The train was now moving slowly past the San Lorenzo goods yard. A carriage door slammed near by. The police official opened the window and looked out. There they were, haring away across the tracks towards the safety of the streets.

The Veronese was beside himself with rage.

‘So you refuse to reply, do you? But that won’t do! I demand an answer! You can’t get out of it that easily, you know! God in heaven, do you feel no shame, Commissioner? You calmly allow innocent citizens to be robbed under your very nose while you hide behind the power of office and do precisely damn all about it! Mother of God! I mean, everybody knows that the police these days are a bad joke that makes us the laughing stock of every other country in Europe. That’s taken for granted. But dear Christ, I never in my worst moments expected to witness such a blatant example of craven dereliction of duty as I have seen today! Eh? Very well. Excellent. We’ll see about this. I’m not just some nobody you can push around, you know. Kindly give me your name and rank.’

The train was rounding the curve by the Porta Maggiore and the terminus was now visible up ahead.

‘So, your name?’ the silver-haired man insisted.

‘Zen.’

‘Zen? You’re Venetian?’

‘What of it?’

‘But I am from Verona! And to think you disgrace us like this in front of these Southerners!’

‘Who are you calling a Southerner?’

The young Roman was on his feet.

‘Ah, ashamed of the name now, are you? A few minutes ago it was your proudest boast!’

‘I’m ashamed of nothing, signore! But when a term is used as a deliberate insult by someone whose arrogance is matched only by his stupendous ignorance of the real meaning of Italian culture…’

‘Culture! What do you know about culture? Don’t make me laugh by using big words you don’t understand.’