And Then You Die (4 page)

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
lun
gomare
, 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 Augusto’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 Augusto’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 it’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 Augusto’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.

‘It’s a dull little city,’ Gemma went on, ‘but very calm.’

‘Is your family there?’

‘My father lives dose by, in a nursing home. My brothers and sisters have all moved away. I did myself, once, but I came back.’

‘So you live alone?’

Gemma hesitated.

‘Except when my son comes to visit,’ she said.

Zen nibbled some marinated squid.

‘How old is he?’

‘Twenty. He’s studying engineering in Florence. That’s where my husband lives. Stefano stays with him. And you?’

Zen raised his head like a tennis player realizing that what he had thought to be an unreturnable volley was in fact skimming back to his side of the court.

‘Me?’

‘Family,’ said Gemma. ‘Children.’

‘No,’ said Zen.

Gemma laughed.

‘You’re parthenogenetic?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Yours was a virgin birth?’

‘What? Oh no. My parents are both dead, and I have no
children
. That’s all.’

Gemma blushed and looked a little flustered.

‘I’m sorry, that must have sounded tactless. I must stop trying to make jokes. It never works.’

‘Oh, don’t do that. There’s so little to laugh at as one gets older that even the intention is encouraging.’

They finished their starters and were silent for a while.

‘So where do you live?’ asked Gemma as the waiter came with the dish of
lasagnette
.

‘In Rome,’ Zen replied. ‘I work for one of the ministries, in a mid-level bureaucratic position.’

‘Which one?’

‘Interior.’

‘I thought you
statali
all got your holidays in August.’

‘Well, this is not really a holiday, as such. My mother died recently. I took it quite hard – she was all I had left, really – and the Ministry granted me some compassionate leave.’

Noting Gemma’s serious expression, he decided to lighten the tone.

‘Come August, I’ll be sweltering in my office, the one with the windows painted shut, while everyone else is at the beach or in the mountains.’

He drank some wine.

‘And what about you?’

‘I own a pharmacy which I inherited from my father.’

Zen smiled sourly.

‘I’ve always thought that a permit to run a pharmacy or a tobacconist’s was the next best thing to a licence to print money.’

Gemma smiled aloofly.

‘Well, I don’t know about that, but we do quite nicely. The location is excellent, on Via Fillungo, one of the main streets, and I employ three very bright, competent women to look after the shop. The clients trust them, rightly, and their wages reflect that. The business more or less runs itself. Apart from keeping an eye on inventory and sales, I’m not that involved these days.’

Zen smiled and nodded. He was astonished at how well the evening was going. It was because they were where they were, he supposed. In Versilia, any encounter was by definition a holiday event, with no implications for the future. If he and Gemma had met anywhere else, and had been having dinner on such a casual basis, the whole evening would have been fraught with implied or perceived meanings, but here it was innocent. Nothing that mattered happened at the beach, and nothing that happened there mattered. It was as simple as that.

Zen had just launched into a rather amusing anecdote
concerning
a dentist in his native Canareggio district of Venice, when he realized firstly that Pier Giorgio Butani had not grown up in Venice, and secondly that Gemma was not listening. Or rather she was not listening to him. Her attention was completely
distracted
by an expansive women in her late forties who had
materialized
at their table. Zen vaguely remembered having seen her on the beach.

‘Gemma, my dear, have you heard the news?’ she cried.

‘What news?’

Gemma seemed less than enchanted by this turn of events.

‘Massimo Rutelli!’

‘What about him?’

‘You haven’t heard? He’s dead!’

Gemma gave a facial shrug.

‘Really?’

The woman looked offended at Gemma’s lack of response.

‘You don’t understand! He was dead all afternoon! Sitting there right beside us on the beach!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He was lying on his lounger at Franco’s and apparently he had a stroke or something! I saw him there with that towel stretched over his back. I thought, oh yes it’s Signor Rutelli, although I didn’t know which one and all the time it was a corpse lying there! It’s horrible, just horrible! I feel sort of unclean, you know what I mean? That such a thing should
happen
here, of all places.’

‘Yes, well, death can come at inconvenient times. My maternal grandfather passed away on the lavatory. He always used to spend a long time in there, and it was hours before we found him. Now that really did make us feel unclean. Never mind, it’ll all be forgotten in a few days.’

She flashed the woman a cool and very final smile, and turned back pointedly to face Zen. But the intruder was not to be put off so easily.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ she enquired cattily. ‘The mystery man! We’ve all been wondering who was usurping the Rutellis’ place.’

Zen stood up and held out his hand.

‘Pier Giorgio Butani, signora. I am Girolamo Rutelli’s cousin. I knew his brother only slightly, but needless to say I’m appalled at this dreadful news.’

This too was true. Anything which brought attention to the Rutelli family risked bringing attention to Zen and thereby
blowing
his cover.

‘Teresa Pananelli,’ the woman returned with a decidedly
flirtatious
smile. ‘I’m so glad that you at least are treating this tragedy with the proper gravity, Signor Butani. But then Gemma’s always been frivolous and flippant, haven’t you, my dear? We were at school together, and I remember some of the tricks she used to play on our poor teachers …’

Zen smiled politely. Gemma said nothing. Signora Pananelli emitted a sound rather like a hiss. She leaned forward to Zen, touching him on the sleeve.

‘And it didn’t end there,’ she confided in a stage whisper. ‘The stories I could tell! Particularly since Tommaso and she split up.’

She laughed loudly and insincerely.

‘Anyway, be warned! When it comes to men, Gemma eats them up and spits them out. There was a tennis pro at the Club
Nettuno who lasted almost the whole season, but normally the turnover’s much faster than that. Well, I must be getting back to my friends. A pleasure to have met you, Signor Butani.
Ciao
, Gemma!’

Zen sat down again.

‘Well, she was certainly …’ he began.

‘Don’t say anything!’ snapped Gemma. ‘Just don’t say
anything
.’

She was staring at the tablecloth so furiously that it seemed she might burn a hole in it. Zen signalled the waiter to take their plates.