by Debbie Rix
Sam groaned.
‘Sorry, did I wake you? I just wanted to catch you before you went off to see Michael; I know you like to have breakfast with him.’
‘Yes,’ Sam mumbled, ‘but not at seven in the morning. What are you doing up so early anyway?’
‘Have you forgotten what children are like, darling? It’s six here, but we’ve all been up since five. I’ve already done breakfast, put on the washing, emptied the dishwasher and started to make a cake with the twins. If they weren’t due to go to nursery in two hours’ time, I think I might have a nervous breakdown!’
Sam sat up in bed and took a deep breath. ‘Mum, I’m sorry. You are such a star; and you know how grateful I am to you, don’t you? I haven’t the faintest idea what I’d have done without you these last few weeks. Are the children driving you mad? I know they can be hard work.’ Sam tried to sound apologetic.
‘They’re adorable, and just as they should be,’ said her mother matter-of-factly.’
‘Can I speak to them?’ asked Sam.
‘Oh darling, I’m not sure that’s a good idea… we don’t want them unsettled.’
‘Mum… please I miss them so much – do you have any idea what it’s like?’
‘Oh, all right then, I suppose it will be OK.’
She heard her mother calling to Freddie. Distant strains of Radio Three filled the silence until she became aware of a familiar, faint breathiness at the other end of the phone.
‘Freddie darling...?’
‘Mummy!’ His voice was indignant, cross. ‘Where are you? Want you here.’
‘And I want to be there, darling – but I’ve got to stay here with Daddy for a bit longer.’
She could feel the familiar nagging pain in her heart.
‘Why?’ he asked logically.
‘Because he’s poorly, darling, and he needs me to look after him.’
‘But I need you to look after me. I’m poorly – I’ve got a sore finger…’
She heard her mother snatching the phone and muttering, ‘Don’t be silly, Freddie, there’s nothing wrong with your finger. Darling… they’re all fine.’
‘Really – what’s wrong with his finger? Are the girls OK?’
‘Darling, there’s nothing wrong with it… the cat scratched him that’s all. And the girls are making a cake at the moment, so it’s probably better not to disturb them.’
‘Oh, OK... if you think it’s best,’ Sam’s disappointment was palpable.
‘I do, darling – it just unsettles them really. Now that’s not why I’m ringing. I wanted to talk to you about arrangements for getting Michael home. I’ve been chatting to the insurance company that you put me onto… who work with Miracle Productions, and they are going to cover all the costs of getting you back to the UK. They are also seeing if they can get you both onto a plane, possibly at the beginning of next week. But you will need to go and discuss all this with the Prof and see if it’s medically possible.’
Sam was stunned. She sat for some moments, trying to take in what her mother had said. Light poured through the chink in the shabby brown curtains and, holding the phone in one hand, she stretched the cable across the room and opened the curtains. Immediately, the room was flooded with light. Dropping the phone on the bed, she stood up and pushed open the casement window; hot air enveloped her.
‘Are you there?’ her mother shouted.
‘Yes, yes… I’m here, Mum,’ she replied, before picking up the phone, as tears rolled gently down her face. Taking a deep breath, she sank back onto the bed, propping herself up on a couple of pillows.
‘I’m here; I’m just a bit overwhelmed that’s all.’
‘Well stop being overwhelmed and get over to the hospital and get organised. There’s a lot to do. Now I’ve got to go. I think Freddie’s just emptied cake mix on his sisters’ heads, and that’s not going to be easy to wash out, I can assure you.’
‘Oh Mum, thank you.’
Her mother hung up; Sam tried to imagine the scene in her kitchen back home. Chocolate mixture dribbling down the girls little golden faces. Freddie laughing like a naughty little gnome, gleefully smearing cake mix onto their faces and then greedily licking his fingers.
She looked at the clock. It was ten past seven. Already hot, she decided to take a cool shower. Then, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, she went out into the heat of the Piazza. As she crossed the square, she felt the sun’s familiar burn on her neck. She stopped at the chemist on the corner and bought some sun block, which she applied to her neck, arms and legs in the shade of the shop’s awning.
She made her usual stop at the coffee shop. Hot coffee seemed ridiculous in such heat, so she ordered two ice-cold frappés and carried them out through the hot soupy air to the hospital. Given the messages she had found on his phone the day before, it struck her that she was behaving rather well towards her husband. Had he not been so ill, would she have bought him a coffee? Would she be visiting him at all?
Michael was sleeping deeply as she entered his room, the thin white sheet thrown off during the night, his long limbs sprawled elegantly along the length of the small hospital bed. In repose, he looked quite well; just a man at rest, no hint of the illness that had brought his world to a full stop. For a moment, watching him sleeping, she almost forgot her rage at his deception, and considered lying next to him, longing now to feel his body next to hers once again: to inhale the familiar scent of his skin, the warmth of his chest against her cheek. But his angular six foot three frame dominated the entire length and width of the bed and there was no room. So, instead, she perched on the plastic hospital chair, made tacky in the heat, the backs of her thighs sticking uncomfortably to its jagged fraying edge, sipping her icy coffee and eating her brioche. Her mind was whirring with a complex mix of emotions. Looking at him now, peaceful, beautiful, she felt the familiar surge of love. A bad dose of flu had forced him to bed the year before and she had experienced the same emotion then, as she sat at his bedside one afternoon, his fever having at last broken and he lay finally, peacefully asleep.
A lot had happened since then, of course. Michael’s affair had soured everything: she had no doubt about that. It was as if the jigsaw puzzle that had been her life had been thrown in the air and now several vital pieces were missing. The picture could never be put back together again. She could no longer conceive of a life in which her fulfillment was provided solely by caring for her family. The prospect of seeing her children again was, of course, exciting, thrilling almost, but her new-found sense of purpose in working on the film had complicated things. It was as if some fundamental part of her being had been anaesthetised for a long time – asleep almost – but had now woken, rested and vigorous.
And then there was Dario. He was attractive of course, there was no doubt about that. Sophisticated, charming, well read. And sensitive and attentive to her. When she first met Michael, they enjoyed long conversations – discussing work, their ambitions, their views on everything. He listened to her then, respected her opinions. Somewhere along the line, he had begun to… what? Ignore her? Surely not. Tune her out? Not exactly. But there was certainly no listening any more Was that perhaps when he had met Carrie?
Dario did listen. He was calm, attentive. His dark brown eyes full of laughter, concern, interest. Since their visit to Moretti, he had been much in her thoughts. She had even dreamt about him, her subconscious taking her to a place and a situation that on waking had made her blush as she emerged from the half sleep, feeling his hands on her body, his lips on hers.
Michael opened his eyes and smiled weakly at her. She stared back at him, resentment bubbling beneath the surface, accompanied by a little wave of nausea. His phone, a palpable reminder of his betrayal, pulsed provocatively in her pocket. She stood abruptly and wandered over to the window.
‘Hi,’ he said weakly. ‘How’s it going?’
‘OK,’ she said tersely.
He frowned a little.
‘I found your phone, Michael
.’
He said nothing.
‘There were three text messages on there, and I think you can probably guess who they were from.’
He closed his eyes.
‘Don’t shut me out on this, Michael. We have to talk about it. You owe me that.’
He opened his eyes once more, fixing her with an anxious stare.
‘Do you love her?’
He grimaced a little.
‘Because she loves you… at least if her texts are to be believed. Do you want me to read them to you?’
He shook his head.
‘So, what am I to make of it all then? Yesterday you told me that I was imagining things – that there was nothing to it. You almost had me believing you – do you know that? I was so nearly taken in. I really began to think that maybe I’d misjudged you. I cannot believe you could lie so spectacularly about this. After all we’ve been through – your stroke, the kids and all that. How could you treat me with such disrespect? And why lie now? That’s what upsets me. Was it because you were hoping to keep the relationship going when you got back? Keep seeing your… bit on the side? Did you just hope to hide it from me and carry on behind my back? Is that it?’
He turned his face away.
‘Don’t do that!’ Anger was welling up inside her.
‘I’m tired of this; of you ignoring me, of ignoring this situation. I have no idea what you think I should do about this. And, quite honestly, part of me doesn’t really care anymore. After the way you’ve treated me, Michael, I’m not actually sure I can forgive this. I think, maybe you’ve pushed me just too far. Here I am, away from the children, missing them desperately – oh and they’re fine, by the way, just in case you were wondering. Here I am, alone and miserable and here you are getting text messages from some bimbo in London and lying, lying through your teeth about it to me.’
She walked over to the window, grabbing her coffee as she went.
‘I brought you a coffee – it’s on the side table, but you can bloody well drink it yourself. She gulped her own coffee down. ‘Oh and your production company are talking about getting you out of here in the next week or so, which I suppose should make us both rather happy. But in fact, Michael, it just feels like an enormous problem as far as I’m concerned, since I’m the one who will have to work out the bloody logistics.
The only thing that is giving me any pleasure at all at the moment is the fact that I’m working on your film. I emailed the production company a couple of days ago and mentioned that I was carrying on with your research. They seemed delighted, once they knew what experience I have had as a reporter, and have given me the green light to proceed. So that’s what I’m doing. And I’m rather enjoying it. It’s about the only thing I am enjoying at the moment.’
He raised his eyebrows slightly.
‘What… still don’t think I’m up to it?’
He shook his head. ‘No, of course not. Not that. I’m glad.’ His voice was weak.
‘Well that’s very big of you. Look, I’ve got to go and speak to the doctors in charge of your case about when they might let you out of here. I’ll come in and see you later.’
He forced a weak smile and raised his stronger hand out towards her.
Reluctantly, she reached over and took his hand in hers.
Tears stung her eyes.
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve been a fool, selfish. I don’t know what I was thinking. It just didn’t seem important. You must believe that, Sam… she wasn’t… isn’t important. Not like you. Not anything like you.’
She let his hand drop onto the hospital sheet.
‘Well that, at least, sounds like the truth at last. The problem is how can I ever believe you about anything again?’
He looked up at her, with fear in his eyes. ‘God… you must hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Michael. But you’ve spoiled everything… do you see?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated again, as he blinked back the tears.
‘So am I,’ she replied.
Back out on the Piazza, she took out Michael’s mobile phone. The messages were still there and she considered deleting them, but something stayed her hand. Instead, she took out Dario’s card and dialled his number.
‘Pronto.’ His voice was reassuring.
‘Dario, it’s me, Sam.’
‘Hey… it’s good to hear your voice. How are you?’
‘Not great if I’m honest, but it’s OK. I wondered if we could meet today.’
‘Sure. I’m spending the evening with my father… part of the holiday preparations, but I could meet you beforehand.’
‘What holiday?’ asked Sam.
‘The Festival of San Ranieri; it’s an annual two-day affair. Ranieri is the patron saint of Pisa and every year there is a wonderful celebration of his life,’ Dario said enthusiastically. ‘Tomorrow night the whole of the river is lit up by about seventy-five thousand candles; the next day there is a boat race, a bit like your famous Oxford and Cambridge race, but the participants wear medieval dress, and there is a parade with hundreds of people dressed up in medieval costume. It’s great fun.’
‘It sounds amazing.’
‘It is, but it’s also chaos and the whole city comes to a standstill, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Look, what are your plans for the next few days?’ he asked. ‘You ought to see the festival; especially the city all candlelit tomorrow… it’s a fantastic sight. I’ve been invited to a party, hosted by an old friend of mine called Adriana. She has a lovely little apartment down on the Arno. We’ll watch the whole thing from there. The lights, the firework display at midnight; it’s a spectacular view. There will be a little supper, nothing too elaborate. Perhaps, if you don’t think it’s too forward of me, would you like to come with me?’
It didn’t take Sam long to make up her mind.
‘I’d love to. Thank you Dario.’
Plans finalised for the following evening, they arranged to meet that afternoon to discuss the film.
Dario arrived, slightly breathless, at the café on the corner of the Piazza.
‘Hi, it’s so good to see you. Look, I’ve got something rather exciting to tell you.’
‘Well, sit down and get a coffee and calm down,’ Sam said brightly.
‘I’ve just been to see my father to make arrangements for this evening; you remember I told you he and I are having supper together?’
Sam nodded.
‘Well, he has just been sent a large package filled with documents from the big house you went to visit the other day.’
‘The one owned by the Manoccis?’
Yes,’ he said, ‘it seems that some builders had been employed to do some work to get the house into a more saleable condition, fixing dry rot and so on. They were removing some damaged panelling in the East Tower and they came across some very old documents. They gave them to the agent of course, who then told the owners, who are based in Switzerland. They asked for them to be sent round to my father for him to look at. He says there are some extraordinary things there… I thought you might like to see them.’
They drained their coffee cups and rushed over to the bookshop.
It was approaching one o’clock, and once they had arrived, the old man turned the shop sign to closed and pulled down the dark blinds.
He took them to the back of the shop and began to lay out the items: various letters, and several sheets in Arabic script, of what appeared, at first glance, to be accounts.
‘But this is the most remarkable thing though.’
Dario moved the smaller items to one side as his father delicately unrolled a large piece of vellum, on which was a detailed drawing of the Tower of Pisa.
‘The tower,’ Sam said with surprise. ‘What was that doing there? It’s so beautiful. Is it very old?’
‘My father says it will have to be sent to the university for accurate carbon-dating – he doesn’t have the
right equipment here – but judging by the paper, he believes it dates from the middle of the twelfth century… when the tower was first started.’
‘OK, so what are we saying here?’ asked Sam. ‘That this item, this image of the tower, has been in the Manoccis house for… what… hundreds of years? Hidden away behind some panelling. Why would it be there?’
‘Well, the obvious conclusion is that someone hid it there. The items were kept in a kind of secret strongbox, set into the panelling. It was only when the builders started pulling it to pieces that it was discovered.’
‘So the Manoccis had no idea it was there?’
‘No, apparently not. They’ve owned the house for seventy or eighty years, but didn’t know of its existence until the builders found it.’
‘May I take a closer look?’
‘Of course,’ Dario said.
‘There are some initials at the bottom; can you see that?’ Sam leant intently over the picture.
Signor Visalberghi handed them a strong magnifying glass.
‘What does that say?’ asked Sam. ‘BP? Bonanno Pisano maybe?’
‘Maybe,’ said Dario, ‘or is it BB?’
‘BB… you mean Berta… what was her other name? Calvo. So, that would be BC – Berta Calvo.’
‘No,’ said Dario, ‘wives took their fathers’ names in that time; he was Bernardo; do you remember the will? Heiress of Calvo, and daughter of Bernardo. She would have been BB.’
The two looked at each other in amazement.
‘Well, what does that tell us?’ said Sam eventually.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Dario. ‘That she put her name to a drawing of the tower. That the drawing was found in that house, and maybe… that was her house. I’m not sure we can deduce much more than that from it… do you? It’s not possible to verify anything really.’
‘Do you think Moretti could help us?’ asked Sam.
‘Maybe,’ said Dario.
‘Could you set up a meeting?’
‘Sure,’ agreed Dario.
They said their goodbyes to Signor Visalberghi. Sam was touched by the warmth with which Dario embraced his father.
‘Ciao babbo – a domani,’
