Ratking Read Free Page B

today! Eh? Very well. Excellent. We’ll see about this. I’m not just some nobody you can push around, you know. Kindly give me your name and rank.’
    The train was rounding the curve by the Porta Maggiore and the terminus was now visible up ahead.
    ‘So, your name?’ the silver-haired man insisted.
    ‘Zen.’
    ‘Zen? You’re Venetian?’
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘But I am from Verona! And to think you disgrace us like this in front of these Southerners!’
    ‘Who are you calling a Southerner?’
    The young Roman was on his feet.
    ‘Ah, ashamed of the name now, are you? A few minutes ago it was your proudest boast!’
    ‘I’m ashamed of nothing, signore! But when a term is used as a deliberate insult by someone whose arrogance is matched only by his stupendous ignorance of the real meaning of Italian culture …’
    ‘Culture! What do you know about culture? Don’t make me laugh by using big words you don’t understand.’
    As the carriage jarred over several sets of points and began to run in alongside the platform Zen left the compartment and squeezed through the line of people waiting in the corridor.
    ‘In a big hurry, eh?’ remarked a sour-looking woman.
    ‘Some people always have to be first, and just too bad for everyone else.’
    The platform was packed with passengers who had been waiting for hours. As the train slowed to a halt they stormed it like assault troopers, intent on winning a seat for the long haul down to Naples and beyond. Zen struggled through them and out to the station concourse. The phones were all in use. At the nearest a tired-looking, poorly dressed woman was repeating ‘I know … I know … I know ’ over and over again in a strident, unmodulated country voice. Zen waved his identity card at her.
    ‘Police. This is an emergency. I need to use this phone.’
    He took the receiver from the woman’s unresisting hand and dialled 113.
    ‘This is Commissioner Aurelio Zen. No, Zen. Ζ,Ε,Ν. No O. That’s right. Attached to the Ministry of the Interior. I’m calling from the Stazione Termini. There’s been a train job. They ran off towards Via Prenestina. Get a car off now and then I’ll give you the descriptions. Ready? The first was about twenty. Height, one sixtyish. Short dark hair, military cut so possibly doing his service, dark-green leather jacket with twin zippered flaps, faded jeans, dark brown boots. The other slightly taller, longer lighter hair, moustache, big nose, brown leather jacket, new jeans, red, white and blue running shoes, carrying a green plastic sports bag with white lettering “Banca Popolare di Frosinone”. He’s got a small automatic, so be careful. Got that? Right, I’ll leave a full report with the railway police.’
    He hung up. The woman was gazing at him with an air of cautious fascination.
    ‘Was it a local call?’ he asked.
    Fascination was replaced by fear.

    ‘What?’
    ‘Were you speaking to someone in Rome?’
    ‘No, no! Salerno! I’m from Salerno.’
    And she started rooting in her bag for the identity card which was her only poor talisman against the dark powers of the state.
    Zen looked through his change until he found another telephone token, which he handed to her.
    ‘Here. Now you can dial again.’
    The woman stared at him suspiciously. He put the token down beside the phone and turned away.
    ‘It’s my sister,’ she said suddenly, gripping his arm. ‘She works for the Pope. At the Vatican! She’s a cleaner. The pay’s rotten, but it’s still something to work for the Pope, isn’t it? But her husband won’t let me in the house because of what my brother found out about him, the dirty bastard. So I phone her whenever I come up to see my grandson. She hasn’t got a phone, you see, so I phone from the station. They’re stingy bastards, those priests. Still, it’s better than packing anchovies, at least your fingers don’t stink. But listen, can that criminal do that? Forbid me to see my own sister? Isn’t there