Francesca put on her sunglasses to cover her eyes. Marco noticed a trickle of blood on her left knee. He took the tissue from her hand and began to dab it. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve ruined your day.”
“Please stop that,” he said with a smile.
It was actually the best day with Francesca. The fall was humbling her and making her seem human. It was evoking, however unwilling, honest emotions. It was allowing sincere physical contact, one person genuinely trying to help another. It was shoving him into her life. Whatever happened next, whether at the hospital or at her home, he would at least be there for a moment. In the emergency, she was needing him, though she certainly didn’t want that.
As he held her feet and stared blankly out the window, Marco realized how desperately he craved a relationship of any kind, with any person.
Any friend would do.
At the foot of the hill, she said to Mr. Coletta, “I would like to go to my apartment.”
He looked in the rearview mirror and said, “But I think you should see a doctor.”
“Maybe later. I’ll rest for a bit and see how it feels.” The decision was made; arguing would’ve been useless.
Marco had some advice too, but he held it. He wanted to see where she lived.
“Very well,” said Mr. Coletta.
“It’s Via Minzoni, near the train station.”
Marco smiled to himself, quite proud that he knew the street. He could picture it on a map, at the northern edge of the old city, a nice section but not the high-rent district. He had walked it at least once. In fact, he’d found an early-hours coffee bar at a spot where the street ended at the Piazza dei Martiri. As they zipped along the perimeter, in the mid-afternoon traffic, Marco glanced at every street sign, took in every intersection, and knew exactly where he was at all times.
Not another word was spoken. He held her feet, her stylish but well-used black boots slightly soiling his wool slacks. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less. When they turned onto Via Minzoni, she said, “Down about two blocks, on the right.” A moment later she said, “Just ahead. There’s a spot behind that green BMW.”
They gently extracted her from the rear seat and got her to the sidewalk, where she shook free for a second and tried to walk. The ankle gave way; they caught her. “I’m on the second floor,” she said, gritting her teeth. There were eight apartments. Marco watched carefully as she pushed the button next to the name of Giovanni Ferro. A female voice answered.
“Francesca,” she said, and the door clicked. They stepped into a foyer that was dark and shabby. To the right was an elevator with its door open, waiting. The three of them filled it tightly. “I’m really fine now,” she said, obviously trying to lose both Marco and Mr. Coletta.
“We need to get some ice on it,” Marco said as they began a very slow ride up.
The elevator made a noisy stop, its door finally opened, and they shuffled out, both men still holding Francesca by the elbows. Her apartment was only a few steps away, and when they arrived at the door Mr. Coletta had gone far enough.
“I’m very sorry about this,” he said. “If there are medical bills, would you please call me?”
“No, you’re very kind. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you,” Marco said, still attached to her. He pushed the doorbell and waited as Mr. Coletta ducked back in the elevator and left them. She pulled away and said, “This is fine, Marco. I can manage from here. My mother is house-sitting today.”
He was hoping for an invitation inside, but he was in no position to push on. The episode had run its course as far as he was concerned, and he had learned much more than he could have expected. He smiled, released her arm, and was about to say goodbye when a lock clicked loudly from inside. She turned toward the door, and in doing so put pressure on her wounded ankle. It buckled again, causing her to gasp and reach for him.
The door opened just as Francesca fainted.
Her mother was Signora Altonelli, a seventyish lady who spoke no English and for the first few hectic minutes thought Marco had somehow harmed her daughter. His bumbling Italian proved inadequate, especially under the pressure of the moment. He carried Francesca to the sofa, raised her feet, and conveyed the concept of “Ghiaccio, ghiaccio.” Ice, get some ice. She reluctantly backed away, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Francesca was stirring by the time her mother returned with a wet washcloth and a small plastic bag of ice.
“You fainted,” Marco said, hovering over her. She clutched his hand and looked about wildly.
“Chi è?” her mother said suspiciously. Who’s he?
“Un amico.” A friend. He patted her face with the washcloth and she rallied quickly. In some of the fastest Italian he had yet to experience, she explained to her mother what had happened. The machine-gun bursts back and forth made him dizzy as he tried to pick off an occasional word, then he simply gave up. Suddenly, Signora Altonelli smiled and patted him on the shoulder with great approval. Good boy.
When she disappeared, Francesca said, “She’s gone to make coffee.”
“Great.” He had pulled a stool next to the sofa, and he sat close by, waiting. “We need to get some ice on this thing,” he said.
“Yes, we should.”
They both looked at her boots. “Will you take them off?” she asked.
“Sure.” He unzipped the right boot and removed it as though that foot had been injured too. He went even slower with the left one. Every little movement caused pain, and at one point he said, “Would you prefer to do it?”
“No, please, go ahead.” The zipper stopped almost exactly at the ankle. The swelling made it difficult to ease the boot off. After a few long minutes of delicate wiggling, while the patient suffered with clenched teeth, the boot was off.
She was wearing black stockings. Marco studied them, then announced, “These have to come off.”
“Yes, they do.” Her mother returned and fired off something in Italian. “Why don’t you wait in the kitchen?” Francesca said to Marco.
The kitchen was small but impeccably put together, very modern with chrome and glass and not a square inch of wasted space. A high-tech coffeepot gurgled on a counter. The walls above a small breakfast nook were covered in bright abstract art. He waited and listened to both of them chatter at once.
They got the stockings off without further injury. When Marco returned to the living room, Signora Altonelli was arranging the ice around the left ankle.
“She says it’s not broken,” Francesca said to him. “She worked in a hospital for many years.”
“Does she live in Bologna?”
“Imola, a few miles away.”
He knew exactly where it was, on the map anyway. “I guess I should be going now,” he said, not really wanting to go but suddenly feeling like a trespasser.
“I think you need some coffee,” Francesca said. Her mother darted away, back into the kitchen.
“I feel like I’m intruding,” he said.
“No, please, after all you’ve done today, it’s the least I can do.”
Her mother was back, with a glass of water and two pills. Francesca gulped it all down and propped her head up on some pillows. She exchanged short sentences with her mother, then looked at him and said, “She has a chocolate torta in the refrigerator. Would you like some?”
“Yes, thank you.”
And her mother was off again, humming now and quite pleased that she had someone to care for and someone to feed. Marco resumed his place on the stool. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes, it does,” she said, smiling. “I cannot lie. It hurts.”
He could think of no appropriate response, so he ventured back to common ground. “It all happened so fast,” he said. They spent a few minutes rehashing the fall. Then they were silent. She closed her eyes and appeared to be napping. Marco crossed his arms over his chest and stared at a huge, very odd painting that covered almost an entire wall.