Rafí stepped away and shone the flashlight on Arianna, who stood with her arms folded, clearly unimpressed.
‘And she has a—’ The man whistled through his teeth and waggled his little finger. ‘This one, she has a cock? Yes? A pistol?’ He translated into the phone and then, speaking to Rafí, said that he needed to see for himself before they could decide.
Rafí turned the flashlight through the window to the back seat of the car. ‘Just to look,’ he cut his arm in a flat cross-swipe, ‘anything different and you pay more.’
Arianna shot Lila a glance as she ducked into the car. She signalled Rafí to come close and whispered to him, the streetlight stroking his jet-black hair and greasing Arianna’s forehead.
Inside the car Arianna sprawled across the back seat in an attempt to find a comfortable position. She raised her knees, struck up her feet and shimmied her hips lower and lower until her shoulders jammed against the door. Salvatore let her settle then took the flashlight and hunched through the front passenger door, folding himself inside as a man undertaking an unpleasant task.
Lila backed off and waited ten, fifteen paces away, poised on her toes. It wasn’t fruit she could smell, ripe and spoiled, but a heap of flowers brought out of the chapel beside the music conservatory. The air fizzed with their perfume. On the brighter cross-street a woman sat side-saddle on the back of a scooter and whooped at friends out of sight on another bike. Hearing the scooter Rafí shrugged, indicating to Salvatore, ducked inside the car, that this was nothing. The scooter’s buzz zipped across the shuttered shop fronts and the woman’s shouts echoed up, teasingly unstable, mapping her route down via Tribunali, up via Atri, and back about the hospital. Lila listened knowing they would return, because that’s what they did, these kids, they ran feckless circles round the Centro Storico until the police, or someone, stopped them.
Throughout the inspection Arianna lay across the seat, legs high and wide. It was hard for Lila to look without getting a little anxious. She wondered what it would be like if this car, the bags and newspapers, the armfuls of faded flowers, the mordant sticky stink itself, dislodged and tumbled down the hill with Arianna riding a tide of muck into the delicately detailed courtyard of the music conservatory.
Salvatore clambered out and straightened himself, tut-tutting, unimpressed. He wiped his hands on his shirt with the same distaste he’d demonstrated earlier. It wasn’t Arianna that disgusted him, so much, but the task itself. The man spoke into the phone and then turned to Rafí. ‘OK. They’re interested,’ he held the phone to his shoulder, ‘but they want to see. I’ll pay for one photo.’
‘How much?’
The man ducked his head to listen. ‘Twenty,’ he said.
‘Fifty.’
‘Twenty-five. No more.’
Salvatore took less time on his second visit, and while he didn’t touch Arianna, he shone the flashlight directly into her face.
Out of the car he straightened his shirt, and spent some time composing a message. Once he was done he shut the phone. Rafí stood with his hands in his pockets and bided time while they waited for a response. Lila wanted to go.
The phone gave one sustained trill. As he answered Salvatore coughed to clear his throat. He nodded as he listened. ‘How much do they earn?’
Rafí shrugged and stepped back, his hands in the air.
‘No. Don’t walk away. These girls. How much do they earn?’ Salvatore gestured at Arianna. ‘Do you know how much she earns?’
Rafí gave no reaction.
‘How much? Tell me what she makes in one night. Fifty? One hundred? Two hundred?’ The man made a small seesaw gesture. ‘How much?’
Rafí pursed his lips and refused to answer.
Salvatore redirected his question to Lila. ‘You tell me. How much? You understand? How much do you earn?’
Lila kept still and refused to look up.
‘They want to make an offer for both of them, for one night,’ he said. ‘What do you say? One hundred? Maybe two? Two hundred? Two hundred, let’s say?’
Lila looked to Rafí then Arianna. If they made two hundred a night their debt to Rafí would have been paid a long time ago.
Salvatore held up his hand, and listening to the phone he appeared confused. ‘How much do they weigh?’ He kept the phone to his ear. ‘Fifty kilos? Do you think she weighs fifty kilos? And the other? Sixty-nine?’ Salvatore cleared his throat. ‘I will pay you two euro per kilo.’ He squinted as he made the calculation. ‘So that’s — what — that’s the final offer. There’s a party tonight. A party with important people, businessmen, judges, people from Rome. Name a price and I’ll pay you now, and the women are ours.’
Rafí looked to Arianna, who now leaned out of the car. She shook her head at that final phrase, it suggested intention, sleight of hand, a game with uncertain parameters.
‘I have to be honest,’ Rafí explained. ‘Usually, the way this works, I bring men to them, or I take them to the men. Hotels, private parties, saunas…’
Salvatore nodded.
‘… if people know they are working, then other people are going to start expecting things. Money. Favours.’ Rafí softly rolled his head from side to side. ‘You understand? And everything becomes difficult. If everything is quiet then everything is good.’
Rafí looked back to Lila, then Arianna. Arianna curtly shook her head.
‘OK. You can all come with me.’ Salvatore made a final gesture of agreement, and took out a wallet fat with cash. Fingers flicking through the notes he peeled off five, six, seven, and held them out. ‘Here. OK? For you.’
Rafí accepted the money, but his eyes remained fixed on the man’s wallet, on the new, unspoiled notes.
‘It’s for you, OK?’ he said, ‘and something for the photograph.’
Rafí counted the money as he folded the notes into a small roll.
* * *
Salvatore walked ahead and crossed the street diagonally. Rafí followed behind, arm in arm with Lila and Arianna. The street cut directly through the old quarter, a broad barricade of shop-fronts. The buildings rose six or seven storeys in one face, a long line undercut by an arcade, with regular balconies along the upper floors, shuttered windows, and huge tarred carriage doors. Salvatore hesitated at the entrance to the palazzo and appeared to have trouble opening the small portal door. In the shop beside the entrance, spelled out across the glass were the words SALVATORE — GRAFFA/ARANCHINI/PIZZA, the end of the sign obscured by a banner.
Rafí stepped back to Lila and Arianna. ‘They have a room,’ he said, ‘here, in the basement.’
Lila leaned backward to take in the full height of the building.
‘They?’
‘These brothers.’
‘How do you know this?’ Arianna blew smoke directly into Rafí’s face. ‘He said there was a party.’
‘They want to look. The brothers. First they take a look, then they take you to the party.’
‘You’ll stay with us?’
Rafí handed the flashlight to Lila and told them to wait.
With the door now open Salvatore signalled that they should be quiet.
Lila followed Arianna into a square courtyard to find Salvatore struggling with a second door — this difficulty set Arianna into a giggle, and the man stopped, held out his hand and indicated that she needed to be silent. The door, metal, smaller even than the first, refused to pull open.
Lila stood in the centre of the courtyard and shone the torch up the wall. A square of low cloud yellowed by the street lamps stoppered the opening. All but one of the shutters were closed, and Lila thought she could see a figure leaning out. When she shone the flashlight directly at the window the socket appeared empty. Lila switched off the torch but kept her eye on the spot, and there, too indistinct to be certain, appeared a face — what she took to be a child. Lila tapped Arianna’s shoulder, looked back up, but couldn’t quite tell in the darkness if there was someone at the open window or if this was her imagination.