At last the gateway at the south-western edge of the former estate appeared in the gloom up ahead. This time, Zen risked an unmotivated glance behind. The man who had been there was nowhere to be seen, but they had passed many minor paths off through the undergrowth to either side, any one of which he might have taken. A moment later Zen had crossed another of the drainage canals, and was out in the streets leading down to the sea.
Da Augusto, as its folksy name suggested, looked like a perfectly ordinary fish restaurant anywhere from one end of the Versilia resort coastline to the other. It consisted of a nondescript two-storey building on a back street three blocks inland from the lungomare, with a glass extension jutting out to the kerb at the front and a garden area with a retractable awning at the rear. There was nothing to suggest that it was anything other than a reasonably decent eatery serving reasonably fresh fish cooked reasonably well at a more or less reasonable price. It was only when you tried to get a table that it became apparent that there was rather more to it than that.
The distinction was based not so much on the food, which was at best a notch or so above many other places in the area, as on the restaurant's unchallenged pedigree as the chosen haunt of almost every Italian political and show business personality of the last half century, many of whose personally inscribed photographs lined the walls. What had happened off camera was reputedly still more interesting. That table in the corner, according to some, was where Anita Ekberg was being entertained by Marcello Mastroianni on the memorable evening when she bent down to retrieve something from her handbag, causing her unsupported right breast to tumble out of her dress. According to others, that one over there, against the wall, was where Giulio Andreotti and a group of his closest allies had decided not to negotiate with the Red Brigades to secure the release of Aldo Moro. And over there, at the back of the main room, rumour had it that a groupie had crawled under the table and brought a certain pop star to orgasm in her mouth on a bet from another member of the band, who wanted to see if she could make the star in question bring the events in progress to the attention of the staff and customers. She had reputedly succeeded.
Zen was greeted by a functionary who managed to combine the glacial serenity of the traditional English butler with the menacing directness of a Mafia thug. His first glance at Zen amply revealed the extent to which he was unimpressed by this new arrival.
'My name is Pier Giorgio Butani,' Zen told him in a tone suggesting that he was even less impressed. 'I am dining with Dottor Rutelli.'
For a moment, the functionary's composure deserted him completely.
'Dottor Rutelli?' he whispered. 'But he's already here, thought Zen glumly. Damn. The doorman was staring at Zen with something approaching desperation. 'Massimo Rutelli?' he queried at length. Zen shook his head tetchily. 'What? No! His brother, Girolamo.'
The man laughed almost hysterically. He grabbed a leather-bound menu.
'Ah, yes, of course! Right! This way, please. Just over here. Be so good as to take-a seat. May I take your coat? Thank you, thank you.'
Zen sat down, took out his mobile phone and loudly faked a call.
'Girolamo?' he shouted, glancing idly at the menu. 'Oh, where the hell are you? I'm starving. Me? At Augusta's, of course.
What? What? Why? Really? Oh, too bad! Well, so be it. I'll call you tomorrow, okay? All right. Fine, fine.'
Just as he replaced the phone, a stunningly beautiful woman walked into the restaurant and stood looking around quizzically. It took Zen a moment to recognize her. He'd almost never seen her fully clothed before, he realized, pushing back his chair and hurrying over.
'Gemma, my dear! What a surprise! And what a great pleasure. Now you haven't eaten, have you? And what were your plans?'
He turned her away towards the wall and pretended to listen, nodding sympathetically while she explained her plans. In reality, Gemma was staring at him with an expression which mingled amusement and alarm.
'Oh no you're not!' Zen declared decisively, taking her arm and steering her into the room. 'Wasting your time with those boring little people? Out of the question! You're dining with me, my dear, and that’s that.'
He paused to confront the doorman.
'I just phoned Dottor Rutelli. Unfortunately he's been forced to cancel our dinner engagement due to urgent personal problems, but he was kind enough to invite me to use the booking on my own behalf. He specially recommended the lasagnette con pesce cappone. We'll have that as a starter.'
He ushered Gemma, who was by now almost giggling, over to the table.
'What on earth was that all about?' she demanded, taking off her cream linen jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair.
'Don't complain. I told you I'd get us a reservation, and I have.'
'So you know the Rutelli brothers. Of course, I should have realized, that’s who normally has that tavolo where you are now.'
'I don't really know them. Girolamo is the friend of a friend. But I knew he had a house here which he wouldn't be using until August, so I arranged to borrow it for a few weeks. The friend owes me a favour and Rutelli owes him one. The old story.'
'I only know them by sight myself. We nod and greet each other, of course, but to tell the truth I've never really managed to tell them apart. Rather ordinary little men, I always thought'
'Well, they have their uses. Apparently the staff here don't know that at the moment Girolamo's in Rome, so I used his name to get a booking. After that it was just a matter of faking a previous engagement for our supposed host and the table is ours.' Gemma laughed and shook her head.
'Well, at least you're not boring,' she said. 'I didn't realize you were so well connected locally.'
'I'm not at all. In fact I don't know a soul here except you.'
Always tell as much of the truth as possible, he reminded himself. Most liars got caught out unnecessarily falsifying or embroidering quite trivial details.
'And what about you?' he asked, gazing at her.
She was wearing an apricot-coloured short-sleeved blouse of what looked like coarse silk, open at the neck to reveal a flat gold chain at her tanned throat. Her auburn-tinged hair had clearly been redone since leaving the beach, and her fingernails were painted a bright orange to match her blouse and lipstick. She's dolled herself up, thought Zen, using a vulgar Venetian dialect expression. Then he realized that she would naturally have done so, not wanting to look out of place at Augusta's. There was no reason to assume that it had anything to do with him.
'Oh, I'm just a day tripper,' Gemma replied. 'I actually live in Lucca, so if s easy enough to get here and back.'
'Is it close?'
'Half an hour on the bretella. Quick enough to come back for dinner. Have you been there?' Zen was once again glad to be able to answer truthfully. 'Never.'
The waiter arrived with a bottle of the house white and a platter of insalata di mare. Another of the many traditions of Augusta's was that if you were too preoccupied to order,, as so many important clients naturally tended to be, dishes just arrived at the table.
'If s a dull little city,' Gemma went on, 'but very calm.' 'Is your family there?'