Ellen continued. ‘She must know what’s going on.’

‘I expect she does. But as far as she’s concerned I’m still married to Luisella and that’s that. If I spend the night with you it’s adultery. Since I’m a man that doesn’t matter, but one doesn’t mention it.’

‘It matters to me.’ Her tone had hardened. ‘I don’t like your mother thinking of me as your mistress.’

‘Don’t you? I quite enjoy it. It makes me feel young and irresponsible.’

The remark was deliberately provocative, but he had long ago decided that he was not going to be talked into matrimony a second time.

‘Really?’ she retorted. ‘Well, it makes me feel old and insecure. And angry! Why should I have my life dominated by your mother? Why should you, for that matter? What’s the matter with Italian men, letting their mammas terrorize them their whole life long? Why do you give them such power?’

‘Perhaps we’ve found over the centuries that they’re the only people who can be trusted with it.’

‘Oh, I see. You can’t trust me? Thanks very much!’

‘I can’t trust anyone in quite that way.’

It seemed perfectly obvious to him. Why was she getting so angry?

‘Not because my mother’s a saint,’ he explained. ‘It’s just that mothers are like that. They can’t help it, it’s biological.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful! Now you’ve insulted both of us.’

‘On the contrary, I’ve complimented both of you. My mother for being what she is, and you for being everything else. And above all for being so understanding in what is a very difficult situation for both of us, but one that won’t last for ever.’

She looked away, disarmed by this allusion, and Zen seized the opportunity to signal Ottavio for the bill.

The air outside was deliciously cool and fresh after the small, stuffy restaurant. They walked in silence towards the roar of traffic on Viale Trastevere. In Piazza Sonnino an office building was being refitted after a fire, and the hoarding put up by the builders had attracted the warpaint of rival political clans. The Red Brigade’s five-pointed star was the most conspicuous, but there were also contributions from Armed Struggle (‘There’s no escape – we shall strike everywhere!’), the Anarchists (‘If voting changed anything they’d make it illegal’), and the neo-fascist New Order (‘Honour to our fallen companions – they live on in our hearts!’).