The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  “I apologise for having left you for so long, my child.”

  “No problem,” replied Maria, wondering now why she didn’t seem to mind this stranger referring to her as ‘my child.’

  “I don’t see how,” he said, glancing around him as he spoke, “I can ever come here again without thinking about the terrible things which have happened within these walls.”

  Maria couldn’t think of anything worth saying about that, and she forced herself to concentrate as the reason behind his early appearance here this morning was briefly touched upon. Having heard him out, she realized the man had to be physically exhausted as a result of his travels. ‘Not to mention,’ she thought, ‘what he must be feeling about a man who had betrayed his trust in such a despicable way. And not to mention also,’ continued her thought, ‘what he must be wondering about me.’ She suddenly had an urge to hug him, but held herself in check.

  Canizzaro then told her that the forensics people had finished for the day. He also told her that in addition to the carabiniere guard who would remain at the Via Del Moro building for the foreseeable future, his calls had successfully retrieved the displaced staff.

  “Some are already on their way,” he said, adding with a smile, “And the Englishman has told me he is undeterred by his introduction to Roman hospitality and remains determined to honour his contract. He says he will report for work in a few days.”

  Maria was glad to hear the man’s good news, and grateful for his evident wish to share it.

  “When my people get here,” he began again, “they will be distraught at the damage they will find. And they will have no access to the admin room containing vital records. But a new room can be prepared for them to work from. And with help, my people can be organized enough to enable them to make a fresh start. I wondered, would you feel able to help, my child?”

  Maria suddenly felt relieved to be offered an opportunity to rid herself of the inertia which had been making her feel sluggish for the past few hours.

  “I’ll be glad to help,” she responded. “That’s the reason I came here in the first place,” she reminded him.

  They made their way back inside the building, wherein a room was selected by Canizzaro, and the creation of a new admin office was begun. During the several constructive hours which then passed, some of the staff who had responded to Canizzaro’s call busied themselves physically checking stock and drawing up inventories. Others cleaned and polished until surfaces, considered to have been contaminated by recent events, positively gleamed. Furniture which was needed for the new office, was muscled from one point to another.

  Maria was enjoying herself. She was getting the physical exercise her body had needed to loosen tightened muscles, and the variety of challenges on offer was providing mental stimulus. Her natural leadership qualities were also being given a good workout. Throughout the transition she found herself being called upon to settle minor disputes caused by personality clashes, or deferred to on a number of occasions when the decision making process had ground to an undecided halt. She responded to it all with good humour, amused by their curiosity about her, but pleased that Canizzaro’s people were accepting her. Daylight was fading fast when the human ensemble declared themselves satisfied with the material transformation.

  She stood once more beside Canizzaro in the enclosed courtyard.

  “You were a great help, Maria,” he said, “and I thank you.”

  “It was good to have something to do,” she replied, noting he had used her name this time.

  Maria looked along the courtyard to the window with no curtains, and sighed with what she knew to be relief. Forensics had completed their tasks, Brantano and the bodies had been removed, and the old office was now officially sealed. She had decided that what had transpired within that room would be relegated to her past. ‘I wish you well in your new life,’ Sabbatini had said, and she knew it would please her to use some of that new life now towards helping Claudio Canizzaro. Whom she had warmed to from the moment she had seen him.

  Maria was guiltily reminding herself that she hadn’t really thanked Sabbatini for his actions, and wondering what he must think of her, when Canizzaro stepped forward and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “It is time I took you home, my child,” said the tired looking man whom she thought might once have been loved by her mother.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Canizzaro

  Rome, Italy, early evening, 11th January 1985

  Leaving behind the Via Del Moro and its neighbouring warren of narrow streets, Maria Orsinni’s fiat was the second of the two-car-convoy led by Canizzaro’s driver who had neglected to tell her where they were going. They drove under the towering stone arch of Porta Settimania, the 15th century Renaissance gateway accessing one end of what Maria knew to be the street which ran parallel to the river Tiber for a thousand metres. But the lead car used only two hundred of those metres before turning right to take them down a private driveway.

  Bypassing its marble-columned frontage, the convoy was brought to a halt at the back of a majestic looking villa where Maria saw the detached modern addition for the garaging of several cars. She got out of her car, gazed around at her surroundings, immediately registering the irony attached to where she now found herself. Claudio Canizzaro’s suburban villa stood in a strip of woodland off the Via Della Lungara, a 16th century street which Maria knew had accommodated the homes of the rich and powerful since the time of the Renaissance. The irony not lost to Maria, was that this villa was only a forty-minute drive from the Via Angelo Emo location where she had spent the formative part of her past years. ‘Distancing myself from the past,’ she wryly thought, ‘is perhaps going to prove more difficult than I had imagined. My new habitat, which presumably this is intended to be, still lies within easy reach of the Bartalucci grasp.’

  Despite its proximity to the street, the villa appeared to be completely secluded. Glancing upwards, Maria reckoned that the positioning of its rear balconies probably afforded eye-catching views of the nearby River Tiber and some of its bridges. Without warning, flashing across her mind was a bloodied image of the man now known to her as Conti. She could see him falling with her knife in his throat, and she shook her head in an attempt to clear the image, and took a deep breath with the knowledge that she would never forget her first killing blow.

  The crunch of feet on gravel cut into Maria’s thoughts and she looked up to see Canizzaro striding towards her. He was accompanied by a middle-aged looking woman who had, realized Maria with a spurt of alarm, obviously emerged from the villa’s rear patio doors whilst she had been distracted. ‘I’ve got to do better than this,’ she told herself, ‘I’ve got to stay alert.’

  Maria thought that the woman’s body language conveyed not only the recognized stamp of a servant, but that of a person who knew her value to the man by her side.

  “Graziella will show you to your quarters, my child,” said the man, stopping now to smile as, without hesitation, the grey-haired woman linked arms with Maria.

  “Because he,” said the woman, sternly, “would get lost if I let him take you.”

  “Graziella,” said the still smiling Canizzaro, “has a poor opinion of my navigational skills.”

  “You couldn’t find your socks,” retorted the woman, “if I didn’t lay them out for you. Do you have a suitcase?” she abruptly asked whilst fixing Maria with eyes that twinkled.

  “In the boot,” replied Maria, already warming to the woman.

  “The navigator can carry it as he follows us. Come with me child,” she said, leading Maria away as she continued speaking, “You will want to freshen up before dinner, and by the look of you an early night would also do you good. Do you have brothers or sisters at home?”

  Maria was led off as the barrage of opinion and questions kept coming without pause for response, and she glanced over her shoulder
to see Canizzaro, his smile still intact, dutifully following with her suitcase. The trio made their way through the patio doors into what Maria took to be a combination lounge-cum-library room. Her hearing still under attack from Graziella’s chatter, she was led up a marble staircase and deposited in an upstairs bedroom which looked positively regal, she thought.

  Canizzaro grounded her suitcase, and left saying he would join her for dinner. Graziella briskly whisked her around the room to point out its storage areas, showed her how to operate the shower in the en-suite bathroom, asked her what kinds of food she liked, and departed muttering under her breath loud enough to still be heard.

  Maria unpacked her case and set aside a change of clothing. She chose a flared black skirt and fresh white blouse, an ordinary brassiere, and the flat-soled sandals she had worn at the start of this day she knew she would never forget. She spread the rest of the suitcase contents between the wardrobe and bedside drawers, stripped off the clothes she wore, hid her special brassiere under the mattress of an inviting looking double bed, fixed a shower cap over her hair, picked up her toiletries bag, and stepped into the en-suite bathroom.

  Moments later she was enjoying the feel of hot water showering on tired body muscles, and thinking of the meal to follow. No mention had been made as to when they would eat, and, thinking about Graziella’s questions, the woman obviously had not been told much about her. Maria smiled to herself as she wondered how Canizzaro would explain to Graziella, and anyone else for that matter, the sudden appearance and background of a young woman seemingly destined to live under his roof.

  Refreshed and dried, Maria re-entered the bedroom to semi-darkness and the sight of the moon through the glass of double-doors Graziella had told her accessed a balcony. She switched on lights to dress herself once more, then impulsively changed her mind. She switched off the lights, opened the balcony doors, and stepped out naked into the night air. She realized she was standing on one of the rear balconies she’d seen earlier, and there before her was the river flowing under three of its bridges. On the other side of the water she could see the twinkling lights of the Regola district. The night air caressed her body, making her shiver and stiffening her nipples, and she suddenly thought of the handsome Sergio Sabbatini and remembered the feel of his lips against her skin. ‘Can a man sense,’ she suddenly wondered, ‘when he is kissing the hand of a virgin?’ She returned to the bedroom feeling on her face the heat from her thoughts, wondering if, and when, she would see Sabbatini again. She finished dressing with the definitive thought that whenever the time came for her to lose her virginity, it was unlikely to be at the hands of a carabiniere officer. No matter how handsome he was.

  Maria retraced her steps on the marble staircase, and reached the ground level hallway to find Canizzaro standing before one of the several oil paintings she had only glimpsed whilst being escorted past them earlier. Her host stood in profile to her and had changed his clothes, she noted. Appearing smaller in stature, and exposing more of the age-lines around his throat, he now wore an open-necked white linen shirt which had been allowed to drape outside his casual brown slacks. As with herself, his feet were encased in sandals. Without the formal armour of a business suit, the profile he presented was one she had seen many times before. He looked like just another old Italian man who was content to be comfortable in his own home, and didn’t care about the image created to achieve that comfort. Then he turned towards her and she saw the shock in his eyes.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, disconcerted by his stare.

  “Forgive me, Maria,” he replied quietly. “For a moment there,” he paused, “you reminded me of your mother.” He paused again, “She too was very beautiful at your age.”

  Completely taken by surprise, Maria was still trying to formulate a proper response when Canizzaro stepped forward to take her arm in his as he spoke again.

  “You must be hungry. We will eat now, and talk of these things later on a full stomach.”

  Maria was led past more oil paintings and she recognized some of the canvassed works of art from illustrations she had seen in magazines.

  “These are impressive reproductions,” she said, still thinking of his reference to her mother.

  “No, they are not,” he calmly replied, “Everything you see on these walls is an original.”

  Maria was astonished, if what he had said was true then she had just seen the priceless works of masters such as Rubens and Van Dyck and Caravaggio.

  “Do you have security here?” she asked, having seen absolutely nothing to suggest it existed.

  “Graziella says,” he replied with a smile, “she is afraid to turn in her bed in case she activates one of the countless alarms we have here.”

  Maria automatically stopped at what she saw was the open doorway to a fully appointed dining room, but Canizzaro squeezed her arm and indicated she could keep moving.

  “We’re almost there, my child. I only use the formal dining room if I must, but tonight I thought you wouldn’t mind joining me at my favourite restaurant. Ah, here we are,” he announced, bringing them to a halt outside a closed door which he opened with the words, “Which just happens to be Graziella’s kitchen.”

  Maria smiled, she was beginning to really like this man who was obviously making an effort to counteract the experience of their first encounter at the Via Del Moro. He stood aside as she crossed the threshold and she caught the scent of his aftershave, and saw for an instant that disconcerting look in his eyes and remembered she was wearing a perfume her mother had favoured. She feigned not having seen the look, and glanced around Canizzaro’s so-called favourite restaurant. The kitchen was large, clearly equipped with a mix of the old and the new, comfortably warm and filled with tantalising aromas, and Graziella was nowhere to be seen. But evidence of her offerings was there on the prepared table and looked irresistible. Canizzaro had moved to pull out a chair for her, airily waving his hand over the table as if he himself had produced its display.

  “Minestrone alla Milanese, a hot tomato dip, a rice salad, olives, Ciabata bread, parmesan cheese, and of course red wine.”

  Two place settings awaited occupation and prompted Maria’s statement.

  “So no one else is joining us.”

  “I thought it best for our first evening,” he replied, “We can speak more freely,” he enigmatically added before resuming with a smile, “but first we should do justice to Graziella’s cooking.”

  Justice was duly served. Apart from the frequent and mutually voiced expressions of appreciation, nothing much was said as they hungrily worked their way through the meal. Maria was offered her second glass of wine with Canizzaro’s mildly spoken suggestion.

  “Shall we take our drinks to the lounge, my child?”

  Leaving the kitchen without further preamble, feeling briefly guilty about the unwashed plates and unfinished bowls of food, wondering if Graziella had any help with such domestic chores, Maria was led by her obviously determined host into the room she had earlier identified as a combination lounge / library. She was shown to a chair which she reluctantly occupied because she felt energised by the food she had just consumed. She would have preferred to pace up and down, she told herself, but was too polite to say so to the man. Besides which she was also preoccupied by the fact that her mind was now reprising its disturbing critique of her recent performance back at the Via Del Moro. ‘I lost vital seconds looking at my knife in Conti’s throat. Had there been another gun trained on me I would have missed it, but its bullet would have found me still standing there admiring my handiwork. Standing still, Orsinni, when you should have been moving....’

  “I would like you to see this, Maria,” said the voice breaking her reverie.

  Three things immediately had Maria’s attention; Canizzaro’s tone of voice; the serious expression on his face; and the envelope he held out for her to take. He sat down op
posite her as she removed the single item contained by the unsealed envelope.

  Maria was looking at an obviously old black and white photograph, now yellowed and cracked with age. A family portrait, she imagined, depicting two boys each flanked by an adult. All four figures were standing, and neither of them was smiling. One of the boys was taller than the other and marginally older, she thought. Something about the smaller boy was strangely familiar to her, and something in the face of the adult male was also pulling her attention as Canizzaro’s voice sounded again.

  “What you have there,” he said quietly, “is the only physical image I have left of my parents.”

  Maria looked down again at the photograph, her eyes searching for a resemblance to the man seated opposite her as Canizzaro resumed speaking.

  “The smaller boy beside me, Maria, is my brother. But you cannot tell from his face that he grew to become the man who is your own father.”

  Rendered speechless, Maria’s thoughts raced as she looked yet again at the smaller boy and adult male in the faded photograph. She began to see now in the man, the facial features which resembled those of the adult Giovanni Orsinni.

  “You are looking at the grandparents you never knew, Maria, they died before you were born.”

  Maria could feel her heart pounding and her head was filled with thoughts she couldn’t articulate. Canizzaro’s words were striking her like blows; winding her. Grandparents had rarely been discussed in the Orsinni household. She had been told that her mother’s family had succumbed to a disease, and her mother had kept some photographs not unlike the one she held now. But, and never corrected by her mother, Giovanni Orsinni had said his parents had perished in a fire which had also destroyed their possessions. Which, she had also been told, was why no photographs of them had ever existed in the Orsinni home.

  Maria recalled now the night-time discussions with a father who had occasionally spoken about his parents, but had certainly never mentioned a brother. Her eyes flicked down to the taller boy in the photograph. A boy who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the man now seated opposite her. ‘But a man my mother had possibly once loved, and who had possibly loved her in return and had no reason to invent such a history.’ She switched her focus, her eyes moving between the woman in the photograph and the taller boy, and thought she could see now in the faces something akin to likeness.