The fact was, she was happy to be close to her. And it wasn't an unpleasant time. The hospital in Brunico was one of the few in Italy that combined the high medical standards of State hospitals with a level of comfort worthy of the best private clinics.
Valentina's parents took turns in coming to see their daughter during the day, bringing newspapers, magazines, flowers and sweets.
Valentina recovered quickly.
On the morning of 2 March the bandages were removed from the undamaged left side of her face, and the nurses explained to Cinzia how to medicate the wounded part, a network of small scabs going from the corner of the right eye and finishing in a cut across the right corner of her lips.
In the afternoon, they taught Valentina how to use crutches and that evening they dismissed her.
Giorgio Preti drove the friends back to the hotel.
'But you can't go back to Florence,' Cinzia insisted.
'I have to resume my studies. I don't want to stay here.'
'So come back to Bologna with me.'
'I can't, all my things are in Florence.'
'Don't you realise you can't look after yourself? How are you going to wash yourself? Who'll cook your food? Don't be stupid. You'll manage fine for two weeks with what you take from here. You don't need much, it's not as if you're going dancing. Bologna is still your home. I swear I won't make any attempts to steal your virtue, if that's what you're worried about.'
Valentina smiled. And what if you did? she thought. During this vacation she had got much closer to Cinzia, who'd been so good to her, better even than a sister would have been. She dismissed the thought.
But her friend was right. She wouldn't manage on her own in Florence, and she risked being forced into an intimacy with Mike that she didn't want to face up to at the moment. Especially in her condition.
'What about my studies . . .?' she said, weakly.
'Give me a list of books,' Cinzia said. 'I'll add exercise books, pens, ink and even an inkpot. All on the house!'
So on Sunday 5 March, Valentina set foot again in what had been her home in Bologna.
The next day, there was a text message on Valentina's mobile phone.
It was from Mike.
Having fun? When returning Florence?
She decided to call him and tell him everything. She told him she was stuck in Bologna and she would be back as soon as she was able to move. A week at the most. She was feeling fine. Her face was clear apart from a few sticking plasters and a few marks. Only the cut on her lower lip was taking time to heal and still bothered her a little, perhaps because she sometimes bit it nervously, tearing off the crust and making it bleed. But she was already moving about quite well and was thinking of cutting off the plaster on her leg as soon as she could.
Mike was sorry to hear about her accident, and offered to come and fetch her, but she said she'd prefer him not to. He made her give him Cinzia's address and phone number, however.
'Okay, if you're not here by Friday, I'll come and get you.' 'I'll let you know.'
Now she really wasn't sure she wanted Mike and Cinzia to meet.
*
Cinzia looked after her as if she were her mother.
She kept her word, too, and treated Valentina like a distinguished guest, never trying to take advantage of the thousand opportunities presented by her friend's helplessness and partial immobility. She even helped her to wash her private parts, but the touch of her hands never became too suggestive, never turned into a caress.
It was especially at such moments that Valentina would nervously bite her lower lip. At night, too, tossing and turning in a restless sleep.
They slept in the same room, but in separate beds.
The one habit Cinzia had kept from the days when they had lived together was that of walking around the apartment naked or half-naked.
She found it quite natural to flaunt her young, undeveloped body, her small, firm breasts that had never really grown, her long slim limbs and narrow buttocks which gave her a slightly boyish appearance, like one of those anorexic models so much in vogue at the time.
Valentina could not avoid the comparison between her friend's smooth, barely angular curves and the rougher, less graceful surfaces of the only male body she had ever known. Nor could she help wondering what it would be like to feel Cinzia's languid caresses again, the soft, probing kisses, the urgent, expert fingers, the delicate tongue. At times like these, she realised that what Mike had inflicted on her had been a real act of violence, the only weapon of seduction, perhaps, that a man knew.
She felt ashamed whenever she thought about it. Her mind would cloud over, and she would find it hard to reason, hard to understand. Deep down, something in her had responded to that violence.
If Cinzia ever noticed these moments of confusion, she certainly didn't show it. She would complete whatever gesture she had begun, continue the conversation without any alteration in the tone of her voice. And, consciously or not, she would score another point in her favour.
The final move in the game came on Friday evening. In the afternoon, Cinzia had helped Valentina to cut the plaster from her leg, and finally remove the sling and plaster from her shoulder. Valentina's leg, although a little numb, had responded quickly.
'Look, I'm walking!' she cried, taking a few steps.
'Eppur si muove,' Cinzia remarked, solemnly.
'Let's go out!'
The days had grown longer, and the sky was clear and bright. The air smelled of spring, there were young offshoots on the horse chestnuts, everyone in the street seemed to be in a good mood, and so were the two old friends.
'Shall we go to the Bar Basso?' Valentina said.
It was a favourite meeting place for students, located in an arcade near one of the departments of the faculty of letters and philosophy, a good mile and a half from their apartment. They usually went there by public transport or in Cinzia's Scarabeo.
Are you crazy?'
'Come on, I feel fine. I swear!'
'We'll go as far as you're able. As soon as you feel tired, tell me and we'll turn back, okay?' 'Okay'
They managed to reach the Bar Basso. They had coffee and cake, and bought cigarettes for Cinzia.
They went back home by taxi, in the dark.
'I'm having a shower,' Valentina announced as soon as they got in. 'I can't wait to have a good soaping after all those sponge baths.'
'Are you sure? You've only just taken off the plaster . . .'
'You could give me a hand, one last time,' Valentina suggested, innocently.
It was only then that Cinzia realised that the slow, subtle, perhaps involuntary wearing down of her friend's defences had finally brought Valentina back to her.
She ran the water while they undressed and followed her into the big shower cabin.
'Oh, this is so nice!' Valentina exclaimed, as the wonderfully warm water gushed out. 'Soap my back, then I'll soap you.'
Cinzia took the foam-soaked sponge, and began gently sponging Valentina's shoulders, then moved down her spine. She put her left arm round her waist and placed her hand on her friend's flat, taut stomach. As she reached her buttocks with the sponge, she went up on tiptoe and lightly kissed the hollow of her neck.
Valentina did not protest.
Cinzia slid her left hand down Valentina's belly, sank her fingers into the tuft of wet pubic hair and slipped them inside the labia, searching for the clitoris.
Valentina moaned.
They ended up on her bed. Cinzia was unbridled, and Valentina let her do what she wanted, not even complaining when her friend's passionate kisses hurt her aching mouth.
Only once, when Cinzia pressed her body too firmly against her right shoulder, did she say, 'Be careful.'
They made love all night until at last, exhausted, they fell asleep, Cinzia's body clinging to Valentina's like that first time in San Vigilio.
*
The doorbell woke them the next morning. It was almost midday.
&nbs
p; Cinzia jumped out of bed and ran to the door, still half asleep, throwing on a short dressing gown as she went. It must be a friend of hers, she thought: maybe Chiara was back from her vacation and had come to find out when their classes would be starting again. Instead, she found herself face to face with a tall, fair-haired man wearing sunglasses and carrying a huge bunch of roses.
He was smiling amiably. Tm looking for Valentina Preti,' he said, with a slight American accent. 'Is she here?'
You know she is, Cinzia thought, irritably.
'Yes,' she said, 'but — well. . . we're still. . .' She looked at her watch, and realised there was no point saying they were still in bed. 'We've not long woken up.'
'I see. May I come in, anyway?'
Cinzia looked desperately for a reason to say no, but couldn't find one. She couldn't very well leave him standing there in the doorway. After all, he was a friend of her friend.
'The place is a real mess . . . All right, come in. I'll tell Vale.' She pulled her dressing gown around her and let him pass.
Although she couldn't see his eyes, she felt as if she were being scrutinised, analysed, explored. She was embarrassed at being almost naked, defenceless, her hair in a tangle, her eyes bleary.
She ran into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, but not before Mike Ross had caught a glimpse of one bed that hadn't been slept in and another one, unmade, where Valentina was lying, only her outline visible under the sheet, which she had pulled up above her head.
The apartment was small. He took it all in at a glance.
Having tidied themselves up as best they could, the two friends soon came out. Cinzia had recovered, and looked calm and almost brazen. Valentina was clearly embarrassed.
'Hi, Mike,' she said. 'What brings you here?'
'I came to pick you up, if you want me to. It's Friday, remember?'
'But I told you . . . oh, never mind. I have a headache. Would you like a coffee?'
'I'll make it,' Cinzia offered immediately, heading for the kitchenette.
'Are those ... for me?' Valentia said, looking at the splendid bunch of roses. 'Of course.'
'Cinzia, bring a big vase, too, can you?' 'It's nice here,' he said.
'It's such a mess . . . We were up very late last night. You know, studying
Mike preferred not to delve into the nature of their studies. But what he suspected had devastated him, and his calm outward manner bore no relation to the fury he felt inside. Of course it was possible that Cinzia had woken first and had already made her bed. But ever since she had opened the door, he had been sure she had only just fallen out of bed -and not her own.
It was a side to Valentina he could never have imagined. It had caught him so completely off guard, he didn't yet know what to think of it.
Cinzia returned with a vase full of water and put the flowers in it. Then she heard the gurgling of the coffee maker and ran back to the kitchenette.
She reappeared with a tray, on which she had arranged the three cups, a sugar bowl and a small vase containing a single rose she had taken out of the bunch. She placed the tray on the coffee table between the sofa and the pouffe and handed one cup to Mike, who was sitting rather stiffly on the sofa, and another to Valentina, who was on the pouffe. As she did so she threw her a knowing glance, which did not escape Mike. Then she took her own cup and sat down on the rug.
'Have you introduced yourselves?' Valentina asked.
'There's no need,' Cinzia said.
'You must be Cinzia,' Mike said.
'Don't you ever take your glasses off?'
Mike smiled and removed them. His ice-cold eyes filled her with a sense of unease.
'I didn't want to disturb you,' he said. 'I only wanted to see how you were and, if you like, take you back to Florence.'
'I'm fine, as you see. The plaster's gone, and so has the sling. And my cheek is completely healed. But I'm still a bit weak, I don't feel up to going back today. Don't worry, though, I'll be able to do it perfectly well by myself. Cinzia has been looking after me really well - better than a nurse!'
'That's up to you. I'll be waiting for you whenever you want.' He stood up.
Are you going already?' Cinzia said, doing nothing to hide her relief. Valentina threw her a reproving look, and this did not escape Mike either.
'I don't want to keep you any longer, and besides, I have an article to finish. I prefer to go back.'
'Come back whenever you like, we'd like that,' Cinzia lied cheerfully, putting a stress on the word 'we', as she walked him to the door.
'Bye,' he said from the door.
'Bye,' Valentina replied.
She was still sitting on the pouffe.
'He may be handsome, he may be kind, but I don't like him.' That was Cinzia's verdict.
'Why doesn't that surprise me?' Valentina said.
After what had happened last night, anyone bursting in on them would have bothered Cinzia, let alone someone who'd come to take Valentina away.
'It's not for the reason you think. There's something strange about him, something cold. Those eyes - brrr
'You're wrong, it's just an impression. At first, I also . . .' She stopped, biting her lip, so that a little drop of blood appeared. She was afraid of saying too much.
Cinzia went up to her, put her arms round her, and tried to wipe off the drop of blood with her lips.
You're hurting me!' Valentina protested, feeling a sharp pain in her shoulder. Last night, she hadn't complained.
Cinzia moved away abruptly. 'Sorry'
'It's nothing, I'm sorry'
Anyway,' Cinzia went on, 'what do you care? You're not going back to Florence, are you?' Valentina said nothing.
Again, she didn't know. She hadn't liked seeing Mike go. Not like that, anyway. She didn't want to break off the relationship that way: it may not have got started properly, but it had left its mark on her.
How much easier everything would be if she could see everything through to the end, if she could love them both, with no ties, no obligations! But the world wasn't like that.
'You haven't answered me,' Cinzia said in alarm.
'I don't know, Cinzia
'Here we go again! We've already played this scene, Vale. It's time you grew up. It's time you made your own decisions.'
Cinzia was right. She had to make a decision. And she couldn't do that by sheltering in a corner, huddled in her friend's arms: that much suddenly became clear to her. She had to fly with her own wings. She had tried once and had fallen to earth. Like that leap from the ski-jump, she thought. Exactly the same. She'd recovered from that, maybe she should try again.
'Even if they aren't the same as yours?' she said.
Cinzia said nothing. She was chilled to the bone. All the love, the care, the affection, the two weeks of shared joys and anxieties, the passion - pointless. It had all been pointless.
In the afternoon they started quarrelling again, and the next day Valentina packed her few belongings in a bag and left.
Cinzia watched her from the window as she walked towards the bus stop.
For the first time in her life she felt really afraid. As sharply as if someone had put a scalpel through her heart, she had a premonition that this was really the end and she would never see Valentina again.
9
'Can't you sleep?' Ferrara asked his wife, not long after she had switched off the lamp on her bedside table.
It was two in the morning on Ash Wednesday.
'You're the one who can't sleep,' Petra replied. 'You've been tossing and turning for an hour. Come on, get up, I'll make you a camomile tea.'
They went to the kitchen and she put the kettle on. On the table she placed two large cups, the sugar bowl and a small plate of the German biscuits - chewy biscuits that kept the jaws busy and were hell on the teeth - which her parents had sent her for Carnival.
'You're worried,' she said.
'No. But there's something about the case I'm working on that doesn't feel right.'<
br />
He didn't add anything else. He didn't like talking about his work at home, and even though it wasn't a rule, more of a habit, his wife always respected his silence.
'Isn't there always something that doesn't feel right until a case is over?' Petra said. 'It's the same with me. For example, I planted peony bulbs in the autumn and the buds should already be out by now, but they're not. What should I do? Should I worry? What's the point? I water them regularly, I give them fertiliser, and one day I'll go and check, quite calmly - because plants can sense when you're anxious - and there they'll be. We'll have beautiful flowers and I'll give you one to put in your office.'
He smiled. His wife's pragmatic philosophy had always helped him.
They continued talking about plants and flowers, finished their camomile tea, and went back to bed.
But Ferrara still couldn't get to sleep.
It wasn't Gallo's hostility that bothered him. He knew what prosecutors were like. They came and went, superintendents remained. It was the vagueness of the case, these murders that were related and at the same time unrelated, almost as if the killer wanted to display his signature and at the same time amuse himself by leaving contradictory clues, mixing up the scientifically established types like a conjuror shuffling his cards, playing with their theories like . . . yes, like the proverbial cat with the mouse.
He had to free his mind of those theories and go back to square one, start all over again with the mysterious priest, the anonymous letters, the corpses.
Right, let's start again with the corpses, he told himself. But there was one missing. Was the killer playing with the bodies, too? Leaving the first ones in full view but keeping this one hidden?
All day long he had been waiting for the call to come, announcing that another corpse had been found. It hadn't happened.
Commissioner Lepri, Prosecutor Gallo and the deputy prosecutors must be having a great time.
'If there's another murder, I'll have to admit you're right,' Gallo had said. As if admitting one of his subordinates, the head of the Squadra Mobile, was right were a calamity. And in the meantime, Ferrara thought bitterly, he had again shown how little he trusted him, and had tipped the wink to his deputies to keep a close eye on him.
A Florentine Death Page 18