Zen looked away.
‘A few years ago, a relative traced me. And without even trying,’ he said.
‘What sort of relative?’
‘My father.’
He corrected himself with a gesture of the hand.
‘My mother’s husband.’
‘Is there a distinction?’
Zen did not reply. Carla Arduini got to her feet.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m being tactless and tiresome. I think it’s this place. It seems to be driving me mad.’
Zen stood up, smiling.
‘I know what you mean. Look, perhaps we could have dinner together some time. When are you leaving?’
Carla Arduini looked at him intently, as though considering this proposition.
‘Don’t worry,’ Zen went on. ‘I’m not going to pat your bottom. That’s not my style, and, besides, you’re young enough to be my daughter.’
The woman unexpectedly burst into laughter.
‘Yes, I am!’
‘I’ll give you a call. Which room are you in?’
He glanced at the list.
‘312? Right next to mine. And how long are you staying?’
She looked at him with her disconcertingly candid green eyes.
‘As long as it takes.’
When he emerged from his hotel the next morning, the sky had settled back into a grey, overcast mode which brought it down to a point where it seemed to graze the rooftops. Having stopped in a bar for an eye-opening shot of caffeine, Zen made his way along Via Maestra to the house to which Tullio Legna had led him earlier, ascended to the first floor and rang the bell.
There was no answer. He rang twice more before the door was opened by a young woman in the silk dressing-gown which the doctor had been wearing on Zen’s previous visit. He introduced himself and asked apologetically if it were possible to see Lucchese.
‘Is it about moths, medicine or music?’ the woman demanded.
‘Medicine. Your father treated me for…’
‘My father is dead and has nothing to do with it.’
She pulled back the door with a yawn which was echoed by the silk gown, the two sides gaping open to reveal the upper slope of her breasts.
‘Wait in there,’ she said, pointing to a doorway on the other side of the hall. ‘I’ll tell the prince that you’re here.’
She strode off down the corridor, her bare feet as soundless as an angel’s on the terracotta tiles.
The room in which Zen had been directed to wait appeared to be a library. Taking the only seat visible, a wooden stool positioned in front of a writing desk, he waited.
And waited. And waited. Outside, the sun broke through for a brief and jagged moment, darting in and out of the room like a fugitive memory. Not daring to smoke, Zen got up and started to look over the volumes on the shelves. Old and heavily worn by use, they all seemed to be about musical instruments. There were pictures of pianos and organs, weirdly contorted wind instruments, and stringed ones the shape of a pregnant woman.
‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, dottore.’
He turned to find Lucchese in the doorway, immaculate in a black suit and tie.
‘I have to attend a funeral this morning. One of my relatives has apparently managed to kill himself by falling into a vat of wine. Quite exceptionally inept, even by the standards of the family, but there it is. Hence the delay.’
Zen stood up.
‘Please excuse me for disturbing you so early in the morning, principe.’
Lucchese sighed loudly.
‘Oh dear, has Irena been trying to impress you? That’s one of the problems of fucking down, I’m afraid. There are, of course, compensations. Anyway, what can I do for you? Is it about your head, or is it about your head? I mean, sutures or psychoanalysis? Am I babbling? Irena, who studies music at the Academy in Turin, by the way, brought some exceptionally fine hashish with her and I’m afraid that we rather over-indulged last night — in more ways than one, in fact. Sorry, wrong thing to say to a policeman. Look, why don’t I just shut up and let you talk instead?’
Zen smiled nervously.
‘Actually, I just wondered if there was any chance of getting these stitches out. They make me look like Frankenstein’s monster, besides attracting some attention I could do without. But if you’re incapacitated, principe…’
‘Incapacitated? I fancy that Irena could vouch for me in that respect.’
He went over to the window, grasping the frame at either side with his pale, articulate hands. As if in response, the sunlight returned in full strength, revealing shoals of dust like minnows in the air.
‘It was harpsichords that brought us together,’ the prince continued. ‘I happen to own two particularly fine models, both seventeenth century. We have since moved on from one form of plucked instrument to… No, I don’t think I’ll finish that thought. As for your stitches, there’s no question of removing them yet. The wound would merely reopen and look even worse than it does now.’
Zen nodded meekly.
‘Well, thank you for receiving me, and, once again, please excuse the disturbance.’
‘Not at all.’
Zen started to leave, then turned back.
‘Would the name of the relative whose funeral you’re attending be Bruno Scorrone, by any chance?’ he enquired.
‘That’s him. My cousin twice removed, da parte di madre. I never liked the man in the first place and haven’t seen him for over a decade, but one’s expected to turn out for these things.’
‘I’d like you to see him now.’