Errant Angels

by Stuart Fifield

  ‘My dear child,’ said the elderly head of the convent. She spoke softly in English, which was as fluent as the Contessa’s Italian, ‘how very good to see you again.’ She extended a gnarled hand in the Contessa’s direction and smiled broadly, the lines on her wrinkled face forming a spaghetti-like mass around the partly open mouth.

  ‘Mother Superior,’ replied the Contessa, taking the hand and shaking it gently, ‘I hope that you are well?’

  ‘As well as God sees fit to make me,’ was the reply. There was a look of unquestioning faith on her face.

  ‘Insha’Allah’ in another religion, remembered the Contessa, who had made a few Egyptian and Jordanian friends over the years through the International Cultural Exchange Programme. How convenient it is to be able to blame everything, even the inevitability of old age, on the whim of an intangible, unaccountable entity.

  Carlo growled softly and sat on his haunches, fangs bared.

  ‘Some water for our guest,’ said the Mother Superior to the nun, who still stood filling the open door, waiting for either further instructions or dismissal. She bowed respectfully and closed the door softly behind her. ‘We make all God’s creatures welcome within our walls,’ continued the Reverend Mother, smiling down at Carlo, ‘even those with four legs and sharp-looking teeth. Please … do take a seat,’ she continued, indicating the empty chair across the desk from her own. ‘How can I help you today?’ she asked as she rustled gently back to her own chair and sat down.

  It was the same ritual they had followed over the years; years which, the Contessa had noted with silent alarm on each successive visit, had not been all that kind to the Mother Superior. Although there could not have been more than a few years between their ages, the Mother Superior now looked old enough to be the Contessa’s biological mother.

  Is that part of the reward for a lifetime of service and devotion to God? Perhaps it is, wondered the Contessa as she settled herself onto the hard, un-giving seat of the chair. ‘You have been kind to give me of your time, Reverend Mother, and that is all I ask,’ she said.

  The reality was that it was the Contessa who was, once again, about to do something for the Mother Superior.

  The conversation was interrupted by a soft knocking on the door, which swung silently open. The young nun placed a bowl on the floor near, but not too close to, Carlo. Careful to keep eye contact with the little beast, the nun retreated from the bowl and left, closing the door behind her once again.

  ‘You were saying, my child?’ prompted the Mother Superior, despite the fact that, from past experience, she knew full well the course her annual meeting with the Contessa would take.

  ‘Reverend Mother,’ began the Contessa, ‘it is once again time for me to enquire as to how you are progressing with all of your good works.’

  ‘It is kind of you to remember us. We carry on as we have always done,’ answered the Mother Superior, a hint of longing for what her life had once been clouding her grey eyes, ‘even if our precious charges are no longer under our roof.’

  Any orphans in the care of the convent had long ago been transferred to a much larger convent in Pisa. When he had broken the news to the Mother Superior, the bishop had delivered the bombshell as if he was ordering a pizza: ‘A rationalization of operational capability,’ he had said. In her turn, she had thought of it more as a dismantling of the spirit of the comune – the community – rather than any advancement in pastoral care. Many years of obedience had taught her not to question instructions. However, despite this blind compliance, underneath her wimple she had a mind that jealously guarded her right to think for herself – as long as her thoughts did not show. As a result of what, to her quite worldly wise rationale she saw as a money-saving exercise, the orphans and their teachers had all been duly removed to Pisa. The continued generosity shown by this grateful woman towards the place from where she had collected her son, now seemed to be but a painful reminder of busier, happier times for the Mother Superior. A gentle smile hid her sadness. The Contessa’s generosity would be duly passed on to the office of the Archdiocese and it would eventually filter down through the system, until it benefited those of their charges in Pisa who needed it the most. That was what always mattered. The Reverend Mother’s smile deepened and she folded her hands together on the desk blotter in front of her.

  Despite the absence of orphans at this convent, the nuns did some work for the comune and the Mother Superior was pleased to tell her visitor of their success in harvesting honey from their bees and of the convent’s tentative steps into herb growing; all ways that raised money for the poor and the orphaned. She was eager to find out about Luigi’s career and was delighted to hear of the Contessa’s pride in what he was achieving at the hospital. The two old friends chatted on, each respectful of the other’s status, but nevertheless enjoying their exchange of news.

  As they continued talking in this timeless setting, it was inevitable that they each would revisit the memories of their first meeting, over half a century ago. It was in this very office, almost to the day, that Il Conte and La Contessa di Capezzani-Batelli had collected a little crying bundle; the little bundle that had contained their Luigi. He had been another of the countless orphaned victims of the Anni di piombe, the ‘Years of Lead’: the merciless civil war that had engulfed Italy as the Nazis retreated and the Allies drove them ever northwards up the peninsula towards the Alps.

  ‘Give him a good home, my children,’ the Mother Superior had said, standing behind the self-same desk on which her hands now rested, ‘but not as a replacement for Enrico; that would be unkindly wrong. Bring him up as a child in his own right and in the Light of God.’

  And so, over the following years, it had proven to be.

  ‘Luigi would very much like to be more involved in the hospice project we started some months ago, but his work at the hospital doesn’t leave him much spare time.’ The Contessa had made an expansive gesture with her hands as she spoke, which brought the Mother Superior’s concentration back to the present. ‘It is a pity, as he has such a good manner with the sick.’

  For a second the Mother Superior stared at the Contessa blankly, as if she did not understand.

  ‘What is “hospice”?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh … we have them in England, so I thought it about time we had one here in Lucca. People are sent there from the hospital … mostly.’

  ‘Is that for treatment?’ asked the Reverend Mother, who was still none the wiser.

  ‘Well, not really … but I suppose yes, in a way… We offer them dignity and peace … and compassion,’ continued the Contessa, who saw from the expression on the other woman’s face that she had still not understood what the project was about. ‘It’s really a … how can I put it … e un ospedale specializzato nell’assistenza ai malati terminali,’ she said, lapsing into Italian.

  ‘A place for the terminally ill to die?’ replied the Reverend Mother.

  ‘Exactly so,’ said the Contessa. ‘We make no charge for what we can do to help. I play the piano there several times a week. It is of no medical help, but it seems to please the patients and Doctor Bardini is convinced that it is a form of mental therapy and that it does cheer the poor souls up.’

  The hospice – the first in Lucca and quite possibly the only one in the whole of Tuscany, if not all of Italy – had been started in one of the family’s disused buildings, in the far northeastern corner of the city. The building had been thoroughly cleaned, the small garden tidied up and one or two suitable building alterations – mysteriously approved at near breakneck speed by the comune’s planning office – carried out.

  ‘That is, no doubt, a great blessing to those who need it most,’ replied the Mother Superior, finding it hard to hide in her voice the genuine admiration she felt for this English woman. For one who possessed so much and, in consequence, had the privileged opportunity to do so little, the Contessa di Capezzani-Batelli was a powerhouse of good deeds, all fuelled by the fire of genuine, often anonymou
s altruism.

  ‘Perhaps, there is something the convent could do for the hospice?’

  Although the Contessa didn’t see religion, of any faith, being an important part of the palliative care programme the hospice would offer, the presence of Catholic nuns in a country such as Italy may have a relevance to some of the patients. She knew that any additional offered help would have to be accepted by Doctor Bardini at the hospice and certainly, any suggestion of work by the convent in the comune would have to be verified by the bishop in Pisa. Nevertheless, it was a good idea; if nothing else it would get some of the sisters out of the rarefied atmosphere of the convent and would expose them to the outside world.

  ‘Maybe it would be sufficient to just visit and perhaps read to the patients if required,’ she suggested.

  Now that the seed of interest in her new project had been sown, the Contessa decided to move on as time was flying by and she still had much to do before the day was finished. ‘May I now enquire as to Christina’s progress?’ asked the Contessa, abruptly changing the subject. ‘She should be in her final year.’

  ‘Indeed, Christina will qualify as an architect at the end of this academic year. That is all thanks to your generosity … not that she will ever know that,’ added the Reverend Mother, ‘exactly as per the conditions you requested. Those lucky ones whom God places in our care and who progress well through their education will never know it was not Holy Mother Church who paid for their university education,’ she continued, nodding her head slightly towards the Contessa.

  For years, the Contessa’s grant had allowed for two adopted orphans – a boy and a girl – to benefit from the privilege of a university education and a springboard to a professional career. It was a rather complex selection process, in which the Contessa had no wish to become involved, but it seemed to work.

  ‘And Guido?’ asked the Contessa.

  ‘He, too, will graduate at the end of this academic year. And I am reliably informed that he has shown such promise that he has been offered a junior position with a highly respected law practice in Siena and that again is all thanks to you, Contessa.’

  The Contessa smiled dismissively and waved the leashed hand in the air. There was the sound of water slopping on the stone floor as the bowl scraped across it when Carlo was tugged unexpectedly forwards and collided with it.

  ‘I rather think that Guido’s good fortune is more a result of his own hard work,’ she said.

  The Reverend Mother smiled as a series of short grunts rose above the level of the far side of her desk.

  ‘I have enjoyed our conversation and have detained you for quite long enough. Now I must get on. We have a concert on Friday and there is still much to prepare. Come along, Carlo,’ she said as she got up from her uncomfortable chair. ‘Oh, you are a messy little boy! Look what you’ve done!’ she looked down at the landscape of puddles. ‘He’s flicked water all over the floor. I am so sorry.’

  The Mother Superior rose from her own chair and peered down over the end of the desk. Carlo smiled smugly back at her.

  ‘Do not concern yourself, my child,’ replied the elderly nun. ‘That is a problem which is easily remedied.’

  Over the years there had been far worse mementos to clean up resulting from the various Carlos who had visited. Water would present no problem at all.

  ‘How kind,’ muttered the Contessa as she took up the slack on the leash and turned to go. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she said, turning back and balancing the ‘Pisa Museums’ bag on the end of the desk. She rummaged around in it and took out two large white envelopes, each of which bore the lily logo of the Banca Toscana in the top left corner. ‘I’ll just leave these here,’ she continued, putting the envelopes on the desk. ‘I am very pleased to be able to say that we have had a good year.’

  The Mother Superior’s face seemed to suddenly fill with the light of admiration as she looked straight into the Contessa’s eyes. She did not look down at the envelopes – she had no need to. Rather, she kept her gaze on the Contessa’s face. The Contessa di Capezzani-Batelli’s contributions to the good works of others, which were usually far from modest in their financial generosity, were well known and had she not said that it had been a good year…?

  ‘God will bless you for your compassion, my child, as will we all. Go in peace,’ said the Reverend Mother as the door opened and the young nun appeared once more.

  A few minutes later, the Contessa and the complaining Carlo were once again out in the morning sunshine, strolling away from the convent down the Via Galli Tassi. Suddenly, something made her stop and turn. The convent and former orphanage of Saint Jerome Emiliani stood on a corner, where it had done so for several hundred years. Next to it, set back a little, almost hidden behind protective barriers and festooned with surveillance cameras and Keep Out signs, stood the regional headquarters of the Polizia di Financia, the branch of Italian law and order charged with stamping out anything even remotely illegal in the world of finance.

  How very odd, thought the Contessa as she and the dog resumed their progress down the ancient road. One building only too keen to invite you in and the other one – the next door neighbour as it were – only too keen to keep you out and yet to know all about you. It is a sad mirror of modern society. ‘Come on, you naughty boy,’ she concluded. ‘It is time to be on our way.’

  Carlo growled at a passing cyclist.

  21

  As usual, Via Fillungo was crowded with an army of tourists. Some walked purposefully, first studying their guidebooks and then following the instructions that they had just read, pausing to study both the ancient architecture and the more recent Art Nouveau shop fronts that lined the street. Others ambled along aimlessly, uninterested in the riches of the abundant heritage that seeped out of almost every surrounding stone. They were concerned only with how much farther their guides would drag them before they had the opportunity to eat or drink something.

  At Number 102 Via Fillungo, the Casa dei Gioielli glittered like a beacon of good taste, displaying its treasure trove of exquisite antiques in the most alluring way possible – not that the average tourist paid the contents of the shop window much attention. The lure of the echoes of blood sports in the nearby Roman amphitheatre – long since restored to expensive and much sought-after apartments – proved far stronger than any attraction the finest craftsmanship of previous centuries had to offer. Inside his shop, Gregorio Marinetti was late finishing off his mid-morning snack of a mozzarella and tomato panino. He stood in front of the counter at the rear of the shop, his back to the window. For a change, he was feeling contented. It had turned out to be a reasonable morning, following the unexpected appearance of a long-standing client from Pistoia, who had made a rather expensive purchase.

  ‘Is it not funny how the smallest and most delicate items often carry the largest price tag?’ the customer had quipped.

  Marinetti had smiled knowingly and shrugged in that peculiar Italian manner. If it had been an attempt to obtain a small discount, it had been unsuccessful. Marinetti needed every euro he could get his hands on.

  He screwed up the greaseproof paper that had encased his panino and tossed it over the counter and into the bin that stood in the corner, discreetly hidden from view. It narrowly missed Nicola Dolci, his assistant of many years, who was standing on the other side of the counter facing him. In front of her, she was wrapping the item for Pistoia in bubble wrap and cardboard, ready for the client’s collection later that same day. Being a Wednesday, it was also Marinetti’s afternoon off. This was a time he found to be full of conflicting, contradictory emotions; half of him deeply resented leaving all of his beautiful objects in the care of someone else – even if it was the faithful and totally reliable Nicola; the other half couldn’t wait to get back to his modest villa up in the cool of the foothills behind Lucca. After a restorative swim in his pool, he would run through his exercise routine, before donning his pure silk dressing gown and giving himself over to the other great obsessio
n of his life – his singing. The rest of the afternoon and early evening would be spent at the piano, practising his arias and ensembles for Friday’s concert.

  ‘Before I go, I must tell you about that chair over there,’ he said, flicking a few crumbs off the lapel of his tailored jacket. ‘That is the one the Contessa wishes to use for our concert on Friday.’

  He was always immaculately groomed and presented. Some secretly accused him of dangerous vanity, but had he been party to any of those comments, he would most certainly have ignored them, treating them with disdain. He waved a finger in the chair’s general direction. It was an ornately gilded, seventeenth-century throne-like chair from the Bologna region and it was quite valuable, at least in terms of the potential profit to be made from an excessive mark-up. It had been moved from position to position in the shop over the past month and it had still not sold. In fact, over the last three months, very little had sold, which had largely given rise to Marinetti’s current financial predicament. He took consolation from the fact that it was a difficult situation, which was shared by a great many in these hard times, including his arch opposition, Alonzo Adriani. The rumour was that this rival antiques dealer was about to go under. Marinetti considered himself more fortunate than the rest, especially the over-opinionated Adriani, because his situation was about to be remedied. The solution now resided safely hidden away in his lock-up, up in the hills close to his villa and well out of the way of prying eyes.

  ‘You have told Francesco?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows at Nicola. ‘He does know to collect the chair from the lockup on Friday? If he collects it at about four o’clock and then delivers it to the istituto, it will be in good time for the concert; none of his last-minute appearances please.’