‘Let’s take that cocksucker,’ Nando said, reaching for the siren and lights.
Bruno laid a hand on his arm.
‘Calm down. There’s some German name on the front end and the trailer has Greek plates. Probably on his way north from Bari out of his mind on amphetamines, pulled off the autostrada to have his personal needs attended to by a colleague of that young lovely we spotted back there. Okay, he was blatantly disrespecting us, but do you really want to spend hours of overtime this evening finding an interpreter, phoning whichever consulate is involved, and then dealing with the lawyer his firm will hire, not to mention the mountains of paperwork? We’ve had enough aggravation for one day.’
‘All right, all right!’
Nando sounded peeved.
‘You’re right about Curti, though,’ Bruno added in a conciliatory tone.
‘That stinking parmigiano! As far as he’s concerned, Bologna’s just another glitzy status toy like his yachts and his whores and his villa in Costa Rica. The only thing he couldn’t buy was his hometown club. Sorry, Lorenzino, Parma FC is not for sale. No problem, he just jumps in his Mercedes, drives a few exits south on the A1 and buys the red-and-blues instead. But he doesn’t give a damn about us!’
‘You’re right. The fans could forgive almost anything else, but there’s no sense of passion, no deep commitment.’
‘Above all, no money.’
Bruno yawned again, staring sightlessly at the neat rows of identical six-storey apartment blocks now sliding past the car like packaged goods on a conveyor belt.
‘Well, he’s got problems in that department.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘This tax scandal.’
‘Tough. Why should he pull the club down with him? And now they say that half the sponsors are going to pull out to avoid the risk of being tainted if the case ever comes to court.’
‘Which it won’t.’
‘Of course not, but that doesn’t help us. The damage has already been done. We’re just…’
It was then that they saw the car parked at the roadside, its emergency blinkers flashing. Nando braked hard, swerving sharply to the right in a controlled skid, and pulled up behind it.
‘Blow job,’ he said.
‘Or breakdown,’ Bruno replied. ‘I’ll go and check.’
He stepped out into the freezing February night. For some reason, the cold seemed colder here than it had in Bolzano, harder and seemingly obdurate. Maybe it was the humidity seeping down from the Po delta, he thought, or more likely the pollution. Average winter temperatures were a good ten degrees lower up north, but there the air was bone-dry and crystal clear. Still, spring would soon be here, and he was home. That was all that mattered.
The illegally parked vehicle was a blue Audi A8 luxury saloon. Bruno automatically noted down the licence number. That was about all he could make out in the glare from the patrol car’s headlights behind. The headrests on the front seats made it impossible to see whether there was anyone in the car. Bruno walked round to the passenger side and peered in through the window, then rapped sharply on the glass. There seemed to be a man sitting in the driving seat, but he did not respond and the door was locked.
Bruno was about to return to the patrol car for a torch when the full beams of a van coming in the other direction bathed the interior of the Audi in light. The illumination lasted only a few moments, but it was enough. The driver of the Audi was sitting quite still. The expression on his face suggested that he was struggling to achieve some trivial but impossible task, like drawing out the plosive ‘p’ into a long dying murmur.
Bruno stepped away from the car and called in on his radio. He spoke little but listened intently, shielding his left ear against the roar of traffic on the banked and cambered curve of the motorway above. When he returned to the patrol car, his face was blank.
‘It’s not a Merc,’ he said, slamming the door shut and shivering.
Nando looked at him askance.
‘I know, it’s an Audi. So what?’
‘That conversation we just had?’
‘About Curti?’
Bruno did not look at him, just sat staring ahead at the blue Audi saloon.
‘Just don’t mention it, that’s all. When they get here.’
‘When who gets here?’
Bruno slammed his open palm loudly on the dashboard.
‘We never discussed the matter, all right? We don’t give a shit about football.’
‘But that’s all I do give a shit about! That and my birds. Oh, and Wanda, of course.’
‘That a new purchase?’
‘Wanda’s my wife!’
‘Oh, right.’
Right! Worked as a PA for some lawyer downtown. Nando did not deign to reply. A heavy silence fell.
‘That car is registered in Lorenzo Curti’s name,’ Bruno remarked quietly. ‘There’s a man sitting in the driving seat. It’s hard to tell in this light, but he looks quite a bit like the photographs and TV footage I’ve seen of Curti. Quite tall, slim, a well-trained beard, salt-and-pepper hair.’
‘Did you talk to him? Why did he stop?’
Bruno opened the window a fraction and cocked his head as though listening.
‘You know those knives they use for splitting blocks of Parmesan cheese? Well, they’re not really knives, more like triangular chisels. Thick, sharp and very rigid.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Bruno, you’re starting to sound like that singing chef on TV. What have Parmesan knives to do with anything?’
‘The man in that car has what looks like one of them sticking out of his chest. As in a knife through the heart.’
Through the opened window, a loud and rapid chopping sound asserted itself in the distance. Bruno opened the door.
‘Help me get the flares out and clear a space where the helicopter can land.’
2
At about the time that the blue Audi A8-covered in a tarpaulin, with the driver’s body still behind the wheel-was being winched on to a low-loader for transport to the police garage, Aurelio Zen and his phantom double were deep underground somewhere in the wilds of Tuscany.
It had been a long day, a long month, indeed a long life, thought Zen. Or maybe it was his double who had these thoughts. It had never been established whether he could think, but the question was of no real importance. The essential point was that unlike Zen, whom he outwardly resembled in every last detail, he had no feelings. Perhaps this explained why he looked so disgustingly hale and hearty. There might be a few silver tints in the lustrous black hair, a heightened tautness of skin over bone here and there, but these merely added to his general air of distinction and maturity. Here, one felt, was a man who had lived and learned much, and now, in full command of this accumulated experience, was in charge of his life like an accomplished horseman of his mount, not striving fretfully to dominate and control, but serenely conscious of and responsive to every eventuality.
It was difficult not to envy such a man, although he showed no more hint of possessing any sense of superiority than the Matterhorn-or indeed of having any feelings at all. To Zen, who nowadays seemed to have, and indeed to be, nothing but feelings, this was in itself supremely enviable. Whether physical (throbs, tingles, twinges) or mental (despondency, dizziness, dread), feelings had so intensely taken over his consciousness as to banish even the memory of other perspectives. He had once been someone else. That much seemed probable, although it could not of course be verified. The fact that he no longer was that person, on the other hand, was irrefutable. All the personal qualities, opinions, skills, ideas, habits, likes and dislikes, together with similar data subsumed by the words ‘I’ and ‘me’-in short, everything about Zen, except for his feelings-had apparently been transferred as though by electronic download to the Doppelganger currently visible beyond the darkened carriage window. As for the discarded husk and its prospects for the future, the less said the better.