Galileo's Room (Noir Florentine Book 1)

by Strozzi, Amadeus

  “Ius corrigendi…”

  “Yes, a little corrective corporal punishment for the little wife.”

  Sam was silent for a while then turned to Porteus and said, “I want you to tell me about Walter during this last year. Slowly. I haven’t been around much.”

  “Walter was up to something.”

  “Well, he told Don Paddy he had found something or somebody. Know anything about that?”

  “No. But whatever it was, it had to do with the estate. He was obsessed with it in a way that I'd never seen before. He was also erratic. Objects, acquisitions, little treasures he’d been terribly possessive about, well... some he may have sold off and others he’d given away. He made me a gift of some first editions of Adam Smith. Very generous of him but not particularly valuable, I’m afraid. And he was generous with other things, letting people use his BMW, and so on. It was odd, out of character, I’d say.”

  “And you don’t know why he was like this?”

  “My dear Samuele. Try as I might, I never managed to be more than the useful lackey, the shop assistant, in your father’s estimation. He never really let me in on his secrets.”

  Porteus was thinking that Sam really was in so much trouble that he ought to call Nora at the first possible opportunity. It would be an excuse to stay in touch. Yes. More than that. He could prove himself as an altruistic man, help someone in need. And if he could get Nora back to Florence, even better. She always managed to stay so very far away.

  Porteus did not get the chance to indulge any further bitterness over his love for Nora. A set of blue lights was flashing behind them, signalling them to pull over.

  Porteus began to ask, “Do you want…?”

  Sam cut him off. “Let me do the talking.”

  Two carabinieri strode over. One peered into the car at Sam. “Registration?”

  Sam reached across to the glove compartment. Porteus helped him find the papers.

  “Driver’s licence?

  Porteus watched Sam dig into his knapsack and pull out two documents with unfamiliar covers. One was a passport, and the other a driver’s licence.

  “Christian Lacroix,” said the officer, reading the name on the documents.

  “Oui,” said Sam. Porteus listened as Sam chatted in French, something about a football match and not being able to find Gauloise cigarettes.

  The officers, unable to comprehend and bored with him, nodded and motioned for them to be on their way.

  Villa Del Bosco stood on a sloping wooded property directly overlooking Lake Como. Its elegant, ivy-covered decay was propped up by an ultra-modern, recently-added wing. Sam parked the car, got out and stretched, then headed straight for the main door. Porteus had to hurry to catch up.

  The two men approached the desk. The receptionist smiled and asked, “How can I help you today?”

  Sam said nothing and placed the open letter on the counter.

  The receptionist turned it around and read it. Her expression changed, as if she’d been jolted out of a happy sleep. “Oh. I’m glad that someone’s finally come. We weren’t sure what to do.”

  “About?”

  “Well… Signora Bianchini’s things.”

  “Yes?”

  “They’re still here. Usually there’s someone with them. Our residents, I mean. At the end, in their final hours… Just a minute. I’ll send somebody to get them.” She called an orderly over and said, “Could you go and get Signora Bianchini’s bag?” The orderly nodded and sauntered away. She turned back to Sam. “We usually wait a couple of months.”

  “For what?” asked Sam.

  “Well, before we throw them out, or give them to charity. Depends on their condition.”

  “Did she not have visitors?”

  She seemed confused and looked at the letter again. “You’re not a family member?”

  “The arrangements for payment were with my father. He’s since passed away.”

  “I’m sorry. We had to wonder. According to the records, these were the things she came in with, years ago. Let me see.” She looked at her computer screen. “It was late June of 1980. I started working here in 1999. She’s been here as long as I can remember. The first few years I worked here she never had a single visitor. We did have to wonder.”

  “No one visited her at all?”

  “Well, yes, in the last six or seven years, one person. We weren’t sure whether he was a friend, a relative, or just an emissary.”

  “An emissary of what?”

  “Well, the church, of course.”

  “The church?”

  “Well, yes. We get a lot of priests in here.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Final unction. It’s ongoing, you understand. Our residents are…we make them comfortable. This is usually their last home.”

  “Was the priest foreign or Italian?” asked Sam.

  “Italian.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I overheard some of the conversation… I suppose conversation is the wrong word. The Signora never spoke a word the entire time I was here. We never knew if she was conscious in there or not. It was odd.”

  “What was?”

  “Well, he always had such an apologetic tone, pleading, you know. There were often tears in his eyes. Usually it’s the other way around.”

  “I see,” said Sam.

  The orderly reappeared carrying a small red leather suitcase. He set it on the counter and stood back. Porteus heard Sam’s intake of breath, saw him blanch at the sight of the suitcase. He made no move to take it, so Porteus stepped in and scooped it up. He grabbed Sam by the upper arm and said to the receptionist, “Thank you very much. We’ll be on our way.”

  When they were outside, Sam grabbed the suitcase away from Porteus, a gesture that was pure Walter, and hurried ahead of him to the car. He set it on the back seat and opened it, then he reached in and took out a single garment, holding it up at arm’s length. It was a summer dress, long, made of a royal blue silk. He stared at it, his face drawn.

  “What is it?” asked Porteus.

  “This dress belonged to my mother. This suitcase was also my mother’s. I remember them.” He let the garment slide through his fingers and back into the suitcase, then began lifting the other contents out, furiously, one after another. “All these things, they were my mother’s.”

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Perhaps this woman just had the same styles. You know… Fashion… People are such sheep.”

  “We were at the market one day just before she left. She was wearing that dress and a pair of shoes with heels. She caught her heel in the back. I was just a kid. We were buying a gift, wrapping paper, tape, ribbon, for somebody’s birthday. She had the scotch tape in her purse and used it to tape up the hem.” As he spoke his fingers moved around the hem of the dress. When his fingers stopped moving, he held up the section of fabric so that Porteus could see it properly. An ancient yellowed strip of scotch tape dangled from a few inches of gaping hem.

  “We need to get back to Florence,” said Sam.

  Chapter Eleven

  The American – they insisted on calling him the American, no other name attached, so he let them – smiled to himself. Smiling was something he rarely did these days but this was a good day. The pieces were sliding into place. In reality, he was born in Canada, in a rotten little Calabrian suburb of Toronto, one of a race that quietly declared itself to be different and separate from that gun-toting nation to the south, to be anything but Pursuers of Happiness.

  The American didn’t need a gun. There were plenty of other ways to get the job done. Though of course he had one, just in case things went sideways. And he’d brought it with him tonight, though there wouldn’t be any need to use it, except maybe to tease her a little.

  She still hadn’t shown up. She’d picked an odd meeting place. This fairground atmosphere was both disturbing and comforting. It reminded him of his youth, a youth made up mostly of food. Sweet food. Candy floss, ice cream, chocolate. All
leading up to a mouthful of rotting teeth. The dental work needed later had been part of the motivation behind finding a really well-paying job. Though he’d found some great deals in Budapest. Hungary had some fantastic dental tourism going. A full set of implants for a third of the usual price.

  He was watching a ride go round and round. It was sad and small, a few chairs on chains, attached to a grimy blue and yellow striped carousel that swung out and around. It was a safe ride, no thrill there. Near the carousel was a long pole with a stuffed baboon hanging from it, and the first kid to grab the baboon won a free ticket for another ride. Just the kind of vicious circle he’d been running from all his life.

  He looked around him but there was still no sign of her, so he started to plan the pasta he was going to make as soon as he got back to his place. Plain, with some fresh garlic, pepperoncino, lashings of the best virgin olive oil, and a little pecorino cheese grated on top. And maybe, if she ever showed up, he might let her taste a little of it.

  He always insisted on accommodation with the shiniest and most expensive appliances, and they’d met his demands. The place had a large stainless steel and glass refrigerator stocked with a few basic fresh items, and a bench press in the corner. Those two things were always in the unwritten contract, that shiny kitchen and the bench press.

  The Fat Boy in him complained that fridge wasn’t big enough, that there wasn’t enough variety in it. There wasn’t enough ice cream. But the man in him smacked the Fat Boy down, got to his workout quickly, pushed himself until the fatigue and burn were almost unbearable. Then he allowed himself to eat.

  The jobs were making him lonelier, so naturally, the food helped, but damn, he’d put on seven pounds since being in this country. The Fat Boy was starting to win again and he wondered if it might not be time to retire.

  His eyes flicked back and forth between the rest of the fairground and the ride. There was that kid again. Little kid, couldn’t be older that three and wearing a hairband with bunny ears. Where were her parents? She was standing too close, and every time the ride started to turn in a circle, faster and faster, flinging the kids and their legs further and further outward, they nearly kicked her in the head.

  She was just slightly bigger than a toddler, oblivious. She started toward the ride again. The American jumped forward, lunged and grabbed her just in time. He carried her away from the ride to another area nearby and set her down on the ground.

  The kid started to laugh, thought it was a game, turned and headed straight back toward the flying feet. The American went after her, and yet again scooped her up just before someone’s shoes made contact with her skull. Once more, he set her down away from the ride. In his prehistoric broken Calabrian, he said to the bystanders, “Anybody know this kids’ parents?” But it was useless. They were either ignoring him or couldn’t be bothered to understand.

  The hunger was building up. He needed to eat. This little rabbit-eared kid ought to have been scared of him, scared of the glass eye that didn’t quite move in sync with the good one, but she wasn’t, so he took her hand and led her over to the ice-cream kiosk. With sign language he was able to make the man understand, two double chocolate ice-cream cones with whipped cream on top. He found a free table and two chairs, nodded to the kid to sit and handed her the cone. She started to lick happily. He sat down and let the Fat Boy take over.

  He was nearly at the end of his cone when she showed up. She was wearing a skirt that went to just above her knees, but under that, her legs were bare. He wanted to run the ice-dream along her skin then and there.

  “About time,” he said, “Where were you?”

  “Where do you think? It’s not as though I don’t have a life.”

  “Yeah. I need you to find this kid’s parents. She’s a stray.”

  She nodded and went off to talk to people. Within five minutes she was back with a distraught mother in tow. The mother grabbed the child, picked her up and took her away, the sound of her scolding fading into the distance.

  “You shouldn’t engage,” she said.

  “You could have picked a better meeting place.”

  “It does get better. We’re going back to that other place.”

  “Nice. We can be alone.”

  She started to walk away from him. He knew that walk. It meant that he was supposed to follow her and not ask questions. She was a little unstrung, he was all too aware of that, but he liked her unpredictability, the wildcat that came out when he met her challenges, so he followed. She didn’t stop or turn to look at him until they were well out of the fairground and on a road leading into the woods.

  She turned off the road and headed up a path that led into even denser trees and darkness flecked with moon. When she was sure that they wouldn’t be seen, she reached into her purse and handed him an envelope. He opened it, shifted into the moonlight and counted the contents.

  She said, “I was asked to give that to you. A retainer.”

  He nodded. She squinted at him. Her expression was strange under the moonlight. He wasn’t quite sure how to read it. He stepped forward, grabbed a handful of her blouse and pulled her toward him, then he gripped her by both arms and pushed her against a tree. He laid his hand flat on her collarbone, wondering how much of her neck would fit into his palm, then took the blouse’s fabric edges and yanked, popped it apart, sending the buttons flying. She was wearing some kind of sleeveless top underneath. She didn’t move, but met his stare with a cat-like unflinching gaze. He liked it. He started to slide his hand between her legs, but she said, “Not here. Come on,” slipped out of his grasp, and started to walk deeper into the woods.

  They walked for ten more minutes through dense forest until they came the rocky, moss-covered outcrop, the mass of crumbling ruins. She led him into a dark hollow behind an ancient pond and fountain, right to the very back. All he could think about was his hand under her skirt.

  She kept the light in her phone turned on and shone it ahead of them. They moved further and further into darkness. It was some kind of cavern, but man-made, with dripping grotesque formations in the rock wall, bits of shell and ceramic stuck in with it. “Home again home again…”

  “Jiggedy jig,” he said. From the cavern’s blackness there emerged another ancient fountain with a centrepiece of naked women in corroded and blackened metal, covered with a scum, the result of sitting for years in a stagnant pool. There was a nearby dripping sound that could get on his nerves but he could see how pleased she was with herself, how much she liked this place.

  “Those are naiads,” she said.

  “Oh yeah?” He didn’t know a naiad from a triad but wasn’t about to say so.

  “Water nymphs. From mythology. They would seduce human men and drag them under the surface of the water.”

  “Oh great.” The place was giving him claustrophobia, but she hadn’t finished.

  “C’mon.” She walked around to the back of the fountain and disappeared. He had to hand it to her. It was a neat trick. He did the same and followed her in, squeezing through the narrow slots. She made her way down a passageway of narrow stone steps that opened into a chamber. She reached down and switched on a large battery-operated lamp. It was the same room they’d been in the other night, but a different entrance.

  “Want a drink?” she asked, opening a box on the floor. He could glimpse the tops of bottles.

  “Sure. But not wine. You got some rye?”

  She shook her head. “Canadian Rye? Not likely. Scotch.”

  “Yeah. Alright.”

  He wandered around the room touching things. He hadn’t really looked around that first time because he’d been on the job, focussed on other things. But now he could take it all in properly.

  The place was filled with stuff, like a warehouse, everything covered with tarps and plastic sheets. Crates, cardboard boxes, shelves lined with packages. And it was furnished, stuffed to the brim really, with antiques.

  In a far corner he spotted a barely visible wheel. He
went over and lifted the cover. It was a vintage scooter, a Vespa, red, still in good condition.

  “Get away from that,” she snapped when she saw him.

  “Touchy, touchy.”

  “Just do what you’re told.”

  He crossed the room, took the glasses from her hand and pushed her down onto one of the three couches. “So tell me what to do.”

  She gave him a half-smile and said, “I want you to watch me.”

  “Okay.”

  Cheeky bitch waved her finger at him, like Cleopatra to a slave. For the time being he’d let her think she was whoever the hell she wanted to be. He sat down facing her.

  She leaned forward and reached under the couch for a wooden box. Almost ceremoniously she lifted it up, set it down beside her and opened it. Then she rolled her skirt up to her hips so that both thighs were visible. He didn’t know how he had missed this before, probably too caught up in the heat of the moment. The woman was missing a brew from her six-pack. In the faint bluish-white luminosity of her scars, he read the words, inscribed in angular letters, in English, Love and Pain.

  She took a small sharp tool from the wooden box and when he realized she was about to carve a new word into her skin, he leaned forward and grabbed the wrist that held it. “Not now, doll. You can do that shit after I’m gone. You can write my name in capital letters three feet high when I’m not here. Get it? Right now we have better things to do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sam parked the bike at the end of the dirt trail that ran behind the cemetery above Borgo. A ragged apricot of moon appeared and disappeared behind impatient clouds, but the land was visible. The maze of trails that wound through the Ragnaia behind the belvedere was almost always deserted. Borgo people had a lingering pagan superstition that the woods were filled with malevolent spirits, and so stayed away. The area was off-limits to hunters too, though Sam had often heard gunshots stuttering across the hillside.