It was blissfully cool and shady under the roof of straw matting supported on wires above the bar area. Gemma was nowhere to be seen. Zen sidled up to the bar, where Franco acknowledged his presence with the ghost of a nod. He had accepted the arrangement that his long-time client Girolamo Rutelli had imposed, allowing this stranger access to the facilities rented annually by the family for as long as anyone could remember, but he made a point of reminding Zen that this made him no more than an honorary member of the club, the guest of a member, to be accommodated correctly but without undue warmth.

If Zen had been a bit more forthcoming about his own circumstances, this might have changed, but he had no such inclination. His cover story was paper-thin, and depended for its success on no one taking the trouble to check it at all carefully. Franco's role in life, Zen had already realized, apart from milking the summer trade for all its three months' life was worth, was to act as the catchment area, filter and conduit for any local gossip worth knowing. Radio Franco was always on the air, and if Zen had allowed himself to be quizzed about the vague and unsupported fictions he had been provided with, he would have been exposed for the fraud he was in no time at all. On the other hand, refusing to reply to Franco's seemingly casual questions would have been equally inadvisable. Zen's strategy had been to keep his distance, treating Franco not as the universal uncle he aspired to be but simply as the owner of the bagno, a paid service provider of no personal interest whatever.

He seated himself at one of the metal tables in the bar area, but did not order anything. After a few minutes, Gemma emerged from her changing room, wearing her street clothes. Their eyes met, and Zen beckoned her over.