At the end of another uneventful day Dragonetti drove home through the heat on the motorway, past the amazing modern church of San Giovanni Battista, the church of the motorway. The green copper roof swooped and curved and the church always reminded him of a sort of Noah’s Ark floating on the waves of the traffic. He exited at Florence North into a hectic city filled to the brim with tourists and those who live off them. The African street vendors, who lined the pavements, their goods spilling over into the road where he lived, chatted among themselves in their own tongue, pausing only to harangue passing tourists as they pointed at their wares, the fake Gucci handbags or Armani jeans. “Only ten euro, only fifteen euro, real leather!”
Dragonetti was an expert at driving along the narrow streets without killing anyone though at times he felt almost homicidal. Florence had changed, like most other towns and he thought it was difficult to live in any large town these days. The traffic was horrendous, especially in the rush hour, and Florence as a tourist attraction was packed for most of the year. He was a true Florentine, his home a decaying Palazzo that had been in his family for generations and, despite all the drawbacks of living in a busy town centre, he knew he would never want to live anywhere else. He was more attached to his home than he liked to admit. He always joked about it in an offhand way, calling it ‘the mausoleum’ and referring to it as ‘the crumbling stately pile’, to hide his fierce attachment. He liked to think of his ancestors living there, and his own childhood, in a different, less hectic Florence, had been spent in this building. At that time the family had been larger. Apart from his parents, his grandparents were still alive then, as well as two aunts, one a widow, one a spinster, all living there. There had been live-in servants too and everyday life had had a certain formality, with rituals that repeated and an old world feeling that would have been unthinkable now except for the extremely rich, which he wasn’t.
He had been an only child and had played alone in the palazzo, learning to know it intimately. Now, of course, he only lived in a part of it and the rest had been closed up. Occasionally, he would unlock the dividing door and walk alone through the musty rooms where furniture was swathed in sheets, themselves dusty now, where family portraits loomed and he could recognise himself in a sixteenth century ancestor, who had the same black hair, the same heavy-lidded green eyes, and the full sensual lips that he had hated so much as a child. As he walked he would remember himself as a skinny lad who had invented companions to accompany him in his games.
He parked the car in the tunnel under the house, beneath a vaulted ceiling. It amused him to refer to this as his fifteenth century garage. Vanessa’s little car was there and there was room for that and another couple of cars. He stepped out of the vehicle and walked to the end of the tunnel and through the small gate which led into the courtyard garden. Suddenly, all the noise vanished, the car horns, the babble of passing pedestrians and the shouting vendors disappeared and in the cool grassy yard he was transported back through the centuries.
A small shadow ran silently towards him and brushed against his leg.
“So you’re still here,” he muttered. He opened the door and followed the little animal who rushed up the stairs and waited for him to reach the door of the flat, where he was again greeted rapturously. He opened the door and let it in. He smiled and said, “You win, but I don’t know what Vanessa will say.”
The flat was vast and cool. When he had modernised it, quite simply, with the inconspicuous addition of central heating, and two bathrooms, unwilling to desecrate the building unnecessarily, he had also had air conditioning put in and had never regretted it. He threw his jacket onto a chair and went into the kitchen to make himself a coffee, one of the two things on which he admitted he was dependent. The other, of course, was tobacco. He lit up and took a deep drag on his cigarette. Supper was his next thought and while he waited for the coffee to come up he considered which restaurant to go to. He didn’t want anywhere too formal but the cheaper places would be thronged with foreigners. He opened the fridge on the off chance that there might be something he fancied and after a brief inspection of the uninspiring contents closed the door firmly. He didn’t want to eat smoked salmon or mozzarella and tomatoes again and he didn’t feel like cooking. He phoned a small family-run trattoria the other side of the river. “Dragonetti speaking.”
He was greeted with cries of joy, “Ah Dottore! Of course we have a place for you. On the terrace? Certainly. I will make sure you are not disturbed.”
He terminated the conversation with a smile. Of course there would always be a place for him. He was part of the legal system of law enforcement and anyone who knew who he was and what he represented would fall over himself to make sure he got whatever he wanted. The kitten sat back on its haunches and mewed. Jacopo had forgotten to buy cat food so he took the smoked salmon from the fridge and opened the packet. He put half of the contents on a plate, cutting it up into small pieces, and replaced the rest in the fridge. “This is wild salmon, my friend,” he told it.
He threw his clothes off and took a tepid shower. He hated the heat in Florence in the summer. Anyone with any sense left the city during the hot months when the humidity made it so uncomfortable. All his favourite bars and restaurants took on another character in the summer as they competed for foreign customers by lowering their prices and as a consequence, their standards. He shuddered at the thought of the average all-in tourist menu. Things would be better in the autumn and by winter he would feel more at home again. Florence would be returned to him and he would begin to enjoy her once again.
Later when he sat together with the cat in the armchair watching television, he phoned Vanessa and said, “We’ve got a cat.”
He didn’t name it. That would be Vanessa’s province.
Marianna came home late after being away the whole day. Ursula heard the taxi stop outside and the car door slam. She waited in the drawing room but Marianna went straight upstairs to her room. Ursula looked over at Guido who said, “Really Ursula, the girl has no manners. She does whatever she likes. Shouldn’t you do something about it?”
“I already have, my dear. She’s going off to New Zealand with my eldest sister. They’ll be back in time for her eighteenth birthday and then as far as I’m concerned that’s it. I will have done my best for her. My job will be over.”
“Well, I hope she’ll be grateful to you one day, when she’s old enough to fully understand. You’re getting her out of a sticky situation and the boy is quite unsuitable.”
“We all do silly things at one time or another, the important thing is to realise in time and find a remedy. That’s something I’ve always managed to do, one way or another,” she said with a rather grim smile.
Guido looked across at her and for a brief moment he wondered exactly what she meant.
24th July
CHAPTER FIVE
The previous evening, after an interminable week of boredom that increased in intensity every day, Jacopo Dragonetti had driven home impatiently and stepped out of the car with a feeling that he couldn’t quite define although he recognised one of the components as excitement. The cat had rushed to greet him as usual and he bent to caress it and pick it up before walking up the stairs. He could hear Vanessa moving about in the kitchen and felt a familiar thump somewhere in the region of his heart. She was back. Deep down he knew he was always just a little afraid she wouldn’t return. He was never quite sure why she loved him and felt an uneasy sense of unworthiness. He stood in the doorway holding the cat.
“Vanessa, what’s that wonderful smell? What are you cooking?”
Vanessa Albright turned at the sound of his voice, “Out of the kitchen, both of you, I’m busy,” she said sternly.
She was looking very business-like. She’d swept her hair away her face and tied it high up at the back of her head. She was wearing a huge apron and wielding a large wooden spoon. An enormous saucepan was bubbling on the hob and Drago could identify the ingredients from the perfume
that assailed his nostrils.
“And you didn’t say welcome back,” she added crossly.
“Did I need to? I can come in and kiss you if you like.”
“No way. I know it’s only a ruse to look in the saucepan.”
He laughed. “Alright. Can I get you a drink?”
“No, you can lay the table and choose a wine.”
“Ah, well, to do that I would need to know what we’re eating.”
“Uh uh. I’m not telling you that, but we’ll have white wine.”
He smiled. He’d already identified the principal smell as fresh fish. He hoped it was going to be one of those amazing fish and sea food soups that she sometimes made. He went down to the cool cantina and chose a Soave from the north of Italy. It was dark and cool down here and he enjoyed the contrast to the heat of the day. He lingered a moment looking over his store of wine. Vanessa liked wine as much as he did and he had a good stock.
When he came back he set the bottle to cool even further, laid the table and then lit up another cigarette. His efforts at stopping smoking were as frequent as they were unsuccessful. He was forty-seven and in good health, but his smoking was cause for concern. The strange thing was that whenever he thought about stopping he landed up smoking even more, a reflection of the tension he suffered at the mere thought. Then he would become extremely virtuous and stop completely, chewing frantically on mint chewing gum all day until his jaws ached. This phase could last for up to three weeks but he always succumbed again. At the moment he was nearing the moment when he would try stopping. Consequently, his consumption had abruptly increased.
When Vanessa brought the rich sea food soup to the table he nearly swooned with delight. Shell fish were popped open and heaped on a bed of bread rubbed with garlic. The first spoonful confirmed exactly the right amount of parsley, garlic and red chilli pepper.
“This is wonderful,” he murmured.
“My mother’s recipe.”
“I must meet the woman who taught you how to cook this.”
Vanessa made no reply.
He put his spoon down. “Don’t you want me to meet her?”
“She lives in England,” she replied.
“I know. What’s that got to do with it.”
“Nothing, I suppose.”
“What’s she like?”
“Straight-laced.”
“Ah, and she wouldn’t approve of me.”
“No, nor of me,” she said briefly. “Can we not talk about my mother. I’m sorry I mentioned her.”
“Well, if it’s going to put you off your food, we’ll postpone it.”
“Good. Pour me some wine and I’ll tell you all the gossip from the Festival.”
He named a prominent opera singer and asked, “Well, tell me, is it true that she eats young men for breakfast and spits out the bones.”
“Absolutely. You know she’s got to be fifty and some of the men are so young. You have to wonder why they go for her.”
“Adulation, trying to further their career, notches on their belts?” he suggested.
“Notches on her bedpost, more like. I suppose they’re flattered and it is true that she looks years younger. She’s very attractive. She’s also very powerful.”
“And rich.”
“That as well.”
“I bet she can’t cook as well as you.”
“Flatterer.”
“No, it’s the truth. This food is divine.”
“There’s baked fish to follow.”
“What brought this on?”
“You may remember I’ve been staying at the sea and I wanted to carry on eating sea food and I know you love it.”
“I do. So you enjoyed the Festival.”
“I did, very much. Tell me what’s going on in Lucca.”
“Nothing much. A few squabbles among the immigrants, a bit of drug dealing, and a far too efficient air-con system. I’ve been having to wear a jacket in the office. Actually, I’ve been bored out of my mind, longing for a juicy murder, and with Bruno away it’s been pretty abysmal.”
“Still, he’ll be back soon and before you know it, we’ll be on holiday ourselves.”
“Eating fish.”
They smiled at each other and tucked into their food.
Vanessa looked down at the cat who was sitting on the floor watching them and remarked, “By the way, I’ve decided to call him Rossini.”
Later that evening he talked to her about Lucca, which despite his boredom he was beginning to appreciate. “Perhaps you could meet me there one evening, come on the train, and we’ll have time to have a look round a bit before eating.”
“Alright. I’d like to. I don’t know Lucca well. I have covered a few concerts but that’s about it.”
With the arrival of Tebaldo, his wife, Isabella, and their two girls, Ursula’s family was complete. As always every summer, she liked to have them all under her roof as though in affirmation of her public image as a good mother and grandmother.
Marianna had not come down to breakfast. Tebaldo’s small children ate quietly, perhaps somewhat cowed by so much adult company. Ursula beamed her approval on them. “I must say Teo, the children are becoming quite civilised.”
“They’re growing up.”
“Which makes me an old Granny.”
“Don’t be silly, Ursula. Of course you aren’t old,” said Guido diplomatically.
“It’s all subjective anyway, old as opposed to young, or just comparatively older, in which case older than whom?” asked Lapo, gazing at his mother and then letting his eyes settle on Guido’s face.
Ursula glared at him as though about to protest, but managed to overcome what would have been an ill-advised rebuttal. Knives were sharpened early in the day in her household. She saw Isabella hide a smile behind her serviette and felt a savage desire to slap her face. She made do with giving her a withering glance and took a deep breath. Before she could speak, Tebaldo asked, “Can I use your car this morning, Ma?”
“Yes, I won’t be going out. I have a million phone calls to make this morning.” She looked at them all and added, “You do realise I’m getting married! There’s still so much to decide on. You’ve no idea.”
Isabella said, “I thought you said it was going to be a low key affair.”
“Low key, but I want perfection. I think you’ll agree, Isabella, that quality is far more important than quantity, in every sphere.” Her eyes raked Isabella’s dress which was adamantly floral and frilly.
“Of course.” Isabella fingered the frills that crossed over and failed to conceal her ample breasts.
Ursula gulped her coffee and stood up abruptly. “I must rush. See you later Guido, my love.”
“Where are you going, Teo?” asked Isabella quietly after her mother-in-law had left the room.
“I just have one or two things to do; you know the bank and so forth. I’m leaving you our car.”
“Thank you. How kind. Will you take the girls?” Their eyes locked. This was almost a declaration of war.
“No, not this morning. Can you manage?”
“It looks as though I’ll have to since you saw fit to send the au pair off on holiday.”
“Not again, Isabella. It would have been awkward to have her here. Don’t you remember last year?”
“Well, it’s awkward without her.”
“I’ll try not to be too long.”
“Oh, don’t rush things for me. Take all the time you want.” She grabbed the girls by the hand and left the room.
“Oh dear, Teo, can’t you do all your marital bickering in the bedroom?” remarked Lapo in a bored tone.
“Lapo, mind your own business.”
“If only I could, but you always seem to make it other people’s business. You woke me up this morning having a shouting match but I would’ve thought you’d manage to hold off during breakfast.”
“Well, I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention. At least have the decency not to talk about it.”
&n
bsp; Guido who had sat through all this in silence now crowned the conversation with a remark that had all the grace of a club over the head, “Well, they say that marriage is the tomb of love and I must say from what I’ve seen this morning that sometimes seems to be true. However, I’m sure that won’t be the case for me and Ursula.”
“Ursula and I,” Lapo corrected him, and bolted from the room before he burst out laughing. Teo looked over at Guido and said, “If all you can do is make unfortunate remarks you’d do better to keep your mouth shut,” before he too left the room.
Dragonetti drove to work through heavy traffic. It was going to be very hot again. The sky was an amazing clear blue and the sun was already hot. He was in a good mood today. Vanessa’s returns were always marked by an excessive sexual indulgence and, after an excellent meal, the previous night had been no exception. It had relieved his feeling of boredom and isolation. How much he missed her when she was away on her frequent trips! How lucky he was to have her! His children seemed to like her too which was a blessing and a relief because they were at a difficult age and could have made his life hell.
He turned off the motorway at Lucca and spent a frustrating ten minutes edging round the roundabout which was always jammed with traffic and was a compulsory passage to everywhere. An impatient driver gave him the finger while another, who’d narrowly missed hitting him, screamed abuse at the top of his voice. Apparently, he was a cuckold several times over. Roll on another ordinary day.
Piero collected the morning post and rifled through the letters, sorting them into different piles. His hand halted and hovered over one envelope. He immediately recognised the writing, and the way the address was scrawled. He opened it.
Broken Chord Page 5