'Certainly,' I said. 'I hear about everything.'

'OK,' he said. He took a sip of his beer. Luigi was a man of few words, he was deliberation itself.

'Was there something about The Spider in the Corriere della Sera?'

He nodded.

I don't think he noticed the start I gave. I tried to regain my composure.

'It's probably the first time anything has found its way into print,' I commented. 'What did they say?'

'I know the author of the article well,' he said. 'He also writes for L'Espresso, and he's now reportedly working on a longer feature.'

I felt irritated. I waved an arm dismissively: 'I asked what he wrote.'

Only Luigi could give just that kind of smile. 'Stefano believes The Spider is Norwegian,' he said.

'Any name?'

He shook his head. I'd started whispering. I had the feeling there were several dozen p.r.i.c.ked ears all about us.

'He might as well be Norwegian as anything else,' I murmured, and Luigi registered the fact that I was speaking in hushed tones. 'The Spider is everywhere, he's every- where and nowhere,' I said. 'I don't think I can help you, Luigi.'

He said: 'So, it isn't you then, Petter?'

I laughed. 'I'm flattered by the compliment,' I said. 'But as I said, I can't help you. You can tell your friend that from me.'

His eyes opened wide.

'I think you're getting things rather the wrong way round now,' he put in. 'Stefano's message to you is that you're the one who may be needing help. If you are The Spider I'd advise you to make tracks as fast as possible.'

I laughed again. I had no reason to look dejected.

It was vital this conversation continue as a light-hearted chat.

I looked to left and right and whispered: 'But why? What is it this "Spider" is supposed to have done?'

He'd lit a cigarillo, and now he gave a more detailed explanation. Neither were characteristic of Luigi. 'Suppose there's a fantasy factory somewhere. Run by just one person, and let's say it's a man. He sits there covertly, constantly spinning slick story-lines for novels and plays of every kind. Suppose - strange and incredible though it may seem - he has no ambitions to publish anything himself. It's conceivable, after all. Perhaps it's an anathema to him to put his name to so much as a poem or a short story, and maybe this is because he has a peculiar desire to live incognito; but despite this he can't stop spinning tales and fables, he just can't switch the engine off. Let's a.s.sume that over the years he's built up an extensive network of contacts within the book industry, both in his own country and abroad. He knows hundreds of authors, and many of them suffer regular bouts of what we call writer's block. a.s.sume all this, and that amongst this group of authors there are certain individuals who are prepared to ask for help. a.s.sume now that this fantasy factory began to sell half-finished literary wares to frustrated authors. Do you follow?'

His eyes bored into mine. While he was speaking I'd beckoned to the waiter and ordered a bottle of white wine.

It piqued me that Luigi thought he was better informed than me.

'Of course I follow,' I said 'and I believe you're right that something of the sort is happening. It fits in with my own experience.'

'Really?' said Luigi.

'But what of it?' I went on. 'I agree that you're describing a curious phenomenon, but don't you think writers are simply thankful for all the help they can get from this fantasy factory? Shouldn't the reading public be rubbing its hands?

When the weather's damp and cold and it's hard to light a big bonfire, you're grateful to the man who's brought along a can of paraffin.'

He laughed. 'Yes quite, but I don't think you know this country too well.'

What a lame comment, I thought. I was a European after all. 'Any particular t.i.tles?' I asked.

He mentioned five novels that had appeared in Italy over the previous couple of years. Four of them were mine. The fifth, which paradoxically enough was ent.i.tled Seta or 'Silk', was a little gem of an Italian fable which I'd read, but which I hadn't dreamt up.

'Bravo,' I said. I don't know why I said it because it was a foolish reaction.

'By the very nature of the thing, this fantasy factory can keep going for years,' he said, 'but suppose that the writers begin to get jittery. They've become dependent on in- jections from external sources and now they're afraid of being caught in a dope test. At any moment, right out of the blue, they might be caught cheating. They no longer trust The Spider; one day he might strip them of all the fame and kudos their books have given them. Now, sup- pose that one day they get so fidgety that they begin to confer.'

Again I glanced to left and right. Was anyone listening to us? Looking round was a silly thing to do. 'Why should that worry The Spider?' I whispered. 'He hasn't done anything illegal, and I can't see that he's done anything reprehensible either. He's sure to have had clear-cut agreements with each of the authors he's dealt with.'

'You're not an Italian,' he reiterated. 'You're too gullible, perhaps. But imagine these authors owe The Spider money.

Lots of money, big money.'

I hated anyone to take me for credulous. One of my greatest bugbears was a.s.sociating with people who patron- ised me. It wasn't being unmasked as The Spider that scared me so much, but I loathed the idea of anyone thinking they'd managed to see through me.

'That's hardly a problem,' was my only comment. 'Even if he can't call in everything the authors owe him, he'll get by all the same. I still can't see why it should trouble you or me, or for that matter the reading public'

I found it irritating that I couldn't express myself more clearly. My mouth felt as if it was full of sand.

Luigi looked me in the eyes: 'What are they planning, Petter? Think of it as fiction. Use your imagination.'

'They'll obviously try to kill him,' I said.

He nodded: 'They'll hire someone to kill him. It's not difficult in this country.'

The bottle of white wine had long since arrived, I'd already drunk more than half of it. 'Don't you think The Spider has considered that possibility?' I asked now.

'Certainly,' said Luigi, 'most certainly, just think of all the ingenious plots he's put together. For all we know he may have made use of hidden cameras and bugs, and if he's liquidated, the world may be told precisely which novels he's been responsible for. Every single sentence he's sold will be made public, on the internet perhaps, and many an author will die of shame. It may be because of all this that he's managed to keep things going for so long. The very bedrock of his business is his authors' sense of self-esteem.

And anyway, a lot of good stuff has come from his direction, we mustn't lose sight of that. We may well miss him, we publishers especially.'

Now my laugh was genuine. 'So what are we talking about then? Do you really think there are people who'd be willing to murder- only to "die of shame" afterwards?'

'Oh come, come, Petter! You disappoint me. It isn't the ones who are ashamed The Spider needs to watch, he's still got a hold over them.'

Something dawned on me. I couldn't bear the thought of being considered a disappointment. I decided to repair the damage at once.

'You're right,' I said. 'Of course, it's the ones with no shame that The Spider must watch out for. Even shame fame has its own market, and it's a market that's growing and growing. When I was young, it was practically non- existent, but times change. Even the j.a.panese have stopped committing hara-kiri. It's so dispiriting, so decadent. More and more people exploit their shame. It provides them with column inches and makes them even more famous. You're right there, Luigi, your logic is correct.'

He nodded emphatically, then said: 'They owe him royalties for ever more, maybe ten, maybe twenty per cent of their own income. And these authors haven't done any- thing wrong either, you mustn't forget that. They won't go to prison for picking up a few ideas for a novel; but they get mean over the years, and The Spider won't be able to call in the money they owe him from the other side of the grave.

Or do you think he's nominated an heir, Petter? Has he thought about that, do you think?'

No he hadn't. I'd made a huge mistake, it was embarra.s.s- ing. I'd not reckoned with the shameless.

'But he still has one way out,' I said. 'He can announce that he waives his right to all monies the authors owe him.

Then the danger is past, all danger is past and the authors won't have a motive for murdering him any more.'

He shrugged his shoulders. Was he smiling or wasn't he?

'I'm afraid things have gone too far,' he said. 'They say there are already plans to get him.'