His name, alas, no longer commands the respect it once did. Such are the perils of placing oneself under the protection of politicians, particularly in the present climate. They come and go, but business remains business. If you do the business for me, Dottor Zen, I’ll do the same for you. For your son, too, for that matter. What was his name again?’

‘Carlo.’

The famous director leant forward and fixed Zen with an intense gaze, as though framing one of his trademark camera angles.

‘Do we have a deal?’

Zen was briefly disabled by another internal convulsion.

‘On one condition,’ he said.

The man known to his friends as Giulio frowned. Conditions were not something he was used to negotiating with the class of hireling which Zen represented.

‘And what might that be?’ he asked with a silky hint of menace.

Aurelio Zen sniffed loudly and blew his nose again.

‘That when you next give a party here, I get an invitation.’

There was a moment’s silence, then the famous director roared with what sounded like genuine laughter.

‘Agreed!’

The meal over, the three men pushed back their chairs and returned to work. At first glance they appeared as interchangeable as pieces on a board. Gianni was slightly stockier than the others, Maurizio was significantly balder, while Minot, who was shorter and slighter than either of the two brothers, wore a foxy moustache above his cynical, down-turned lips. But their similarities were far more striking. They were all of an age, which might have been anywhere from fifty to eighty, worn down by constant labour and near-poverty, with proud, guarded expressions that revealed a common characteristic: the fierce determination never to be fooled again. Their clothes, too, were virtually identical: dark, durable knits and weaves, much patched and mended, each garment a manuscript in palimpsest of tales that would never be told.