The cafe was too far from the Viminale to be one of the regular haunts of Ministry personnel, who in any case would have balked at paying 4'000 lire for a cup of coffee they could get elsewhere for 800, with a hefty dose of Roman pandemonium thrown in for free. This was one reason why Zen had invited Tania there for their first meeting since his return from Sardinia. The other was a desire he still didn't completely understand, to do things differently, to break free of old habits, to change his life, himself.
'How did he find out?'
She smiled, anticipating his reaction.
'He hired a private detective.'
'To follow you?'
'To follow you!'
So that was who Leather Jacket had been working for, thought Zen, not Spadola or Fabri, but Mauro Bevilacqua!
Ironically, he might have considered that possibility earlier if it hadn't seemed wishful thinking to imagine that Tania's husband could have any reason to feel jealous ofhim.
'He didn't want to admit even to the detective that his wife might be unfaithful,' Tania explained. 'He was afraid people would laugh at him and call him a cuckold.'
'Which he wasn't, of course. Isn't, I mean.'
'Well, it depends on how you look at it. According to the strictest criteria, a husband is a cuckold if his wife has even thought of being unfaithful.'
They exchanged a glance.
'In that case we're all cuckolds,' Zen replied lightly.
'That's why Mauro would claim that his vigilance was completely justified.'
This time they both laughed.
Zen lit a Nazionale and studied the young woman sitting opposite him, her legs crossed, her right foot rising and falling gently in time to her pulse. Clad in the currently fashionable outfit of black mid-length coat, short black skirt and black patterned tights, with bright scarlet lipstick and short wet-look hair, she looked very different from the last time he had seen her. Not that he minded.
The Tania he loved – he felt able to use the word now, at least to himself – was invulnerable to change, and 'as for this new image she had chosen to show the world, he found it exciting, sophisticated and sexy. A week ago he would have hated it, but the life which had almost miraculously been returned to him in Sardinia was no longer quite the same as it had been before he had passed through that ordeal.
'But it must be a nightmare for you,' he said seriously. 'It was bad enough having to live there before, but now that his suspicions have been proven, or apparently proven…'
'I don't live there any more.'
For a moment they both remained silent, the news lying on the table between them like an unopened letter.
Tania lifted the pack of Nazionali and shook a cigarette loose.
'May I?'
'I didn't know you smoked.'
'I do now.'
He held the lighter for her. She lit up and blew nut smoke self-consciously, like a schoolgirl.
'He hit rne,. you see.'
Zen signalled his shock with a sharp intake of breath.
'So I hit him back. With the frying pan. It had hot fat in it. Not much, but enough to give him a nasty burn. When his mother found out I thought she'd go for me with the carving knife, but in the end she backed off and started babbling to herself in this creepy way, hysterical but very controlled, saying I was a northern witch who had put her son under a spell but she knew how to destroy my power.
It scared me to death. I knew then that I had to leave.'
'Where did you go?'
He dropped the question casually, like the experienced interrogator that he was, as though it were a minor detail of no significance.
'To a friend's.'
'A friend's.'
She took a notebook and pen from her handbag, wrote an address and handed it to him. He read, 'Tania Biacis, c/o Alessandra Bruni, Via dei Gelsi 47. Tel. 78847.'
'It's in Centocelle. I'm staying there temporarily, until I find somewhere for myself. You know how difficult it is.'
He nodded.
'And Mauro?'
'Mauro? Mauro's still living with his mamma.'
Everything about her had a new edge to it, and Zen couldn't be sure that this wasn't an ironical reference to his own situation.
Ignoring this, he said, 'That restaurant in Piazza Navona, it's open tonight.'
She waited for him to spell it out.
'Would you think of… I mean, I don't suppose you're free or anything, but…'
'I'd love to.'
'Really?'
She laughed, this time without malice.
'Don't look so surprised!'
'But I am surprised.'
Her laughter abruptly subsided.
'So am I, to tell you the truth. I can't quite see how we got here. Still, here we are.'
'Here we are,' he agreed, and signalled to the waiter.
On the broad pavement outside, Zen pulled Tania against him and kissed her briefly on both cheeks in a way that might have been purely friendly, if they had been friends. She coloured a little, but said nothing. Then, having agreed to meet at the restaurant that evening, Tania hailed a taxi to take her to Palazzo di Montecitorio, the parliament building, where she had to run an errand for Lorenzo Moscati, while Zen returned to the Ministry on foot.
The winter sunlight, hazy with air pollution, created a soothing warmth that eased the lingering aches in Zen's body. A surgeon in Nuoro had spent three hours picking shotgun pellets out of his limbs and lower back, but apart from those minor subcutaneous injuries and a slightly swollen ankle, his ordeal had left no permanent scars. He strolled along without haste, drinking in the sights and sounds. How precious it all seemed, how rich and various, unique and detailed! He spent five minutes watching an old man at work collecting -ardboard boxes from outside a shoe shop, deftly collapsing and fiattening each one. An unmarked grey delivery van with reflecting windows on he rear doors drove past with a roar and pulled in to the side of the street, squashing one of the cardboard boxes. he old man waved his fist impotently, then retrieved the ox, straightened it out and brushed it clean before adding it to the tall pile already tied to the antique pram he used as cart.
Zen walked past the open doorway of a butcher's shop, rom which came a series of loud bangs and a smell of lood. The delivery van roared by and double-parked at he corner of the street, engine running. Outside a pet hop, a row of plastic bags filled with water were hanging om a rack. In each bag, a solitary goldfish twitched to and fro, trapped in its fragile bubble-world. A mechanical treet-cleaner rolled past, leaving a swathe of glistening sphalt in its wake, looping out round the obstruction caused by the grey van. No one got in or out of the van.
Nothing was loaded or unloaded. A tough-looking young man, clean-shaven, with cropped hair sat behind the wheel, staring straight ahead. He paid no attention to Zen.
Up in the Criminalpol suite on the third floor of the Ministry, the other officials were in the midst of a heated discussion with Vincenzo Fabri at its centre.
'The British have got the right idea,' Fabri was prolaiming loudly. 'Catch them on the job and gun them down. Forget the legal bullshit.'
'But that's different!' Bernardo Travaglini protested.
'The IRA are terrorists.'
'There's no difference! Sicily, Naples, Sardinia, they're our Northern Ireland! Except we're dumb enough to respect everyone's rights and do things by the book.'
'That's not the point, Vincenzo,' De Angelis interrupted. 'Thatcher's got an absolute majority, she can do what she wants. But here in Italy we've got a democracy.