Angels of the Flood

by Joanna Hines

  Several people decided to hitch back to Florence right away. There was a rumour of another party near Santa Croce that night. Around three o’clock, a few minutes after the first batch trudged off down the drive to start hitching, the black Mercedes reappeared in front of the villa. There was only one occupant this time, Francesca’s mother, who got out and briskly set about encouraging the others to return to Florence. Her guest-ejection technique was faultless. She was gracious, even friendly when necessary, but the message was as clear as if she’d handed them an ultimatum in writing. The party was over: it was time to go.

  Angelica glowed with relief, her gold teeth glinting in a happy grin, now that the established order was being restored. She cleared the rooms briskly and soon the hallway was cluttered with piles of sleeping bags, rucksacks and coats.

  Signora Bertoni continued to be courtesy itself: ‘How do you propose to get back to Florence?’ she asked in her husky, forty-Gauloises-a-day voice, which, with its strong American accent, would have been deeply attractive if she’d been saying anything halfway friendly. ‘Can I order you a taxi? I do hope you’ve enjoyed your stay. Maybe you’ll come back to the Villa Beatrice some day.’ All spoken with a gracious smile, while over my dead body said her cold green eyes. She was like a mannequin, an efficient, ruthless mannequin.

  Kate was in the hall with David. Jenny had already left with Larry, Dido had gone with Aiden. Hugo had somehow missed both groups and wanted to hitch back with her and David to avoid a repetition of the previous day’s trauma. Two men and one girl was not an ideal hitching combination. Kate still hoped that Francesca would be coming back with them, that way they could go in two pairs.

  ‘We can’t go without Francesca,’ she told Signora Bertoni when they were ready to leave. ‘How will she get back to Florence?’

  Signora Bertoni’s mouth was a hard red line. ‘My daughter’s not going back to Florence, Kate. She’s staying right here with her family.’

  ‘Then tell me where she is. I can’t go until we’ve said goodbye.’

  ‘Francesca is busy,’ said her mother, crimson mouth stretched to a too-perfect smile. ‘I will tell her you said goodbye.’

  Something made Kate set down her bag and say, ‘I’d like to tell her myself.’

  ‘It’s not convenient.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  David was uneasy. He said, ‘Kate, we ought to get going. It’s always harder hitching in the dark.’

  ‘I’m not going till I’ve seen Francesca.’

  Signora Bertoni was no longer smiling. ‘What makes you so sure she wants to see you? If she did, she would have come down herself.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘Come on, Kate,’ said Hugo. ‘We’ll catch up with Francesca when we get back to Florence.’

  ‘But…’

  Kate was reluctant to admit defeat—Francesca had been edgy enough coming here with all her friends, so why would she suddenly agree to stay on alone?—but at the same time she didn’t want to get stranded at the Villa Beatrice on her own. She wasn’t going to risk hitching without a partner and she had no idea what other way there was of getting back to Florence. Rescue arrived in an unexpected guise. Mario came into the hallway and smiled at her as though they were old friends. Kate bristled. He said, ‘Kate, is good I see you before you go. Francesca will be sad you do not say goodbye.’

  ‘That’s just what I was saying.’

  ‘Unfortunately—’ Signora Bertoni began.

  Mario seemed to have grasped the situation in a glance. He said, ‘I drive Kate to Florence later. Is not problem.’

  Kate let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks,’ she said. She’d have to deal with the problems of a car drive with Mario when she got to it, and who knows, maybe Francesca would be going back to Florence with them. She didn’t see how her parents could actually prevent her from going. Presumably, once she’d done her piece with her uncle, they’d all be happy again.

  Right now, all that mattered was that Signora Bertoni was obliged to cede victory, though the glance she tossed in Mario’s direction indicated she did not take kindly to being outmanoeuvred.

  Kate was heading towards the door with Mario when David barred her way. ‘Do you want me to stay as well?’ he asked, his dark eyebrows gathered in a frown. ‘I can wait for you if you like and we’ll hitch back together.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Kate, hardly even noticing his interruption, as she went past him and into the bright sunlight with Mario. ‘I’ll catch up with you both tonight at Santa Croce.’

  David said something else, maybe goodbye, or maybe he repeated that he’d wait, or maybe it was Hugo who spoke. Kate wasn’t paying attention. There was no reason for elaborate goodbyes or plans, no indication that anyone had just made a momentous decision. No way of knowing how these details would be picked over, like the last scraps of flesh clinging to a carcass, in the days to come. Just sunlight glinting off the windows of the Mercedes that squatted like a black toad in front of the house, and David and Hugo hefting their packs and preparing to set off down the driveway to the road. And Signora Bertoni giving Angelica instructions for the preparation of the rooms.

  ‘We walk,’ said Mario to Kate. ‘La Rocca is not far.’

  Kate didn’t answer. Whatever his reasons for helping her out back there, it didn’t mean she had to talk to him. All that mattered was seeing Francesca again. He owed her a proper apology anyway.

  He said, ‘You are angry, Kate?’

  ‘You bet I am.’

  They walked in silence. But when she saw La Rocca for the first time, she forgot all about being angry. Zio Toni’s home was like the enchanted castle in a fairy tale, a strong square tower covered in creepers, the bare summit of the hill rising up against the blue sky behind it. And there, on a paved area beside the tower where a vine was just beginning to grow out over the trellis, sat the two sisters from the fairy story, both alike with their long brown hair and green eyes, the older sister beautiful like the morning, the younger plump and plain with her sticky-out teeth, clearly enchanted by what she was hearing.

  ‘Kate! I was just talking about you!’ Francesca’s greeting was so enthusiastic it was as if they hadn’t seen each other for days. She jumped up and put her arms round Kate, then pulled out a chair for her. She seemed almost feverish in her excitement. ‘I want Simona to meet all my friends.’

  ‘Hi, Simona,’ said Kate.

  ‘Hello,’ said Simona shyly.

  Though she was only a few months or so younger than Kate, Simona still had the air of childhood. Partly it was the clothes. Her wardrobe must be chosen for her by the formidable Signora Bertoni. She was dressed in a plaid skirt that came to her knees, a cream twinset and neat black court shoes. But the difference went deeper than just clothes. Simona had the soft, slightly boneless look of a girl who has so far only tried to please others, not yet dared to imagine what she might want for herself. Beside her, Francesca, in her borrowed man’s shirt and her worn jeans, with her hair looped back over her ears, looked lean and bold and feral.

  ‘Kate’s the one I was telling you about,’ said Francesca. ‘But I want you to meet the others too, David and Jenny and Aiden and—’

  ‘They’ve gone,’ said Kate.

  ‘What? Gone where?’

  ‘Back to Florence.’

  ‘But they can’t! The party’s not over till tomorrow.’

  ‘We didn’t know your parents were going to show up today, though. That changed things, obviously.’

  Francesca looked as though someone had just punched all the air out of her. ‘But that’s not fair! They weren’t supposed to come till tomorrow. It’s not my fault they changed their plans.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now. Everyone’s gone except me. Mario said he’d give me a lift later.’

  ‘Mario?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kate looked round, but Mario was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘My mother threw them out, right?’

  ‘She kind of m
ade it obvious we weren’t flavour of the month.’

  Francesca was scowling, hunched over and furious. ‘Damn her,’ she said. Then she brightened. ‘I’ve been telling Simona about what it’s like in Florence, the work we’re doing in the Baptistery, how we live and everything.’

  Simona smiled shyly at Kate. ‘It sounds great,’ she said. In an odd way, she reminded Kate of how Francesca had been when she first showed up in Florence: the contrast between them illustrated how much Francesca had changed since joining the mud angels.

  ‘Oh, Simona, you’d love it,’ said Francesca, her enthusiasm reviving. ‘I know you would. Just come for a few days and see.’

  ‘Mamma would never allow it.’

  ‘So? Come anyway.’

  Simona didn’t answer, but her eyes spoke for her, green eyes shining with a hopeless longing.

  Francesca said, ‘Just try, Simi. We’d take care of you. And it’s the chance of a lifetime.’

  ‘But Mamma would never—’

  Right on cue there was the crunch of tyres on gravel and the Mercedes came to a halt. Signora Bertoni got out of the car and came towards them. Her crimson smile was back in place. Kate could see how one might learn to dread that smile.

  ‘Good, you’ve had a chance to say goodbye, Kate. I expect Mario will be wanting to leave soon. Where is he, Francesca?’

  Francesca made a pretence of looking all around. ‘I don’t see him, Mamma,’ she said. ‘Do you see him, Kate?’ Kate didn’t answer. ‘No, Kate doesn’t see him either. No one sees him, Mamma.’ She made the sentences sound like phrases from an early reading book.

  Signora Bertoni pursed her lips in irritation, then said, ‘Simona, Zio Toni will be waking from his nap now. Go and see if he’s ready for his afternoon tisane.’

  Simona started to rise from her chair, but Francesca caught her by the arm, forcing her to stay where she was. She said, ‘Zio Toni has servants to bring him his tea.’

  ‘I know, honey. But he prefers to see Simona.’

  ‘So do I. And we just happen to be in the middle of a conversation.’

  ‘Which can surely wait.’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, it can’t.’

  Signora Bertoni sighed, then spoke tersely to Simona in Italian. This time she was giving orders. Simona stood up.

  Francesca said, ‘Simona, don’t go. She’s not the boss of your life, you know.’

  ‘Francesca, stay out of this,’ said her mother.

  ‘Why? She’s my sister!’

  ‘Then start acting like a sister and stop leading her astray.’

  ‘What makes you think—?’

  ‘Mamma, ’Cesca, please don’t…’ Simona’s plump cheeks had gone very red and she was on the verge of tears.

  ‘Oh, Simi, I’m sorry!’ Francesca jumped up and put her arm across her sister’s hunched shoulders.

  ‘Sorry?’ Signora Bertoni was contemptuous. ‘Maybe if you thought before you interfered, young lady. Simona, go to your uncle right now.’

  ‘Non è necessario.’ The voice came out of the shadows near the house. ‘The mountain is coming to Mohammed.’ His English was grammatically correct, but still heavily accented.

  A man, made older than his years by illness, walked slowly towards them. He was leaning on Mario’s arm. Stooped and obviously in pain, he was regarding them all intently. His eyes were still clear and bright, though his face appeared to be dying round them, skin so desiccated it already had the pallor of a corpse. Mario helped him into a chair. A middle-aged man with an amiable, handsome face was hovering behind them. Kate guessed he must be Francesca’s father.

  Signora Bertoni was all solicitude. ‘Are you comfortable there, Zio Toni? Do you want me to fetch you another rug?’ There was no warmth in her questions. ‘Simona was just going to get you your tisane, weren’t you, honey?’

  He waved her away irritably. ‘Stop fussing, woman. Lucia will bring it. Simona can stay here with me.’ He looked keenly at Francesca, who met his gaze defiantly for a moment, then looked away. His attention lighted on Kate. ‘And who are you, young lady?’

  ‘Kate Holland.’ She held out her hand. There was something about his gaze that made her uneasy, but she was determined to be polite. ‘I’m a friend of Francesca’s. We’ve been working together in Florence.’

  He took her hand and held it for a moment, still sizing her up. Kate was aware that the Bertonis were all watching anxiously, as if his response to any visitor were of vital importance. Kate didn’t share their anxiety, since she was soon to leave and would probably never return. But more importantly, Zio Toni reminded her of her own grandfather, a man who liked to think he ruled his family with a rod of iron but whom she’d been able to wrap round her little finger ever since she learned to talk. The only difference was that this man was near death. All these people fussing round him because they wanted his money—Kate felt sorry for him.

  ‘You are one of these so-called angeli dell’alluvione?’ Still he held her hand.

  She grinned. ‘That’s what they call us. Among other things.’

  Francesca’s father shook her hand formally. ‘Piacere,’ he said. He was smiling, but it was the permanent, meaningless smile of a man whose only role in the family is to be nice.

  Zio Toni was looking her up and down slowly, a cool assessment by a man who, in his time, had been a connoisseur of many kinds of beauty. He said, ‘You are a good-looking girl.’ Francesca’s father nodded his agreement, as the old man continued, ‘You should dress like a woman, not a workman.’

  Kate felt a tremor of unease. It was weird being subjected to such an openly sexual stare from a man who was so clearly past all sexual activity. She said firmly, ‘Smart clothes wouldn’t last a minute with the work I’m doing.’

  ‘Here? In this house, Kate Holland, you are my guest.’

  ‘Not for much longer, I’m afraid,’ she told him cheerfully.

  ‘Kate has to get back to Florence,’ Signora Bertoni said. ‘She and Mario were just leaving.’

  ‘Mamma, stop getting rid of my friends!’ said Francesca. ‘Besides, I’m going too, don’t you forget.’ She turned to Simona. ‘Come with us, Simona. Just for the weekend. Just for a day. You’ll never regret it, I promise.’

  ‘Francesca, stop this or you’ll go straight to your room!’ said her mother.

  Francesca flushed. For a moment she seemed lost for words. Then she said coldly, ‘And which room would that be, Mother?’

  Kate was appalled at the way her friend had been spoken to, as if she were still a child. She said firmly, ‘You don’t need to worry, Signora Bertoni. If Simona came to Florence we’d take good care of her and she’d have a great time.’ Just as she’d decided that Zio Toni was a poor old man, isolated by his wealth even when he was dying, she’d come to the conclusion that Signora Bertoni was a battleaxe who needed to be divested of her power. She appealed to Zio Toni for support. ‘You trust us, don’t you? You know Francesca and I would make sure Simona didn’t come to any harm. And a chance to help with the restoration of Florence, even for a couple of days—she’ll remember it all her life.’

  ‘Just you stay out of this, young lady—’ Signora Bertoni began, but the old man held up his hand, commanding silence.

  He was staring at Kate. His eyes were twinkling and his pale lips hovered into a smile. ‘You have very definite opinions, Kate Holland,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, meeting his eyes, though her instinct was to look away. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  He nodded briskly, then said decisively. ‘There is a solution to this problem. You and Francesca wish to return to Florence with Simona. Their mother wants them to remain here. Let us postpone the decision for twenty-four hours. Why don’t you stay here also, Kate Holland? Just for a night. Tomorrow—’ he flicked a quick glance towards Francesca’s mother—‘tomorrow there are some family matters to be attended to, and after that… who knows?’

  Signora Bertoni intervened. ‘Unfort
unately, Zio Toni, Kate is getting a lift back with Mario and—’

  ‘Dottore Bassano,’ the old man turned to Mario. ‘Does your busy schedule permit you to stay for a night more?’

  ‘Yes, of course, signore, but—’

  ‘Then it is settled. There will be no more arguments. You will stay, Kate Holland?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. There was no way she’d abandon Francesca now, and besides, she was curious to see more of her strange family. ‘I’ll stay.’

  ‘Bene, bene. That’s good,’ said Francesca’s father. Signora Bertoni looked sick with rage, but there was nothing she could do.

  ‘Come,’ said Francesca eagerly, ‘I’ll show you your room, and we can tell Simona about Florence. Oh, I’m so glad you’re staying, Kate!’

  Chapter 27

  Mother Love

  ANNETTE BERTONI TOOK CARE never to lose her temper. Years back, when she was still cute little Annie-Belle Harper, doing occasional modelling jobs and waiting tables in the cocktail lounge in Manhattan, she’d learned that to get what you want you stay sweet and pretty and wait your chance. Any loss of control, anger most of all, is messy and counterproductive and therefore must be avoided. Her capacity for rage frightened her: when she’d learned the truth about her husband, she would have happily killed him if there’d been a weapon to hand.

  But on this occasion she felt justified in letting rip. The tensions of the last weeks and months, the scheming and hoping and manoeuvring, the frustrations and the sleepless nights and the wretched powerlessness that drove her half out of her mind, all that had taken its toll. It was good to lash out. Let her wrath be both a warning and the punishment he deserved.

  She kept her voice low. This conversation was for their ears only. He stood there in silence while she drew on her extensive repertoire of Italian abuse. ‘You son of a whore, after all I’ve done for you! It’s all your fault! You refused to tell us where she was hiding out and now look what has happened! We should have brought her home right away, but no, you thought you knew what was best. And now you’re doing it again! How dare you take that girl’s side when you knew I wanted to get rid of her! I could kill you for this!’