"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 02" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

Wednesday, 07.20-12.30


As Zen closed the front door behind him its hinges emitted
their characteristic squeal, which was promptly echoed
from the fioor above. One of the tenants there kept a caged
bird which was apparently under the illusion that Zen's
front door was a fellow inmate and responded to its
mournful cry with encouraging chirps.
Zen clattered down the stairs two at a time, ignoring the
ancient lift in its wrought-iron cage. Thank God for work,
he thought, which gave him an unquestionable excuse to
escape from his dark, cluttered apartment and the elderly
woman who had taken it over to such an extent that he felt
like a child again, with no rights or independent existence.
What would happen when he no longer had this ready-
made way of filling his days? The government had
recently been making noises about the need to reduce the
size of the bloated public sector. Early retirement for senior
staff was one obvious option. Fortunately it was unlikely
that anything more than talk would come of it. A govern-
ment consisting of a coalition of five parties, each with an
axe to grind and clients to keep happy, found it almost
impossible to pass legislation that was likely to prove
mildly unpopular with anyone, never mind tackle the
bureaucratic hydra which kept almost a third of the work-
ing population in guaranteed employment. Nevertheless,
he would have to retire one day. The thought of it con-
tinued to haunt him like the prospect of some chronic
illness. How would he get through the day? What would
he do? His life had turned into a dead end.
Giuseppe, the janitor, was keeping a watchful eye on
the comings and goings from the window of his mez-
zanine flat. Zen didn't stop to mention the scraping noises
he had seemed to hear the night before. In broad daylight
the whole thing seemed as unreal as a dream.
The streets were steeped in mild November sunlight
and ringing with sounds. Gangs of noisy schoolchildren
passed by, flaunting the personalities that would be buried
alive for the next five hours. The metallic roars of shutters
announced that the shops in the area were opening for
business. A staccato hammering and the swishing of a
paint sprayer issued from the open windows of the
basement workshops where craftsmen performed mys-
terious operations on lengths of moulded wood. But the
traffic dominated: the uniform hum of new cars, the
idiosyncratic racket of the old, the throaty gurgle of
diesels, the angry buzzing of scooters and three-wheeled
vans, the buses' hollow roar, the chainsaw of an un-