The Drowning River

by Christobel Kent

  Slowly Iris turned away from the view, trying to resist the creeping claustrophobia of the room, damask curtains and the heavy furniture around her. The flocked walls and the heavy-framed portrait that hung over the red marble fireplace, a jarringly modern – well, 1950s – study of their landlady. Iris felt a moment of panic, because how on earth could she go on living here without Ronnie? Even supposing – and she stopped right there. Even supposing they find her? Even supposing she’s OK?

  Iris stood very still, waiting for the panic to pass. Why had she wanted to come back here? She had wanted to look around, in peace. She waited, listening; she could hear the roar of the traffic around the Piazza d’Azeglio, and the conversations of birds in the garden, but the flat was silent, just as it had been yesterday morning. She was alone.

  Iris knew she should look in Ronnie’s room but somehow she didn’t feel quite ready for it. A cup of tea, she thought, procrastinating.

  In the kitchen she set the kettle on the elderly cast-iron cooker, checked the milk in the fridge. She even stood there a minute or two, looking at the fridge’s contents for hidden significance; Ronnie’s yoghurts, a piece of waxy-looking pecorino half out of its paper, three bottles of prosecco, an open bottle of champagne with a teaspoon in the neck. How long had that been there? She closed the fridge slowly, thoughtfully, set her back against the door, looking at the long stone drainer. Two shallow champagne glasses etched with a Greek key design from the cabinet in the salotto stood there upside down, dry inside.

  It was doing something to her head, all this. Iris really couldn’t remember if the glasses had been there on Tuesday morning, there was a kind of buzz between her ears, as of static, that stopped her thinking straight; panic, it’d be panic. She breathed carefully, in and out, and her head cleared, just a bit. Yes; she’d washed them up herself, on Tuesday evening. She remembered because she’d thought they’d found everything on Monday night, clearing up after the party. Ronnie’d been in a good mood at the end of it, a bit pissed, singing, wearing her little mask as she carried glasses in ten at a time while Iris washed.

  They’d talked; what had they talked about? The boy who’d called her fat.

  ‘You heard what he said, didn’t you?’ Ronnie had said, rough but anxious. ‘Don’t worry about it. He’s just a pig.’ She set down another load of glasses, extracting her long fingers. ‘So many boys are.’

  And then on Tuesday night Iris had found the two champagne glasses in the sink and had wondered how she’d missed them.

  The party had been a disaster, hadn’t it? The Halloween party. A random bunch of people, hangers-on, liggers, half of them hardly knew Ronnie at all, yet she’d still spent fifty euros on wine and crisps. But she’d been perfectly cheerful; she’d been happy, bringing in the glasses. She hadn’t spent all evening buried in some guy’s neck on the sofa, but she hadn’t drunk herself stupid out of disappointment as a result, as she would have done at school. Had she grown up since then? No; Iris would have said definitely, not a lot. Why had she been so serene, singing to herself as she brought the glasses in to the kitchen?

  Behind Iris the kettle whistled; tea bag, milk, chipped cup – all the grand crockery seemed chipped – and before she could find another reason not to, Iris walked out of the kitchen and through the dark red and black hall to Ronnie’s room. She stood in the doorway, hands warming around the tea, looking. Not wanting to walk in and change things, as if it was the crime scene, right here. Because something was different and she was going to stand here until she worked out what it was.

  It was like that game, Pelmanism, or whatever, remembering objects on a tray. Eye mask, Tampax, a book with its spine cracked on the floor, bed unmade. Knickers, two pairs.

  The shutters were folded back; she couldn’t remember doing it, but maybe she had. The room must have been light, because she’d looked around, so maybe she had. A stack of school materials on the desk, leaflets for the studio, the school, the gallery where eventually their work might go on show, if it could be sold. Iris felt like crying at the thought of that, Ronnie’s little drawings, her sketchbooks. She picked one up and went through it; to her surprise it was full of drawings, and so was the one below it; Ronnie’d been working, after all. Pages and pages of architectural detail, railings, stone lintels, escutcheons, eaves; another with anatomical sections, stuffed birds. Homework.

  Next to the pile was the computer; Iris blinked. Ronnie’s laptop was turned off.

  Iris felt the tea going cold in her hands, and she set the mug down on the floor, at her feet. Tentatively she stepped into the room, trying not to disturb anything. She stared at the laptop, its little row of lights all extinct; the battery was dead, which meant. . . She leaned around the back, trying not to touch it, and saw that the mains cable was not plugged in. She frowned. She didn’t know how long a battery lasted but she’d be willing to bet it didn’t last four days, so the thing must have been plugged in yesterday morning.

  Iris thought of Ronnie’s MySpace, the messages she’d scrolled down to find; had there been a message from someone who meant her harm? Tart, someone had called her; Iris had assumed it was a joke. Had there been any clue to where she planned to go, and who with? Because there would be a someone; Ronnie didn’t like to be on her own, everyone knew that, there was always a gang, or a man, or at a pinch there was Iris. Not this time. She rubbed her eyes.

  It could have just – come dislodged, somehow. Iris thought of the face that had half filled the screen, Ronnie’s face, upside down with striped hair hanging across her cheek. Why would anyone pull the plug?

  A bell rang, a strident, old-fashioned sound. The doorbell? It rang again, and again; it was the ancient telephone and Iris stumbled after the sound, suddenly wanting to be out of the room, kicking over the cup of cold tea, not stopping to mop up the mess.

  ‘Pronto?’ she said, then, too frazzled to contemplate a conversation in Italian, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Iris?’

  For a moment, for a tiny joyful second as she heard the voice, terse, irritated, absolutely English, she thought, Ronnie, and everything fell away, all the panic, all the nightmarish, unreal world of clues and break-ins and Ronnie’s bag with that dust in it. But it wasn’t Ronnie, it was Ronnie’s mother; it was Serena. The voice she had not been longing to hear but dreading.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ said Serena. ‘What is the bloody girl up to?’ And all the nightmare came rushing back.

  She was in Dubai, selling a horse. She kept telling Iris how long this deal had been in the making, and Iris kept trying to explain what had happened, everything that had happened so far, but either Serena wasn’t listening or she didn’t seem to be able to process the information. She just kept saying impatiently, ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Iris found she couldn’t go further, she couldn’t actually say, look, this is serious. Because Serena was the grown-up.

  ‘Well,’ said Serena finally, her voice distant. ‘Look, I’ll get someone on to it. And I’ll try to be there by Monday. She’ll have turned up by then, safe and sound, you can bet your life on it.’ There was a pause. ‘Has anyone spoken to her father?’ Iris didn’t know; Ronnie’s father lived in Scotland, as far as she knew. As far away from Serena – and by extension, Ronnie – as he could manage without going abroad, Ronnie said once, because he couldn’t stand abroad. ‘I’ll speak to her father,’ said Serena, and hung up.

  Iris set the phone back down and sat there a moment. She stared out of the window, and then, because she was not thinking about it, she understood. The window she had had to close this morning – this window – was not the one she’d looked out of the morning before. The huge cedar had not blocked her view of the synagogue yesterday, because she’d been looking out of a different window; she couldn’t have left this one open.

  The cleaner? The cleaner came on Monday mornings and, besides, nothing had been cleaned.

  It must have been open all along, and she hadn’t noticed; it had turned colder, or windier, and that
was why she’d noticed the draught. She stared at the huge window panes, each one two feet wide by four high, the window itself taller than a man. Outside the rain was coming down in sheets, drenching the glass.

  Maybe it would clear up before she met Jackson. She had an umbrella; at least the Boboli would be empty.

  Who hadn’t been there, at the party? Who had Ronnie been talking to, hanging out of the window and murmuring into her phone, while the American boy who’d called her fat got drunk and stared at her, and the streaked-blonde twins whose names Ronnie couldn’t even remember threw up in unison in the bathroom?

  Jackson hadn’t been there, had he? Ronnie’d just shrugged his absence off, as if it wasn’t a problem; he’s waiting in for a call from his parents, she said, time difference or something. And he wouldn’t want them to hear the kind of background noise generated at a Halloween party full of freeloaders.

  The doorbell rang, a long, insistent buzz, and Iris went to let the carabinieri in.

  Chapter Nine

  It Turned Out To be so simple.

  The Caffe Il Cestello was almost empty when Pietro finally got to his feet, stiff with the damp and the walking he’d done but mostly with age, and crossed to the bar. He asked for a coffee with a splash of Vecchia Romagna in it, and noted approvingly that the barman made it a generous one. He was a weary-looking man of about Sandro’s age, with thinning, reddish hair.

  ‘You’ve got a question for me,’ he said, and Sandro laughed abruptly, embarrassed.

  ‘Am I that obvious?’ he said. ‘I think I’m in the wrong business. You, too, for that matter.’

  ‘I get a lot of practice, looking at people,’ said the barman. He held out a hand across the counter. ‘Luigo,’ he said. ‘I appreciate you waiting till we were quiet, that’s all. You’re a cop, right?’

  ‘Not everyone bothers to look,’ said Sandro, not denying it, extracting the photograph of Claudio Gentileschi from his pocket. ‘I’m Sandro Cellini. Do you know this guy?’

  ‘Yup,’ said the barman without even seeming to look. ‘That’s Claudio. He’s in here for an aperitivo most days. He lives around the corner somewhere.’ He pursed his lips, frowning. ‘Come to think of it, he hasn’t been in for a day or two.’

  Sandro kept his face still. Scappatoio should be shot; he hadn’t even been in here to ask if anyone knew Gentileschi.

  It was bizarre. Claudio Gentileschi came all the way over here every day for an aperitivo? Lives around the corner? The Via dei Pilastri was two kilometres away at least.

  ‘Did – do you know anything about him?’

  The barman shrugged. ‘He’s a private kind of guy.’ Thoughtfully he passed his cloth over the metal counter in long swipes, straightened the long spoons in the sugar dispensers, ripped a stray paper napkin from the holder. ‘I think he’s some kind of artist. Painter?’ And he shrugged; painters were ten a penny in this city.

  ‘Yes?’ said Sandro. Not an architect but a painter. Who’d given up painting ten years earlier, according to his wife.

  ‘He hasn’t ever said, exactly; doesn’t give much away, Claudio. How do I know?’ The man mused, arms folded over his apron. ‘Something about the look of him, you know, he has that artistic style, keeps his hair quite long. The way he stares off into the distance, watching things.’

  He turned away, scooped coffee into a filter, cranked it tight under the wide, gleaming Gaggia’s row of spouts, set a cup below it. What would life be without that little routine? thought Sandro. Imagine living in a country where there was no barman, no Gaggia, no espresso cup? And for a moment Sandro saw the littleness of the world he inhabited, the props he leaned on daily for support; he felt his limitations like a room contracting around him.

  Over his shoulder the barman said, ‘Definitely a painter, actually. I heard him talking about it the other day, explaining some technique or other. Painting faces in a crowd, he was telling this kid, one of those student types.’ He downed his scalding coffee with his back still to Sandro, then turned around again. ‘Funny, actually, him coming in with the kid, ’cause he was always alone, Claudio.’

  ‘Right,’ said Sandro, jolted out of reverie and thinking furiously. Kid? What kid? ‘And when – ah, when was the last time you saw him?’ He saw the man’s expression harden, turn wary and he knew he was going to have to tell him, Claudio’s dead. Just not yet.

  In his pocket his mobile shrilled; he picked it out and saw it was Luisa. He clicked it to voicemail as something went leaden in his gut. He took a sip of the caffe corretto, so far untouched, and it burned through his system. Not helping.

  ‘Funny you should ask,’ said the barman, nodding. ‘I know exactly when it was. Tuesday.’ He nodded, then something halted him. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Sandro. ‘But tell me, just think first. Was there anything about him that day? Tuesday?’

  The barman frowned, sighed. ‘Well, he was half an hour late for starters, maybe even forty minutes. And he was wearing a jacket under his coat; usually, he wears a sweater. Casual, you know. Bohemian.’ He looked expectantly at Sandro, who let him go on. ‘Claudio was regular as clockwork as a rule, came in at 12.30, had a whisky sour – like I say, he’s never been much of a talker but he did tell me how to make them; said he learned in New York. Some bar in New York.’ He paused, shrugged. ‘Can’t remember the name. Anyway. Lemon juice, bourbon, sugar syrup, ice. By 12.45 he’d be gone, had to get home for his lunch, he said. Only on Tuesday it was after one when he turned up. He asked me to set up two drinks, didn’t want to wait. Drank them both, then looked at the clock, and asked for another one. By then it was almost two.’

  ‘He was on his own?’ said Sandro.

  ‘In here?’ said the barman. ‘Yes. He was always on his own.’

  ‘Except – you heard him talking to someone? About painting?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the barman slowly, ‘you’re right, he was in here with someone, that time.’ He scratched his head. ‘He’d. . . loosened up, lately. Started talking.’

  By this time Sandro could not disguise his eagerness. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Man or woman? When was this?’

  ‘Just a kid,’ said the barman, ‘they all look the same to me, the students, a kid. American boy.’ Then, looking him in the eye, he said, ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Claudio.’ And Sandro felt himself subside, ashamed. Because this guy had liked Claudio Gentileschi.

  ‘He drowned,’ said Sandro. ‘I’m sorry. It looks like he took his own life.’

  ‘Merda,’ said the barman with feeling. ‘Not the floater? Not Claudio?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sandro. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The man was suddenly grey with shock. ‘They wouldn’t tell us, someone went down when they fished the body out and asked but they wouldn’t say anything. Had to be official identification first.’ He shook his head, over and over. ‘Poor old bastard.’

  ‘And they never came to tell you? To ask?’ Sandro spoke with disgust.

  ‘Not until you,’ said the barman. He looked over his shoulder for someone else to tell but the bar was empty except for the two of them. ‘They put out a sign, asking if anyone had seen anything, but. . .’ he shrugged unhappily ‘. . . I didn’t know it was old Claudio.’ He was still shaking his head. ‘What a way to go.’

  ‘Are you – sorry, but are you surprised?’ Sandro asked gently.

  The barman, dazed, refocussed on him. ‘Am I – ?’ He seemed lost for words, puffed his cheeks, let the breath out. ‘You know, you wonder, how well you know people. No, I don’t think I’m blown away, no. He looked like he carried a burden, d’you know what I mean? But, but –’ and Sandro could see him scrabble to understand why he didn’t see this coming. Rocking back on his heels.

  ‘But he had a wife, didn’t he? He had a wife? He wore a wedding ring and it had to be a wife he had to be home for.’ And then the triumph turned to incomprehension as h
e gazed at Sandro, his faded eyes bloodshot with tiredness.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sandro. ‘He did. He had a wife.’ He wouldn’t have left her behind.

  The moment Sandro stepped outside the phone rang, and for a second he imagined that someone had been watching him, waiting for him to reappear. He stood under what shelter the awning provided and tried to make out what the voice was saying.

  He didn’t recognize the speaker, and in fact it was a strange, almost mechanical voice, speaking quickly, without the usual intonation. ‘Cellini Sandro?’ It was hurried. ‘I thought he was going for a swim,’ the voice said, over and over, ‘I thought he was going for a swim, aquatherapy they call it, in the hospital.’

  It was crazy. ‘Claudio,’ Sandro said. ‘You saw Claudio going in the water?’

  ‘I thought he was going for a swim,’ the voice said again. ‘Only he was wearing all his clothes. Cellini Sandro, that’s your name, isn’t it?’ And the penny dropped. Sandro looked across at the playground and there he saw the boy-man on the swing, looking across at him.

  ‘Can dogs swim?’ said the boy. Oh, God, thought Sandro, this is going to be tricky. Dogs?

  ‘Did Claudio have a dog?’ he asked helplessly.

  ‘I didn’t think he had one,’ said the boy, sounding confused; this is getting us nowhere, thought Sandro.

  ‘Can I come and talk to you?’ he said.

  ‘You are talking to me,’ said the voice. ‘This is talking, isn’t it?’

  Sandro wondered what was the matter with the boy – autism? Probably; he’d had dealings with it once or twice over the years. There’d been that boy who lived at home with his mother and occasionally escaped to ride the buses on his own and had to be brought home, twenty-five years old. Hated to be touched, couldn’t look you in the eye.