Galileo's Room (Noir Florentine Book 1)

by Strozzi, Amadeus

  In the past, he had been famous for his appetite, and one way to Heaven was through Don Paddy’s stomach. If non-Catholic parents wanted a Catholic baptism for their child, all they had to do was lay on a nice feast and invite him. What he lacked in dogmatic rigour and grooming, he made up for in a gastronomic enthusiasm that was almost Pagan. Now it seemed as though all of that enthusiasm had withered.

  Sam went out to him and extended his hand.

  “Don Paddy.”

  Don Paddy’s long damp fingers enveloped his. “Sammy bye.” Newfoundlander for ‘boy’. “A great loss. A great raving, caterwauling tragedy. If I weren’t afraid of being smitten by my Boss up there, I might say, unfair, Sammy bye, just downright unfair. But he'll be in good hands now. Although I wasn’t able to give him final unction, I’m quite sure his soul is at peace now with Our Maker.”

  “Your maker, Don Paddy, not mine.”

  “You’re sure of that now?”

  “No, but neither are you.”

  Don Paddy took out a packet of MS, tried to pull out a cigarette but fumbled it, letting it fall to the ground. Rather than bending down to get it, he took out another, lit it, took a deep drag, then coughed for a full ten seconds.

  Sam waited.

  “Your father wanted to return to the Church. Did you know that?”

  Sam glared darkly at Don Paddy. Walter had made it clear that his soul would never reside in any otherworldly paradise.

  The Don forged ahead. ''Oh, yes. We had some very interesting talks over dinner. Excellent full-bodied red your estate produced last year, I should add.”

  “Talks about what?”

  “Many, many things, people and saints. Saint Augustine, Saint Frances of Assisi, Galileo, Giangastone dei Medici.”

  “Giangastone? Certainly not among the saints.”

  ''It might interest you to know that your father was writing a history of your family, beginning with Galileo’s visit and then going on to one of your ancestors who was a… let’s say…a playmate…of Giangastone’s.”

  “My father? You must be joking. He was an antiques dealer, not an historian.” Not that Walter had been anything but cultivated. It was just that even a barely attractive woman passing by was a good excuse for Walter to close a book or abandon a newspaper.

  “Your father was investigating your family history, trying to clear up a few misunderstandings.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yes, he told me he was going to chronicle it all. All the people who have inhabited this villa. He estimated it would take him at least the next ten years. We must talk. Over dinner. You come down to my place, bring that wine of your Da’s and I’ll tell you all about it. Anyway, we’ll see you at the funeral Mass tomorrow then.”

  “Fine,” lied Sam.

  He watched the priest climb back in the car, and after some gear-grinding, pull out and drive away.

  Sam went back inside and through the unlit corridors to the kitchen, passing frescoes where mildew had given beards to the nymphs and unsightly birthmarks to the shepherds. Before the reconciliation and the half plan to move back into the villa, to give Walter a hand, Sam had always met his father in town for lunch. They’d been seeing each other about once a month at Ristorante Sabatini when Sam wasn't abroad. Sam hadn’t been to the villa in ages, had no idea a year could run a place down so badly.

  In between lunches, his father would phone with snatches of news, bugling the achievements of his friends’ children - the Erasmus scholar who was now a full professor in Bologna, the bright light who had just been made CEO for Q8 Oil, the Baron’s daughter who was a surgeon (a woman!) with the heart unit in Milan. Walter never came out and said it, but the inference was that Sam couldn’t keep up with his peers, not even with a woman.

  What had changed it all was the spot for Acqua Cristallina. Sam was still amazed that his father had fallen so hard for the smoke and mirrors of a TV commercial. But he supposed Walter's growing fear of heights was what had made Sam’s little stunt seem impressive. Pin a man to a sheer rock face in the Dolomites at two thousand metres, get him on camera and broadcast him all over Europe, and suddenly he could do no wrong. What a screwed-up world it was.

  Sam went back inside and through the hallways to the white-tiled coolness of the vast kitchen. The shutters had been closed against the heat of the afternoon, but light beamed out from the open refrigerator. In front of the glow, a squat man with a full beard, an enormous round belly, and not a stitch of clothing, was silhouetted.

  The green glass from the bottle of white wine he was clutching threw reflections on the flesh-coloured ceiling. He sang “Nessun dorma” with a lasagna-thickened voice, until he turned and saw Sam watching him.

  “Buona sera,” he said.

  Sam nodded.

  “The prodigal son returns. I assume you are the son. We have seen you on the dreadful television set.” The man’s accent was French.

  Sam replied, “I am the son. And you?”

  “For the moment, Bacchus.”

  “So Bacchus. We have the song and the wine. What about the women?”

  “The women,” said Bacchus, taking a moment to clear his throat, “are all somewhere else at the moment, missing me…”

  “Aha.”

  “My condolences on the family loss. Your father was a very great… personage.”

  Sam nodded and sighed.

  The man said, “Look, I must show you something. Come with me. Viens.”

  Any other day but today. Sam had no desire to deal with this Bacchus or any other minor gods hovering around his father’s estate. At some point he was going to have to make the rounds of all the outbuildings and spare rooms and find out who the agri-tourists were, how long they were staying and how much they still owed. And then he might or might not kick them all out, depending on his mood.

  Sam followed Bacchus' jouncing rump across the villa's gardens, through a field and into the converted barn. When they entered, Sam was assaulted by the mess, the cliché artist’s pigsty. Scattered around the room were antique pieces from the villa: his father’s Richard Ginori table ware for elaborate dinners, a chess table in wood inlay, a leather valet tray at the entrance, and other larger pieces of furniture, now covered by dirty cloths tossed in heaps, crumpled papers, half-empty dishes bearing the prehistoric remains of unrecognizable foodstuffs soldered by mould onto porcelain and glass. Walter's best bath towels and good kitchen linens had been Shanghaied for paint rags, used and abandoned, now rigid with oils, all over the room.

  The mess was not without a purpose though. The contradiction was in one orderly corner where the artist's works were set out neatly, landscapes, still-lifes and portraits, headed up by a masterful Walter in oils.

  How little time had passed between the painting of that portrait and now. There was far, far too much life in those eyes. Bacchus pointed to his handiwork. “Your father commissioned this from me.” He went over and held it up so that Sam could see it better. The artist had done such a good job that Sam had the sensation that Walter was inspecting him from the Great Beyond, still demanding that he live up to the Montefalcone name. The playful expression was there, the savoured ribald secret, the anecdote on the verge of being told.

  “It is very bad behaviour,” said Bacchus.

  “What is?”

  “To die before paying the artist.”

  “It's a good portrait. You’ve captured some essence of him. I'll take it off your hands. “

  “Tres bien. We can discuss the price tomorrow.”

  “No. Consider it a damage deposit.” Sam indicated the room with a sweep of his hand, a little theatrically maybe, but he could see that Bacchus understood. He wondered if the man had cleaned a room or washed a dish in all the time he'd been there.

  Bacchus scowled, then said, “Walter was in a hurry to have it painted. He thought this was an important thing. Perhaps he felt a presage about his life? An omen?”

  Walter succumbing to his own vanity, more likely.


  Sam picked up the canvas and left Bacchus scowling.

  When he reached the villa, he went in through the French doors to the gaming room and along the corridor in the direction of the tower. He wanted to try the tower door and see if it opened, but he already knew it wouldn’t. Walter had locked it years ago and put away the key.

  Before Sam reached the end of the corridor, a wave of nausea swept over him. The world tilted before his eyes and he had to lean against the wall to stop everything from spinning. He felt himself suffocating, a black vortex pressing down from above and swallowing him. The world was coming to an end and he could do nothing to stop it. The painting dropped from his hand and fell on its face. Sam’s legs were trembling. He slid to the floor, closed his eyes and waited.

  He had no idea how much time had gone by when he finally became aware that he was still on the floor. As he got to his feet and brushed himself off, he decided that checking out the tower wasn’t such a good idea.

  Instead, he picked up the painting and went along to the main stairs and up to the library. He set the canvas down on the floor in the corner with Walter's eerie gaze facing the wall then pushed back the walnut panel of the bar. Sam’s body was still quaking as he chose a nice quarter of a bottle of Glen Grant to cuddle up with. He took a couple of quick swigs, and felt the shakiness smooth out into a solid whiskey calm.

  The idea of phoning Cavaliere Santucci about Sofia, the Cavaliere's missing daughter, had been eating away at him for the last week, but he wasn't sure what he was going to say yet. The investigation had taken him all the way to Vancouver, where he’d met up with his mother. Nora travelled a lot these days, so it was pure luck they happened to be in the same city at the same time.

  When Nora heard what Sam was doing for Santucci, she told him that she didn’t approve of his new job and that he should drop the case. She’d never used such a grim tone with him, and because she had never given him orders, always let him make his own choices, he asked her what she meant. “Nothing. Pretend I never said anything. Let it lie. Do as you please,” she’d answered.

  He turned on the TV, hoping not to see himself, but a little pleased when finally, after ten minutes of channel roulette, he did. He watched himself, marvelling at that other Sam Montefalcone, a completely different man from the one he was now. When the ad was over, he clicked around until he hit a movie, Chinese, about a beautiful young woman who went to live as a concubine to an older man, but went crazy when the other wives and concubines made her life hell.

  He wanted Katia. He wanted to phone her up, beg her to come over, stay all night, stay forever, help him get this elephant off his chest. But he knew no more about her than he'd known a year ago. He had an email address for her. Katiax0x0@gmail.com.

  It was a one-sided business, him pouring out his heart to the computer screen, recounting episodes he thought might amuse her, telling her where he’d been, what he’d done and what he’d had for lunch, dinner, breakfast and lunch over and over again, for an entire year. She’d opened that email account to have a line to him, he knew that, but her replies were never any longer than a paragraph or so and always completely unsatisfactory. She never talked about her life.

  Their arrangement was that she told him when and where, and the rest of the time, he was not to look for her. After their first meeting, he’d thought about tracking down the owners of the stone cottage but then the job had come up and he’d been busy since then.

  He’d enjoyed their game at the beginning, the anonymity, the fact that in his imagination, she was whoever he wanted her to be. So he’d let Katia go on making the rules. But now that Walter was gone, he needed her close. Soon, when he had a bit of free time, he was going to put his back into it, track her down and lay siege to her. He took another swig from the bottle and sank deep into the brown leather couch.

  Around midnight, Sam heard the tallcase clock chiming the hour. He forgot where he was. He felt disoriented but strangely happy. A calm glowing feeling was rolling over him in waves.

  His father’s voice came from behind. “Figliolo, I’m sorry.”

  Sam whipped around to face his father. “About what?”

  “About everything. The school, the military college. That summer.”

  Tears were now streaming down Sam’s face. “It was okay, Babbo, the school was okay. Apart from the dreams that I’m spit-shining my entire body. Their sadistic little rituals helped me grow up.”

  “It was supposed to form character.”

  “It did. Just a shame I was on the other side of the world.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. A new place. Both your mother and I thought you should have a taste of Anglo-Saxon life, not too Anglo-Saxon though, so Canada it was.”

  “What were you doing up on the belvedere, Babbo?”

  “Not goat dancing, I can assure you.” His father looked at his watch. “Ah, dreadfully sorry, dear boy, I have an appointment in the centre. I have to meet my son at Sabatini.” Walter was becoming transparent.

  “But I’m your son. Don’t go, Babbo,” Sam tried to yell. He needed to stop him, bring him back. He tried to stand up but was glued to the couch. His voice was a strangled croaking.

  Then he felt it.

  He woke up fast and sat upright. The empty whiskey bottle rolled soundlessly across the Persian carpet then clinked along the terra cotta floor. He could have sworn, and it was no dream, that somebody had just blown hard into his face. A reeking cheesy garlicky breath.

  The library was empty. But the odour was still there, lingering. It was no dream. He got up and ran down the dark corridor with one hand banging along the wall to guide him, into the dining room, and up to the casket. He was breathing hard. His father was still in there, still dead.

  Sam made his way back to the library and fell into a whiskey-flavoured dreamless sleep. When he woke up for the second time, he was staring up at the sea-green eyes in Katia’s pale face.

  She was holding a big white plastic bag with the famous depiction of Pinocchio. It was from Dreoni, the classiest toy store in Florence.

  A dim peach-coloured light seeped through the ilex trees beyond the window. Sam figured it couldn’t be much later than six a.m.. He went on staring, taking in all of her, those slightly sunburnt long white limbs, her mass of carrot coloured hair, the parts of her he could only imagine, it had been so long since he’d seen them.

  She said, “It’s a little pensierino. I remembered you mentioning, our last weekend. About this villa. It's a miracle they had your size. They said something about a lot of adult-sized children. I’m so sorry about your father, about Walter. I saw it in the paper, and imagined you’d be here. I thought this might help.” Her pronunciation of the word 'thought' betrayed her almost perfect British English. She wasn't Italian either. He was sure of that much.

  She placed the bag in his lap, sat down and helped him unwrap the box inside it. Sam was so exhausted, so hung over, so ecstatic about seeing her there that he couldn’t speak. When he saw what was in the box, he threw back his head and laughed.

  “I love you,” he said.

  She bit her lip and stood up.

  “No, I mean I. Love. You.”

  “C’mon, put them on,” she said.

  “Sit back down here beside me then.” He patted the couch.

  She hesitated. “I can’t stay. I have no time.” But she sat down anyway. He drew her close and kissed her. She wrinkled her nose and said. “You smell like a distillery.”

  “I was with my buddy Glen Grant last night.”

  “God, all my life I’ve wanted to do this.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  He put them on and stood up. They were fine roller blades, the best.

  He did a shaky pirouette and glided out into the hallway, Katia following him. In the main vestibule, he nearly bowled over Donatella. “Samu, per l’amor di dio,” she protested, but Sam hissed, “Zitta.” She pursed her lips and stared at Katia. Sam was expecting her
to say ‘Not another one of your foreign whores?’ but even Donatella was impressed enough by Katia’s presence to keep quiet.

  He did a full tour of the main floor, skating backwards through the larger rooms. When he finally rolled back to a smiling Katia, he asked, “Will you come to the funeral with me?”

  “Is there going to be a priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “What do mean?”

  “Do you know what your father's religious beliefs were? Just before he died.”

  “Absolutely not. I know that for most of his life he used the Church for socializing and business. For years he was dealing in ecclesiastical antiquities, probably stolen. But he thought Christianity was rubbish.”

  “I see. So you’re giving him a funeral Mass anyway, possibly against his will?”

  “Walter and the Borgo priest were friends. Who knows what he believed? I wasn’t there at the end.”

  “Yes? And?”

  Sam stuck out his hands in resignation. “Okay. I’m letting them go ahead with a proper funeral Mass because they all expect it, the people of the Borgo, and I wouldn’t want to take that possibility away from him. Of keeping la bella figura.”

  “Or maybe you just want to have the last laugh?”

  He smiled. He was pleased that she’d recognized his perverse little streak. “Maybe. Let’s be kind and say I want to leave his options open. So stay. Stay for the funeral. Stay for lunch. Stay forever, Katia.”

  “I have to get back to my husband.”

  The word 'husband' came like a blow to the groin. Why was he so surprised? Katia was a nickname. He knew next to nothing about her.

  She looked at her watch. “I have to organize a lunch. I still need to find some fresh shellfish, some fazolari, some cannolicchi maybe.”

  Sam shook his head. “Katia, Katia…whoever he is, this husband of yours, leave him. You know you don’t love him.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

  Her forehead was furrowed and she seemed on the verge of losing her temper. Her voice turned cold. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”