Read Online And Then You Die by Michael Dibdin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Dibdin
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Malpensa,’ the diplomat continued . ‘There you will transfer to the regular Alitalia flight to Los Angeles. You will be boarded separately from the other passengers , and without passing through passport control and all the other nonsense, and seated in the business-class cabin. I take it that you packed your bags yourself, that they have not been out of your possession at any time since then, and that they do not contain any explosive or inflammable substances.’
It was only after Zen had solemnly shaken his head that he realized that this had been intended as a joke.
‘Have you any questions?’ his companion enquired urbanely.
Zen thought for a moment.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If I write a letter, will you post it for me?’
The diplomat looked embarrassed.
‘That would depend,’ he replied.
‘On what?’
‘On whom you wished to write to and on what you intended to say.’
‘In other words, you would have to read it.’
The young man gestured in a pained way.
‘Somebody would,’ he said. ‘There’s no point in trying to conceal that. There’s a lot at stake in this operation in terms of national honour and prestige. I’m afraid it would be naive to pretend that any obvious precautions are going to be overlooked out of motives of delicacy.’
Zen nodded.
‘Thank you for being candid. You could have lied. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It was a stupid idea.’
When they arrived at Malpensa, Zen was transferred to an airport authority car and taken to a windowless lounge in a remote wing of the terminal. Here he had been left to cool his heels for over an hour, before being led back to the car and driven along a succession of vast concrete taxiways to a parked Alitalia 747 which was loading the in-flight food and beverage trolleys. Zenwas loaded too, via a stepped ramp which was wheeled up to the aircraft’s rear door. It all reminded him oddly of his experience on his return from Malta to Sicily, where he had been ‘met at the airport’ – a strip of abandoned motorway – by members of the Ragusa Mafia for delivery to Don Gaspare Limina. Once again, he was just a package, to be shunted around and stowed away, just like the packages of drugs unloaded from the Malta flight. Packages don’t have feelings or opinions about the process this involves or their ultimate destination. Zen did, but they were equally irrelevant.
Some three hours later, twisting uncomfortably in his seat and worrying about the disappearance of the sun, these views had not changed. The prospect of finding himself in America filled him with terror. Like many Italians of his generation, he had never been abroad before, apart from day trips into Austria, Switzerland and recently Malta. He had never even owned a passport, and it seemed highly appropriate that the one he was now carrying should be in a false name. Il bel paese could offer the traveller every conceivable variety of landscape, climate, natural beauties and cultural treasures. Why waste a lot of time going to some foreign country where they used funny money, spoke some barbaric dialect, and couldn’t be relied upon to make a decent cup of coffee, still less know how to cook pasta properly? It was a stupid idea, however you looked at it. And if the foreign country in question was on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, it became quite literally insane.
Zen’s rule of thumb in these matters was very simple. In theory , at least, he was prepared to at least consider going to any country which had formed part of the Roman Empire. If it had also been part of the political or trading empire of the Venetian Republic, so much the better. Egypt, Turkey, Bulgaria, Greece, the Balkans, Austria, Bavaria, France, Iberia, North Africa – even England, at a pinch – he could contemplate as a hypothetical destination. Beyond those limits, he just didn’t see the point. The Romans had been brutal bastards, but they were no fools. If they hadn’t bothered to conquer Sweden
It was only after Zen had solemnly shaken his head that he realized that this had been intended as a joke.
‘Have you any questions?’ his companion enquired urbanely.
Zen thought for a moment.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If I write a letter, will you post it for me?’
The diplomat looked embarrassed.
‘That would depend,’ he replied.
‘On what?’
‘On whom you wished to write to and on what you intended to say.’
‘In other words, you would have to read it.’
The young man gestured in a pained way.
‘Somebody would,’ he said. ‘There’s no point in trying to conceal that. There’s a lot at stake in this operation in terms of national honour and prestige. I’m afraid it would be naive to pretend that any obvious precautions are going to be overlooked out of motives of delicacy.’
Zen nodded.
‘Thank you for being candid. You could have lied. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It was a stupid idea.’
When they arrived at Malpensa, Zen was transferred to an airport authority car and taken to a windowless lounge in a remote wing of the terminal. Here he had been left to cool his heels for over an hour, before being led back to the car and driven along a succession of vast concrete taxiways to a parked Alitalia 747 which was loading the in-flight food and beverage trolleys. Zenwas loaded too, via a stepped ramp which was wheeled up to the aircraft’s rear door. It all reminded him oddly of his experience on his return from Malta to Sicily, where he had been ‘met at the airport’ – a strip of abandoned motorway – by members of the Ragusa Mafia for delivery to Don Gaspare Limina. Once again, he was just a package, to be shunted around and stowed away, just like the packages of drugs unloaded from the Malta flight. Packages don’t have feelings or opinions about the process this involves or their ultimate destination. Zen did, but they were equally irrelevant.
Some three hours later, twisting uncomfortably in his seat and worrying about the disappearance of the sun, these views had not changed. The prospect of finding himself in America filled him with terror. Like many Italians of his generation, he had never been abroad before, apart from day trips into Austria, Switzerland and recently Malta. He had never even owned a passport, and it seemed highly appropriate that the one he was now carrying should be in a false name. Il bel paese could offer the traveller every conceivable variety of landscape, climate, natural beauties and cultural treasures. Why waste a lot of time going to some foreign country where they used funny money, spoke some barbaric dialect, and couldn’t be relied upon to make a decent cup of coffee, still less know how to cook pasta properly? It was a stupid idea, however you looked at it. And if the foreign country in question was on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, it became quite literally insane.
Zen’s rule of thumb in these matters was very simple. In theory , at least, he was prepared to at least consider going to any country which had formed part of the Roman Empire. If it had also been part of the political or trading empire of the Venetian Republic, so much the better. Egypt, Turkey, Bulgaria, Greece, the Balkans, Austria, Bavaria, France, Iberia, North Africa – even England, at a pinch – he could contemplate as a hypothetical destination. Beyond those limits, he just didn’t see the point. The Romans had been brutal bastards, but they were no fools. If they hadn’t bothered to conquer Sweden
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