A pause and a distant smile.
‘No one knows. It’s never been put on the market, partly because it’s “wrong” in a legal sense as well. I made it myself from some stalks I brought back from France and planted on a section of land which got washed out in a landslide a few years back. My father was involved in a legal dispute with the local council about compensation and payment for a new retaining wall. I knew that was likely to drag on for at least a decade — my father was extremely litigious — and so I put in my own plants meanwhile. What you’re drinking is the result.’
‘Congratulations.’
Manlio Vincenzo got to his feet and went over to check on the eggs.
‘This is nothing to what I could make on favoured slopes with fully mature vines. What you’re tasting is a blend of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon. It would be interesting to try adding some Syrah, and maybe even mixing that in with the Nebbiolo. That’s what they’ve been doing in Tuscany for years now, having finally realized that Sangiovese usually isn’t terribly interesting, however “traditional” it may be. But up here tradition is still the word of God, protected by the full force of the law — and God help anyone who suggests otherwise.’
He flipped the frittata on to a plate, slipped it back into the pan to cook briefly on the other side, and then brought it to table.
‘Take that vineyard I just showed you,’ he said, serving Zen, ‘the one where my father died. It has good soil and ideal exposure. If we bottled it as a single-vineyard wine and gave it a dialect name, we could charge the same as Gaja does for his Sori Tildin or San Lorenzo. But that would be commercial suicide. We don’t have the marketing clout Angelo has, and we need the quality of that field and a few like it to keep our reserve Barbaresco up to par. So we hobble along, producing a good if no longer absolutely first-rate example of what is, in my opinion, a second-class varietal to begin with. Don’t tell anyone here I said that, though!’
They had just started to eat when the phone rang.
‘Damn!’ said Manlio. ‘If it’s those reporters again…’
But it wasn’t. After some monosyllabic exchanges, he turned to Zen.
‘It’s for you.’
Zen stared at him, then went over and took the phone.
‘Yes?’
‘ Hello again.’
It was the same dehumanized voice which had called him at his hotel that morning, a thin crackle like an aluminium can crushed in the hand.
‘First of all, a word of warning. Last time you hung up on me. That was a mistake I would advise you not to repeat if you are to have any chance of solving this puzzle before the solution is, so to speak, thrust upon you.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
He had spoken without thinking, and was answered with a tinny laugh.
‘You still don’t seem to understand. I ask the questions. You answer them. A bit of a change for someone in your position, but you’ll get used to it. Now, then, have you made any progress with the clue I gave you last night?’
This time, Zen held his tongue.
‘No? Via Strozzi, number twenty-four doesn’t ring a bell? Odd, really, given how many times you rang the bell there. I wonder if you’re really giving this matter your full attention. Let’s try clue number two. A name, this time. Amalia. Surely that must mean something? Amalia. Think about it. I’ll be in touch soon, and I hope that next time you’ll have something to say for yourself. Frankly, these one-sided conversations are becoming rather boring.’
The line went dead. Zen returned to the table and started in on his lukewarm slab of frittata.
‘Work?’ asked Manlio Vincenzo.
Zen took another sip of the Vincenzo Barbaresco.
‘This actually isn’t so bad,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘It stays with you, if you know what I mean. Some wines you drink and they’re gone, but this…’
‘It has a long finish, yes.’
Manlio gouged out another slab of Parmesan from the wheel with the special wedge-shaped tool used for this purpose.
‘Try it with this.’
Zen bit into the pungent, siliceous cheese and drank some more wine.
‘Even better,’ he pronounced. ‘“A long finish”, eh?’
He looked at his host and smiled cunningly.
‘Just what we both need in the present case, Signor Vincenzo.’
‘Are you suggesting that our interests are identical?’
‘Assuming you’re not guilty, of course.’
Manlio Vincenzo gave a light, cynical laugh.
‘Well, let’s assume that, shall we? For the sake of argument. How do our interests coincide, and what do you mean by “a long finish”?’
Aurelio Zen leaned back and lit a cigarette.
‘As I understand it, Signor Vincenzo, you’ve been released on a conditional basis because of a presumed link between the killing of this Beppe Gallizio, which you clearly could not have committed, and that of your father.’
Manlio nodded assent.
‘That’s good news, but it provides only a presumption of innocence in your regard,’ Zen went on. ‘Some piece of evidence could come to light at any moment which would tilt the balance the other way, sending you back to prison and me to Sicily.’
‘Sicily?’
Zen gave a brief description of the reason why he had been sent to Piedmont, this time — since the reference was unattributable — mentioning the name of the famous director in question. As he had hoped, Manlio Vincenzo was suitably impressed, albeit in a negative way.
‘So that’s how the system works!’ he exclaimed. ‘No wonder things are in the state they are.’
Zen smiled thinly.
‘“What matter the road, provided it leads to paradise?” I’ll find out who killed your father, Signor Vincenzo. But I need a little more time to do that, and to let the front-line posts in Sicily get filled. And you need to make your wine.’
Manlio Vincenzo picked up a lump of Parmesan and started to nibble.
‘And just how do we achieve that?’
‘I need more information, in particular in an area which may be delicate or painful for you to discuss. You’ve told me that the real reason for the bad feeling between you and your father was about technical matters relating to wine-making.’
‘No, no! You haven’t understood. That was just one of the symptoms. What really infuriated him was that by sending me abroad, outside his sphere of control, he had created — as he saw it — a monster of ingratitude who refused to toe the paternal line any longer.’