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advertisements said. What did that make Latium, he had wondered, the bilious liver?

    ‘I may have been there on a school trip, years ago.’
    ‘But not for work?’
    ‘Not a chance! There’re two of us on Housekeeping. Zuccaroni is better regarded than me, so he gets the soft jobs, close to home.’
    ‘Will it be difficult?’
    He pushed his plate away and topped up their glasses with the flat, bland white wine.
    ‘There’s no way of knowing. A lot depends on the magistrate who’s directing the investigation. Some of them want to take all the decisions themselves. Others just want to take the credit.’
    She also finished eating and at last they could smoke. He took out his packet of Nazionali. Ellen as usual preferred her own cigarettes.
    ‘Can I come and visit you?’ she asked with a warm smile.
    ‘It would be wonderful.’
    She nodded.
    ‘No mother.’
    He suddenly saw which way the conversation was heading.
    ‘Don’t you think it’s ridiculous, at our age?’ Ellen continued. ‘She must know what’s going on.’
    ‘I expect she does. But as far as she’s concerned I’m still married to Luisella and that’s that. If I spend the night with you it’s adultery. Since I’m a man that doesn’t matter, but one doesn’t mention it.’
    ‘It matters to me.’ Her tone had hardened. ‘I don’t like your mother thinking of me as your mistress.’
    ‘Don’t you? I quite enjoy it. It makes me feel young and irresponsible.’
    The remark was deliberately provocative, but he had long ago decided that he was not going to be talked into matrimony a second time.
    ‘Really?’ she retorted. ‘Well, it makes me feel old and insecure. And angry! Why should I have my life dominated by your mother? Why should you, for that matter? What’s the matter with Italian men, letting their mammas terrorize them their whole life long? Why do you give them such power?’
    ‘Perhaps we’ve found over the centuries that they’re the only people who can be trusted with it.’
    ‘Oh, I see. You can’t trust me? Thanks very much!’
    ‘I can’t trust anyone in quite that way.’
    It seemed perfectly obvious to him. Why was she getting so angry?
    ‘Not because my mother’s a saint,’ he explained. ‘It’s just that mothers are like that. They can’t help it, it’s biological.’
    ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! Now you’ve insulted both of us.’
    ‘On the contrary, I’ve complimented both of you. My mother for being what she is, and you for being everything else. And above all for being so understanding in what is a very difficult situation for both of us, but one that won’t last for ever.’
    She looked away, disarmed by this allusion, and Zen seized the opportunity to signal Ottavio for the bill.
    The air outside was deliciously cool and fresh after the small, stuffy restaurant. They walked in silence towards the roar of traffic on Viale Trastevere. In Piazza Sonnino an office building was being refitted after a fire, and the hoarding put up by the builders had attracted the warpaint of rival political clans. The Red Brigade’s five-pointed star was the most conspicuous, but there were also contributions from Armed Struggle (‘There’s no escape – we shall strike everywhere!’), the Anarchists (‘If voting changed anything they’d make it illegal’), and the neo-fascist New Order (‘Honour to our fallen companions – they live on in our hearts!’).
    To Zen, the clash of slogans seemed eerily appropriate. Because if the events of 1978 had had a secret centre, and part of their horror was that he would never be sure, then in a sense it had been here, at the terminus of the 97c bus and the San Gallicano hospital opposite. If there had been an unspeakable secret, then one of the two men who had guessed it had died there. And since that moment, day and night, whatever else he might be doing or thinking, Zen had remained uneasily aware that he was the other.

TWO

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