Michael Dibdin - Ratking

Outside the Questura he found the driver who had brought him there from Rome, a young Neapolitan named Luigi Palottino, still standing attentively beside the dark blue Alfetta. The sight of him just increased Zen’s humiliation by reminding him of the scene at his apartment that morning when he’d returned, having spent the night with Ellen, to find Maria Grazia and his mother trying to organize his packing while the driver stood looking on with a bemused expression and everyone had to shout to be heard above the cheery chatter of the television, which had apparently turned itself on so as not to be left out of things.

‘What are you doing here?’ Zen snapped at him.

‘Waiting for you, sir.’

‘For me? I’m not in the mood for company, frankly.’

‘I mean waiting for your orders, sir.’

‘My orders? All right, you might as well take me to my hotel. Then you can go.’

The Neapolitan frowned.

‘Sir?’

‘You can go back to Rome.’

‘No, sir.’

Zen looked at him with menacing attention.

‘What do you mean, “no”?’

‘My orders are to remain here in Perugia with you, sir. They’ve allocated me a bed in the barracks.’

They want to keep tabs on me, thought Zen. They don’t trust me, of course. Of course! And who could say what other orders Luigi Palottino might have been given?

Half an hour later Zen was sitting in a cafe enjoying a late lunch, when he heard his name spoken by a complete stranger. The cafe was an old-world establishment quite unlike the usual chrome-and-glass filling stations for caffeine junkies, a long, narrow burrow of a place with a bar on one side and a few seats and small tables on the other. The walls were lined with tall wooden cabinets filled with German chocolates and English jam and shelves bending dangerously under the weight of undrinkably ancient bottles of wine. There were newspapers dangling from canes and waiters in scarlet jackets who seemed to have all the time in the world, and faded pastoral frescos presided amiably from the vaulted ceiling. Zen took the only free table, which was between the coat-stand and the telephone, so that he was continually being disturbed by people wanting to get at one or the other. But he paid no particular attention to the other clients until he heard his own name being laboriously spelt out.

‘?,?,?. Yes, that’s right.’

The man was in his early sixties, short but powerfully built with an almost aggressively vigorous appearance that suggested a peasant background not many generations earlier. But this was no peasant. His clothes and grooming suggested wealth, and his manner was that of a man used to getting his own way.

‘So I’ve been told. Perhaps he hasn’t arrived yet? Ah, I see. Listen, Gianni, do me a favour, will you? When he comes back, tell him

… No, nothing. Forget it. On second thoughts I’ll call him myself later. Thanks.’

The receiver was replaced, and the man glanced down.

‘Sorry for disturbing you, eh?’

He walked slowly away, greeting various acquaintances as he went.

The elderly cashier seemed to have no idea how much anything cost, and by the time the waiter who had served Zen had told her and she had manipulated the Chinese box of little drawers to extract the right change, the man had disappeared. But as soon as Zen got outside he almost bumped into him, standing just to the left of the doorway chatting to a younger bearded man. Zen walked past them and stopped some distance away in front of a glass case displaying the front page of the local edition of the Nazione newspaper with the headlines circled in red ink.

‘TRAGEDY ON THE PERUGIA-TERNI: ATROCIOUS DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE UNDER A TRUCK.’ He could see the two men quite clearly, reflected on the glass surface in front of him, the younger protesting in a querulous whine, ‘I still don’t see why I should be expected to deal with it.’ ‘BUSES IN PERUGIA: EVERYTHING TO CHANGE – NEW ROUTES, NEW TIMETABLES.’ ‘It’s agreed, then?’ exclaimed the older man. ‘But not Daniele, eh? God knows what he’s capable of!’ ‘FOOTBALL: PERUGIA TO BUY ANOTHER FOREIGNER?’ Zen scanned the newspaper for some reference to his arrival. Rivalries within the Questura usually ensured that an event which was bound to be damaging to someone’s reputation would be reported in the local press. But of course there had been no time for that as yet.

When he next looked up he found that the two men had now separated and the older one was walking towards him.

‘Excuse me!’

The man turned, suspicious and impatient.

‘Yes?’

‘I couldn’t help overhearing your telephone call just now. I believe you wish to speak to me. I am Aurelio Zen.’

The man’s impatience turned first to perplexity and then embarrassment.

‘Ah, dottore, it was you, sitting there at the table? And there I was, talking about you like that! Whatever must you have thought?’

His voice drifted away. He seemed to be rapidly searching his memory, trying to recall what exactly he had said. Then with an apologetic gesture he went on, ‘I am getting old, dottore! Old and indiscreet. Well, what’s done is done. Forgive me, I haven’t even introduced myself. Antonio Crepi. How do you do. Welcome to Perugia! Will you allow me to offer you a coffee?’

They returned to the cafe, where Crepi hailed the barman familiarly.

‘Marco, this is Commissioner Zen, a friend of mine. Any time he comes in I want you to give him good service, you understand? No, nothing for me. You know, dottore, they say we must be careful not to drink too much coffee. I’m down to six cups a day, which is my limit. It’s like a bridge, you know. You can reduce the number of supports up to a certain point, depending on the type of construction, nature of the soil and so on. After that the bridge collapses. For me the lower limit is six coffees. Fewer than that and I can’t function. Anyway, how do you like Perugia? Beautiful, eh?’

‘Well, I’ve only just…’

‘It’s a city on a human scale, not too big, not too small. Whenever I go to Rome, which nowadays is almost never, I feel like I am choking. It’s like putting on a collar that’s too tight, you know what I mean? Here one can breathe, at least. A friend of mine once told me, “Frankly, Antonio, the moment I set foot outside the city walls I just don’t feel right.” That’s the way we are! Provincial and proud of it. But listen, dottore, I want to be able to talk to you properly, not standing in some bar. Can you come to dinner this evening?’

Zen avoided a reply by taking a sip of coffee. He still hadn’t the faintest idea who he was talking to!

‘I’m sure this is very different from the way you do things in Rome,’ Antonio Crepi went on. ‘Maybe you even think it’s a bit strange, but I don’t care! The only thing that interests me is getting Ruggiero released. The only thing! Do you understand? It is wonderful that you’re here, your arrival gives us all new heart. Come to dinner! Valesio will be there too, the lawyer who’s been handling the negotiations. Talk informally, off the record. Say what you like, ask any question you like. Be as indiscreet as I am, if you can! No one will mind, and when you start work tomorrow morning you’ll know as much about the case as anyone in Perugia. What do you say?’

This time there was no way out.

‘I’ll be delighted.’

Crepi looked pleased.

‘Thank you, dottore. Thank you. I’m glad you understand. We Umbrians are just simple, forthright country folk. Rome is another world. If at first you find us a bit rough, a bit blunt, that’s just our way. After a while you’ll get used to it. We lack polish, it’s true, but the wood beneath is sound and solid. But you’re not from Rome, surely? Excuse me asking.’