Errant Angels (13 page)

19

‘
Buona sera
,
Signora
Litelli … and thank you, as always,' called Riccardo Fossi from the comfort of his padded leather armchair.

‘Everything is in order and completed for the day,' replied a voice from the inner office. ‘I will see the
Signore
in the morning, as usual.'

The nightly ritual of securing the office was all very formal and perfectly correct – exactly as things should be in such a highly respected organization.

‘
Buona sera
,
Signore
,' she continued, her voice receding until it was finally silenced by the click of the lock on the front door to the office. She was always the last of his small number of staff to leave. It was as if the custodian of so many of the company's secrets felt obliged to stay after everyone else had left, in order to secure those same secrets for the night.

Alone in the calm silence of his little empire, Fossi smiled and allowed himself to sink even further into the luxury of his chair. He was very pleased. Things were going very well; the business was growing steadily (his father would be proud of him), he had his singing and a loyal following of supporters in Lucca, and he and Renata had all the excitement that sailing close to the wind engendered. What more could a man possibly want?

After a few minutes of contented silence he sat forward, unlocked the top drawer of his large wooden desk and opened it. He removed a large pile of innocuous papers
and reached in to the furthest recess of the drawer, feeling for a slightly raised square in the underside of the desk top. As he pressed it, there was a deep click and the bottom of the desk drawer sprang up at the front. Fossi was humming softly to himself as he carefully extracted a flat, leather-bound book from its secret hiding place. He kept details of his ‘special' clients in it – details which were also a kind of insurance policy against future detection or betrayal. One couldn't be too careful when dealing with a certain kind of client. He opened the book, picked up his pen and started to write up notes of his meeting with
Signor
di Leone, the new client who had been sent to him with the personal recommendation of Don Amico Forno. Such a recommendation was very valuable, as it could well be the vanguard of future contacts leading to yet more high-powered clients joining his ‘special' list. It was a discreet, not to say, dangerous business, this ‘special' list, but as long as one maintained the outward appearance of being a true pillar of towering respectability within the community…
Well, what people didn't know couldn't hurt them – or myself, come to that.
Riccardo Fossi smiled as he looked up from his writing, gazed across his darkening office and out of the large window at the skyline of Lucca beyond. He had worked hard to foster a carefully nurtured appearance of absolute respectability, which successfully masked the hidden network of his ‘special' clients.

If any of these names ever became public knowledge… Well…
he thought, but a complacent smile had already spread across his face. There was no chance of that. On the other hand, the reality of such an event actually happening – the names on his ‘special' list falling into the unsympathetic hands of the law – would spell disaster for his highly respected reputation and public standing. To be either remotely connected with the name of the Sicilian Don Amico Forno, or even to be connected to the shady machinations of that
specific geographic location, would place him well beyond the point of salvation. If truth be told, over the years, Fossi had thrived on the hidden danger of his darker, less-respectable side. He pondered the sudden thought that perhaps the ever-faithful
Signora
Litelli knew of the book; but, then again, if she did she would be implicated and that was enough to ensure her silence in the event of an emergency.

He suddenly added words to his humming: ‘
Dei mi bollente spiriti
,' from Verdi's
La Traviata.
At the very thought of the beautiful Violetta, Alfredo's passion bubbled through the music – much the same as his own passion would be aroused long before he met Renata at tomorrow's rehearsal for the COGOL concert.

But why wait for tomorrow?
He decided on a course of action and sat forward to use the telephone. He didn't have to think about the number, which fell automatically under his fingertips. As a precaution he had decided not to program the number into the phone's memory.
Signora
Litelli might look like an old dragon, but she was far from stupid and had a habit of finding out about things. At least, without hard evidence, any suspicions she might develop would remain just that.

That's the way it's done
, he inwardly chuckled as he heard the number dialling. Then, without warning, a cloud suddenly drifted across his handsome features. He froze, staring at the desk in front of him, and quickly replaced the handset. What was it that
Signor
di Leone had said, sitting at that dreadful
Café del Mostro
on the
Piazza Napoleone
? Engulfed in the smell of that establishment's awful coffee, the two men had sat talking, hinting in the broadest terms at what one of them wanted and what the other could possibly deliver. He could hear di Leone's voice again.

‘Therefore, you have to conclude that it is a ludicrous situation. The more successful you become in business, the
more you are legally robbed by the State … if you understand my meaning. Do you not agree that there should be some provision to keep some small part of one's success for oneself? After all, do you not think that such a desire is only fair?' The clouds on Riccardo Fossi's face deepened as he heard the other man's voice fill his head. ‘If we live in an egalitarian society, how can fairness be anything other than that?'

Fossi stared straight ahead into the emptiness of his office. He was not at all sure why he harboured the suspicions that had made him replace the telephone so suddenly; something had tripped the first stage of an alarm in the back of his mind, but he couldn't put his finger on it. There had been many, many questions from the olive grower during the course of their meeting, but no more than was usual in meetings of this nature. And di Leone had come with the personal recommendation of Don Amico Forno, so surely he was what he appeared to be? A frown suddenly added to the disquiet on Fossi's face. The Sicilian Don was known to a great many people – people on both sides of the law. On reflection, perhaps Fossi's present alarm was grounded on the simple fact that di Leone had not offered any kind of tangible proof of his contact with the forces further south. Then again, di Leone had given no obvious reason to even suspect that he was anyone other than whom he claimed to be.

Fossi shrugged and leaned forward on his desk, reliving the meeting in some detail. He had ‘special' clients, as this man hoped to become, and years of experience had taught him to be extremely cautious in his dealings with them. Despite this, he could not remember having such feelings of apprehension with any of the others on his list. And yet he had no reason to believe that this man was anything other than the Sicilian olive oil magnate he professed to be. So why had the nagging doubt suddenly clouded his
thoughts? He sat for some time in his nearly dark office, trying to rationalize his concerns. After the second cigarette he suddenly became aware that he had started to hum
‘E lucevan le stelle
', as he had done earlier in the day on his way to that meeting at the
Café del Mostro
. He lit a third cigarette, but the tune continued to reverberate through the cloud of smoke he exhaled. Was he like the condemned painter Caravadossi in Puccini's masterpiece? As he had walked innocently enough through the picturesque streets of Lucca on his way to the
Piazza Napoleone
, humming Caravadossi's aria, was it a precursor to his own doom and his imminent appearance in front of the firing squad of the law, a victim of the overzealous and omnipresent forces of justice? Lately, he had read of several instances of less than honest people having been caught through entrapment by the undercover forces of the law. Was
that
what was alarming him? Was di Leone a plant? Or perhaps he was a double agent, playing both sides for what he could get out of it? Fossi felt decidedly uneasy about the situation and resolved to carry out some investigations himself. Once decided on that plan, he felt better and could now attend to his more basic needs; he reached for the telephone.

‘
Buona sera, cara mio
,' he purred into the mouthpiece, no trace of his earlier concern over
Signor
di Leone even tinting his voice. ‘I have my lips around your nipple and your ripe breast in my eager hands…'

He heard the surprised intake of Renata's breath and smiled. However, despite the velvet seductiveness of his words and the thought of the erotic fulfilment he hoped to achieve later in the evening, the melody of the condemned tenor's aria still played incessantly in his head.

The stars were brightly shining
, he recalled as he continued whispering into the telephone. It occurred to him that this
Signor
di Leone could be an unknown force, which might just cause his own stars – which had been shining very
brightly for many years – to dim somewhat and for a very long, lonely time. No – he was being ridiculous! There was no reason to suspect that this man was anything other than a greedy industrialist – like the rest of his ‘special' clients. Besides, he had let di Leone do almost all of the talking and had said nothing remotely contentious or incriminating; he had far too much experience to be that stupid on a first meeting. So, why was he still even considering the ludicrous idea that di Leone was an undercover policeman?

‘And now I am licking your navel and going lower and lower…' he continued, filling his mind with the image of Renata di Senno in all of her sexual glory.

At the other end of the line, she giggled softly. ‘The Contessa wants to hold another rehearsal … tonight?' she said, innocently. ‘Well, my husband was called away to Florence this afternoon… Yes, a meeting with someone from the Foreign Ministry in Rome…'

‘And now I've reached that part of you that only I can truly excite…' continued Fossi.

‘…I could perhaps attend, but I'd have to make arrangements for my maid to have my husband's meal ready for when he returns home…'

The telephone extension was in the large farmhouse-style kitchen. Renata had her back to the large window, in front of which were twin sinks and
Signora
Tabita Agostini – the di Senno's maid of many years. She had learned to recognize the sound of her mistress's dalliances long before. She paused in her preparation of the vegetables for the evening meal and stood as if looking out of the window. In reality, she was carefully observing her employer's reflection in the glass, which appeared against the darkened sky like an image on a television screen.

‘Yes, that should be possible, then. Please tell the Contessa I will come,' continued Renata.

‘You will … many times, I hope,' purred Riccardo Fossi.
‘My apartment … as soon as you can.'

‘Very well … and thank you,' said Renata, replacing the telephone and only just managing to suppress the snort of excitement Fossi's statement had just provoked.

‘Tabita, I have to attend the Contessa's extra rehearsal. Can I leave you to see to my husband when he returns from Florence?'

Tabita Agostini didn't bother to turn around. She had seen Renata's reflection disappear from the window and knew that she was once again alone in the kitchen. She looked down into the bowl of vegetables she was peeling and was not in the least surprised to find that she was holding a rather large courgette. She smiled knowingly to herself as she proceeded to gently wash it.

20

With just a few days to go, the Contessa was still fussing around ensuring that everything was in place and would be ready for the concert. Even so, she was still able to find the time to complete another of her duties within the confines of Lucca. It would be a chance to get away from the worries of the organization of her concert and to seek a passage of time in some peaceful and tranquil surroundings talking to an old friend.

It was almost mid-morning before the Contessa, accompanied by Carlo Quinto, found herself in the top northwestern part of Lucca on the well-worn steps of the convent of Saint Jerome Emiliani in
Via delle Conce.

‘Not long now,' she said, looking down at the dog, ‘and then you can have some water.'

She manoeuvred the large ‘Pisa Museums' bag and the dog's leash so that she could reach up and pull down on the antique bell-pull, which dangled from a rusty chain next to the heavy wooden double doors. Somewhere in the dark, secret recesses of the building a bell tinkled softly in response to her tugging. She had nearly tripped over Carlo before almost toppling off the top step herself, as she held the ornate bell-pull in her hand.

‘Ooh! You really are a
bad
boy at times,' she said as she regained her balance. ‘Why can't you just sit still and wait like other dogs?'

Never one to miss an opportunity to take the upper hand, Carlo Quinto smiled calmly up at her, fangs clearly visible,
the picture of innocence. It was a peculiar sort of smile – a mixture of humour and something else almost bordering on affectionate aggression, as if to silently say, ‘Don't worry; if you'd fallen I'd have caught you.' As ridiculous as this promise seemed, it nevertheless underpinned the deep bond of affection which existed between the two; theirs was a bizarre relationship, not unlike that which had existed between the Contessa and Elizabeth for over half a century. Carlo Quinto yapped twice and then dusted off the top step with several energetic wags of his tail.

‘You really are a funny one,' muttered the Contessa. ‘Sometimes I just don't under –'

She was stopped in mid-sentence by the sound of a bolt being drawn back on the other side of the doors. A small flap in the centre of the left-hand one suddenly flew open and a pair of bright-blue eyes peered out into the freedom and glare of the street.

‘Yes?' came a soft voice from the deep shadows below the smiling eyes.

‘Good morning, sister,' replied the Contessa. ‘I've come to see the Reverend Mother.'

As quickly as it had opened, the flap suddenly closed again and the bolt was driven home. After a few seconds there was the sound of a much heavier bolt being withdrawn and then, slowly, one half of the heavy, carved doors swung majestically open on its huge, worn, iron hinges. It creaked loudly as it did so – like a hopelessly out of tune choir. As the gap slowly widened, the Contessa became aware of a figure clothed from head to foot in flowing black, the folds of which – stirred by the breeze from the street – billowed gracefully towards the darkened interior of the building. The blue eyes were encased in a not unpleasant, smiling face, which was only separated from the mountain of black fabric by the thin white outline of her wimple. So complete was the appearance of the pale face in the
darkness that the Contessa found it difficult to distinguish where the cool, welcoming darkness of the entrance lobby ended and the bodily form of this nun began. The nun stood respectfully back and motioned to them to enter. Behind them, she closed the door on its complaining hinges, symbolically cutting them off from the world outside. Then she glided past them and, gesturing to them to follow, she walked off silently.

The little procession made its way through a maze of short, twisting corridors towards the centre of the ancient building. Everywhere was scrupulously clean and a faint smell of something bracingly antiseptic hung in the air. The Contessa couldn't place it at first, although it was not unfamiliar. Borax? Borax and something else – incense, perhaps? Or was it just mustiness, bordering on decay? As they continued, the only sounds were their measured footfalls and the regular, staccato clipping of Carlo's claws on the marble floor tiles. They passed rooms that had once echoed to the sound of children's voices raised in the recitation of the times tables, verb declensions or the Catechism. The sounds belonged to the ghosts of the past, as the rooms were now mostly empty and unused. The children had long since been removed from the orphanage.

‘Oh, my goodness… How beautiful!' exclaimed the Contessa as they passed through a doorway and entered the shade of a colonnaded cloister. ‘I don't think that I have ever seen your garden looking so enchanting,' said the Contessa pausing to take in the vibrancy of the colours. It was a dramatic contrast to the almost bleak austerity of the interior of the building. ‘How magical…'

Realising that her footfalls were the only ones to be heard, the nun suddenly stopped and turned.

‘
Si bella no? Questi fiori…
' said the Contessa, realising that the nun probably did not speak English. The nun smiled and bowed her head gently. She said nothing. In fact, in the
many years that the Contessa had visited the convent – since the dark days of 1947, shortly after Enrico had been taken from them – she couldn't remember any of the sisters ever saying anything. Originally she had thought it odd, as they were not a silent order, but then she had put it down to the fact that their devotion to God occupied so much of their waking time that they simply didn't feel the need to talk to anyone else. That had been the case over the years and seemed to be so now. As they walked on, the Contessa mused silently on how strange this type of life was, especially when one considered how much the world had changed and how organized religion now seemed to play such a marginalized role in it – at least in the West. This nun, who couldn't have been much older than her mid-twenties and had probably grown up in the Church orphanage system, would probably never know much about the over-commercialized, self-centred materialism of the world, although her convent was surrounded by it. The Contessa smiled gently at the thought.

Peace of mind and body, I suppose. Perhaps it's one way of avoiding the reality of life
, she contemplated as the nun smiled at her, gestured ahead of them and turned to continue their progress. Carlo growled and resumed his clipping on the worn stone floor.

They passed through the pleasant ambience of the cloister and re-entered the building on the far side. The Contessa had to pause for a moment to give her eyes the chance to adjust from the bright vibrancy of the cloister's quadrangle to the darker, more sombrely restrained interior of devotion and service.

No
, she decided as she continued to follow her guide,
definitely not a world for me. Thank heavens for the Reformation!

Ahead of them loomed the end of yet another passageway. The Contessa found it hard to believe that such a modest-looking building on the outside could contain so
many corridors on the inside. They reached a stout door and the nun knocked softly. In response to the answer, the nun opened the door and stood respectfully back, head bowed, as she ushered the Contessa and Carlo into the presence of the Mother Superior.

‘My dear child,' said the elderly head of the convent. She spoke softly in English, which was as fluent as the Contessa's Italian, ‘how very good to see you again.' She extended a gnarled hand in the Contessa's direction and smiled broadly, the lines on her wrinkled face forming a spaghetti-like mass around the partly open mouth.

‘Mother Superior,' replied the Contessa, taking the hand and shaking it gently, ‘I hope that you are well?'

‘As well as God sees fit to make me,' was the reply. There was a look of unquestioning faith on her face.

‘Insha'Allah' in another religion
, remembered the Contessa, who had made a few Egyptian and Jordanian friends over the years through the International Cultural Exchange Programme.
How convenient it is to be able to blame everything, even the inevitability of old age, on the whim of an intangible, unaccountable entity.

Carlo growled softly and sat on his haunches, fangs bared.

‘Some water for our guest,' said the Mother Superior to the nun, who still stood filling the open door, waiting for either further instructions or dismissal. She bowed respectfully and closed the door softly behind her. ‘We make all God's creatures welcome within our walls,' continued the Reverend Mother, smiling down at Carlo, ‘even those with four legs and sharp-looking teeth. Please … do take a seat,' she continued, indicating the empty chair across the desk from her own. ‘How can I help you today?' she asked as she rustled gently back to her own chair and sat down.

It was the same ritual they had followed over the years; years which, the Contessa had noted with silent alarm on
each successive visit, had not been all that kind to the Mother Superior. Although there could not have been more than a few years between their ages, the Mother Superior now looked old enough to be the Contessa's biological mother.

Is that part of the reward for a lifetime of service and devotion to God? Perhaps it is
, wondered the Contessa as she settled herself onto the hard, un-giving seat of the chair. ‘You have been kind to give me of your time, Reverend Mother, and that is all I ask,' she said.

The reality was that it was the Contessa who was, once again, about to do something for the Mother Superior.

The conversation was interrupted by a soft knocking on the door, which swung silently open. The young nun placed a bowl on the floor near, but not too close to, Carlo. Careful to keep eye contact with the little beast, the nun retreated from the bowl and left, closing the door behind her once again.

‘You were saying, my child?' prompted the Mother Superior, despite the fact that, from past experience, she knew full well the course her annual meeting with the Contessa would take.

‘Reverend Mother,' began the Contessa, ‘it is once again time for me to enquire as to how you are progressing with all of your good works.'

‘It is kind of you to remember us. We carry on as we have always done,' answered the Mother Superior, a hint of longing for what her life had once been clouding her grey eyes, ‘even if our precious charges are no longer under our roof.'

Any orphans in the care of the convent had long ago been transferred to a much larger convent in Pisa. When he had broken the news to the Mother Superior, the bishop had delivered the bombshell as if he was ordering a pizza: ‘A rationalization of operational capability,' he had said. In her turn, she had thought of it more as a dismantling of the
spirit of the
comune
– the community – rather than any advancement in pastoral care. Many years of obedience had taught her not to question instructions. However, despite this blind compliance, underneath her wimple she had a mind that jealously guarded her right to think for herself – as long as her thoughts did not show. As a result of what, to her quite worldly wise rationale she saw as a money-saving exercise, the orphans and their teachers had all been duly removed to Pisa. The continued generosity shown by this grateful woman towards the place from where she had collected her son, now seemed to be but a painful reminder of busier, happier times for the Mother Superior. A gentle smile hid her sadness. The Contessa's generosity would be duly passed on to the office of the Archdiocese and it would eventually filter down through the system, until it benefited those of their charges in Pisa who needed it the most. That was what always mattered. The Reverend Mother's smile deepened and she folded her hands together on the desk blotter in front of her.

Despite the absence of orphans at this convent, the nuns did some work for the
comune
and the Mother Superior was pleased to tell her visitor of their success in harvesting honey from their bees and of the convent's tentative steps into herb growing; all ways that raised money for the poor and the orphaned. She was eager to find out about Luigi's career and was delighted to hear of the Contessa's pride in what he was achieving at the hospital. The two old friends chatted on, each respectful of the other's status, but nevertheless enjoying their exchange of news.

As they continued talking in this timeless setting, it was inevitable that they each would revisit the memories of their first meeting, over half a century ago. It was in this very office, almost to the day, that
Il Conte
and
La Contessa
di Capezzani-Batelli had collected a little crying bundle; the little bundle that had contained their Luigi. He had been
another of the countless orphaned victims of the
Anni di piombe
, the ‘Years of Lead': the merciless civil war that had engulfed Italy as the Nazis retreated and the Allies drove them ever northwards up the peninsula towards the Alps.

‘Give him a good home, my children,' the Mother Superior had said, standing behind the self-same desk on which her hands now rested, ‘but not as a replacement for Enrico; that would be unkindly wrong. Bring him up as a child in his own right and in the Light of God.'

And so, over the following years, it had proven to be.

‘Luigi would very much like to be more involved in the hospice project we started some months ago, but his work at the hospital doesn't leave him much spare time.' The Contessa had made an expansive gesture with her hands as she spoke, which brought the Mother Superior's concentration back to the present. ‘It is a pity, as he has such a good manner with the sick.'

For a second the Mother Superior stared at the Contessa blankly, as if she did not understand.

‘What is “hospice”?' she asked.

‘Oh … we have them in England, so I thought it about time we had one here in Lucca. People are sent there from the hospital … mostly.'

‘Is that for treatment?' asked the Reverend Mother, who was still none the wiser.