She was staring at him, outraged.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Fratelli asked.
‘You want me to go to an orgy just so you can find out what kind of lunatic swipes chicken blood on precious paintings? Commits so little damage that even your own Carabinieri colleagues don’t seem much interested?’
He seemed a touch put out by this remark.
‘You don’t need to participate, do you? Just watch, have a drink and a bite to eat. Then make an excuse and get out of there when the entertainment turns a little risqué.’
‘I noticed you said when, not if. All this for the sake of a chicken?’
His intelligent face turned stony and serious.
‘I thought you wanted to know why bad things happened. I was under the impression that was the purpose of your dissertation.’
‘It is… I suppose… Oh, dammit.’
Fratelli finished his Negroni, staring at the glass, then said perhaps it was time they caught the bus.
‘I don’t want to catch the bus yet,’ she complained.
‘You seem upset. And I’m just making it worse.’
No, you’re not, she thought to herself. You’re listening, patiently, carefully. No one else has done that for a long while.
‘I’m sorry, Pino. This degree idea seemed to make sense when I was in London, looking for something new to do. Now I’m here… I don’t know. I thought I had the right questions. I thought I’d understand what I’d hear in return.’
‘A good detective never anticipates the answers. He — or she — must focus on phrasing the correct inquiries. Nothing more. An open mind is essential. A closed one takes you nowhere.’
‘I’m not a detective.’
‘That’s not true. You’re a very astute and curious young woman. Perceptive and sharp at spotting the rhetorical flaws that provide an opportunity to uncover the truth. You should focus on that skill more than you do.’
‘By going to Sandro Soderini’s orgy?’
His eyes blazed for a moment as he shushed her across the table. ‘Please. You never know who’s listening in this city. Besides it’s not… what you claim. Not necessarily. Just a night out for him and his friends.’
‘Why is this so important?’ she demanded. ‘A bunch of playboys? A dead bird? A meaningless act of vandalism?’
He finished his drink, looked at his watch and stayed silent.
‘Why is it so important?’ she persisted.
That’s another story. I have strange ideas. Strange theories sometimes.
‘Tell me, Pino,’ Julia demanded. ‘I need to know.’
The Carabinieri were first on the scene, followed by a squad car from the state police. They looked at the mess in front of the Loggia dei Lanzi: a couple of Japanese tourists, the woman unconscious on the soaking cobbles, the man screaming and weeping hysterically.
‘Drunks,’ the senior carabiniere said to the first state cop to join him.
‘There’s a surprise,’ the cop agreed.
‘You can have them if you want. I mean…’
Sometimes these two forces were rivals. Mostly they tried to get along.
‘You mean it’s a small enough thing for us to handle?’ the cop replied.
‘Not exactly…’
‘Boss?’ said the young cadet who’d been behind the wheel of the Carabinieri car.
He was out in front of the loggia, taking a look beyond the couple on the cobblestones.
‘We could do it if you like,’ the carabiniere continued to the cop. ‘It’s just that we cleaned the car earlier. And yours…’ He cast a withering glance at the ancient pale blue Fiat the police came in. ‘Let’s face it…’
The crackle of a radio cut through the night. The young cadet was speaking into it, asking for assistance.
‘We don’t need help for foreign drunks,’ the older officer barked.
Something stopped him after that.
The young carabiniere was beneath the Cellini statue, looking up at the figure of Perseus. His voice kept getting louder. He sounded scared.
The cop was staring in the same direction too, so the older carabiniere, a man who thought he’d seen it all, followed suit.
Statues didn’t interest him much. Or paintings. He’d grown up in Florence, surrounded by this stuff. It was so familiar he never took any notice. Except when something was wrong.
The cops from the pale blue Fiat saloon were starting to look a little queasy themselves. One had his hand over his mouth. The other started mumbling something unintelligible that might have been a prayer.
‘Tell you what,’ the senior carabiniere said, going to stand closer to the Cellini bronze so that he could get a better view of what was suspended there in its raised bronze hand, pale and gory, dripping blood on to the steps of the loggia. ‘I think we’ll take this after all.’
The empty bus ran slowly along the Lungarno, dodging the pedestrians scurrying through swamped streets awash with water. As the vehicle drew level with the Uffizi across the river, she saw flashing blue lights at the head of the arches, close to the Palazzo Vecchio.
‘Something’s happening,’ Julia said.
Fratelli was hunched and miserable in his coat.
‘Something’s always happening. Nothing’s always happening,’ he mumbled, staring at the black flume beside them. ‘Life’s like the river. Always moving. Always in the same place.’
‘That’s a bit enigmatic,’ she said gently.
He seemed downcast, upset by something. The way she kept prodding him for more answers, she guessed. What else could it be? And why would he turn this way now? She’d already prised from him the perilous state of his health. That was a very private admission, particularly when it was offered to someone he barely knew. Not that she thought of him as a stranger any more. An odd intimacy had grown between the two of them. It was a surprise to both, yet she felt she understood why it had happened on her part. Pino Fratelli was such a gentle, easy, intelligent man. Full of interesting questions to which he had no answers, seeking them mostly from others. The fluent, call-and-response rhythm of their conversations happened so naturally, without any of the usual effort she found necessary with others. Yet there was still something unknown, a mystery yet to be revealed.
Fratelli pulled out of his hunch and squinted through the rain-soaked windows at the lights across the river. The Arno was lively and thrashing as it flowed swiftly towards the Ponte Vecchio. She recalled his brief mention of the terrible flood from twenty years before. Anyone who experienced that strange terror would surely look at a November night like this and find some unwanted memories returning.
‘A lot of lights,’ Fratelli said, a welcome note of professionalism in his voice. ‘I’m sorry. I get down sometimes. Not often, but you must yell when it happens.’
‘Act the policeman for me. I want to see what he looks like.’
‘Carabiniere, please.’
‘Be the carabiniere then. What might be going on over there?’
He frowned, thinking.
‘A mugging maybe. A fight.’ He stared at the lights. ‘I’d guess there are three or four cars. That’s a lot for a fight. Perhaps a dignitary is visiting the Uffizi in private. Wandering down your Vasari Corridor. The high and mighty always receive protection in Florence. They’re valued so highly. We’ll hear in the morning. On the radio. I listen first thing. Every day.’