Thursday, 17.20 -- 19.10



By the time the grubby blue and grey Metropolitana train
emerged above ground at the Piramide stop, it was getting
dark. Zen walked up the broad dim steps beneath a Fascist
mural depicting the army, the family and the workers, and
out into the street.
The city's starlings were in the grip of the madness that
seizes them at the changing of the light, turning the trees
into loudspeakers broadcasting their gibberish, then
swarming up out of the foliage to circle about in the dusky
air like scraps of windborne rubbish. In the piazza below
gleaming tramlines crisscrossed in intricate patterns
leading off in every direction, only to finish abruptly a few
metres further on under a coat of tarmac or running head-
long into a traffic divider.
Instead of making a detour to the traffic lights on Via
Ostiense, Zen walked straight out into the vehicles con-
vero ng on the piazza from every direction. Maybe that
was where the starlings got the idea, he thought. Maybe
their frenzied swarming was just an attempt to imitate the
behaviour patterns of the dominant life-form. But tonight
the traffic didn't bother him. He was as invulnerable to
accidents as a prisoner under sentence of death. Respec-
ting his doomed self-assurance, the traffic flowed around
him, casting him ashore on the far side of the piazza, at the
foot of the marble pyramid.
The most direct route to where he was going lay through
Porta San Paolo and along Via Marmorata. But now that he
was nearly there Zen's fears about being followed revived,
so instead of the busy main road he took the smaller and
quieter street flanked by the city walls on one side and dull
apartment blocks on the other. Apart from a few pros-
titutes setting up their pitches in the strip of grass and
shrubs between the street and the wall, there was no one
about. He turned right through the arches opened in the
wall, then left, circling the bulky mound which gave its
name to the Testaccio district. At the base of the hill stood
a line of squat, formless, jerry-built huts, guarded by sav-
age dogs. Here metal was worked and spray-painted,
engines mended, bodywork repaired, serial numbers
altered. During Zen's time at the Questura this had been
one of the most important areas in the city for recycling
stolen vehicles.
The other main business of the district had been killin8,
but that had ceased with the closure of the slaughterhouse
complex that lay between the Testaccio hill and the river.
Any killing that went on now was related to the part-time
activities of some of the inhabitants, of which the trade in
second-hand cars was only the most notable example. As
for the abattoir, it was now a mecca for aspirant yuppies
like Vincenzo Fabri, who thronged to the former killing-
floors in their Mercedes and B M Ws to acquire the art of
sitting on a horse. Opposite, a few exclusive night-clubs
had sprung up to attract those of the city's gilded youth
who liked to go slumming in safety.
Skirting the ox-blood-red walls of the slaughterhouse,
Zen walked on into the grid of streets beyond. Although
no more lovely than the suburb where Tania and her
husband lived, Testaccio was quite different. It had a his-
tory, for one thing: two thousand years of it, dating back to
the time when the area was the port of Rome and the hill
in its midst had gradually been built up from fragments of
amphorae broken in transit or handling. The four-square,
turn-of-the-century tenements which now lined the streets
were merely the latest expression of its essentially gritty,
no-nonsense character. The merest change in the eco-
nomic climate would be enough to sweep away the outer
suburbs as though they had never existed, but the Testac-
cio quarter would be there for ever, lodged in Rome's
throat like a bone.
Night had fallen. The street was sparsely lit by lamps
suspended on cables strung across from one apartment-
block to another. Rows of jalousies painted a dull institu-
tional green punctuated the expanses of bare walling. In
an area where cars were a medium of exchange rather than
a symbol of disposable income, it was still possible to park
in an orderly fashion at an angle to the kerb, leaving the
pavements free for pedestrians. Zen walked steadily
along, neither hurrying nor loitering, showing no par-
ticular interest in his surroundings. This was enemy terri-
tory, and he had particular reasons for not wanting to
draw attention to himself. After crossing two streets run-
ning at right angles, he caught sight of his destination, a
block of shops and businesses comprising a butcher's, a
barber's, a grocery and a paint wholesaler's. Between the
barber's and the butcher's lay the Rally Bar.
It was years since Zen had set foot there, but as soon as he
walked in he saw that nothing had changed. The walls and
the high ceiling were painted in the same terminal shade of
brown and decorated with large photographs of motor-
racing scenes and the Juventus football team, and posters
illustrating the various ice-creams available from the freezer
at the end of the bar. Two bare neon strips suspended by
chains from the ceiling dispensed a frigid, even glare
reflected back by the indestructible slabs of highly polished
aggregate on the floor. Above the bar hung a tear-off
calendar distributed by an automobile spare-parts com-
pany, featuring a colour photograph of a peacock, along
with framed permits from the city council, a price list, a
notice declaring the establishment's legal closing day as
Wednesday, advertisements for various brands of amaro
and beer, and a drawing of a tramp inscribed 'He always
gave discounts and credit to everyone'.
The three men talking in low voices at the bar fell silent
as Zen entered. He walked up to them, pushing against
their silent stares as though into a strong wind.
'A glass of beer.'
The barman, gaunt and lantern-jawed, plucked a bottle
of beer from the fridge, levered the cap off the bottle and
dumped half the beer into a glass still dripping from the
draining-board. The glass was thick and scored with
scratches. At the bottom, a few centimetres of beer lay
inaccessible beneath a layer of bubbles as thick and white
as shaving-foam.
The barman picked up a copy of the Gazzetta dello Sport.
The other customers gazed up over their empty coffee
cups at the bottles of half-drunk spirits and cordials
stacked on the glass shelving. Above the bar, in pride of
place, stood a clock whose dial consisted of a china plate
painted with a list showing the amount of time the pro-
prietor was allegedly prepared to spend on tax collectors,
rich aged relatives, door-to-door salesmen, sexy house-
wives and the like. Plain-clothes policemen on unofficial
business were not mentioned.
Zen carefully poured the rest of the beer into the glass,
dousing the bubbles. He drank half of it and then lit a
cigarette.
'Fausto been in tonight?'
The second hand described an almost complete revolu-
tion of the china plate before the barman swivelled
smoothly to face Zen, as though his feet were on castors.
'What?'
Zen looked him in the eye. He said nothing. Eventually
the barman turned away again and picked up his news-
paper. The second hand on the clock moved from
'mothers-in-law' through 'the blonde next door' and back
to its starting place.
'This beer tastes like piss,' Zen said.
The pink newspaper slowly descended.
'And what do you expect me to do about it?' the barman
demanded menacingly.
'Give me another one.'
The barman rocked backwards and forwards on his feet
for a moment. Then he snapped open the heavy wooden
door of the fridge, fished out another bottle, decapitated
it and banged it down on the zinc counter. Zen took the
bottle and his glass and sat down at one of the three
small round metal tables covered in blue and red plastic
wickerwork.
As if they had been waiting for this, the other two
customers suddenly came to life. One of them fed some
coins into the video-game machine, which responded with
a deafening burst of electronic screams and shots. The
other man strode over to Zen's table. He had slicked-back
dark hair and ears that stood out from his skull like a pair
of gesturing hands. There was a large soggy bruise on his
forehead, his nose was broken, and his cheek had recently
been slit from top to bottom. Wary of the fearful things
that had happened to the rest of his face, the man's eyes
cowered in deep, heavy-lidded sockets.
'All right if I sit down?' he asked, doing so.
On the video screen, a gaunt grim detective in a trench-
coat stalked a nocturnal city street. Menacing figures
wielding guns appeared at windows or popped out from
behind walls. If the detective shot them accurately they
collapsed in a pool of blood and a number of points was
added to the score, but if he missed then there was a
female scream and a glimpse of the busty half-naked
victim.
'I couldn't help overhearing what you said,' Zen's new
companion remarked.
Zen stubbed out his cigarette in a smoked-glass ashtray
printed with the name, address and telephone number of
a wholesale meat supplier. All home-killed produce, read the
slogan. Bulk orders our speciality.
hobbled downstairs past Zen. As soon as she had gone, he
walked down to the landing and knocked on the door in
an authoritative way.
There was a scurry of steps inside. 'Who is it?' piped a
childish voice.
'Gas Board. We've got a suspected leak to the building,
got to check all the apartments.'
The door opened a crack, secured by a chain. There
seemed to be no one there.
'Let me see your identification.'
Looking much lower down the opening, Zen finally
spotted a small face and two eyes fixed unblinkingly on
him. He got his police identity card out and dropped it
through the centimetre-wide crack.
'Show this to your father.'
The eyes regarded him doubtfully. The girl couldn't
have been more than about seven or eight years old. She
tried to shut the door, but Zen had planted his foot in it.
The child turned away, the card held like something
dangerous or disgusting between her index finger and
thumb. After some time an even younger girl appeared,
keeping well away from the door but watching Zen with
an air of fascination.
Zen smiled at her.
'Hello, there.'
'Have you come to kill my daddy?' she asked brightly.
Before Zen could reply, the child was shooed away by a
man's voice.
'Good evening, Fausto,' called Zen. 'It's been a long
time.'
A figure scarcely larger than the children's appeared
round the rim of the door.
'Dottore!' breathed a hushed voice. 'What an honour.
What a pleasure. You're alone?'
'Alone.'
'You'll have to move your foot. I can't get the chain
undone.'
'I just want to ask you a small favour, Fausto. Maybe I
can do you one in return.'
'Just move your fucking foot!'
Zen did so. There was a metallic rattle and in a single
movement the door opened, a hand pulled Zen inside and
the door closed again.
'Please forgive my language, dottore. I'm a bit nervous
at the moment.'
Fausto was a small, wiry man with the extreme skin-
niness that betrays an undernourished childhood. His face
was marked by a scar which split his upper lip. He claimed
that he'd got it in a knife fight, but Zen thought it was
more likely the result of a bungled operation for a cleft
palate.
In compensation for the rigours of his childhood, Fausto
had survived the passing years with remarkably little sign
of ageing. That he had survived at all was a minor miracle,
given the number of men he had betrayed. The recruit-
ment of Fausto Arcuti had led directly to one of the great
successes of Zen's years at the Questura in Rome, the
smashing of the kidnap and extortion ring organized by a
playboy named Francesco Fortuzzi. Arcuti had worked
from inside the gang, continuing to supply information
right up until the last minute. Then, when the police
swooped, he had been allowed a slip through the net
along with various other minor figures who never realized
that they owed their escape to the fact that Zen was
covering Fausto's tracks. The long-term prospects for
informers were bleak. Once a man had sold his soul to the
authorities, they could always threaten to expose him if he
refused to collaborate again, and the risks of such collabor-
ation grew with every successful prosecution. Sooner or
later the criminal milieu worked out where the leaks were
coming from. Against all the odds, however, Arcuti had
survived.
'Come in!' he said, leading Zen inside. 'What a
pleasure! And so unexpected! Maria, bring us something
to drink. You other kids, get the fuck out of here.'
The apartment consisted of two small, smelly rooms
crudely lit by exposed high-wattage bulbs. Forlorn pieces
of ill-assorted furniture stood scattered about like refugees
in transit. The walls were bedecked with images of the
Virgin, the Bleeding Heart of Jesus and various saints.
Over the television hung a large three-dimensional picture
of the crucifixion. As you moved your head, Christ's eyes
opened and closed and blood seeped from his wounds.
'Sit down, dottore, sit down!' Arcuti exclaimed, clearing
the sofa of toys and clothes. 'Sorry about the mess. The
wife's out at work all day, so we never seem to get things
sorted out.'
The eldest girl carried in a bottle of amaro and two glasses.
'I'd prefer to take you out to the bar,' Arcuti said, pour-
ing them each a drink, 'but the way things are...'
'I've just come from there,' Zen told him.
'I suppose you followed Mario?'
'If that's his name. The one with the Mickey Mouse
ears.'
Arcuti nodded wearily.
'Half-smart, that's Mario. It's OK when they're clever
and it's OK when they're stupid. It's the ones in between
that kill you.'
'So what's the problem?' Zen murmured, sipping his
drink.
Arcuti sighed.
'It's this Parrucci business. It's got us all spooked.'
'Parrucci?' Zen frowned. The name meant nothing to
him.
'You probably haven't heard about it. There's no reason
why you should have, he wasn't working for you. In fact
he wasn't working for anyone, that's what makes it worse.
He'd given it all up years ago. Of course in this business
you never really retire, but Parrucci had been out of it for
so long he must have thought he was safe. No one even
knew he'd been in the game until it happened.'
The informer drained his glass in a single gulp and
poured himself another.
'We found out because of the way they did it. So we
asked around, and it turned out that Parrucci had been
one of the top informers up north, years ago. But he'd put
all that behind him. Wanted to settle down and bring up
his kids normally. That's why they picked him, I reckon.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, if they knock off someone who's still active, it
looks like a personal vendetta. People who are not
involved don't take much notice. But something like this is
a warning to everyone. Once you inform, you're marked
for life. We'll come for you, even if it takes years. That's
what they're saying.'
Zen lit a cigarette. He knew he was smoking too much,
but this was not the time to worry about it.
'What did they do to him?' he asked.
Arcuti shook his head. 'I don't even want to think about
it.'
He sat staring at the carpet for some time, balanced on
the forward edge of the threadbare armchair. Then he
grabbed a cigarette from the packet lying open beside him
and lit up, glaring defiantly at Zen.
'You really want to know? All right, I'll tell you. In
dialect, if a man is full of energy and drive, they say he has
fire in his belly. That's a good thing, unless you have too
much, unless you break the rules and start playing the
game on your own account. What they used to do with
traitors, down south, was to get a big iron cooking-pot and
build a charcoal fire inside. Then they stretched the poor
bastard out on his back, tied him up, set the pot on his
stomach and then used the bellows until the metal got
red-hot. Eventually the pot burnt its way down into the
man's stomach under its own weight. It could take hours,
depending on how much they used the bellows.'
'That's what they did to Parrucci?'
'Not exactly. That's the traditional method, but you
know how it is these days, people can't be bothered.
Parrucci they kidnapped from his house and took him out
to the country, out near Viterbo somewhere. They broke
into a weekend cottage, stripped him naked, laid him out
across the electric cooker with his wrists and ankles roped
together, and then turned on the hot plates.'
'Jesus.'
Arcuti knocked back the second glass of amaro amid
frantic puffs at his cigarette.
'Now do you see why I'm nervous, dottore? Because I
could be the next name on the list!'
'How do you know there'll be any more?'
'Because no one's claimed responsibility. Usually when
something like this happens, you find out who did it and
why. They make damn sure you know! That's the whole
point. But this time no one's saying anything. The only
reason for that is that the job isn't finished yet.'
Zen glanced at his watch. To his dismay, he found that it
was almost ten to six. At six o'clock Maria Grazia would
leave to go home, and from then on Zen's mother would be
alone in the apartment.
Fausto Arcuti had noticed his visitor's gesture.
'Anyway, that's enough of my problems. What can I do
for you, dottore?'
'It's a question of borrowing a car for a few days, Fausto.'
'Any particular sort of car?'
'Something fairly classy, if you can. But the main thing is,
it needs to be registered in Switzerland.'
'Actually registered?'
Zen corrected himself.
'It needs to have Swiss number plates.'
Arcuti drew the final puff of smoke from his cigarette and
let it drown in the dregs of amaro.
'This car, how long do you want it for?'
'Let's say the inside of a week.'
'And afterwards, will it be, er, compromised in any way?'
Zen gave him a pained look.
'Fausto, if I wanted to do anything illegal, I'd use a
police car.'
Arcuti conceded a thin smile.
'And how soon do you need it?'
'Tomorrow, ideally, but I don't suppose there's any
chance of that.'
The informer shrugged.
'Why ever not, dottore? You're doing business with the
Italy that works! I may be shut up in this lousy, rotten,
stinking hole, but I still have my contacts.'
He produced the piece of paper Zen had given the man
called Mario.
'I can contact you at this number?'
'In the evening. During the day I'm at the Ministry.'
'Which department?'
'Criminalpol.'
Arcuti whistled.
'Congratulations! Well, if I have any luck I'll phone you
in the morning. I won't give any name. I'll just say that I
wanted to confirm our lunch date. There'll be a message
for you at the bar here.'
'Thanks, Fausto. In return, I'll see what I can do to shed
some light on this Parrucci business.'
'I'd appreciate it, dottore. It's not just for me, though
that's not exactly the way I'd choose to go. But the girls,
it's wrong for them to have to grow up like this.'
Zen walked away past the shuttered and gated market
towards the bustle of activity on Via Marmorata. He was
well satisfied with the way things had gone. Fausto
Arcuti's lifestyle might appear unimpressive, but as a
broker for favours and information he was second to none.
Moreover, Zen knew that he would want to make up for
the poor figure he had cut, cowering in fear of his life in a
squalid flat.
Zen's main preoccupation now was to get home with as
little delay as possible. He was in luck, for no sooner had
he turned on to the main traffic artery than a taxi stopped
just in front of him. The family which emerged from it
seemed numerous enough to fill a bus, never mind a taxi,
and still the matriarch in charge kept pulling them out, like
a conjuror producing rabbits from a hat. At last the supply
was exhausted, however, and after an acrimonious squab-
ble about extras, discounts and tips, they all trooped away.
In solitary splendour Zen climbed into the cab, which was
as hot and smelly as a football team's changing-room, and
had himself driven home.
To his relief, the red Alfa Romeo was nowhere to be
seen. The lift was ready and waiting, for once, and Zen
rode it up to the fourth floor. The experiences of the day
had left him utterly drained.
He saw it immediately he opened the front door, a
narrow black strip as thin as a razor blade and seemingly
endless. It continued all the way along the hallway,
gleaming where the light from the living room reflected off
its surface. He bent down and picked it up. It felt cold,
smooth and slippery.
He walked slowly down the hallway, gathering in the
shiny strip as he went. As he passed the glass-panelled
door to the living room, music welled up from the tele-
vision, as though to signify his relief at finding his mother
alive and well, her eyes glued to the play of light and
shadow on the screen. Then he looked past her, uncom-
prehending, disbelieving. The gleaming strip ran riot over
the entire room, heaped in coils on the sofa and chairs,
running around the legs of the chairs, draped over the
table. In its midst lay a small rectangular box with tape
sprouting from slits in either end. Zen picked it up. 'Minis-
try of the Interior,' he read, 'Index No. 46yzg BUR ygg/K/gg'.
'What's the matter with you tonight?' his mother snap-
ped. 'I asked you to bring me my camomile tea ages ago
and you didn't even bother to answer.'
Zen slowly straightened up, staring at her.
'But mamma, I've only just got home.'
'Don't be ridiculous! Do you think I didn't see you? I
may be old but I'm not so old I don't recognize my own
son! Besides, who else would be here once Maria Grazia's
gone home, eh?
A cold shiver ran through Zen's body.
'I'm sorry, mamma.'
'You didn't even have the common decency to reply
when I spoke to you! You always bring me my camomile
tea before Dynasty starts, you know that. But tonight you
were too busy cluttering the place up with that ribbon or
string or whatever it is.'
'I'll fetch it straight away,' Zen mumbled.
But he didn't do so, for at that moment he heard a sound
from the hallway, and remembered that he had left the
front door standing wide open.
Among the furniture stored in the hall was a wardrobe
inset with long rectangular mirrors which reflected an
image of the front door on to the glass panel of the living-
room door. Thus it was that even before he set foot in the
hallway, Zen could see that the entrance to the apartment
was now blocked by a figure thrown into silhouette by the
landing light. The next moment this switched itself off,
plunging everything into obscurity.
'Aurelio?' said a voice from the darkness.
Zen's breathing started again. He groped for the switch
and turned on the light.
'Gilberto,' he croaked. 'Come in. Close the door.'
What is the worst, the most obscene and loathsome thing that one
person can do to another? Go on, rack your brains! Let your
invention run riot! (I often used to talk to myself like this as I
scuttled about.)
Well? Is that all? I can think of far worse things than that! I've
done far worse things than that. But let's not restrict ourselves
to your hand-me-down imaginations. Because whatever you or I
or anyone else can think up, no matter how hideous or improb-
able, one thing is sure. It has happened. Not just once but time
and time again.
This prison is also a torture house. No one cares what goes on
here.
You know Vasco, the blacksmith? Everyone still calls him the
blacksmith, though he repairs cars now. What do you think of
him? A steady sort, a bit obstinate, gives himself airs? As I was
passing his workshop one morning I saw him pick up his three-
year-old daughter by the hair, hold her dangling there a while,
then let her fall to the floor. A moment later he was back to work,
moulding some metal tubing while the child wept in a heap on the
ground, her little world in pieces all around her. I wanted to
comfort her, to tell her how lucky she had been. All her daddy had
done was pull her hair. He could have done other things. He could
have used the blowtorch on her. He could have buried her alive in
the pit beneath the cars. He could have done anything.
He could have done anything.