Julia looked round his tidy, bachelor room, shook her still-damp head, and whispered to herself, ‘Why do you always run away?’
Because I’m frightened, she thought. Of myself. Of closeness. Of risk. Everything that Pino Fratelli embraces so readily and with such visible energy.
She walked over to his bedroom door. It was still half open. He was in his double bed, beneath neatly ironed sheets and a coverlet, a lamp by his side. A book in his hands.
‘What did I say about reading?’ she scolded him.
‘Checking up on me now? You’re not the Grassi dragon and you never will be. Kindly pack your bags and be gone.’
She came and sat on the bed, watching amused as he shuffled over to the other side as if in fear.
‘This isn’t right,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m an old man. Your landlord. You shouldn’t be in my room—’
‘Listen to me. About tomorrow…’
‘Leave at your own discretion. I’ll refund all the rent you paid—’
‘About Soderini’s party.’
His face fell. ‘Oh, Julia. Please don’t…’
‘I have a suggestion. I want you to consider it. I’ll go to the Brigata Spendereccia…’
‘I should never have asked you.’
‘It’s an invitation from the mayor of Florence! How can I refuse? If it turns a touch risqué, I’ll leave. And if there’s something there of use, I can tell you.’
He gave her a baleful stare. ‘What’s the other half of the deal?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she said. ‘Next week you come back to England with me. Just for a few days or so. I told you. My dad’s a doctor. There are people in Harley Street…’
‘I’ve seen every doctor in Italy!’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’
‘What about the money?’
‘Leave that to me…’
‘But why?’
She started to shut the door, signalling the conversation was at an end. ‘Because I want to see what you look like out of here. I want to know if you’re right, and a part of the poison is Florence itself. And, if it is… In London maybe…’
‘Go back to your room and forget this nonsense.’
‘No. I won’t.’
‘You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. Chiara was a compliant angel next to you. Leave me.’
‘No!’
Another flurry of Florentine curses that she was glad she didn’t quite understand.
‘You won’t ever want to stop chasing him, will you?’
‘Not now,’ he admitted. ‘Why should I? It’s too late.’
‘And if you find him?’
‘Then Walter can do his job. What do you think? That this is about vengeance? Please…’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘Then what?’
‘What if the truth doesn’t just release the poison? What if it takes everything you have?’
He smiled. ‘If poison’s all that’s kept me alive, then I’ll die, and deservedly,’ he said. ‘Which will happen anyway. Unless…’
‘Unless?’
‘Unless something else — a miracle — comes to take its place.’
Julia said nothing for a long minute. ‘Do we have an agreement, Pino Fratelli?’ she asked finally.
‘If you insist, Miss Wellbeloved,’ he replied, and his sad eyes never left hers. ‘Now goodnight.’
Thursday, 6 November 1986
First thing the following morning, Fratelli got his cordless phone and, from the comfort of his bed, called everyone he could think of. A sleepy Luca Cassini. Two butchers in Sant’Ambrogio market. A retired Carabinieri officer who was none too pleased to be woken after a hard night on the booze.
Finally the priest, Father Bruno, with whom he had a pleasant, brief conversation, acknowledging the wisdom of accepting his fate and one day — not this day, but soon — returning to Carmine, taking the magic wine and the holy bread once more, setting foot on the happy road to dying in the arms of the Lord, and with such acquiescence winning the guarantee of a decent Catholic burial, eulogy, hymns, blessing and all.
The shroud of a good Florentine waited for him there, and with it he could climb into the grave contented.
He thanked the man for his concern, could not help but hear the note of wariness in the priest’s voice. Then he fell immediately asleep for a while, only to be woken at nine by a roaring sound he knew only too well. When he walked out into the living room, Julia was having breakfast at the kitchen table. Filling the door was the large shape of Signora Grassi, blocking out the grey winter light, demanding answers.
The first Thursday of every month.
She did an extra shift to keep the place clean. He should have remembered. But lots of things slipped his memory these days.
Julia was in her blue pyjamas. A pot of coffee in front of her. Two plates. Some toast and butter and jam.
‘I slept late and thought you wouldn’t mind if I helped myself,’ she said with a sweet smile, holding up a jar of strawberry preserve.
The radio was on, the news dominated by the arms find outside Fiesole. Few details; only that the Carabinieri were looking for an American woman in connection with the haul.
‘Well, Fratelli?’
Signora Grassi had her hands on her hips, lips pressed together in an expression that, on another woman, might have passed for a pout.
‘Well what? My guest needed breakfast. Why shouldn’t she help herself?’
A salute, a wry grin from the table, then Julia Wellbeloved got on with her coffee.
The Grassi dragon rattled her mops and brooms.
‘This is my house,’ he added bravely. ‘I’m grateful for your assistance, as always. But there’s nothing for the confessional here, I promise…’
‘I shall return in thirty minutes,’ the woman announced. ‘By then I expect you to be dressed and gone. Some of us have work to do.’
‘We do,’ Fratelli agreed, and smiled as she left.
Coffee at the breakfast table. A pleasant face opposite. He’d forgotten what it was like.
‘You slept well,’ he said.
‘I did.’
‘Me too.’
‘You agreed to something last night. You promised. Three Negronis won’t stop you…’
‘You counted. I’m impressed.’
‘You do remember?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘I told you. I can’t take it if people lie to me. If they break—’
‘I don’t lie and a promise is a promise. If this futile visit to London’s what you want. But don’t go to Soderini’s party for my sake, please.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then why?’
‘For mine. Because I want to. You don’t understand. I’ve led such a trivial life.’
‘It doesn’t look trivial from where I’m sitting. It looks fresh and full of hope and promise. And adventure.’
‘Well, it seems trivial to me.’
He picked up a piece of toast. Spread butter. Jam. Drank some coffee. Felt that if there were a paradise, a place from which the couple in the Brancacci had been expelled, it would be very like this. No need of peacocks and unicorns, of fiery, sword-wielding angels and dire, judgemental threats.
‘Then you should go to the Brigata Spendereccia, whatever, wherever it is. And tomorrow I shall pack my bags for London. Which holds the same sense of mystery for me, I might add. Though where the money—’
‘I’ll call my dad and make some arrangements. We won’t get an appointment till Monday at the earliest. There’s no need to leave tomorrow. The weekend will do. Whenever’s easiest.’
She rose from the chair, picked up her plate and mug. He lacked the intuition to interpret the look in her eyes. Pity? A sense of care? A simple bond of amity?