Errant Angels (3 page)

Jez looked at Victoria with a bemused expression on his face. He still had no idea who Roberta was. The elderly woman was about to turn once again and resume her own progress when Victoria spoke.

‘I don't quite follow ya. What about this wedge-shaped building?'

‘That's where Roberta works. If you want to know anything about Lucca she's the person you want to ask. She's a mine of information and extremely helpful, too. And she speaks excellent English, you'll be pleased to know.'

‘Do we just go in and ask for her? Can we do that if she's at work? Won't her boss mind?' asked Victoria
who, like Jez, was starting to become more than a little confused by the direction the conversation had taken.

‘Of course you can, my dear,' smiled the elderly woman. ‘That's her job. She works in the Tourist Information Office. There are several around the city, but Roberta's is usually the first port of call for any tourists needing help. It's so terribly convenient to the railway station, you see. And I think she has a map of the city that would be of great help to you.'

She smiled at them and turned around to continue forwards. The bells of the city suddenly started to chime.

‘Good heavens! Is that the time?' she said, suddenly struggling with some considerable difficulty to bring her wristwatch into view.

Victoria's eyes widened slightly as she saw that it was a Cartier – one of the older, more expensive models; she had made it her business to notice such things, ever since she had been old enough to understand fashion.

‘I'm afraid I really do have to fly. I have to get almost to the top end of town before closing. It's been so nice meeting you,' she said, shaking each of them by the hand, ‘but I really must be off now. I do hope that you enjoy your stay here in Lucca. And don't forget the Puccini Museum, will you…
Via Calderia
and follow the signs. Oh, and don't forget to tell Roberta that I sent you. Goodbye!'

And with that she marched on up the street towards the
Piazza Napoleone
, in a welter of dog, leash and large ‘Pisa Museums' carrier bag.

‘For God's sake, look at the old bird go, will ya!' muttered Jez as they watched her diminishing form rapidly disappear. ‘And
we
were walking slowly so as not to tire
her
out!' he continued in some disbelief.

‘And did ya notice the watch?' asked Victoria. ‘Cartier – one of the older models, very retro and highly desirable – costs a bloody fortune, if ya can find one.'

‘Can't say that I did notice it,' replied Jez, ‘but it certainly seems that she's not quite as ancient as she appears. And aren't we going to look a little stupid telling this Roberta that we've been sent by … who? She never did tell us who she is!'

5

‘You are going to have to pay for that lot,' hissed Anna angrily, in competition with the spluttering steam spout on the Gaggia. ‘You really are nothing better than a clumsy idiot!' She was trying to keep her voice down as a steady stream of contented tourists ambled past the ornate counter towards the door. Closing time at the
Café Alma Arte
was drawing ever nearer and the legion of coaches, which waited patiently for their cargoes outside the city walls, would soon ferry the tourists back to their hotels in Pisa or Florence, the lingering pleasure of their short visit to the café clinging to their taste buds.

‘It was an accident, for Christ's sake,' replied a tall, sunburnt youth, as he knelt on the tiled floor picking up the smashed pieces of white crockery. Despite his tan, the tell-tale spots and pimples of early manhood were clearly visible. ‘And I don't see why I should pay if it was an accident. Such things happen.'

‘And they always seem to happen to
you
…
poverino
,' continued Anna, the anger in her voice suddenly masked by a warm Tuscan smile, as yet another little column of satisfied and revitalised tourists strolled towards the door.

‘
Ciao
…
Arrivederci
… Thank you,' she beamed whilst mentally continuing to berate her unfortunate cousin. ‘Poor
clumsy
you,' repeated Anna once their customers had moved on. ‘
Papà
and your father will have something to say about this,' she hissed at the unfortunate youth, as the
bevelled glass door closed, ‘and count yourself lucky that the cups were all empty!'

‘
Papà
already knows I hate this business,' continued Verriano. ‘I'm only here because he made me. I've told you that … you and Gianni. I'm into computers, not fancy cakes and cups of
cappuccino
.'

Verriano was certainly working at the
Café Alma Arte
under sufferance. Neither he, nor his elder brother, had ever had any interest in their own family's business, which had been one of the most popular restaurants in Viareggio long before the time of Mussolini and even that of
maestro
Puccini himself. The assumption that the elder son would dutifully continue the established tradition and simply allow himself to be subsumed into the family business had been rudely dashed when Andrea had upped sticks and left for London. A long-festering family situation, remembered in the Italian way with deep resentment, had been further compounded when Verriano had announced that he wished to go to the university in Pisa to study computers. Uncle Federico, at his wit's end, determined that Verriano should be removed from the immediate family circle so that he could get some broader life experience working in another, but similar, environment. This would be under the guidance of his cousin, Gianni, whom Verriano had always looked up to. On that basis, Verriano had been despatched from Viareggio to the café in Lucca with instructions to Gianni to knock some sense into the errant youth's head. Seething at the injustice of his current situation, Verriano set about clearing up the mess. Somewhat petulantly, he snapped, ‘And why is that machine making so much noise?'

‘Don't change the subject and make sure you clean up
all
the pieces and don't try and get away with flicking any under the counter!' replied Anna, picking up a damp cloth and turning to go and clean the tables that now stood empty amongst the thinned-out crush in the café. Once she
had turned her back on him and walked out of view, the youth mimicked his cousin's instruction.

‘Even if it
was
an accident, such carelessness isn't going to help Uncle Federico change his mind,' whispered Gianni, who had been taking cash from yet another departing group of tourists. ‘People like us have no need of computers and we don't have any need of universities either. It is our duty to keep the family business going.'

‘That's why, one day soon, this place and the one in Viareggio will have to close … because there's more to life in the twenty-first century than fancy cakes and noisy Gaggias,' replied Verriano as he stood in front of Gianni. In his hands he held the tray on which rested a pile of assorted crockery fragments resembling something recently recovered from an archaeological excavation. As his hands were full with the results of his recent carelessness, his pent-up, rebellious anger caused him to lash out with his foot and kick the base of the wooden unit on the top of which resided the noisy coffee-making machine.

‘Oouw!' he yelled, as the soft toe cap of his designer trainers made no attempt to protect his toes from the force of the kick. ‘Bloody thing …'

The Gaggia continued to splutter and spit, somewhat contentedly.

‘Just make sure that you don't drop that lot a second time,' said Gianni, pointing an admonishing finger at the tray and its contents.

‘Yeah, yeah!' replied Verriano as he limped off towards the kitchens and the rubbish bin.

‘Do you still say that she'll come today?' asked Anna, softly, as she knelt down and started to transfer the cakes remaining in the cabinet to the chilled storage space at the back of the counter. ‘It's still not too late to place a small bet … either way.'

Gianni Canetti smiled down tolerantly at his sister, but
didn't reply; although he had not shared the inverted word of revelation on the front of his apron with anyone, it still lingered faintly in the back of his mind:
MORTE
. He bent into the cavernous space of the large display cabinet and took out the remains of two large cream cakes. Then he turned to pass them down to his sister.

‘Of course she'll come. It is Thursday and you know how set the English are when it comes to a routine – they run on clockwork, like I have already said.'

A short walk down the
Via Fillungo
, the lady in question remembered that she had to call in at Barattoni's Pharmacy. Animals were not permitted within the antiseptic confines of Barattoni's, which meant that Carlo would have to be tied to the large metal ring set into the wall and sit patiently on the cobbled street until she re-emerged into the afternoon heat. Being left out in the street was something Carlo did not enjoy, not so much because of any sense of abandonment, but because there were always one or two tourists who could not resist the temptation to talk to him in somewhat childish tones or – the worst affront of all – try to pat him patronisingly on his head. Carlo Quinto, the fifth Charles of Maltese poodle extraction to be owned by the Contessa over the years, had never made friends easily and was a great respecter of his own aloofness, no matter how ‘cute' certain gullible tourists to his city – usually Americans – found him.

‘Here we are,' said the Contessa, transferring the large ‘Pisa Museums' bag from her left to her right arm and securing Carlo's leash through the ring. ‘Now, I want you to be a good boy and behave yourself. I'll be back in a minute.' The dog paid no heed to either the Contessa or to the rattle of the bag's contents, as the Contessa deposited it against the wall of the building behind where Carlo was sitting on his haunches. He looked far from pleased. He growled softly.

They were standing opposite the
Torre del Ore
, Lucca's tall
fourteenth-century tower, the large clock face of which could be seen from all over the city. The Contessa paused for a moment and looked up at the hands. It was almost a quarter to five. Then she smiled, as she thought how apt it was that Barattoni's, the pharmacy which had been there for nearly a century and a half and which was the necessary key to the prolonged survival of many of Lucca's residents (the ill and the aged), should be located under the enormous shadow of the instrument that measured the remains of their allotted life span. It was not a morbid reflection on her mortality, but rather an ironic observation on the active life she had made it her mission to enjoy to the full. With concerts to organize and charity work to be done, time waited for no man; even Carlo would have to wait for
Signor
Barattoni to dispense her medication.

‘I am leaving you in charge of the bag, so stop complaining and keep a watchful eye on it,' said the Contessa as she straightened up, turned and pushed open the pharmacy door.

‘Why are you so concerned about this one woman?' asked Anna, looking up from her crouching position. ‘Even if she
has
been a great help to the family, she is still a mad old woman and to make matters worse, she is a mad old
English
woman. They are all the same and –'

‘What was that? They're all the same? Oh dear! It
is
nearly five o'clock. Have I left it too late to have my usual selection, Gianni?' asked an elderly voice from the customers' side of the counter. ‘I didn't quite catch what you said, Anna dear… Still can't. It's these earphone things… I've got them a bit tangled with my glasses, you see. Just a minute and … Carlo, will you stop that this instant! You are a bad boy!'

There was the sound of falling objects as her large shopping bag hit the floor at her feet. It was followed almost
immediately by the sudden eruption of loud, strenuous yapping. Even allowing for the bulk of the counter that separated them, the barking seemed to be only marginally removed from the spot where Anna's face was. In fact, so sudden had been its commencement that it had given her quite a start, which caused her to flick the plate she was holding upwards slightly, like a ping-pong bat. A slice of cake toppled majestically over the side and landed in a flattened, creamy heap on the floor between her feet.

Bugger it! Can't blame Verriano for that one
, she thought as she stood up to see who had caused the disturbance. As she straightened up, even before her vision cleared the top of the counter, she realized perfectly well who was responsible. In front of her stood an elderly lady, tastefully dressed in the style of, perhaps, forty years before. A large carrier bag, emblazoned with the legend ‘Pisa Museums' lay at a crazy angle on the floor at her feet. Around her neck hung a pair of thick-lensed glasses in frames which would not have looked out of place in an optician's catalogue of the 1950s. Between the spectacles, hanging from a fine gold chain, dangled a delicately worked, heart-shaped locket in gold. Tangled up with the glasses and locket was the wire and earpiece of a Walkman. The other earpiece was still firmly plugged into an ear and it was open to debate as to exactly what was making the most noise – Carlo, the belligerent Maltese poodle, or the recording of Elgar's first ‘Pomp and Circumstance March', the ‘Land of Hope and Glory'. The strains of the famous piece suddenly seemed to fill most of the café with distorted, tinny sound, despite the otherwise perfect performance by the Royal Choral Society and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. From the far end of the café Verriano paused in his sweeping and turned to look at the source of the distortion. He was into heavy metal, but even his music didn't distort his iPod to quite the same extent.

‘Just a minute, Gianni… Would you hold that for me,
please?' The Contessa passed a small handbag and a paper bag emblazoned with the green cross of
Farmacia Barattoni
over the top of the counter. ‘I should be able to sort this out with both hands free.'

At the end of his leash, which was slipped over his mistress's left hand, the Maltese poodle continued to yap at the remaining customers. In truth, it was more of a snarling growl. Carlo Quinto was almost as eccentric as his owner and took to yapping and snarling at anything for no apparent reason. That was why it had been decided that the dog took after his mistress. Although she did not yap or snarl as Carlo did, it was a well-known fact that she was most definitely an eccentric – and an English one at that.

Time seemed to have suddenly stopped as most of the eyes remaining in the
Café Alma Arte
turned to stare, almost disbelievingly, at the short figure at the counter.

‘Let me turn this thing off,' she said as she took the Walkman out of her pocket. ‘If I can just find the button without my glasses… Nearly there,' she said, her grey-blue eyes sparkling in open defiance of her age. ‘I think that I've pressed the right button.'

The café suddenly fell silent. Cups of coffee and cakeladen forks remained suspended in mid-air between the table and the customers' mouths in expectation of what might happen next.

Gianni Canetti watched with compassionate amusement. The Contessa didn't usually get herself into such a muddle. In fact, given her well-known ability to organize her concerts and various other charitable events, he knew her to be capable of a great deal of logical, careful planning. As he watched, he guessed that his own grandmother must be of a similar age to this woman, although she was far less active and not quite of the Contessa's mental capability.
Nonna
was also a lot clumsier and was always dropping things, especially when in the kitchen. Perhaps, he thought,
the Contessa was allowed to have the occasional moment of disorganisation. His glance flicked down to the handbag and then to the pharmacy bag he still held in his hand. A shadow of sadness flashed across his mind with the speed of an express train and then it was gone again. Perhaps what he was watching with such compassion was simply part of growing old.

‘If I pass this through there … and put this thing into my shopping bag for the moment…' Her glasses, suspended at the end of their chain, which had become hopelessly tangled with the wire of the earpiece, suddenly fell free against her chest as she bent down to put the Walkman into the ‘Pisa Museums' bag. Carlo turned and yapped at her as she did so. ‘Sssshh! You are a noisy dog,' she said, reaching out to pat the tussled white curls of the dog's head. There was an instant flash of mutual affection between the two – a confirmation that each had been made for and had found the other. ‘Now, where was I?' she asked absently as she straightened up again, putting the pointed glasses on her face. ‘Good afternoon, Gianni. How are you today? What was that you said a few moments ago? I didn't quite catch it. Wasn't it something about everything being the same?'