by Debbie Rix
As he neared her, she was about to call out to him, when his hand shot out of his cape and he swung his arm around her, pulling her into the deep shadows within the cloisters of the church. He pressed his lips to hers; she felt his beard prickly against her skin. His tongue forced its way into her mouth, until she gasped and pulled away, putting her hand onto his chest and pushing him backwards.
‘Wait, caro, wait. Not here… people might see us.’
Suddenly, he was the young boy she had first met again: ‘I’m sorry. I was just so pleased to see you. I didn’t think.’ And then, looking deeply into her eyes, ‘Forgive me… please?’
She took him by the arm and dragged him further away from the church, until they found themselves in a dark alley.
She leant against the wall, still warm from the day’s sun and looked up at him.
‘Gerardo... I’ve come to tell you something. I cannot stay for very long, not here tonight. My husband is unwell. I have to go.’
He hung his head, disappointed.
‘Of course,’ he acquiesced, ‘I will take you home now, you shouldn’t be alone.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, her beating heart slowing now with relief, ‘I am so sorry; please believe me when I tell you that I am so disappointed. I love being with you, you have brought me such happiness, Gerardo.’
‘And you me,’ he said, ‘I have never met anyone like you, signora.’
‘Berta please, call me Berta. Gerardo… it is so hard, and you will understand one day… but it is possible to love two people, to care for two people. But I have a duty to my husband and I cannot do this tonight… perhaps not ever. I don’t know. I came here tonight determined to tell you that we must end it. Not our friendship, but this other. But now, when I look at you, feel you near to me… I am not so sure.’
She gazed up at him, feeling his breath on her face, his arms still around her waist.
‘I understand,’ he said, burying his lips into her hair. ‘I understand better than you think.’
The churchgoers had moved on, and around them all was quiet, save for the occasional scuttling, as a mouse darted down the narrow lane. In a bedroom high above their heads, a man coughed – a rasping, rattling sound. Gently, Gerardo kissed her closed eyelids. He kissed her cheeks, then her neck until finally he found her mouth. Her lips parted. His hands, slowly, ran down her bodice, under the silk cloak. He felt the soft fabric. His fingers explored the lacing at the back of her dress. Touching the skin beneath the silken ribbons, he let out an involuntary gasp.
With his other hand, he began to pull at her skirts, lifting the layers upwards with his fingers, until his hand touched the soft, velvety skin at the top of her thigh.
She pushed his hand away.
‘No, no, Gerardo… not here like this. It is too dangerous. I must go now, but I will send word to you.’
‘Let me take you home.’
‘No, I will be quite safe. We should part now before anyone sees us together.’
She kissed him fleetingly on the lips, before smoothing her skirts and walking away out of the shadows and into the moonlight.
She did not turn round to look at her lover one last time, and so she did not see him lean against the wall, his head in his hands, before he too turned to walk back towards the Piazza. And as the moon dipped behind a cloud, neither of them saw a young girl, her blonde hair escaping from the hood of her cloak, ducking out of the shadows and running, with tears falling down her pink cheeks, back towards the Arno.
It was a short walk to her home, and when Berta returned, Aurelia, she was irritated to learn, had taken to her bed. But Violetta was on hand and unlaced her gown and sent to the kitchen for hot water to wash her face and hands.
Dressed in her nightgown, Berta went to visit her ailing husband.
‘How is he?’
‘He is calmer now, signora. He suffered a terrible crisis earlier this evening. I have given him something to drive the fever from him. But he is resting now, sleeping.’
Guilt enveloping her, Berta offered to sit with him. ‘Leave him with me, Violetta; you go and rest for a while.’
‘If you are sure, signora, but you must call me if his fever returns.’
Sitting next to her sleeping husband, Berta thought about the young man. As she held Lorenzo’s hand in hers, listening to his breathing, she remembered the other’s scent, his strength, his passion, and in spite of herself, felt the longing returning, spreading warm and wet between her thighs.
Sometime in the middle of the night, she woke, her dreams filled with thoughts of Gerardo – his eyes, his mouth, his dark curls.
Her neck was stiff, her head having fallen awkwardly against her chest. She stretched and straightened herself. Lorenzo still slept, his breathing heavy. Standing, she went round to the little bed that had been made up for her next to his. She lay down and, with her hand resting lightly against her husband’s back, fell into a deep sleep.
She was awoken just after dawn by Violetta.
‘Signora, signora… you must wake. It is not good. Oh signora, I am so sorry. Your husband, he is dead.’
Her mind, fuzzy with sleep, Berta struggled to understand what Violetta was saying. She sat up and leant across to Lorenzo.
‘No, Violetta, surely not… he was sleeping just an hour or two ago. You are mistaken. He is sleeping – look.’
She leant over to kiss his cheek and listen for his breathing. But she recoiled at the touch of his icy skin.
She looked into Violetta’s kind blue eyes, full of concern for her welfare.
‘This is my fault,’ said Berta.
‘No, signora – it is God’s will. He was sick. There was nothing we could have done.’
‘I should have been here. I betrayed him by… leaving him.’
‘But you had important business, signora. He would have understood. Please… do not punish yourself. I will give you something now… go and rest next door. I will make him ready.’
‘No… leave him with me for a moment.’
The early morning light filtered through the casement windows, illuminating Lorenzo’s face. With death had come a smoothing of the weathered lines that had begun to etch their way into his skin.
Berta smoothed the still damp hair away from his forehead. She put her hand over his – now stiff, unresponsive, cold.
The room was eerily silent. The sounds that had been a part of her husband during his life – the gruff voice, the rattly breathing, the snoring, the swearing, the shouting, the laughter – had all come to a sudden halt. In their place she heard the birds singing in the olive trees outside. A distant church sounded the early morning Angelus. A cart making deliveries clattered by in the lane below. She heard the sounds of her household waking: the rattling of a grate being cleared somewhere in the bowels of the house; Aurelia and Violetta hovering in the room next door, the murmuring of concerned voices. She looked up as Massoud silently entered the room, his dark, intelligent face, etched with tears.
She smiled at him.
‘Lady, I am so sorry…
‘I know, Massoud. Thank you. Please close the door behind you.’ She heard his heavy footsteps retreating down the staircase.
It seemed impossible that Lorenzo, who had been such major force in her life, had simply ceased. They had been together for seventeen years and now… it was over. She had loved him; she also understood his faults, his foibles. His jealousy and occasional rage were the inevitable consequence of his energy and ambition. Theirs had been a partnership. He had provided her with power, wealth and position. She had in turn developed his cultural and business connections, had leant his endeavours credence and elegance. She had guided his hand on all artistic matters. And he had been proud of her; she knew that, for he had told her often. And as for her childlessness… he had never chastised her, had never laid blame at her door. And yet she knew a son was the one thing he had desired above all else. And what would become of her now… a childless widow. Was this her punishm
ent, perhaps, for loving another?
Berta was in turmoil for the rest of that day and for many days that followed. The household, too, was in an uproar. The priest was sent for to pray for the mortal soul of Lorenzo, but Berta was filled with remorse that she had not requested his presence that last evening. Her husband’s soul was in jeopardy. He had not had a chance to confess his sins, and in her darker moments Berta feared that she, too, was now at risk of a life of everlasting torment.
To add to her personal and spiritual distress, troubled business dealings now erupted to the surface. Some months before, Lorenzo had apparently sought a loan from a rival merchant to increase his fleet.
Benedete Zaccaria had been one of the first to visit the palazzo within hours of Lorenzo’s death, demanding to know when the loan would be repaid. Soon there were others, associates of Lorenzo’s, who came to the palazzo initially to pay their respects to his widow, but as they left, they produced papers claiming ownership of several of Lorenzo’s assets.
Berta was shocked at the speed with which his creditors had descended on her household. She called for Massoud, the notary who kept their accounts.
‘Massoud, please… you must help me with these people,’ she begged him.
‘Lorenzo did not let me into his financial dealings; I had no idea he had borrowed so heavily. We need to establish the validity of their claims. Can I trust you to do this for me?’
‘I will do everything, signora. Lorenzo was my master; I will not betray him now.’
‘Good; you may tell Signor Zaccaria, and any of the others, that we intend to honour any debts, but bring everything to me before any decision is made, or before anything is signed. I will learn how to run the business, it will go on as before. Tell them that.’
Back upstairs, her husband’s body had been laid out by the servants. Bathed and dressed in his best velvet tunic, his face was pale and smooth. Around his head, Violetta had placed sweet smelling gillyflowers – carnations and pinks – from the pots that stood along the terrace, and their scent filled the room.
Berta came into the chamber and gasped as she saw him. ‘He does not even look ill, Violetta,’ she cried, before falling into the apothecary’s arms.
Helping her to sit down on the little seat next to her husband’s body, Violetta called to her daughter. ‘Aurelia, come here and look after your mistress. I must go and make her a tisane… for the shock.’
The girl, who had been lurking in the doorway of the room, came forward reluctantly.
‘Sit, girl, here by her side,’ her mother instructed sharply, before she hurried down to the kitchens.
Aurelia sat in awkward silence next to Berta, recoiling slightly at the sensation of the older woman’s body, as Berta – her head in her hands – sobbed uncontrollably, railing against the fates that had taken ‘her Lorenzo’ from her.
Disgusted by what she considered a show of fake distress, Aurelia sat unmoved, waiting for her mother to return, which she soon did, bringing a bowl of warming tea and shooing Aurelia back to the kitchen.
‘Leave us now, Aurelia; you cannot understand what this lady is suffering. Go and make yourself useful downstairs.’
Down in the kitchens, the staff were all talking together. Word of the line of creditors had spread and they were anxious for their future. Aurelia paid them no heed. Her mind was filled with what she had witnessed the night before – sights and sounds that she was unable to forget. From the big pot over the fire, she helped herself to a bowl of broth, which she ate in silence at the vast kitchen table. Unnoticed, she crept out of the kitchen door and, not quite knowing what she was doing, ran through the garden and out of the big wooden gates, heading for the Arno. The sun was high in the sky when she arrived at the Piazza. Men were still at work, and she paced round the edge of the square looking for Gerardo. Quite what she intended to say to him, or why she had come, was unclear. All she knew was that she was desperate to find him. At one point she thought she saw him amongst a crowd of young men heading towards a small inn, and she raced after them. But as the boy she was following turned around, she realised with a sense of despair that it was not Gerardo. The bells of the Duomo struck three times for the Angelus, before she decided to return to the palazzo. Disconsolately, she walked back, past Gerardo’s house. There was no sign of him there either. The sun had begun to drop behind the roofs of the city when she returned. Berta had taken to her bed and was sleeping fitfully. But Violetta, returning from sitting with Berta, grabbed her by the arm as she tried to sidle quietly into the little room she shared with her mother.
‘Where have you been?’
‘I had to get out… for a walk,’ the girl retorted.
‘You should have said where you were going. Berta had need of you. Fortunately, I was here and able to see to her needs. But you are her maid, Aurelia. I know I was against you coming here at the beginning, but Berta has been good to you, and to me. She pays you well, she also pays the girl to help me out. And she has been very generous and sent many people to see me for advice. For the first time since your father died, I am managing to earn enough money to pay our bills. Do not turn your back on this, Aurelia, we need her too much. Now I suggest that you go and brush your hair and go down to the kitchen and see if there is anything you can do to help. I will stay here with Berta until she wakes, and when she does I will send you to her. She has asked me to remain here until after the funeral and I have agreed, but that does not mean that you can walk away from your duties here, Aurelia. And once I have gone, I will be relying on you to take care of her.’
The older woman went back to Berta’s bedside, and her daughter, in no doubt of her duty, and with a heavy heart, went down to the basement kitchen.
Chapter Sixteen
June 1999
Sam fingered the business card that she had tucked into the frame of the mirror in her bedroom, tracing the mobile number with her nail, while fidgeting nervously with the flex of the hotel phone. Anxiously, she dialled the number. There was an unintelligible message and the line went dead. She added and subtracted prefixes and local codes, each time getting the same insistent female voice, ‘Il numero non esiste…’ At last, some miraculous combination having been arrived at, the phone rang.
‘Pronto.’
She held her breath.
His voice was deeper than she had remembered; sexy. Say something…
‘Hi, Dario… it’s me… Sam.’
‘Hi Sam, I’m so glad you rang.’
She breathed again.
‘Oh… yes, well I’m sorry it’s taken me a few days. I’ve been a bit preoccupied what with one thing and another…’
‘I can imagine. How is your husband?’
‘Oh, fine. Well, not fine, obviously. Silly thing to say… but getting a little better each day. It’s going to be a slow process.’
His voice was kind. ‘And how’s the research going?’
‘Ah, well, that’s the thing really. I need your help with something and I just wondered… if we could meet up?’
The appointment was arranged for 2 o’clock. They were to meet at the café on the corner of the Piazza, after Sam had visited Michael. He was asleep when she arrived, and she busied herself tidying his room. There was a tiny wardrobe into which a nurse had placed the clothes he had been wearing the day he had been taken ill. Resolving to take them to the laundry, she removed the shirt and jeans from the hangers and began to fold them. In the back pocket of his jeans, she felt the unmistakable shape of a mobile phone. She took it out and flipped it open. The battery was dead. Looking around the room for the charger, she found it in the small bedside cabinet. Packing it up with the phone, she put the items in her bag to take back to the pensione.
Back in her room, she put the clothes into a plastic bag, ready to take to the laundry round the corner, and plugged Michael’s phone and charger into the international plug in her room. She pottered about, waiting for it to charge up, but the battery was completely dead and the phone seemed rel
uctant to spark into life.
She thought about her meeting with Dario later that day and wondered if she ought to change. The days were getting hotter and her jeans felt increasingly uncomfortable. There was just enough time before the shops shut for their lengthy lunch break to buy something cooler to wear.
She walked towards the commercial district and soon found herself in the busy main road filled with clothes shops of all kinds. Suppressing a small surge of guilt that she should be doing anything as frivolous as shopping, she nevertheless went into a small boutique, next to an expensive shop selling handbags and leather goods. The lady in charge smiled kindly at her as she entered. She rummaged amongst the rails of clothes before finally selecting a simple cotton dress in a pale green colour. She held the dress up to herself and considered her image in the shop’s mirror.
‘Bella, signora, molto bella,’ the shop assistant said enthusiastically.
She rifled through the rail until she found the dress in the correct size and pressed it into Sam’s hand.
‘La prove, signora… provi.’ She pointed towards a small fitting room at the back of the shop.
Sam squeezed into the tiny cubicle, and managed to remove her jeans and top, banging her elbows uncomfortably against the sides of the changing room. She slipped on the dress. It was cut quite low over the bust, with a wide neckline that emphasised her long neck and wide shoulders. It was gathered into the waist before falling in a bias-cut skirt just below the knee. The colour set off her pale green eyes, she noted with uncharacteristic satisfaction.
‘Bella… molto bella,’ reiterated the shop assistant.
Sam took out her phrase book. ‘Camicetta?’ she asked hopefully pointing to the top half of her body.
‘Si, si,’ the lady said enthusiastically. She went off to the rails and came back with half a dozen tops: blouses, shirts, T-shirts. Two or three were typical Italian design, highly decorated with sequins and illustrations of leopards, or other exotica. But one, a filmy white peasant top, caught Sam’s eye.
