A Florentine Death (13 page)

It was a statement, not a question: a statement she didn't expect to be contradicted.

'Listen, Cinzia. I don't want this to be goodbye. I don't think of it that way. It's only for one term. It's something I have to do. I need to concentrate on my thesis. I need to get things straight. So do you. We both need it.'

'You're wrong, as usual. I don't need it. Obviously you do. And that hurts me.'

At twenty, Cinzia had not changed much since her early teens. She was thin, not especially tall, but energetic and strong-willed. She had short, jet-black hair and intense black eyes, and a pointed chin that made her beautiful face look even more vulpine.

She was casually dressed in only a heavy beige woollen sweater that reached down to her knees, and was sitting cross-legged on the pouffe that had pride of place in the small apartment they had shared until today. Two rooms, plus kitchen and bathroom, full of evidence of their short life together. Souvenirs of journeys they had taken together, framed photographs, tasteful furniture carefully chosen in little markets over the years.

'It's a trial separation,' Valentina insisted. All couples do it. We just need to get away from each other for a while, that's all. It's not the end of the world!' She was speaking loudly to conceal her depression.

Away from me, but close to that American.'

She didn't call him by his name. To her, he didn't have one.

'Please don't say that, Cinzia. I don't even know him, he's just someone nice I met by chance. I don't feel anything for him, I've never felt anything for a man.'

'I'd like to believe you. I'd really like to believe you, but I'm afraid. I'm so afraid, Vale. I beg you . . .'

Tears had run down her cheeks and gathered on the tip of her chin, and now they glistened and vibrated as her lips quivered.

Valentina felt a strong impulse to hug her, to make love one last time. What harm could it do?

Cinzia stood up and ran to the bedroom, slammed the door and locked it.

Before going out, Mike Ross left the Philippine woman precise instructions, in English. The woman had recently arrived in Florence and did not know any Italian. That was another reason he had hired her as a part-time housekeeper.

Mike Ross lived in a three-storey villa surrounded by extensive grounds in Bellosguardo, though he only occupied the ground floor. The first floor was empty, but on the second a small apartment had been set aside, complete in every detail but never lived in. Nenita, the Filipina, had orders to open it up, to air the rooms, make sure that everything was tidy, make the beds, and arrange the flowers he'd bought the day before in vases.

It was nine o'clock. If all went well, Valentina would get to the Piazza della Stazione, where he had arranged to meet her, by about
11
. He had plenty of time.

At the newsstand in the Piazza della Signoria he bought a copy of the
New York Times,
and sat calmly reading it, snug and warm in one of the many bars around the Palazzo Ducale. At 10:50, his mobile phone rang.

'It's me, Valentina.'

'I know. Your number showed up. Is everything okay?' 'It's been very foggy; I've had to drive slowly. That's why I'm late.'

'That's all right, don't worry. Where are you now?' About ten minutes from Barberini, I think.'

Mike made a rapid mental calculation, figuring there would not be much traffic on the first day of the year.

'You should be here by eleven-twenty, eleven-thirty at the latest. See you then. I'll be waiting.'

He called the waiter and asked for the bill.

He was astonished, as always, that breakfast in one of these bars cost almost as much as lunch, and yet they were as full as the restaurants, where at least you got decent food for your money.

He looked for his wallet in the wrong pocket and realised there was something in it. It was the letter to Father Rotondi. He had not worn this buckskin jacket since the day he had met Valentina, and had forgotten all about the letter.

He thought of throwing it away. He would find another method of establishing contact. It was too early for that anyway.

But why not keep him dangling? Smiling to himself, he walked to a post box.

'So this is the "little apartment"?'

Valentina did not know whether to be happy or worried.

It was too good to be true. Girls as young and attractive as her didn't usually get their wishes granted without having to give something in return, especially when rich men - of whatever age - were involved.

Nenita had done her work well. Light flooded in through the big windows, even on a grey overcast day like this. The drawing room with its antique furniture glowed, bright with luxuriant bouquets and warmed by a blazing fire in the eighteenth-century marble fireplace. The bedroom was large and welcoming and looked out on a veranda leading to a beautiful square terrace. The kitchen was fully fitted. The bathroom was fragrant with aromatic scents.

'It's part of the house,' Mike explained. 'When I moved in, I decided to take it as well. I didn't want to share the house with some noisy lodger. There wasn't a big difference in price.'

'How much?'

'Let's not talk about that now. The first three months are already paid. See if you like it. If you do, we'll talk again.'

'Don't even think about it. If I don't pay, I leave right now.'

'Where will you go? Florence is full, even in January. You won't find anything now.'

She could always go back to Bologna, Valentina thought. But she didn't want to.

'But you lied to me. You told me it'd be gone if I didn't say yes straight away!'

'How else could I persuade you?' the American replied, with a disarming smile. 'But let's not quarrel. Give me a month, okay? See if you like it before you commit yourself.'

Valentina looked out of one of the windows. How could she not like it? The view was breathtaking.

From this villa on a hill, there was a hundred-and-eighty -degree panorama of the whole city, dominated by Brunelleschi's dome with its miraculous harmony of line and colour. All around, like servants bowing before their master, stretched the huddle of roofs and the warren of little streets out of which rose San Lorenzo and Santa Maria Novella on the left, Santa Croce and the National Library on the right. For the first time Valentina became aware that the cathedral was by far the tallest building in the whole of Florence. It had been that way for centuries, and it would be that way for ever.

‘I’ll leave you now,' Mike Ross said, not giving her time to think. 'If you need anything, ask Nenita, the maid. She's only here in the mornings, but I'm sure you'll manage. Bye.'

*

It did not take Valentina long to get her bearings. In the days that followed, she managed to stop worrying about her host's possible intentions. They led totally separate lives: she was busy with her course, he with his work. He seemed to think of her as a distant acquaintance, or even just as a neighbour he was on good terms with. She did not disturb him, and he did not disturb her.

Sometimes Mike would go away for a few days, then spend whole days shut up in his apartment, listening to classical music and, Valentina supposed, writing his articles. He did not seem to have any friends. Nobody ever visited him.

At the end of the first week, he invited her out to dinner. 'It's time you started to learn the secrets of Florence,' he said.

He took her to Buca Lapi, where they had hot crostini with Colonnata lard and the best Tuscan vegetable, bread and bean soup she had ever tasted.

She was fascinated by the pages of old newspapers, some dating back to the nineteenth century, which covered the vaulted ceiling and walls.

'It's the oldest restaurant in Florence,' Mike explained. 'Originally, it was a tavern where coachmen would stop for a glass of wine and a bowl of tripe, and exchange news. They would pass around the pages of the newspaper as they finished them, crumpled and stained with sauce, oil and wine, and paste them to the wall before leaving. And there they stayed. Obviously, the host at the time wasn't too worried about cleanliness!'

Valentina noticed that at table, thanks to the wine and the conversation, Mike had become quite animated. He seemed charming, slightly affected, almost feminine in the bond he was establishing with her. His eyes, reflecting the warm lights around them in a phantasmagoria of fairy-tale colours, were no longer ice-cold, but full of life and promise.

She preferred not to think it was all due to her presence, although the thought did cross her mind.

'You know Florence well. How long have you lived in Italy? You've never told me.'

'Four years, maybe five. I like it. I think I'm here to stay. Florence has brought me luck, you know? I came here as an art student, and started to write a few articles. They were accepted and went down well.'

'And now you're a famous journalist.'

'Well, I haven't won the Pulitzer yet, but it's true, I'm quite well known. And well paid.' He sounded pleased with himself.

'Do you only write about art and exhibitions?'

'Oh, no. I cover everything. Music, theatre, celebrity interviews . . . You may not believe it, but I'm actually quite an inquisitive person. I'm interested in everything, provided I can find an angle. It could be some news item, a murder, that kind of thing

'Brrr . . .' she said, playfully.

Actually criminal psychology is one of the most fascinating fields nowadays. Even here in Florence there are major crimes sometimes. You remember the Monster? What a story! I'm still trying to find the best way to present it to the American public. I may even write a book about it. And in Bologna, where you come from, isn't there a serial killer around right now?'

'Let's talk about something else, please,' she said, seriously this time. He was right, a maniac was killing prostitutes in Bologna. It was an unpleasant, rather frightening subject.

'Sure, no problem,' he said. 'Let's talk about you.'

'There's not much to say. I'm just an ordinary student trying to finish her studies.'

'And after that?'

'I'm so ordinary, I don't know yet. I'd like to go into films, TV, theatre, something like that. But I could just as easily end up as an assistant in a boutique. This is Italy, not America!'

'You can find America anywhere. You just have to want it. I found it in Italy'

'Lucky you! Anyway, it's not true. You write for the
New York Times,
not the
Corriere della Sera
or
La Repubblica.'

He smiled.
'Touche.
But if your country hadn't given me my first ideas for articles, I'd still be paying my dues in some newsroom in New York or Chicago.'

After dinner, he took her to the Piazzale Michelangelo, from where they had a view of the city similar to the one from their villa, only closer.

She especially liked to see the Arno, shimmering with the reflected lights of the river banks and buildings. Those brown waters seemed so agitated, so pitiless, so barely contained within the rigid lines of the banks, she marvelled that they had not yet swept away the Ponte Vecchio. From here, the bridge seemed so fragile and defenceless.

Just like me,
she reflected as the Porsche sped past the Pitti Palace towards the Via Senese and then home. There, she was sure he would make the pass she was dreading, and she wouldn't know how to say no, how to tell him without hurting him that she wasn't interested in men, that this wasn't the reason she'd accepted either the apartment or his dinner invitation.

But she'd accepted both, she told herself.

And now it was payback time.

She was shaking as the tyres of the Porsche squealed on the gravel of the drive leading to the villa.

She had stomach cramps, and her face was pale and tense.

Are you all right?' he asked, concerned. 'Was I driving too fast?'

'It's probably the wine,' she said apologetically. 'I'm not used to it.'

They went inside the house.