Blood Rain - 7 by Michael Dibdin Page A

conflagration.
    And that initial spark wouldn’t be hard to provide. A few letters first, to prepare the ground. He would draft them and then get Carla to copy them out in a laborious, feminine hand, all curls and loops and little circles over the letter ‘i’. She could make the phone calls, too, when the time came. What fun they’d have working out the script! Is that Signora Nieddu? My name is…’ What would she be called? Something slightly old-fashioned and socially tainted, suggestive of a buxom but simple-minded country lass.
    He suddenly remembered the object of the prayers which his neighbour had offered up. That would do nicely. ‘My name is Rita, signora . I’ve written to you several times. I hate to disturb you any more, and the only reason I’m calling now is that I’m desperate. As you know, your husband had his way with me during his visit to Bari, and, well, you see, I’ve just found out that I’m …’ How would that sort of woman put it? ‘With child’? ‘Going to be a mother’? ‘Three months gone’? Carla would know, not that it mattered. Rosa would already be back in the kitchen, honing the carving knife to a fine edge. Let Gilberto try to talk his way out of that one!
    An amplified voice announced that they would shortly be landing at Fiumicino Airport. Zen consulted Ms watch. It was only an hour since they’d left Catania. They couldn’t possibly be anywhere near Rome yet. That was where his mother lived. She’s dying, Aurelio . Ridiculous. Rome was hundreds of kilometres away. It took hours and hours to get there.
    The plane bumped down on the runway, eliciting an enthusiastic round of applause from the passengers, and nosed up to the disembarkation ramp. Everyone stood up and collected their belongings, chatting with almost hysterical volubility to complete strangers about the frightful ordeal they had shared.
    ‘Never again!’ one man kept saying over and over again in a strident tone. ‘That’s the last time I step on an aeroplane! Never ever again, no matter what happens!’
    It wasn’t until the businessman with the bowel problem nudged him meaningfully that Zen realized that everyone was leaving the plane. He got to his feet, lifted his coat down from the locker, and trudged along the aisle to the exit. The captain of the aircraft, in full uniform, was standing slightly to one side, outside the open door to the cockpit.
    ‘Sorry about the discomfort,’ he told Zen heartily. ‘Worst case of clear air turbulence I’ve ever encountered. Doesn’t show up on the radar, you see. Totally unpredictable. Nothing you can do.’
    Zen nodded.
    ‘No, there’s nothing you can do.’
     

 

     
     

     
     
    ‘My mother …’
    ‘Is she still alive?’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘You’re not sure?’
    ‘No, I mean, I suppose that you could say that she’s alive.’
    ‘She’s from Randazzo, you said.’
    ‘No, I said that she lives there. Used to live there.’
    ‘And now?’
    ‘Now she doesn’t.’
    ‘So she moved?’
    ‘She’s been moved.’
    Carla gave an edgy smile.
    ‘You keep making odd distinctions that I don’t quite get, Corinna.’
    The other woman smiled too.
    ‘It’s a Sicilian speciality. But I’m not trying to hold anything back. I just need to decide how much to tell you, Carla. How much I want to tell you, that is, and how much you really want to know.’
    ‘I want to know everything!’
    ‘Oh, everything! Sorry, I’m not handling this right. I’m in love, you see.’
    ‘In love?’
    ‘Yes. So I’m behaving a bit oddly. I apologize in advance. The real problem is that I’m not really interested in small talk and brief encounters. That sort of thing can be fun for a while, but you can say the same about television. As I get older, I find I want something more difficult. Something that will challenge the limits of my competence.’
    ‘How old are you, Corinna?’
    ‘Thirty-four.’
    ‘I’m only twenty-three. My mother is dead, and as