The Faces of Angels (39 page)

Outside, the night is warm and the streets are alive. Swallows slice through the dark blue sky. Piero is leading me towards Santa Croce, and as we cross the Piazza della Signoria he puts his arm around my shoulders. At Rivoire, couples sit at outdoor tables, people-watching, and sipping cocktails. Neptune rises from his fountain, slick and silvery in the floodlights, and in the Loggia dei Lanzi, Perseus stands dangling the snake-infested head of Medusa. No white men are around tonight, and the steps, watched over by the lions, are left to the pigeons, who strut and coo.

When we arrive at the restaurant, it's crowded, I'm amazed Pierangelo was able to get a reservation at such short notice. The girl at the desk, who is fashion-model sleek, leads us towards the back of the magnificent room where several tables for two sit up on a dais. I try not to gawk, but it's hard. We're on the second floor of a palazzo, the ceilings must be twenty feet high, and the walls are frescoed. The fading, haughty faces of medieval knights and pages look down on us while lean hounds chase deer and horses plunge and whinny, their manes rippling on an ancient wind. The lights are low, hidden high up behind heavy beams, and the candles on the tables flicker like stars amidst the pretty dresses and expensive suits. Flowers are arranged in sconces on the walls. On my plate there's a pale pink rose.

We have ordered, the waiter has poured champagne, and when I look across the table at Pierangelo, I realize how patrician he really is. He's one of the city's aristocracy, and completely at home in a place like this. I, on the other hand, feel like a Cinderella who's been lucky enough to get asked to the ball, and I wonder if my dress is awkward, too obviously expensive for me, and if I'm wearing the jacket right.

Pierangelo must see something pass across my face because he raises his glass. ‘You look beautiful, Mary,' he says. ‘You are beautiful. In any room, anywhere. But especially here. Florence suits you.'

I know that in Piero's book, there is no higher compliment. He regards this city as almost human, loves it as much as he will ever love any woman. He told me once that Florentines actually believe that they never leave. Superstition says if you die here, you'll walk the city's streets for ever.

‘To Florence, then.' I raise my own glass.

‘To you,
cara
.' Pierangelo touches the rim of his flute to mine. ‘To us,' he says.

He sips his champagne and his eyes flit around the room. In the candlelight they're even paler, glittering with the excitement that's been lighting him up since he came home this afternoon.

‘Piero, for God's sake.' I put my glass down. ‘I can't stand this. What is it?' I ask. ‘What's happened?'

His eyes come back to me, and he actually laughs. ‘Everything, Mary,' he says. ‘Everything.' He reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Monika's given up.'

‘What?'

The truth is, I don't know much about what's gone on between Pierangelo and Monika, except for the fact that they've been fighting over assets, as Graziella said.

‘Everything.' Pierangelo says again. ‘Her lawyer called me today. She's finally quit. She's given up all claim to Monte Lupo.'

Monte Lupo, his mother's house. I can see how much it means. Lines I didn't even realize he had have vanished from his face, and he actually looks younger. For the first time, I understand the phrase ‘years falling away'.

‘That's wonderful. You must be so relieved.' I pick up my glass again and raise it. ‘I'm so happy for you. Really.'

‘Happy for us, Mary,' Pierangelo says. ‘For us.' He reaches into his jacket pocket. The box he places on my plate is small, and black, and velvet. The room goes still, voices around us suddenly muted.

‘Open it.'

The ring is a ruby, circled by diamonds. Pierangelo reaches for it, takes my left hand and slips it onto my finger. ‘Marry me, Mary,' he says. ‘Please.'

I have dreamed of this moment for so long and now it's here I don't know what to say. All I can do is nod. I don't even dare look at him, because I'm afraid that, if I do, he'll vanish.

‘Yes,' I manage finally. ‘Yes.' And Pierangelo takes my hand, and holds the ring up to the candlelight and kisses it.

‘We will have a beautiful life,' he says. But before I can even agree, something happens. People stop eating and murmur and, as if on some secret cue, everyone looks towards the entrance as Massimo D'Erreti steps into the room.

The cardinal is attended by a small entourage, and I find I am searching among them for Rinaldo's face, and feeling almost giddy with relief when I don't see it. The girl at the front desk practically curtsies. A tall man who must be the owner approaches His Eminence, and D'Erreti offers his hand. For a second I wonder if the man is going to kiss his ring, but he stops just short of that, greeting him effusively instead, then guiding him towards the rear of the room.

D'Erreti is wearing not crimson, but a severe black suit. With his silver hair and dog collar he looks like a raven gliding among peacocks. He stops at almost every table, shakes hands with the men, who rise to their feet, and, on more than one occasion, kisses the hands of their wives, who don't. Then he turns towards us.

Pierangelo rises while he is still several yards away, but even after D'Erreti steps up onto the raised platform, the two men are not at eye level. The cardinal is shorter than his pictures suggest, compact and built like a bull. Up close he has the stocky, solid stature of a peasant. His hair is the colour of steel, cut as close as a U.S. marine's, and the fine black material of his jacket strains across the barrel of his chest. As he grasps Pierangelo's hand, clutching his upper arm, his face breaks into an open, easy grin.

I don't know why it surprises me—after all they have spent a great deal of time together—but the affection between the two of them seems genuine. As different as they are, for a second, they could almost be brothers. D'Erreti says something, then Pierangelo turns to me.

‘Eminence,' he says, ‘may I present
la mia fidanzata
, Signora Maria Thorcroft.'

All my life I have been taught to stand or kneel in the presence of priests, and that is my inclination now, to fall on my knees in front of this man. It's embarrassing, as if I'm possessed by a doppelgänger I can't banish. I offer my hand. D'Erreti takes it in both of his. His fingers are strong and hard, his skin, callused like a labourer's, and the ring he wears in place of a wedding band, the thin strip of gold that binds him to God, glows in the candlelight. When he smiles, his teeth are white, and blunt and even.

‘My dear,' he says, in perfect English, ‘I had no idea Pierangelo would be lucky enough to have such a beautiful wife.'

The words are gracious but, despite myself, I recoil. Everything about the man, from the pressure of his hand to his smile, is overtly sexual. His eyes meet mine, and they're as black as marbles. Bottomless.

‘God be with you, Maria,' the cardinal murmurs, and before I can move away he leans forward and gives me the mark of blessing, the pad of his thumb rubbing the sign of the cross into my forehead.

That night, Pierangelo and I make love like never before, as if, rather than the rest of our lives, we have only these few hours to be together. The sky is turning silver when we finally fall asleep, and it seems like just seconds before the phone is ringing.

‘
Pronto.
' Pierangelo answers. His voice is thick and unfocused. Then it changes. ‘
Si,
' he says. ‘
Si. Quando?
' And although I have my head buried under the pillow, trying not to wake up, I know he's frowning.

When I finally look, surfacing as groggily as a turtle coming out of water, he's already throwing the covers back. I catch the clock. It's just seven a.m. We've had a whopping two hours' sleep.

‘
Si, si.
' Pierangelo says. ‘
Non. Sono andato.
' I'm going. ‘
Si. Subito. In men che non si dica.
' Immediately. In less than no time.

He puts the phone down. He's already reaching for his clothes. ‘The paper,' he says without looking at me. ‘Something's happening, at the Belvedere.'

He dives into the bathroom and I hear running water. The taps turn off, then he shoots through the bedroom into the living room, pulling a sweater over his head as he goes.

‘Stay here,' he calls. ‘I'll be back as soon as I can.' And there's something in his voice, something wrong and sharp, that makes me get up and follow him through the door.

Pierangelo's rummaging for his car keys.

‘Why are you going? You're an editor. There are plenty of reporters.'

The creature that has been sleeping in my stomach rises up and jams itself into my throat. ‘I'm coming with you,' I hear myself say, and Pierangelo stops.

‘It's Billy, isn't it?' I ask. And the fact that he doesn't answer is enough.

T
HE BLUE TAIL
of a police car is visible as we come over the hill. It's parked at a strange angle, skewed across the entrance to the Belvedere where, in another life, the Japanese tour group lined up to buy tickets. There are other cars here too, and behind us, somewhere far away in the city below, I can hear the high alternating wail of an ambulance.

Pierangelo slams to a halt and jumps out of the BMW, groping for his press card and approaching the young
carabiniere
officer who is walking towards us, his face pale, his hands gesturing frantically. ‘
Chiuso, chiuso!
' he says. ‘
Affare polizia.
'

I follow Piero, raising my hands. ‘
Mi amica
—' My voice falters, but my feet are still moving even as the words stop in my throat. Pierangelo grabs my arm as I almost run into the cop.

‘
Chiuso!
' he shouts. Fear flickers across his face, as if he thinks I'm crazy, or at least deaf, and his free hand twitches too near the ultra-shiny holster clipped to his belt. Pierangelo steps between us, talking softly, his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

The
carabiniere
officer is still shaking his head as Pierangelo speaks to him, and I begin to back away. I make myself move slowly, almost nonchalantly, towards the city gate that leads into Costa San Georgio. The wail of the ambulance becomes deafening, and I glance back in time to see the white van cresting the hill, the single word
Misericordia
, Pity, emblazoned on its front. Then, as soon as I am through the archway and out of sight, I run. I hurtle down the hill, making for the lane that leads to the hole in the fence the junkies use.

It's just like I remember from the morning Billy and I discovered it, the torn wire, the trampled path. I duck through and skid down the steep grass bank that ends at the base of the ramparts, then I sprint along the fort walls, back towards the ticket kiosk and the mouth of the tunnel. Inside, my feet slap the steps, and I almost trip and fall, blinded in the dark. Then I burst out and stop, panting, my breath coming in great heaves as if I can't suck in enough air.

The Medici villa looms up on my left, pale and white, the stupid neon letters still flickering under its portico. The morning fog hasn't burnt off yet, and the big junk-pile sculpture looks as if it's floating. In front of me, the street lights on the weird little platform park stick up like fence posts in a prairie snow.

Billy's up here. I know. I can sense her, smell her, the way I smelled her the other night.
I'm your guardian angel,
she says, her voice echoing out of the tunnel behind me.

Her secret doorway, I think. That's where she'll be. She'll be in the same place she was hiding before. It's simple. All I have to do is find her. I sniff the air. There's something acrid and not right, but I can't place it. My mind isn't working very well, maybe because I'm tired. There are white empty spaces, blanks where there should be other things.
Carabinieri
. Cars. A phone call. An ambulance. The Santa Claus song runs through my head, too sharp and high for this hour of the morning.

I reach up absently and wipe my cheeks because my eyes are streaming. Hide and seek, that's all she's doing, I tell myself. Playing hide and seek. And I'm ‘it.' I have to find her. Then everything will be OK.

I can hear voices now, coming from beyond the villa. Pieces of words fly up like spit from waves, and I walk towards them, carefully. I don't want to slip and cut myself on the broken-time mirror or slam into the basalt egg. I make it up the steps and through the villa's central arch, then I stop.

Beyond the ramparts the olive groves roll away in a silver sea, the Casa degli Uccelli a sugar-pink square in their midst. The Torre de Gallo breaks the skyline. San Miniato looks down from its hill. It's a perfect Renaissance landscape, but in the foreground, in the centre of the ragged lawn that tops the ramparts of the Belvedere, there is a new and grotesque work of art.