The meeting duly took place in a second-class compartment of one of the Ferrovia Nord trains trundling up the line to Seveso. It was a foggy night in February. At one of the intermediate stations a man joined Zen in the prearranged compartment. Pale, balding, slight and diffident, he might have been a filing clerk or a university professor.
Vasco Spadola, he said, was hiding out in a farmhouse to the east of the city.
'I was there the night Tondelli got killed,' the informer went on. 'Spadola stabbed him with his own hand.
"This'll teach the whole litter of them a lesson," he said.'
'A lot of use that is to us if you won't testify,' Zen retorted irritably.
The man gave him an arch look.
'Who said I wouldn't testify?'
And testify he duly did. Not only that, but when the police raided the farm house near the village of Melzo, they t'ound not only Vasco Spadola but also a knife which proved to have traces of blood of the same group that had once flowed in Bruno Tondelli's veins.
Spadola was sentenced to life imprisonment and Aurelio Zen spent three days basking in glory. Then he learned from an envious colleague that the knife had been smeared with a sample of Tondelli's blood and planted at the scene by the police themselves, and that the reason why 'the nightingale' had been prepared to come into court and testify that he had seen Spadola commit murder was that the Tondellis had paid him handsomely to do so.
Zen closed the file and handed it back to the clerk with the blank video cassette.
'Oh by the way, if it isn't too much trouble, do you think you could manage to get my name right next time?' he asked sarcastically, flourishing the memorandum.
'What's wrong with it?' the clerk demanded, taking the substitute video without a second glance.
'My name happens to be Zen, not Zeno.'
'Zen's not Italian.'
'Quite right, it's Venetian. But since it's only three letters long, I'd have thought that even you lot would be capable of spelling it correctly. And while we're at it, what the hell does this say?'
He indicated the phrase scribbled in the blank space.
'"… since it is needed by another official",' the clerk read aloud. 'Maybe you need glasses.'
Zen frowned, ignoring the comment.
'Who asked for it?'
The clerk sighed mightily, pulled open a filing cabinet and flicked through the cards.
'Fabri, Vincenzo.'
Even now, sitting in the taxi, looking out at the deserted streets of the dormitory suburb, Zen could feel the sense of panic these words had induced. Why should Vincenzo Fabri, of all people, have put in a request for the Burolc video? He had nothing to do with the case, no legitimate reason for wishing to view the tape. If nothing more, it was monstrously unfortunate. Not only would Zen's substitution of the blank tape come to light, but it would do so through the offices of his sworn enemy. Nervously Zen lit a cigarette, ignoring the sign on the taxi's dashboard thanking him for not doing so, and reflected uneasily that Vincenzo Fabri couldn't have contrived a better opportunity to disgrace his rival if he'd planned it himself.
The earlier part of Zen's evening had not improved his mood. Dinner was always the most difficult part of his day. In the morning he could escape to work, and when he got home in the afternoon Maria Grazia, the housekeeper, was there to dilute the situation with her bustling, loquacious presence. Later in the evening things got easier once again, as his mother switched the lights off and settled down in front of the television, flipping from channel to channel as the whim took her, dipping into the various serials like someone dropping in on the neighbours for a few minutes' inconsequential chat. But first there was dinner to be got through.
Today, to make matters worse, his mother was having one of her 'deaf' phases, when she was – or pretended to be – unable to hear anything that was said to her until it had been repeated three or four times at an ever higher volume. Since their conversation had long been reduced to the lowest of common denominators, Zev found himself having to shout at the top of his voice remarks that were so meaningless it would have been an effort even to mumble them.
To Zen's intense relief, the television news made no reference to the discovery of exclusive video footage showing every gory detail of the Burolo murders. Indeed, for once the case was not even mentioned. The news was dominated by the shooting of Judge Giulio Bertolini and featured an emotional interview with the victim's widow, in the course of which she denounced the lack of protection given to her husband.
Even when Giulio received threats, nothing whatever was done! We begged, we pleaded, we…' "'Your husband was warned that he would be killed?' the reporter interrupted eagerly.
Signora Bertolini made a gesture of qualification.
'Not in so many words, no. But there were tokens, signs, strange disturbing things. For example an envelop pushed through our letter-box with nothing inside but a lot of tiny little metal balls, like caviare, only hard. And the:!
Giulio's wallet was stolen, and later we found it in the living room, the papers and money all scattered about the floor.
But when we informed the public prosecutor he said ther – were no grounds for giving my husband an armed guard.
And just a few days later he was gunned down, a helpless victim, betrayed by the very people who should…'
Zen glanced at his mother. So far neither of them had referred to the mysterious metallic scraping which had disturbed her the previous night, and which he had explained away as a rat in the skirting. He hoped Signora Bertolini's words did not make her think of another possible explanation which had occurred to him: that someone had been trying to break into the flat.
'Don't you like your soup?' he remarked to his mother, who was moodily pushing the vegetables and pasta aroun.3 in her plate.
'What?'
'YOUR SOUP! AREN'T YOU GOING TO EAT IT?'
'It's got turnip in.'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Turnips are for cattle, not people,' his mother declare~'. her deafness miraculously improved.
'You ate them last time.'
'What?'
Zen took a deep breath.
'PUT THEM TO ONE SIDE AND EAT THE REST!' he yelled, repeating word for word the formula she had on;e used with him.
'I'm not hungry,' his mother retorted sulkily.
'That won't stop you eating half a box of chocolates whilc you watch TV.'
'What?'
'NOTHING.'
Zen pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. From the television set, Signora Bertolini continued her confused and vapid accusations. Although he naturally sympathized with her, Zen also felt a sense of revulsion. It was hecoming too convenient to blame the authorities for everything that happened. Soon the relatives of motorists killed on the motorway would appear on television claiming that their deaths were due not to the fact that they had been doing zoo kilometres an hour on the hard shoulder in the middle of a contraflow system, but to the criminal negligence of the authorities in not providing for the needs of people who were exercising their constitutional right to drive like maniacs.
At one minute to seven exactly Zen walked through to the inner hallway where the phone was and dialled the number Tania had given him. A woman answered.
'Yes?'
'Good evening. I have a message for Signora Biacis.'
'Who's this?'
The woman's voice was frugal and clipped, as though she had to pay for each word and resented the expense.
'The Ministry of the Interior.'
Muffied squawks penetrated to the mouthpiece which the woman had covered with her hand while she talked to someone else.
'Who's this?' a man abruptly demanded.