encounter, she started gathering together her clothes. Clearly this would be another day when they were ‘not talking’. Someone else, however, was.
‘…sure to tune in again next week, when Romano takes a pilgrimage to the temple of the one and only Parmigiano Reggiano!’
‘Believe it or believe it not, it takes no fewer than sixteen litres of the finest, richest, freshest milk to make a single kilo of this, the Jupiter of cheeses lording it over the rabble of minor gods. And then as much as two years of completely natural ageing, according to traditions handed down over seven centuries of continuous production…’
The television screen at the far end of the living room, visible through the open door, showed contented cows grazing, pails of creamy, pure milk being poured into vats and then cooked in a cauldron over an open fire, while authentic-looking peasants stirred the brew with wooden staves, all interspersed with close-ups of a Luciano Pavarotti lookalike got up in a chef’s outfit beaming toothily at the viewer while belting out extracts from Verdi’s ‘
Celeste Aida
’.
‘Aren’t you even going to apologise?’ Gemma demanded, pausing in the doorway with her bundle of clothing. As had become customary, she would dress in the spare bedroom. It seemed just a matter of time before one of them started sleeping there.
‘I might ask you the same,’ Zen replied mildly.
‘What have I to apologise for?’
‘Ditto.’
‘For cruelly mocking me when I fell over! You just lay there cackling instead of even offering to help me up or ask whether I was hurt. And the only reason it happened was because I got out of the shower to wake you for your stupid phone call.’
Zen slipped several strata of socks into a spare corner of the suitcase. He seemed to have only one clean vest. Oh well, he’d buy more in Bologna and then have them washed at the hotel. With the situation the way it was, the last thing he wanted was to raise the question of dirty laundry.
‘You’re leaving?’ Gemma went on, still hovering in the doorway.
Zen nodded. No, not that green horror, he decided. He hadn’t worn it for years, but the laws of thrift inculcated by his mother died hard. He laid the rest of the shirts flat on top of the other garments, then closed the case.
‘So where are you going to go?’
‘Bologna.’
The first flicker of some expression appeared on Gemma’s face, but was instantly suppressed.
‘Why Bologna?’
Zen was about to tell her, but then decided to let her twist in the wind for a while. It was the least she deserved after the way she’d treated him.
‘Years ago I was stationed in the city,’ he replied airily. ‘I loved it, and I’ve always wanted to go back.’
Gemma regarded him levelly for some time, then gave a light but studied laugh.
‘I could stop you, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, not stop you leaving. But I could certainly ensure that you enjoy this visit to
La Grassa
a lot less than your last. A single phone call would do it.’
He laughed mirthlessly in turn.
‘I doubt that one more of your tirades could ruin my stay. At least I won’t be in the same room to listen to it.’
‘Oh, the phone call wouldn’t be to you.’
Zen set the suitcase on the floor, straightened up and confronted her. She scrunched her face up and narrowed her eyes.
‘We have received a phone call, Dottor Zen,’ she said in a voice an octave lower than usual and with a passable imitation of the Bolognese accent. ‘A Signora Santini, resident in Via del Fosso, Lucca, alleges that just over a year ago you murdered an ex-officer of the Carabinieri, one Roberto Lessi, in her apartment and then forced her at gunpoint to assist you in disposing of the corpse at sea. She further asserts that you subsequently moved into her apartment and have terrorised her both mentally and physically with a view to ensuring her silence. She is prepared to testify to this effect in court. It is therefore my
‘…sure to tune in again next week, when Romano takes a pilgrimage to the temple of the one and only Parmigiano Reggiano!’
‘Believe it or believe it not, it takes no fewer than sixteen litres of the finest, richest, freshest milk to make a single kilo of this, the Jupiter of cheeses lording it over the rabble of minor gods. And then as much as two years of completely natural ageing, according to traditions handed down over seven centuries of continuous production…’
The television screen at the far end of the living room, visible through the open door, showed contented cows grazing, pails of creamy, pure milk being poured into vats and then cooked in a cauldron over an open fire, while authentic-looking peasants stirred the brew with wooden staves, all interspersed with close-ups of a Luciano Pavarotti lookalike got up in a chef’s outfit beaming toothily at the viewer while belting out extracts from Verdi’s ‘
Celeste Aida
’.
‘Aren’t you even going to apologise?’ Gemma demanded, pausing in the doorway with her bundle of clothing. As had become customary, she would dress in the spare bedroom. It seemed just a matter of time before one of them started sleeping there.
‘I might ask you the same,’ Zen replied mildly.
‘What have I to apologise for?’
‘Ditto.’
‘For cruelly mocking me when I fell over! You just lay there cackling instead of even offering to help me up or ask whether I was hurt. And the only reason it happened was because I got out of the shower to wake you for your stupid phone call.’
Zen slipped several strata of socks into a spare corner of the suitcase. He seemed to have only one clean vest. Oh well, he’d buy more in Bologna and then have them washed at the hotel. With the situation the way it was, the last thing he wanted was to raise the question of dirty laundry.
‘You’re leaving?’ Gemma went on, still hovering in the doorway.
Zen nodded. No, not that green horror, he decided. He hadn’t worn it for years, but the laws of thrift inculcated by his mother died hard. He laid the rest of the shirts flat on top of the other garments, then closed the case.
‘So where are you going to go?’
‘Bologna.’
The first flicker of some expression appeared on Gemma’s face, but was instantly suppressed.
‘Why Bologna?’
Zen was about to tell her, but then decided to let her twist in the wind for a while. It was the least she deserved after the way she’d treated him.
‘Years ago I was stationed in the city,’ he replied airily. ‘I loved it, and I’ve always wanted to go back.’
Gemma regarded him levelly for some time, then gave a light but studied laugh.
‘I could stop you, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, not stop you leaving. But I could certainly ensure that you enjoy this visit to
La Grassa
a lot less than your last. A single phone call would do it.’
He laughed mirthlessly in turn.
‘I doubt that one more of your tirades could ruin my stay. At least I won’t be in the same room to listen to it.’
‘Oh, the phone call wouldn’t be to you.’
Zen set the suitcase on the floor, straightened up and confronted her. She scrunched her face up and narrowed her eyes.
‘We have received a phone call, Dottor Zen,’ she said in a voice an octave lower than usual and with a passable imitation of the Bolognese accent. ‘A Signora Santini, resident in Via del Fosso, Lucca, alleges that just over a year ago you murdered an ex-officer of the Carabinieri, one Roberto Lessi, in her apartment and then forced her at gunpoint to assist you in disposing of the corpse at sea. She further asserts that you subsequently moved into her apartment and have terrorised her both mentally and physically with a view to ensuring her silence. She is prepared to testify to this effect in court. It is therefore my
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