A Florentine Revenge Read online

  Suddenly Celia found herself growing impatient. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Really, Dan. Not now, I mean, it’s two years, isn’t it? Forget it.’

  They were still standing in the open doorway; out of the corner of her eye she detected movement in the dark interior of the church. Emma Marsh came up to them out of the gloom and looked from Dan to Celia, and back again. There was something shrewd and appraising in her glance; Celia had the impression she had the measure of them immediately, and for a moment the childlike quality Celia had seen in her was entirely absent. Then she smiled again, her face bright and blank and open.

  ‘Well,’ she said gaily, ‘where’s that husband of mine got to?’

  Fortunately the restaurant knew Celia well enough to hold the reservation for them; aware of how busy the place would be, she took the precaution of phoning ahead when Lucas Marsh seemed to be nowhere to be found outside the church. On a Friday, lunch and dinner, the Quattro Leoni was always packed. She could hear the noise down the line, behind the cheerful voice of Stefano, the maître d’; the long table shared by locals, artisans and antique dealers was always loud with gossip, girlfriends out shopping sharing a lunch, businessmen and tourists, a bustling, happy mixture.

  After a long moment spent standing, an awkward threesome, on the threshold of the church, Celia had eventually blurted a vague introduction, and graciously Emma Marsh had taken Dan’s hand and given it a little shake. Celia saw him take her in, her lovely, expensive coat, her pretty pink and whiteness, and with a pang she realized that it was Emma Marsh, in fact, who embodied the glowing, healthy Englishness Dan had always professed to love in Celia. But he seemed more awed than anything, letting her hand drop; Emma, perhaps, was out of his league. Beside her he looked small, jaded, a little sallow; you and me both, thought Celia with a spasm of fellow-feeling.

  ‘I saw him out here a minute ago,’ Celia said, gesturing towards the wide marble steps and the view. ‘He can’t have got far.’ And she stepped past Dan and out into the fresh, cool air.

  There had been no sign of Lucas Marsh at the front of the church; they’d wandered around the striped green and white facade into the cemetery and that was where they found him, eventually, walking the narrow, oppressive paths between the tombs at the back. He was still talking into the phone as they approached from behind, staring at a miniature temple in marble, shaking his head. ‘No,’ Celia heard him say. ‘Absolutely not.’ He sounded coldly furious, and quite oblivious to his surroundings, to the breathtaking view he might have had if he were to turn around, to the fact that he was supposed to be on holiday celebrating his wife’s birthday. Celia wondered if these were the sacrifices Lucas Marsh had to make for his money; she looked at Emma Marsh and wondered if it was worth it.

  ‘Darling?’ Emma sounded anxious. She didn’t seem a woman made easily insecure. Standing back and pretending to look at the view so as not to intrude, all the same Celia listened – she couldn’t help herself.

  Lucas turned abruptly at the sound of her voice and snapped the phone shut. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said quickly, but Celia could hear frustration in his voice that came close to anger. ‘Just work.’ She heard Emma Marsh sigh, not angry but forlorn all of a sudden.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ she said plaintively.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, then again with an effort, more gently, ‘Sorry, darling.’

  Gabriele had been waiting for them patiently under the trees, the engine of his gleaming dark blue saloon purring quietly. Inside the car smelled of leather and Gabriele’s aftershave; he was wearing an ironed white shirt and Celia felt a wave of gratitude. Once in the car Lucas and Emma Marsh seemed quite at ease again; Celia told them something about the restaurant, what was good to order, the wine list. ‘They speak English,’ she said; ordering food in a foreign language seemed to faze a surprising number of high-powered clients.

  ‘Oh, Lucas speaks Italian,’ said Emma gaily. ‘Don’t you, darling?’

  ‘Really?’ said Celia, impressed; she should have guessed, of course, from his pronunciation, but it was unusual in an Englishman. A bit of French, some German, but almost none of them spoke Italian. They thought of it as a comedy language, something operatic and full of bluster, and often were quite unaware of Dante, Boccaccio, the Promessi Sposi, never mind Calvino or Morante. She was curious suddenly. ‘Where did you learn?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lucas Marsh vaguely, looking out of the window. They were winding sedately through the tree-lined boulevard that circled the city to the south, and the old walls had just come into sight. ‘School, you know. A long time ago.’ Celia nodded automatically but she was surprised; he must have had plenty of practice since, she thought, perhaps on those business trips to Milan. ‘A Renaissance man, then,’ she said politely. ‘Many talents.’ Emma Marsh beamed at this, holding her husband’s arm, but he just went on looking out of the window. Celia could tell from the back of Gabriele’s head that he was listening too.

  Once at the restaurant it all happened very quickly; smiling, poised, the picture of happy elegance, Emma and Lucas Marsh were ushered inside. Gabriele looked up at Celia inquiringly from the driver’s seat. ‘I’d better make sure they’re happy,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Thanks, Gabri. Sorry you had to wait.’ Good-naturedly Gabriele just shrugged. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Want a drink later?’ She could tell he wanted to gossip, to find out about these two.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Celia. ‘I’ll call you.’ Gabriele looked at her then with an expression that, for once, she found herself unable to interpret, but then he smiled, touched two fingers to his temple like an American salute, and he was off, the dark car surging away from her down the narrow street towards the Via Maggio.

  Inside the restaurant pine garlands decorated with silvery glass baubles hung from the high beams; the air smelled sweet and resinous and was full of exuberant, festive noise. She’d specified a particular table for the Marshes, secluded but not too far from the action, in a corner beside the window; as she approached they were already seated. Every table in the room was full; along the wall a party of close to twenty Italians were being served with antipasti, the long plates heaped with tomatoes and prosciutto and crostini rose and swooped their way between the heads. All the same, despite the bustle, people had turned to observe Lucas and Emma Marsh and Celia could see, suddenly, that they did attract attention, there was something about them. Not just her, but him too. Perhaps it was just money.

  Celia stood, coat on, beside the table. ‘Everything okay?’ she said briskly, wanting them not to be awkward, as some clients were, about not inviting her to eat with them. She suddenly wanted to be on her own, feeling the intimacy of the Marshes’ marriage pressing in on her. Lucas Marsh was scrutinizing the menu; in an open-necked shirt, without the expensive armour of his dark cashmere coat, he looked oddly vulnerable. Emma Marsh nodded happily. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘You are clever.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the Uffizi at three, then,’ Celia said, smiling, trying to disguise her eagerness to be off. ‘Don’t be late.’

  From behind the till Gianna signalled excitedly to Luisa. Luisa eyed her warily across the showroom; she was showing a nice dark suede bag to an unappreciative Frenchwoman, pointing out the quality of the leather, the lining. The French were not Luisa’s favourite customers.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said in her careful, schoolgirl French. Crossing the room towards Gianna she felt uneasy, knowing that her hard-won equilibrium was about to be disturbed.

  ‘What is it?’ she said tersely. Gianna pouted and held up the receiver of the telephone. ‘Your husband,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. Luisa took the phone and turned so she couldn’t see Gianna’s inquisitive, perma-tanned, lip-lined face. ‘Sandro?’ she said, astonished. On the other side of the showroom she saw the Frenchwoman put the suede holdall down and look at it, frowning. For once it didn’t seem to matter if the woman bought it or not, if she understood the workmanship that had gone into it; Luisa was looking at her but she hardl
y saw the woman.

  ‘Sandro?’ she said again. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Can you meet for lunch?’ His voice was abrupt. ‘I’ve got half an hour. We could have a sandwich.’

  Remembering her dash to the bar at eleven, Luisa bit her lip. What would they think? They’d think it wasn’t like Luisa to leave the shop twice in one day, and to have lunch with her husband, what was more. Did they even know what Sandro looked like? Not unless they’d been spying at her front door to see who came in and out; it wasn’t as though she and Sandro did the passeggiata together arm in arm. At the beginning he’d come to collect her after work now and again, what, twenty years ago, but after the baby he’d stopped that, couldn’t stand their pitying looks. As if Luisa could.

  ‘Why?’ she said, bewildered. ‘I mean, you never—’

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ said Sandro, and for a moment he sounded lost. He exhaled. ‘Just wanted to see you.’ His voice was gruff now, covering up.

  ‘Where are you?’ Luisa said quietly. Suddenly she didn’t care what they thought.

  ‘Bar La Posta,’ he said, and all at once she remembered that it was in the Bar La Posta that he’d first spoken a word to her, both of them waiting for the post office opposite to open one frosty morning. ‘Cold,’ he’d said, rubbing his hands together. It seemed so long ago it might have happened to a different person

  ‘Give me a minute,’ she said.

  To her surprise the Frenchwoman took the bag, and a pair of shoes to match. Luisa escorted her to the till and recklessly instructed Gianna to give her a small discount; the Frenchwoman looked surprised when she realized and gave Luisa a little look, a flicker of gratitude, some tiny warmth kindled. Although she wanted to be out of the door Luisa didn’t rush the transaction, it wasn’t in her nature. Carefully she wrapped the holdall in its felt bag stamped with the brand, then tissue, then a carrier ribbon-tied, and the same all over again for the shoes.

  Only once she had slid the bags across the counter to her customer, accepted thanks and checked that the shop floor was quiet did Luisa turn and whisper to Gianna, ‘My husband needs to see me a moment.’ Before Gianna could react Luisa reached past her for a jacket she kept up here in case it turned cold on the shop floor and was out of the door. She didn’t look back but she knew Gianna would be staring after her, mouth half open and ready to summon Beppe down from menswear to talk this over the moment the door closed behind her.

  It was bitterly cold outside, the pavements white with frost; the jacket wasn’t half warm enough. Luisa had left the house in boots that morning but had changed into pumps for the shop floor, and before she’d taken five steps in them her feet were numb. She felt silly, like some girl half-dressed in the street who might be reprimanded at any moment by her mother. Awkwardly she half-ran, to keep warm and to avoid the looks she was getting, round the back of the straw market, through a side street and under the broad arcade that ran along one side of the Piazza della Repubblica and housed the post office.

  Beneath the high, vaulted ceiling of the portico the sound changed, and Luisa heard the echo of her own quick foosteps on the polished marble. The post office was busy with shoppers, couples in hats, scarves, heavy coats, arm in arm. As she slipped between them Luisa was getting out of breath but she was almost there; then she looked up and saw Sandro’s face looking out at her from between two columns and her breath went completely. She saw his expression change as he looked at her; first bemusement, as though he didn’t recognize her, followed by a flicker of something else, something softer, that was almost immediately followed by stern disapproval. Sandro reached out a hand and grasped her by the elbow, pulling her out of the crowd.

  ‘You’ll catch your death,’ he said, with the same note of exasperation Luisa had heard the night before. ‘Come on.’

  When they went into the bar the woman serving produced a sandwich and a caffè latte for Sandro without being asked; no beer, no wine. He took off his cap and laid it on the marble counter. Luisa wondered if he came in here every day, feeling obscurely troubled by the thought that this woman behind the bar might have more to do with her husband than she did herself. Called upon to choose for herself, Luisa looked distractedly into the glass-fronted cabinet and took at random a piece of filled focaccia.

  Without saying anything, Sandro buttoned the jacket around Luisa’s waist; it was an old one, and a little tight, and she felt self-conscious. He turned away quickly and ate his sandwich in two bites; Luisa nibbled at her focaccia with little appetite.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, sounding more abrupt than she had intended, and she thought she heard Sandro sigh. He wiped his mouth with a napkin as if to disguise the sound, took a swig of his caffè latte and looked down into it.

  ‘Can’t a man have a sandwich with his wife?’ He looked at her defensively, and she just shook her head at the pretence that this was normal, for them. He looked away. There’s something he needs to tell me, she thought. He looked back and his faded eyes were frank now. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘I wanted – it’s this – this – the Bartolo thing. The body ’ He stopped, the glass of coffee in mid-air, and frowned.

  ‘It’s good news, isn’t it?’ asked Luisa tentatively; she didn’t sound like herself, she wasn’t used to this – talking. Having her opinion sought. She didn’t want to put him off. ‘I mean, Bartolo’s off your hands?’ Then she paused, considering. ‘I mean, if he did it, that is.’ Then Sandro looked up at her.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He twisted to look over his shoulder, out of the door. ‘You see the others, they’re happy. Overjoyed. Bartolo was a creep by anyone’s standards.’ He looked away. ‘We know things about him, things that you can’t mention in court – anyway. And you’d do it yourself, wouldn’t you, if you’re honest, we’d love the opportunity, most of us. I’d pull the trigger on a man who did that to a child.’ He leaned towards her, intent, his face a couple of inches from Luisa’s; this was the longest speech she’d heard from him in years. He was so close she could see the different colours in his iris, green and tawny. There was stubble on his chin, a sprinkling of white among the black, and it made her sad – he used to look after himself so well. Yes,’ she said, wondering what he was getting at. Earnestly he gazed into her face, searching for something.

  ‘The test results had already come in,’ he said flatly. ‘The DNA test.’

  ‘And?’ she said, confused. He looked away, then back at her.

  ‘Inconclusive.’

  ‘Which means – what? That he didn’t do it?’

  ‘No,’ said Sandro fiercely. ‘That’s not what it means. It means their famous new technique wasn’t that great after all. The sample was too far gone.’ He brought his hand down flat on the counter with a crack that should have hurt him, but he showed no sign. Behind the bar the waitress looked across at them, her mild face showing alarm.

  Luisa was more bewildered than ever. ‘And Bartolo knew, then? If he thought he was in the clear, why would he…?’ She looked at the waitress and lowered her voice. ‘Why would he kill himself?’ Did these tests mean anything to old country people? Did they understand? She saw Bartolo as he’d been pictured in the newspaper, his face impassive and hostile at once, eyes tiny and watchful, like a wild boar’s.

  Sandro didn’t look at her.

  ‘I didn’t tell him,’ he said. ‘I knew eventually I’d have to, but I didn’t see why – I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, so I shuffled the paperwork, misfiled it. I was just so angry. Inconclusive, what does that mean, after all these years?’

  ‘It means you can’t be sure,’ said Luisa quietly. Does he think he’s responsible that the man killed himself, she wondered. Is that what’s eating him? It occurred to her at the same time that someone might find out that he’d kept the test results from Bartolo, and there must be some human rights law against that. No wonder he’s in a state.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said savagely and, it seemed to Luisa without thinking, he took her
wrist and held it so tight it hurt. His voice was full of contempt, but she couldn’t tell if it was for the system, for himself, or for her. ‘Oh yes. We have to be sure, don’t we?’

  11

  Celia was sitting in the Boboli Gardens, on a stone bench under a fragrant, unkempt bay hedge. She could have gone home to eat her sandwich but the sky was such a clear, brilliant blue that she thought she’d take advantage of the daylight; it was very cold, however, and the labyrinth of hedges and alleys that made up the formal garden was almost deserted. Picnicking, strictly speaking, was forbidden in the Boboli, but it would have taken a very hard-hearted keeper to stop Celia eating her modest lunch – a couple of slices of prosciutto in a hard, flatbread roll – on a cold, quiet day like this. After her morning’s work it was just what she wanted, something uncomplicated to eat and a place to chew on it in meditative peace.

  He’d hardly said a thing all morning, had he? And she had chattered; at the time it had seemed just how things were between them, one silent, one vivacious, plenty of couples had that kind of attraction of opposites thing. But at this distance Celia found herself wondering whether there hadn’t been something nervous about Emma Marsh’s brightness, something distracting about it. Who would she be trying to distract, though, and from what? Who Lucas Marsh had been talking to at San Miniato, that fragment of furious conversation Celia had overheard, the note of anger in his voice when he’d been interrupted, seemed, in retrospect, more complex and troubling than merely a work problem breaking in on an idyllic holiday. And he’d been talking in Italian, hadn’t he? For a wild moment Celia imagined Lucas involved in some clandestine deal in the city, a secret double life, a network of local contacts. She wondered, more reasonably, why he had taken Emma to see Milan, a cold, grey, industrious city, and never before to Florence.

  In front of Celia the mist seemed to be growing denser; she could hardly see the top of the cedar tree now, from which a heron had flapped heavily away when she’d sat down, and the hedge opposite was grey and indistinct. She stretched, rubbed her hands together in the cold, and looked at her watch. Two-fifteen. Another ten minutes, then she’d make her way across the river to the Uffizi, maybe grab an espresso to warm her up, but for now she was enjoying being here, the mist, the silence, the ghostly emptiness of the park. She fished in her bag for her water bottle and encountered the newspaper she’d bought that morning, unfolded it and looked at the headline.