I know, even before I turn my key in the lock, that Billy hasn’t been here. There’s no sign of her. No clogs left in the hall. No message on the machine. Already the air is gelling, turning solid without our bodies and voices to stir it. Absence builds up like dust.
‘Shit, Billy,’ I mutter, standing in the living room. ‘Where are you?’
I don’t want to go back to Pierangelo’s. And I don’t want to call Henry and Kirk and hear that Billy isn’t there. I don’t actually even want to be inside, boxed by walls. I switch my loafers for my running shoes, and for a perverse few minutes I actually consider going to the Boboli Gardens. It’s the same impulse that makes you pick at a scab, eavesdrop on conversations you know you’re not going to like, basically do things to make yourself feel worse than you already do.
In the end, however, I give it a miss and head towards the bumblebee houses instead. What Pallioti says makes sense, but I can’t understand why Billy would do it. Why deliberately frighten me? We’re friends. And yet, if that’s not what she’s doing, why doesn’t she call? Why doesn’t she come back and talk to me?
Restless as a caged cat, I prowl past the cars parked in the broad avenue that leads to the Art Institute. Half restored, it sits like a great wrecked battleship, ‘Bravo Mussolini!’ spray-painted across its boarded-up windows. People walk dogs and play frisbee, their shouts following me as I pick my way along the worn path to the gap in the railings and slip into the world beyond. Like Alice through the looking glass.
Grouped around their toy piazza, the little houses are as neat and still as ever. Their glossy doors shine in the sun. Their window boxes are pert with marigolds and pansies. Behind them, the soft grey tops of the olive groves sway in the breeze, while directly in front of me the derelict villa sits like a rotten tooth in the middle of a smile.
Its shutters blister in the sun. The two squat towers perch on the roof, looking as though they might break loose and tumble down. A brand-new chain twists through its door handles like a silver snake. I wander up the side and look down the narrow little alley that separates the villa’s rear wall from the house closest to it. The kitchens should be back here, and the garden. Sure enough, when I peer down into the cool darkness, I see ivy climbing over the high wall, and what looks like a fruit tree, its branches long and spindly from lack of pruning, but still sporting blossom, puffballs of white in the overgrown shadows. There’s a strong smell of urine. A cat jumps from the wall, saunters through the weeds, and I catch the glitter of broken glass.
Beyond the villa, the little neighbourhood’s order is soothing, and I wander along until I come to a dead end at a low stone wall that marks the edge of the groves. San Miniato hovers on the horizon, and up the hill to my right I can see the pretty pink façade of the House of the Birds. Pale shapes of statues stick up from the terrace, probably gods and half-naked ladies, and it’s easy to imagine Byron living there or later, the Brownings, sitting out of an afternoon, drinking tea, while the strains of a piano drift down the hill from the villa above, where Tchaikovsky is busy dying.
‘Ha! The Madonna of the Steps!’
The old man has come up behind me so quietly that when I turn round I almost step on his tiny poodle.
‘I know you,’ he says, and gives me a toothless grin while the dog wags her stumpy tail.
It takes me a second, then I remember the first time I ran into him. Back then it had been chilly, the wind blowing off the mountains and slapping its way down the valley, but today it’s beautiful, almost hot, which doesn’t seem to have affected his outfit. He’s wearing the same fawn-coloured raincoat and a navy-blue woolen beret, like an ancient member of the French Resistance.
‘Perla,’ he commands, tweaking the ancient poodle’s leash, ‘say hello to the Madonna of the Steps.’ The dog continues to wag her tail and smile at me, blinking her watery eyes.
‘Deaf as a post,’ the old man shouts, as I lean down to rub the little poodle behind the ears. ‘Deaf as a post! Just like me!’
Perla wriggles in pleasure while he shakes his head and taps his cane on the sidewalk. ‘It’s a crime!’ he announces suddenly. ‘To leave a building like that, closed. Abandoned. You like houses?’ he asks. He fixes me with his bright black eyes, and I look down towards the tear-streaked villa, its towers sticking up above the bumblebee roofs, and imagine what it must once have been.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘So do I.’ He shakes his head. ‘And there’s no excuse for it. Leave a beautiful house like that. And them with plenty of money. More than God himself.’ He bangs his cane on the sidewalk again and lets out a bark of a laugh. ‘God’s bankers. And what do they do? Send a caretaker round once a week. A stupid youngster who doesn’t even cut the grass, that’s what. How can a house live like that?’
He leers at me, his toothless smile stretching over half his face, wrinkles accordioned almost to his ears. ‘A house is like a woman,’ he says. ‘It has a soul. And it has to be kept warm. Not with fires. With love!’
Before I can think of a suitable answer to this, my friend yanks on Perla’s leash, almost tipping the little dog over. ‘Arrivederci.’ He turns to go as suddenly as he came, winking at me over his shoulder. ‘Don’t be gone so long this time, Madonna of the Steps.’
I walk all the way up to Viale Galileo, and down past the cat colony to the San Niccolo gate, then across the river and up through Santa Croce, and by the time I reach the Palazzo Vecchio, I am in a much better mood. Perla and my French Resistance friend have cheered me up, and I wonder if I’ve also discovered the secret to brown-field regeneration: Love your house as you love your wife and both will blossom. I imagine the poster. Then, as I cross Piazza della Repubblica and see the crowds sitting out at the cafés, I imagine Billy. In Siena, drinking wine in the late-afternoon sun on the Campo. Or by the seaside, eating grapes and telling lies to a new lover. Suddenly I’m certain she’ll turn up tomorrow on the Ponte Vecchio, just like she said she would, and express great surprise that anyone might have been worried about her.
The flower seller has set up outside the big bookstore in the arcade and I stop and buy a bunch of daisies for Pierangelo, to apologize for being such a pain yesterday.
He isn’t there when I get home, and I’m putting the flowers in a vase, smashing the stems with the handle of a knife, and making sure the water is not too cold for them, when he finally comes in doing what I can only call ‘beaming’. I have seen him look pleased before, but never like this. His whole face is creased in a smile and before I can ask him what’s made him so happy, he takes both my hands and kisses them.
‘Ah-ha. Don’t ask,’ he says. ‘Not one word! I’m taking you out to dinner to celebrate!’
‘What? What is it?’ His smile is infectious, and I find myself starting to laugh. ‘Has Pallioti called? Have they found Billy working in a travelling circus?’
Piero dances me round in a little circle in the kitchen. ‘This has nothing to do with Billy,’ he says. ‘It has to do with you and me. And don’t be so nosy. I’ll tell you when we get there.’
‘Get where?’
He names one of the fanciest restaurants in the city, and I look down at my clothes in dismay. Jeans and running shoes.
‘I can’t go like this!’ I have returned Billy’s belt and earrings but, if I hurry, I have time to retrieve them, then I can wear what I wore on Sunday. I start reaching for my bag. ‘What time is the table?’
‘Nu-huh!’ He shakes his head and grabs my bag. ‘You’re my prisoner!’
Before I can protest, Piero puts my bag back on the kitchen counter and leads me into the living room where he pushes me down on the couch. ‘Stay there,’ he says, ‘and close your eyes.’
The box that he places in my lap is huge and tied with a bow. The gold letters spell the name of one of my favourite boutiques, for window shopping. The place is just off Tornabuoni and has price tags I can’t even dream of affording.
‘Open it!’ Piero commands. H
e’s as excited as a child.
The dress inside is a beautiful blue-green silk, long and sleeveless, and there’s a little angora shrug jacket to go with it. Underneath are a pair of high-heeled sandals that match.
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s beautiful. It’s perfect!’
The designer is a famous name from Milan. I’ve never had anything like this before, and I jump up and put my arms around him. ‘Thank you, thank you. I love you,’ I whisper in his ear, and Pierangelo laughs and lifts me off the floor.
Outside, the night is warm and the streets are alive. Swallows slice through the dark blue sky. Piero is leading me towards Santa Croce, and as we cross the Piazza della Signoria he puts his arm around my shoulders. At Rivoire, couples sit at outdoor tables, people-watching, and sipping cocktails. Neptune rises from his fountain, slick and silvery in the floodlights, and in the Loggia dei Lanzi, Perseus stands dangling the snake-infested head of Medusa. No white men are around tonight, and the steps, watched over by the lions, are left to the pigeons, who strut and coo.
When we arrive at the restaurant, it’s crowded, I’m amazed Pierangelo was able to get a reservation at such short notice. The girl at the desk, who is fashion-model sleek, leads us towards the back of the magnificent room where several tables for two sit up on a dais. I try not to gawk, but it’s hard. We’re on the second floor of a palazzo, the ceilings must be twenty feet high, and the walls are frescoed. The fading, haughty faces of medieval knights and pages look down on us while lean hounds chase deer and horses plunge and whinny, their manes rippling on an ancient wind. The lights are low, hidden high up behind heavy beams, and the candles on the tables flicker like stars amidst the pretty dresses and expensive suits. Flowers are arranged in sconces on the walls. On my plate there’s a pale pink rose.
We have ordered, the waiter has poured champagne, and when I look across the table at Pierangelo, I realize how patrician he really is. He’s one of the city’s aristocracy, and completely at home in a place like this. I, on the other hand, feel like a Cinderella who’s been lucky enough to get asked to the ball, and I wonder if my dress is awkward, too obviously expensive for me, and if I’m wearing the jacket right.
Pierangelo must see something pass across my face because he raises his glass. ‘You look beautiful, Mary,’ he says. ‘You are beautiful. In any room, anywhere. But especially here. Florence suits you.’
I know that in Piero’s book, there is no higher compliment. He regards this city as almost human, loves it as much as he will ever love any woman. He told me once that Florentines actually believe that they never leave. Superstition says if you die here, you’ll walk the city’s streets for ever.
‘To Florence, then.’ I raise my own glass.
‘To you, cara.’ Pierangelo touches the rim of his flute to mine. ‘To us,’ he says.
He sips his champagne and his eyes flit around the room. In the candlelight they’re even paler, glittering with the excitement that’s been lighting him up since he came home this afternoon.
‘Piero, for God’s sake.’ I put my glass down. ‘I can’t stand this. What is it?’ I ask. ‘What’s happened?’
His eyes come back to me, and he actually laughs. ‘Everything, Mary,’ he says. ‘Everything.’ He reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Monika’s given up.’
‘What?’
The truth is, I don’t know much about what’s gone on between Pierangelo and Monika, except for the fact that they’ve been fighting over assets, as Graziella said.
‘Everything.’ Pierangelo says again. ‘Her lawyer called me today. She’s finally quit. She’s given up all claim to Monte Lupo.’
Monte Lupo, his mother’s house. I can see how much it means. Lines I didn’t even realize he had have vanished from his face, and he actually looks younger. For the first time, I understand the phrase ‘years falling away’.
‘That’s wonderful. You must be so relieved.’ I pick up my glass again and raise it. ‘I’m so happy for you. Really.’
‘Happy for us, Mary,’ Pierangelo says. ‘For us.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket. The box he places on my plate is small, and black, and velvet. The room goes still, voices around us suddenly muted.
‘Open it.’
The ring is a ruby, circled by diamonds. Pierangelo reaches for it, takes my left hand and slips it onto my finger. ‘Marry me, Mary,’ he says. ‘Please.’
I have dreamed of this moment for so long and now it’s here I don’t know what to say. All I can do is nod. I don’t even dare look at him, because I’m afraid that, if I do, he’ll vanish.
‘Yes,’ I manage finally. ‘Yes.’ And Pierangelo takes my hand, and holds the ring up to the candlelight and kisses it.
‘We will have a beautiful life,’ he says. But before I can even agree, something happens. People stop eating and murmur and, as if on some secret cue, everyone looks towards the entrance as Massimo D’Erreti steps into the room.
The cardinal is attended by a small entourage, and I find I am searching among them for Rinaldo’s face, and feeling almost giddy with relief when I don’t see it. The girl at the front desk practically curtsies. A tall man who must be the owner approaches His Eminence, and D’Erreti offers his hand. For a second I wonder if the man is going to kiss his ring, but he stops just short of that, greeting him effusively instead, then guiding him towards the rear of the room.
D’Erreti is wearing not crimson, but a severe black suit. With his silver hair and dog collar he looks like a raven gliding among peacocks. He stops at almost every table, shakes hands with the men, who rise to their feet, and, on more than one occasion, kisses the hands of their wives, who don’t. Then he turns towards us.
Pierangelo rises while he is still several yards away, but even after D’Erreti steps up onto the raised platform, the two men are not at eye level. The cardinal is shorter than his pictures suggest, compact and built like a bull. Up close he has the stocky, solid stature of a peasant. His hair is the colour of steel, cut as close as a U.S. marine’s, and the fine black material of his jacket strains across the barrel of his chest. As he grasps Pierangelo’s hand, clutching his upper arm, his face breaks into an open, easy grin.
I don’t know why it surprises me—after all they have spent a great deal of time together—but the affection between the two of them seems genuine. As different as they are, for a second, they could almost be brothers. D’Erreti says something, then Pierangelo turns to me.
‘Eminence,’ he says, ‘may I present la mia fidanzata, Signora Maria Thorcroft.’
All my life I have been taught to stand or kneel in the presence of priests, and that is my inclination now, to fall on my knees in front of this man. It’s embarrassing, as if I’m possessed by a doppelgänger I can’t banish. I offer my hand. D’Erreti takes it in both of his. His fingers are strong and hard, his skin, callused like a labourer’s, and the ring he wears in place of a wedding band, the thin strip of gold that binds him to God, glows in the candlelight. When he smiles, his teeth are white, and blunt and even.
‘My dear,’ he says, in perfect English, ‘I had no idea Pierangelo would be lucky enough to have such a beautiful wife.’
The words are gracious but, despite myself, I recoil. Everything about the man, from the pressure of his hand to his smile, is overtly sexual. His eyes meet mine, and they’re as black as marbles. Bottomless.
‘God be with you, Maria,’ the cardinal murmurs, and before I can move away he leans forward and gives me the mark of blessing, the pad of his thumb rubbing the sign of the cross into my forehead.
That night, Pierangelo and I make love like never before, as if, rather than the rest of our lives, we have only these few hours to be together. The sky is turning silver when we finally fall asleep, and it seems like just seconds before the phone is ringing.
‘Pronto.’ Pierangelo answers. His voice is thick and unfocused. Then it changes. ‘Si,’ he says. ‘Si. Quando?’ And although I have my head buried under the pillow, t
rying not to wake up, I know he’s frowning.
When I finally look, surfacing as groggily as a turtle coming out of water, he’s already throwing the covers back. I catch the clock. It’s just seven a.m. We’ve had a whopping two hours’ sleep.
‘Si, si.’ Pierangelo says. ‘Non. Sono andato.’ I’m going. ‘Si. Subito. In men che non si dica.’ Immediately. In less than no time.
He puts the phone down. He’s already reaching for his clothes. ‘The paper,’ he says without looking at me. ‘Something’s happening, at the Belvedere.’
He dives into the bathroom and I hear running water. The taps turn off, then he shoots through the bedroom into the living room, pulling a sweater over his head as he goes.
‘Stay here,’ he calls. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ And there’s something in his voice, something wrong and sharp, that makes me get up and follow him through the door.
Pierangelo’s rummaging for his car keys.
‘Why are you going? You’re an editor. There are plenty of reporters.’
The creature that has been sleeping in my stomach rises up and jams itself into my throat. ‘I’m coming with you,’ I hear myself say, and Pierangelo stops.
‘It’s Billy, isn’t it?’ I ask. And the fact that he doesn’t answer is enough.
Chapter Eighteen
THE BLUE TAIL of a police car is visible as we come over the hill. It’s parked at a strange angle, skewed across the entrance to the Belvedere where, in another life, the Japanese tour group lined up to buy tickets. There are other cars here too, and behind us, somewhere far away in the city below, I can hear the high alternating wail of an ambulance.
Pierangelo slams to a halt and jumps out of the BMW, groping for his press card and approaching the young carabiniere officer who is walking towards us, his face pale, his hands gesturing frantically. ‘Chiuso, chiuso!’ he says. ‘Affare polizia.’
The Faces of Angels Page 27