Michael Dibdin: Back to Bologna

When he had asked about the job a few hours earlier, the surly proprietor had at first shaken his head, then abruptly changed his mind and told the supposed illegal immigrant that he would give him a trial, starting immediately, but only because there was a large birthday party booked for that evening and he was desperate for someone, anyone, to help out in the kitchen. It had also been made clear to Rinaldi that he was to follow the orders of Normo’s grandmother to the letter, she being ninety years old and unable to do the work herself. ‘She’s the brain, you’re the robot,’ was how the charmless owner had succinctly summed up the situation. ‘And don’t even fucking dream of showing your horrible face in the dining area. Just bring the dishes out when they’re ready, set them down here on the counter and get straight back to work.’

The only upside of the whole situation was that his anonymity appeared to be complete. No one had given the slightest sign of realising who he was, or indeed of being aware of him at all except as an object for their use or in their way. He had become part of the immigrant stealth population, fully visible yet barely perceived, less real in his actual being than he had been as a two-dimensional image on television. Certainly no one would ever remark on the similarity between the two, or if they did would instantly dismiss the thought as a category error of the most basic kind. For the moment, anyway, he was safe.

But not from la nonna.

‘Don’t stand there scratching your arse! Drain the pasta, then empty and refill the pot, saving a splash of the cooking water to loosen the sauce.’

As usual, her orders were not in sequence, and he had to try and work out what to do first. Being a good cook was all about timing, he was beginning to realise, and his was terrible. Worse was to come. The pot of pasta water, as thick as soup after many uses, was hotter and heavier than Rinaldi realised, until a blossoming cloud of steam from the sinkward gush scalded his face and he dropped it on his foot.

‘ Macche? ’ the stooled crone howled, glaring at her cringing serf. ‘Did your mother have to teach you to shit? Leave it, leave it! Dish the pasta, add the sauce and a sprig of parsley and take it out. Quick, quick, before it gets cold!’

Then, in a terrible screech: ‘ANTOOOOOOONIO!!!’

It was a blessed relief to escape from the kitchen, even limping and for only a few seconds. Having set the plate down, Rinaldi stole a look at the group assembled for the birthday festivities, exactly the kind of extended family occasion that he had so often hymned on his show. To think that just that morning he, Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta , would secretly have despised such people and their vulgar piccolo-borghese jollifications.

The waiter snatched the dish of pasta from the counter and handed Rinaldi a piece of paper.

‘Nine orders for the large party. All to be ready together, so move it!’

It was a tribute to the vigorous if crude skills of Vincenzo Amadori’s hair stylist that when he entered La Carrozza, neither Bruno nor Rodolfo recognised him at first. Vincenzo had spent much of the afternoon at a hair salon in an unfashionable suburb having his rug cut, dyed pink and spiked in retro-punk mode. Spotting Rodolfo and his Ruritanian tart at their usual table, Vincenzo slouched over and plonked himself down.

‘Got the bag?’

Rodolfo jerked a thumb at the corner behind his chair.

‘Right then, I’ll be off,’ said Vincenzo, getting to his feet again.

‘Oh, calm down!’ Rodolfo replied. ‘And sit down. No one’s going to pick you up here looking like that. In either sense of the phrase. So stay and have a drink with us, at least. Flavia and I have something to celebrate.’

He signalled to the waiter to bring another glass. Vincenzo leered at the bottle.

‘Veuve Clicquot? Sort of pricey shit my parents and their set drink to impress each other. What the fuck’s this all about? You win the lottery or something?’

‘In a way,’ Rodolfo replied with a long look at Flavia. ‘We just got engaged.’

Vincenzo slewed his head like a startled horse. The extra glass arrived, and Rodolfo did the honours.

‘Here’s to all of us!’ he proposed gaily.

He and Flavia clinked glasses. Vincenzo downed his dose in one, scowled and lit a cigarette.

‘You don’t seem very happy for us,’ Flavia remarked.

Vincenzo shrugged.

‘For you, maybe. Not for me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Other people’s happiness brings me bad luck.’

A soggy silence followed.

‘So what exactly is all this about?’ asked Rodolfo, jerking a finger at Vincenzo’s hairdo and a thumb at the bag of clothing he had brought.

Vincenzo drew a small bottle of some clear spirit from his pocket and had a long slug.

‘I told you, fuckwit!’

‘You said that the private detective your parents hired to check up on you claims to have evidence that you committed a crime. What crime?’

Vincenzo squirmed uneasily in his chair.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Meaning you don’t trust us.’

‘It doesn’t matter, that’s all. Okay, it was the thing that happened today. That prof at the uni got plugged.’

‘You didn’t do that!’ Rodolfo exclaimed.

‘Of course I didn’t! Even if the cops find me, they’ll never be able to prove a thing. I just don’t need the hassle, that’s all. That’s why I’m going to lie low for a while.’’

‘Can’t you prove that you were somewhere else at the time?’

‘I was asleep.’

‘Alone?’

‘Listen, I didn’t fucking do it, okay? This time I’m completely and utterly innocent.’

Rodolfo nodded seriously.

‘I know you are,’ he said. ‘You see…’

‘This time?’ Flavia put in.

Vincenzo gave her a hard look, as though recognising her as an equal. He’s never looked at me like that, Rodolfo thought.

‘Well, I did Curti! I’ve been telling everyone that until I’m blue in the face, but of course the bastards don’t believe me when it’s the truth. Instead they try and nail me over this lie.’

‘So you killed Lorenzo Curti,’ Rodolfo remarked, just to remind them both that he was still there.

‘Sure. I’d been carrying that Parmesan cutter around for weeks. My first idea was to carve up the paintwork on his car when he was at one of the games down here and leave the knife at the scene to make a statement.’

He laughed raucously.

‘Get under his skin a bit, know what I mean? But I never had a chance. He always had one of his minders with him, or some business buddy.’

He jerked back another drink.

‘But that night in Ancona everything came together. After the game I hung around the VIP entrance to the stadium, and for once Curti came out alone. He knew my father and he’d seen me around the house back when I used to live there. So when I told him that I’d missed the fan bus and asked for a lift back to Bologna he waved me into his Audi. He came off the autostrada at San Lazzaro to let me out, and when he pulled over I let him have it. Then I stuck the cheese cutter in his chest and walked home. Nice touch, don’t you think? The Parmesan knife, I mean.’

‘What did you talk about on the drive back?’ Flavia enquired.

Vincenzo stared at her in utter bewilderment.

‘What the fuck’s that got to do with it?’

‘Where did you get the gun?’ Rodolfo demanded, in an intentionally ironic parody of the typical commissario di polizia, given to fixed ideas and the third degree. Vincenzo laughed uneasily and flashed one of his rare radiant smiles, switching effortlessly into his alternative persona as someone gifted with beauty to burn, who could not only get away with anything but make you long for him to try.