Michael Dibdin: Back to Bologna

‘I came by it,’ he said, waving his hand as though to suggest that firearms regularly fell into it by some process that he did not understand but was powerless to prevent.

‘Oh come on!’

‘No, really. There was this old guy in the bar, right?’

‘Where?’

‘At Ancona, after the game. He was taking photographs of me and the boys with that camera I showed you and I sussed that he must be the snooper my parents had hired. They hadn’t told me, natch, but the housemaid gave me a heads-up. So when the guy goes to pee I go in after him and smash his head against the wall, then go through his pockets. And I find the camera, very nice job too, full of digital shots of us, and also a pistol.’

Vincenzo frowned.

‘And then someone took it! From our apartment. I’d hidden it behind the books in your bedroom.’

He shot Rodolfo a glance.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then who?’

‘The private detective, of course,’ said Flavia. ‘He must have been keeping a watch on the house, because he followed me back to mine and then came round later and tried to pump me for information.’

‘You never told me that!’ Rodolfo protested.

‘I thought it might disturb you after your bad news at the university. Anyway, Dragos must have recognised your friend here when he attacked him, then raided the apartment when you were both out and taken his gun back.’

‘Who’s Dragos?’ both men asked in unison.

‘Oh, that’s just my name for him. I thought he was a secret policeman.’

Vincenzo drained the last drops from his bottle.

‘Anyway, the only thing for sure is that this Ugo business had nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know the old fart. Was he really famous?’

‘In some circles,’ Rodolfo replied airily.

He was tempted to end Vincenzo’s anxieties by confessing the truth, but that would start a crack in his relationship with Flavia that could never be made good. He decided to let Vincenzo sweat it out overnight and contact him in the morning. Besides, there was just the remotest possibility that he was telling the truth about the Curti killing. The pistol definitely existed, after all, and he had presumably concealed it in Rodolfo’s room to throw suspicion on him if it were discovered in the course of a police search. No, he didn’t owe Vincenzo any favours.

A gale of laughter swept over from the large table in the centre of the room.

‘Who are these wankers?’ yelled Vincenzo, whirling around. ‘More happy fucks! Jesus, my luck’s certainly run out tonight.’

‘It’s that young girl’s birthday,’ said Flavia. ‘They’re just having fun.’

‘Fun? Fun? You think that’s what life’s about, having fun?’

‘Then what?’

Vincenzo’s lips crinkled in a contemptuous sneer.

‘Stopping other people having fun,’ he said. ‘That’s what it’s all about, sweetheart.’

Flavia sniffed dismissively.

‘Well, you’re not going to stop us having fun. Is he, Rodolfo?

But Rodolfo did not seem inclined to answer. His eyes held Flavia’s, and his gaze was deeply disturbed.

‘…and add the garlic. Now the oil. No, not like that! In a slow drizzle, like the rain from heaven! Did your mother have to teach you to pee? How can anyone be so cack-handed? Listen to nature, only to nature! She always tells you what to do.’

Rather her than you, thought Rinaldi.

‘Now a fine grating of nutmeg, like the winter snow dusting down from the mountains…’

‘How much?’

Her lullaby-like reverie disturbed, the crone glared at him.

‘How much what?’

‘How much nutmeg!’ screamed the chef.

She stared at him in apparently genuine amazement.

‘Ma quello che basta, stupido! ’

Just enough. Thanks, grandma.

‘Enough, but not too much,’ Rinaldi’s mentor continued dreamily. ‘For us it’s traditional. How could a foreigner like you understand? Are you a Catholic or a Turk? Never mind, you’re a man, that’s the problem. Men should stay out of the kitchen. They don’t have a clue about cooking. How can they, when they’re not in tune with the rhythms of nature? We women have them in our bodies like the tides. Listen to nature, only to nature! Follow your innermost impulses and you can never go wrong!’

Romano Rinaldi just succeeded in resisting the temptation to follow this advice by swinging the frying pan round and beating the old bat to death with it, but it was touch and go. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Somehow he finished the order and carried the dishes out to the serving counter two at a time. As he took the last one, the now familiar howl erupted from his tormentor. The waiter duly appeared and arranged four of the plates on each arm, but the ninth defeated him.

‘Bring that,’ he ordered Rinaldi.

Lo Cheffollowed him out into the dining area, where the birthday celebrations were now in full swing. The waiter curtly directed Rinaldi to present the dish he was carrying to a girl of about sixteen who was sitting at the head of the table, a string of pearls which might or might not have been genuine about her neck, and a glow that certainly was on her face. The padded case in which the necklace had been presented lay open on the table.

Romano Rinaldi laid her pasta down with a flourish.

‘It’s your birthday, signorina?’ he enquired.

The girl nodded. Rinaldi bowed deeply.

‘ Tanti auguri. May I ask your name?’

She shrugged awkwardly and blushed.

‘Mi chiamano Mimi, ma il mio nome e Lucia.’

Romano Rinaldi touched her hand for the briefest of moments, then turned to the table in general and launched into the big tenor aria from the end of the first act of La Boheme, wittily changing Rodolfo’s description of himself to ‘Who am I? I’m a chef. What do I do? I cook.’ This provoked much laughter and applause, but the real pleasure for Rinaldi was the realisation that his voice was perfectly adapted to the intimate acoustics of this space, and absolutely on key. In the studio he had to be miked up and his vocal interventions electronically tweaked in post-production to raise flat notes, lower sharp ones, and generally boost the volume, but now he didn’t need any of those tricks. All that mattered here was pitch, range and style, and he had all three in spades.

As he forged forward, he realised with a certain pleased astonishment that he wasn’t just imagining this in his usual drunken or stoned stupor. It was real, and everyone else in the room felt it. The entire company fell silent, transfixed by the narrative thrust of Puccini’s melodic line and the naked glory of the human voice. Every eye was fixed on Rinaldi in respectful silence as he completed the entire aria with inexhaustible confidence, climaxing effortlessly on the difficult high ‘La speranza!’ which he held for fully ten seconds, bringing cries of ‘Bravo!’, before lowering his voice to a tender pianissimo for the concluding bars.

The result was a spontaneous and prolonged ovation from everyone in the restaurant. Standing there in his sauce-spattered apron, Rinaldi acknowledged his audience with appreciative bows, then turned to the overwhelmed birthday girl, kissed her hand lightly, and floated back towards the kitchen. As he passed the pizza oven, Normo stared at him in stunned silence. Rinaldi smiled casually and rounded the corner into the corridor, where he promptly slammed into some punk dropout with pink hair on his way back from the lavatory.

The youth, who was evidently drunk, ended up on the floor. When Rinaldi offered him a hand he received a torrent of obscene abuse in return, but just ignored it and walked on down the passageway. In that moment of exaltation, nothing could touch him. This was even better than la coca! Not only was he the star of the evening, but he’d just had a fabulous insight that would save his career from the disgrace of that disastrous cookery contest and propel it to still greater heights of glory and riches. Real Work: a new concept, a new show, a new book, a new…