A Florentine Revenge Page 5
Two policemen stood on the edge of the trees. ‘I don’t get it,’ said the taller policeman, who was called Pietro. He sounded gloomy. ‘I mean, no one’s going to miss him, but why now?’
The stocky policeman shook his head, not answering. He stood on the edge of the trees and gazed down the silver ribbon of water to the west, where the great struts of the Viadotto dell’ Indiano rose from the misty wasteland of swamp and rushes like the halyards of a ghost ship. He looked pale with sleeplessness and grim, and seemed to be staring at something beyond even the setting sun. ‘Let’s go, Sandro,’ said Pietro, clapping him on the shoulder, and after a long moment the policeman put away the fluttering pages of his notebook and turned after him into the dark trees.
6
In December the sun already hung low in the sky by three o’clock in the afternoon, and by not long after four it was setting. From the Ponte Alle Grazie you could see a white-gold disc hanging just above the horizon through the central arch of the Ponte Vecchio, silhouetting the heads of tourists as they passed endlessly up and down. As it set, the sun shone down the length of the river flowing west, bathing the facades that fronted the Arno in the last of its warm yellow light, gleaming off the inlaid facade of San Miniato up on the hills above San Niccolò, then it was gone.
At her till Gianna stifled a yawn. An hour until closing. Luisa walked the length of the showroom, turned back towards the door. It always grew cold in the shop as the sun sank behind the Borsa and left the facade of Frollini in shade, but Luisa was in no hurry to be home.
Luisa knew that Gianna and Beppe thought of her as old-fashioned, plain-speaking; an ordinary person of the old school who believed in eating properly and doing everything by the book. It was a generation thing; even though they were only ten years or so younger, the world had changed in those ten years and they thought of her as old, thought she’d been like this for ever. Everyone knew she was married, no children. She wasn’t given much to talking about her husband, either, not even the sort of good-natured grumbling practically obligatory in every marriage; a sign, they thought, of old-fashioned discretion. But Luisa had a secret; she was the girl in the postcard.
Among the black and white cards displayed everywhere in the city – little snatches of nostalgia, rain-soaked panoramas, lads on Vespas, ragged children running through the market stalls: street life from another world – there was one of a young woman, narrow-waisted in a fitted sweater, tight skirt and heels, looking in at a jeweller’s window on the Ponte Vecchio at dusk, the glitter of treasure reflected in her dark eyes: Luisa.
When Luisa saw that face it was as though she was looking at a stranger, and as for the tiny waist Sandro could once span with his hands, where had it gone? Was it still there somewhere, underneath the comfortable thickness of middle age? But she could remember the feeling still; now and again it came back to her, fresh and heady like the smell of hyacinths in the dead of winter. The feeling, as she looked at that emerald necklace, of being poised on the edge of something. Will I be handsome, will I be rich? Behind her the crowds had been flowing past as they did today when slowly she had become aware of an unmoving presence among them, heard the solid click of the shutter and turned. He’d flashed her a charming professional smile, tipped his hat to her and was gone.
The picture hadn’t gained currency for thirty years or more. It had been published in a small collection, gone into an archive to be rediscovered three decades later by an enterprising printer and published as part of a nostalgic series. She sold well, did Luisa; she thought sometimes someone might recognize her and exclaim over her image that was considered pretty enough to be bought and posted all over the world, but nobody ever did. Luisa wasn’t sure any more if her secret warmed her or brought her pain as she stood, square-hipped in her plain dark clothes and flat shoes, and watched the crowds hurrying home on a cold December evening.
Celia met no one in the gloom of the stairwell as she hurried down the stairs. In nearly four months she had passed other residents of the building, which contained seven apartments, on these stairs only once; a smart, youngish couple in matching heavy-framed, wraparound glasses who didn’t seem eager to make friends. Pushing open the door at the bottom of the stairs, Celia stepped on to a street where the evening had begun. Someone was going into the bar opposite as she emerged and as the door opened the sound of music and voices was briefly allowed out. Through the steamy window as she passed Celia could see a couple standing at the bar, heads close together, drinking from tall glasses. Did she miss it, being a couple? She wasn’t sure.
For a long time Celia had been quite happy or. her own. Seeing Jo Starling, for one, negotiating all the responsibilities and nuances of a relationship with an Italian, it had felt like freedom, rather than solitude. No one to tell her off for not having a shoe cupboard, or a tablecloth on the table, or the right kind of coffee machine. Then she’d met Dan.
Kate had thought Celia would marry Dan; if she was honest, even Celia had wondered about it. From the day they met, at a cocktail party organized by the British Council for the local English-speaking community, Celia had felt completely comfortable with Dan Strickland, as though she’d always known him. Stocky and dark, Dan was very clever, and very funny. A poet himself, and a jobbing journalist on the side, he knew everybody in Florence – Nobel prizewinners, struggling painters, impoverished academics, alcoholic language teachers – but still he had been impressed with Celia’s official accreditation as a guide, and she’d felt herself melt. Close to five years working in language schools and travel agencies while she studied and prepared for the concorso, the infamous open question session that had to be survived to become a guide to the great, incomparable city. ‘Rather you than me,’ he’d said admiringly, and looking up at her over the rim of his glass. ‘It’s supposed to be like the Spanish Inquisition, getting past the Academy.’ And over the course of that evening, as she moved under the coffered and painted ceilings of the Palazzo Strozzi, in all the din of over-excited conversation, Celia had become aware of his sharp brown eyes on her now and again. And when the crowd began to thin out, friends drifting off in groups to go and eat, the happily married going home to their families, Dan had appeared at Celia’s elbow at precisely the right moment, just as the pleasure of the evening hung on the point of evaporation.
‘Come on,’ he said. As she descended the broad marble staircase on his arm Celia had felt as though she was floating.
For three years they’d been a couple, going to parties together, mixing, drifting, finding each other in corners to report back, meeting for breakfast under Pasquale’s eye, walking in the Boboli on Sundays, talking. Gossip, argument, helpless laughter; the pleasure of a proper conversation and a shared culture had been thrilling. They had never actually lived together properly; perhaps that should have told Celia something. But she had agreed with him, hadn’t needed persuading that they both needed their space.
A couple of weeks short of the third anniversary of their first meeting Dan started sleeping with a well-bred Florentine girl from one of those noble families, a Ricasoli or a Torrigiani. Allegra. She was haughty, with a swinging walk and long dark hair, fine bones, tendons like piano wire; in addition, she was only twenty-one and indiscreet, so Celia found out what was going on very quickly. It was difficult to get emotional with Dan, though; he was too sharp. You couldn’t break down and reproach him, which was probably just as well. And it had always been part of his appeal after all, that chip of ice in his heart, that sharp tongue, and three years had been a long time, in his book; she hadn’t done badly. Occasionally while they had been together Celia had glimpsed, or thought she’d glimpsed, something else, a secret tender spot that all his cleverness was there to disguise, but then it would vanish and he would become irritable. Perhaps that prying glance of hers was what had sent him off, in the end; she’d never know.
As she left the bright windows of the bar behind and set off down the dark, narrow canyon of the Via dei Bardi to meet Beate, Cel
ia pulled her coat around her, the fur collar soft and warm against her cheek. She loved this street, so silent, so beautiful, so dark; anything might happen here. She shrugged off the thought of Dan. The truth was, she told herself, although she often missed talking to him, she did bump into him now and again, in the corridors of the Uffizi, in the paperback exchange, and that was probably enough.
Beate had wanted to meet in a new place on the river, the Scarlatti; a sleek modern bar with a restaurant at the back about fifteen minutes’ walk away. ‘Marco likes it,’ she’d said. ‘He’ll be along for ten minutes or so, then he’s got people to see. You don’t mind?’
Celia had shrugged; she’d have liked to see Beate alone, and in her flat, for once, she realized, somewhere relaxed. But she liked Marco well enough. He was well dressed, courteous, laid-back; he smelled good and was generous to Beate, so how could she object to him? He did sometimes seem so detached as to be somewhere else entirely, but then perhaps that was businessmen for you, they kept part of their thoughts for business, always. Celia found herself thinking of Lucas Marsh as she emerged from the Via dei Bardi on to the Lungarno, where the bright lights strung along the embankment were reflected in the dark surface of the river below. She assumed he would be like that, detached, distracted. Was that why he was arranging this lavish weekend, to compensate his wife for his absence? Celia wondered if they had children, where they might be.
The Scarlatti occupied the ground floor of a solid, nineteenth-century building set back a little way from the river; what was called a piazza on the map was in fact barely more than a wide stretch of pavement. The bar’s exterior was anonymous, sand-coloured, with a wide plate-glass frontage tinted against the sun and inquisitive passers-by. When Celia peered in she could see that Beate was already there, leaning back on a pale leather banquette, gazing at something far off. Her thick white hair was in a heavy plait over one shoulder, one long, slender brown arm stretched on to the table, fingers resting at the base of a tall wine glass. Marco was next to her, frowning into a mobile phone display, in front of him a tumbler of mineral water. Celia pushed open the heavy glass door.
Beate turned her head and raised a hand, beckoning Celia over; Celia smiled back and began to remove her coat in the warmth. It was still early and apart from the three of them the place was almost empty; behind the long, curved bar the white-aproned barman was restocking a wine rack that went from floor to ceiling. Celia recognized him from somewhere. They moved around the city mysteriously, the good barristas, floor managers, wine waiters; when a new place opened up there they’d be, giving it the imprimatur of quality, speaking their perfect, courteous English. ‘Salve,’ she said to him, and the barman narrowed his eyes, placing her, then smiled. Leonardo, that was his name. Leo. Celia nodded towards Beate’s table and asked for a glass of white wine. Leo inclined his head, and Celia wondered whether she should have specified a grape variety and vintage; it was that kind of place.
The lighting in the bar was dim, uplighters on the cream-plastered walls, and Celia’s eyes took some time to adjust, but it was, she saw in the long mirrors that ran along the length of the leather banquettes, a flattering light. This was a place for the older, wealthier client. Celia slid behind the pale wood table beside Beate, who laid an arm along the seat back and pressed her cheek against Celia’s. She smelled of wine and the heavy scent she always wore, old-fashioned, sweet. Marco put down his mobile phone and regarded Celia with new interest.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘I hear you are a high-flyer, these days, Celia. Lucas Marsh, eh?’
Celia’s heart sank a little; she didn’t want to be reminded of how big a deal Lucas Marsh was. She nodded, aware of Marco’s eye on her, but just then the barman came over with a little tray, set down her own huge glass one third filled with wine, and some little bowls of the tiny olives that came from Liguria. ‘The wine is from Sicily,’ he said politely. ‘I think you will like it.’
‘So,’ Celia said reluctantly once Leo had left. ‘What is all this about Lucas Marsh? What exactly is it that he does?’ She took a sip of wine; it was full-flavoured, aromatic stuff, and she felt it burn as it hit her empty stomach.
Marco gave an elegant little shrug of his broad, tailored shoulders. ‘That would be telling, as you say.’ He smiled, and took a draught of his mineral water, frowning down at the ice-cubes in the glass in mock dismay. ‘Tcha,’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t ask for ice. Everything here is for Americans now.’ He said something over Celia’s head to the barman that she couldn’t follow, but the man just smiled a little and went on polishing the big glasses that hung along the bar. It was just a distraction, anyway, keeping her in suspense. Perhaps he regretted letting on that he knew anything about Marsh, or perhaps it had all been bluff, pretending he knew more than he did. Suddenly Celia didn’t feel like letting it drop; after all, this would probably be her only chance to find out anything about the Marshes, and the wine had made her reckless, and curious.
‘Come on, Marco, either you know or you don’t.’ And she took another drink.
Marco made a little wagging, equivocating movement with his neat, distinguished head as if to say, Maybe. Maybe, maybe not. Then he relented. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Lucas Marsh is a lawyer. A good lawyer, and I think a charming man. Very nice, very rich.’ He paused, looking at Celia, wondering if that would satisfy her. She laughed.
‘Very illuminating,’ she said. ‘You can do better than that.’
Marco just smiled, taking a sip of his water; the icecubes rattled against the glass. Beate leaned against him, pressed her cheek against his, draining her wine. ‘Spill the beans, darling,’ she said, setting the glass back on the table. ‘What good are you if we can’t get the inside story?’
Marco shrugged. ‘The truth is, I don’t really know much about him personally, not anything… concrete. Lucas Marsh is one of those people who gets very rich and no one’s quite sure how he’s done it. He’s tough though, that’s for sure; he works for some pretty intimidating people, big boys from the East. Russian money.’
Celia frowned. ‘Is he a crook?’
Marco made hushing movements with his hands, looking offended. ‘No, no,’ he said, but in a tone of voice Celia recognized as particularly Italian, a tone that meant, the truth is a flexible substance, words can mean one thing, or they can mean quite the opposite. He clicked his teeth. ‘Lucas Marsh – well, I have a theory there’s something going on there, something in his past, it’s often the way with rich men, there’s something that drives them. You know?’
Celia wasn’t sure that she did; suddenly Lucas Marsh was all of a piece with the groups of carabinieri that seemed to be everywhere these days, bringing menace to the lovely galleried courtyard of the Uffizi, walking among the crowds. What was the world coming to? She gazed out through the tinted glass; on the other side of the river the proud, golden facade of the Palazzo Ferrigno rose above the river, its windows dark and shuttered tonight. It suddenly seemed a sinister place, somewhere you could imagine poisonings or assassinations plotted in its rambling corridors.
Marco’s ten minutes came and went and he showed no sign of leaving; having Lucas Marsh as a client had obviously conferred greater status on Celia than she had ever enjoyed in his eyes before. She found this quite amusing and they chatted on quite happily, although Beate didn’t contribute much; it was only when she looked at her watch that Celia realized it was ten o’clock and there had been none of the catching up she’d planned. She was disconcerted.
‘Oh,’ she said unhappily. ‘Beate, I didn’t realize – I’ve been jabbering on—’
‘Never mind,’ said Beate, waving away her apologies; she was incapable of taking offence, perpetually agreeable. ‘There’ll be another time.’
Marco stood up, frowning. ‘But I must go,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘I’m flying to Berlin in two hours. You can chat now, surely?’ He pulled on his coat, lifted a hand in farewell, but before he got more than a couple of paces he turned back.
Celia turned to look at Beate, who was lighting another cigarette, watching Marco’s back disappearing through the glass doors. ‘I’ve got to be up early,’ she began uncertainly, apologetically, feeling tomorrow weighing on her already as Marco’s words settled in her mind.
Beate took a deep drag on her cigarette and patted Celia absently on the hand. ‘Of course you do,’ she said with distant kindness. ‘Off you go now.’
It was eight-thirty by the time Luisa let herself into the building in the crowded, narrow streets between Santa Croce and the river. When she came to her own front door, anonymous green-painted steel, triple-locked, with her husband’s name beside it, she involuntarily held her breath as she always did until the lock turned once, twice, three times, the door was open and she knew if he was in or not. The hall was dark and cold and Luisa felt its chill air settle across her shoulders like a weight as she put down her bags in the kitchen. She felt like a different person here, large and clumsy, as though she took up too much space. She went into the kitchen, turning on lights. She felt it descend on her, the dimness, the gloom she’d felt in bed early this morning, and fought it.
There was stale smoke on the air and there were two cigarette ends in the ashtray on the oilcloth; he’d been back then and gone out again. Luisa emptied the ashtray into the bin, wiped it out with a cloth and set it back on the table. Still standing, she unpacked the shopping – bread, black cabbage, sausage, fennel seeds – focusing on what she had to cook. That’s what married life is all about, her mother’s voice scolded her out of the past, none of that romantic rubbish. Food on the table. As she took out onions, carrot, celery, garlic, began to dice the vegetables, put a flame under the frying pan and the mingled smells of herbs and olive oil rose to fill the air, Luisa’s shoulders relaxed a little.