Broken Chord

by Margaret Moore

  He looked around. The bar was full. There were a few girls hanging round the snooker table where their boyfriends played. Older men sat playing cards or reading the papers provided by the owner; La Gazzetta dello Sport, La Nazione and Il Tirreno, the sporting paper and two Tuscan papers. He ordered a beer and began to drink it, standing at the counter. He felt someone move up beside him. “Got anything?” a voice whispered.

  He turned and saw Mario, a boy he’d been at school with, not a close friend but close enough. “Sure,” he muttered and, leaving his beer on the counter, walked through to the back where there was an unsavoury lavatory. A few minutes later Mario joined him. There was an exchange of money for a small packet, palm to palm. Roberto went back to his beer.

  Cocaine was cheaper now and as far as he was concerned nowhere near as damaging as heroin. It was the cool drug, the ‘in’ drug and there were no risks of infection. Heroin was the bad one, it was squalid and the general aura around it was a big turn off. Druggies, pale and white, scratching themselves, lying about in a stupor, going through withdrawal, or risking an overdose, were quite different to the hip image of ‘get up and go’ coke. He wouldn’t touch the other. This stuff was just recreational and he wasn’t really a dealer; he was just getting some for his friends. So what if he did make a little extra on top, he was running the risk of bringing it in here. Every time he bought some from his local supplier, his skin crawled. Being caught would mean jail and the end of everything.

  When the door had closed for the last time, behind Lapo, Piero poured himself another generous shot of whisky and, carrying it in his hand, moved up to the study. He walked past the door of the well-equipped gym where Ursula worked out every morning. Twice a week she also had a massage. Her hair was washed and set at least twice a week too and coloured as often as was necessary, by Jean Paul who was really a Neapolitan brat with clever hands. It was amusing to watch Jean Paul and Guido sizing each other up. They were both made of the same clay, clever and reasonably successful men who had come from nothing, who used their wits and lived off the rich. Piero did not, however, include himself in that category.

  In the study was the huge desk at which Ursula sat only to write cheques. Apart from these brief visits it was really his domain. Ursula had no idea where anything was or even what was there. He had total control and that was how he liked it. He took a small key from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk. His fingers reached down to the bottom of the pile and pulled out the grubby envelope addressed to Ursula, that she had never seen. He took the letter from it and read,

  “Why don’t you go home you fat German cow. We don’t like Germans round here, not after what you did to us during the war. People here have long memories. If you don’t go you’ll be very sorry.”

  It had been written on a computer and printed out. It was about as anonymous as it was possible for a letter to be these days. No one could ever identify its provenance. The postmark on the envelope was local and Piero had toyed with the idea of going to the police with it before dismissing that as a really bad move. This letter was probably the work of a local nut; to go to the police would give it an importance it didn’t merit. The thing to do with rubbish like this was to ignore it. He wouldn’t throw it away, not yet, but he didn’t see the need for Ursula to know anything about it, for now and, hopefully, not at all. It would be pointless to worry her with it. He folded it up and replaced it in the envelope, then put it back in the drawer and locked it again. He didn’t like it being there. He couldn’t forget it was there and although he tried hard to dismiss it from his thoughts, it had been constantly on his mind ever since it had arrived. The longer it stayed there in the drawer the worse it got. He might be making a mistake but now after three weeks he felt he couldn’t remedy it. At least there’d been only the one letter, so far, and that was what he was really worried about. These things were rarely isolated. He wondered about the author of the letter. Was it an old embittered survivor of the war, a widow, or an ex-partisan? There seemed to be a lot of those in the village which had been on the front during the advance of the allies through Italy in 1944 as they liberated the country and brought with them all their riches and their corruption, their chewing gum, chocolate, silk stockings, money and a different way of life. His own family who came from Florence had had very mixed feelings about their liberators, but their hatred of the Germans had been absolute. He had grown up with that as a constant theme. Now no one spoke about the war. It was over, forgotten by most, ancient history to the ignorant young, who knew little about it and were told even less at school. History lessons stopped with the beginning of Fascism. Now German tourists thronged the country and were welcomed by everybody, as was right, so why was someone taking exception to one half-German woman who had been born after the war, had no blood on her hands and was guilty of no sins except, of course, those of her father and her countrymen? The sins of the father… What rubbish! He snorted with derision. If that were true then how many would be guilty?

  He sat down, took a sip of his drink and began sorting out the letters and bills. Part of his job as general manager of the house was to make out cheques for all bills, hire and fire servants and generally make sure that Madam, as she liked to be called, had nothing to concern herself with other than her own pleasure. He’d been protecting her for so long it seemed natural. His eyes roved towards the desk drawer again. He sighed, finished his drink in one short sharp gulp and began to make out the cheques. She would sign them without even looking. He could easily have cheated but he never had and she knew it. There were the odd perks like the few extra bottles of wine from the wine merchant, little things of that sort, but he had never cheated or taken a cut as he knew some people in his position did.

  In the immediate future the problem of Roberto would have to be solved but Piero was quite sure he could deal with that, if asked, as discretely as he had dealt with other things in the past: paying off prostitutes brutalised by Lapo, Marianna’s abortion, and Tebaldo’s drug dependency. There were ways of dealing with unfortunate situations and he knew all of them.

  A middle-aged man, modestly dressed, sat in a corner of the bar, reading a sports paper. Although not from the village he had become a regular and now aroused little curiosity. Occasionally, he lifted his eyes and watched Roberto come and go to the lavatory, always closely followed by someone. The local Chief of Police had asked for surveillance after becoming aware of an increase in the amount of cocaine available in the area. This Roberto was obviously the dealer but he wouldn’t be arrested just yet. He was a very small fish in a very big pool and it was the sharks that controlled the trade that they wanted, not the minnows.

  A motorbike drew up outside making an incredible noise. Shortly afterwards a youth came in. He had studs in his ears, a ring through one eyebrow and another through his lower lip. His hair was very long and black, his face a mask of scorn. He didn’t walk in, he swaggered. Conversation faltered for a moment. Roberto studiously ignored him, partially turning away from him. The newcomer ordered a beer and when he had been served, turned his back to the counter and drank his beer down staring intently at everyone with a smile that was almost a sneer. No one spoke to him and he approached no-one. When his glass was empty he put it down on the counter, paid and left. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited for the engine to start up and set off. The man reading his newspaper wondered what it was all about. One thing seemed certain; Roberto knew the youth and by his evasive action, which was quite unnecessary, had made that crystal clear. He might just as well have said out loud, “I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

  As the sound of the motorbike receded, a furious honking started up outside. All eyes swivelled round to Roberto who seemed undecided but didn’t move. Then an incredibly beautiful blonde girl came into the bar and grabbed him by the arm. After a few minutes whispered conversation, they left together.

  The man in the corner folded his newspaper and slowly left the bar. Outside, the girl wa
s leaning against an expensive car and Roberto was kissing her, a lengthy deep kiss, which lasted long enough for him to reach his own vehicle. When they drove away, he followed them in his small dark car, watched as they turned into a driveway and made a note of the address. He parked in the shadows and a waited for a while before deciding to call it off for the night. Roberto was obviously going nowhere.

  After the concert Ursula and Guido left almost straight away. She wasn’t tempted by the food laid out attractively in Fiona’s rather vulgar dining room. Guido looked round at the heavy curtains and the Baroque cherubs that were in abundance. He went over to examine a painting of Saint Sebastian. Ubaldo said, “Grim, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and undoubtedly a fake,” replied Guido. He smiled at Ubaldo, who moved forward to examine the painting more carefully. Then he joined Ursula who was drinking champagne, picked up a small pastry basket of caviar, examined it and replaced it on his plate and muttered, “Prepared yesterday by the smell of it. Don’t even think of touching it. Shall we go?”

  Ursula nodded and they went to say goodbye to their hosts. She was already planning her own soirée which was going to be far, far better than Fiona’s pallid effort. She knew a world famous violist extremely well, in fact had once known him quite intimately, who was sure to come and play in the name of their old friendship. It had been an amicable parting so there was no rancour on either side. She would probably play something herself, after a bit of practice. She mentally ran through her repertoire.

  When they got home she jotted down a few notes while Guido was in the shower. When he came out he was surprised to see her still fully dressed.

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Not a bit. I’m busy working out the details of my charity concert. Oh Guido, it’s going to be so fantastic.”

  “Do you mind if I go to bed? I’m terribly tired and I think I had rather too many glasses of that disgusting cheap champagne.”

  “Fiona’s always been a cheapskate. That’s one mistake I won’t make. The trouble with old money is that they are so determined to hang on to it that they scrimp.” “Hardly surprising, they never know how long it’s going to last,” he said, thinking, ‘unlike you with your limitless pot of industrial gold’.

  Ursula gave him one of her serious looks. “You’re right of course. I can never understand why I get looked down on for being nouveau riche, and it’s not that nouveau anyway.”

  “Jealousy, darling. While they live in their crumbling palazzos, trying to ignore the cracks in the plaster, you can spend whatever you like on doing up the family ruins.”

  Ursula smiled grimly. “Wait till they see what I’ve done with this.” It still rankled that she had been snubbed by the Florentine aristocrats. The things she wanted were things that money couldn’t buy, but she was going to get there in the end.

  She said, “You poor boy; I can see you’re dropping. Get your head down and I’ll potter off to the study and jot down a few more things while they’re fresh in my mind.”

  Guido crawled into bed and was asleep within a few minutes. Ursula kicked off her evening shoes and wandered along to the study where she began working out a guest list and a seating plan. Marta would no doubt have some amazing ideas for the food and Piero would see to the extra staff.

  She heard Marianna come in giggling and whispering on the stairs with that wretched boy. She remembered that as their limo had drawn up she’d noticed her own car was not in its usual place. It was extremely irritating. Marianna had taken it again and she didn’t have a licence because she wasn’t yet eighteen. This had to stop. All of it. The thought that her daughter was upstairs giving her perfect body to that clod was so offensive she felt nauseous. What a waste. Even worse was the thought that she was snorting drugs to enhance her pleasure, drugs provided by that little delinquent. Well, it was time to put an end to something she had hoped would peter out of its own accord.

  She rose from her chair and went up to her bedroom to undress. She took off the emeralds and laid them carefully in their faded velvet box and patted them reassuringly. They had been noticed by everyone. No wonder; they had been her grandmother’s and were exquisite. They would never leave the family. She would give them to Marianna, but not if she married someone like that boy. Tebaldo’s wife was out of the question, of course, and Lapo… she stifled the shooting pain in her heart. Lapo would never marry. Not because no one would want him but because he would never believe that any one could love him. She pitied the girl who ever tried to get close to him. He was extremely cruel and wouldn’t recognise love even if it was given to him unconditionally, like the love that Marta gave to him. Ursula knew perfectly well that Marta adored Lapo, but he was quite impervious to any feelings from others. Before they reached him they had to pass through a derisory filter that warped and negated them. Her thoughts returned to her daughter. The boy had to go and she would make damn sure that he did.

  It was a triumphant and hopeful Ursula who slipped into bed later that night. She fell into a deep dreamless sleep that lasted till morning.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dragonetti showered and then prepared the coffee pot setting it carefully on the gas. He searched in the cupboard and found another small tin of tuna. As soon as he opened it the cat leapt off the chair and rushed towards him, rubbing against his legs. “Yes, it’s for you,” he told it. He watched the kitten eating while he sipped strong black coffee. The cat ate fast and soon emptied the plate, then sat back to wash its whiskers.

  They left the house together. When they reached the courtyard garden the cat sat down on its haunches and finished washing its face, one small paw passing repeatedly over the striped orange fur.

  “Go home,” he advised it.

  It watched him get into the car and drive off. The sky was relentlessly blue, the sun was already warm and it was going to be hot and humid again.

  Another day of boredom stretched endlessly ahead of him.

  Ursula appeared at breakfast looking so fit and happy that Lapo remarked on it. “Mother, you’re looking quite amazingly well this morning.”

  “Yes, and I’m feeling good too. I had an interesting enough evening and I’m making plans for a stunning charity concert which will quite overshadow poor Fiona’s little do. I have better contacts than she does and quite frankly, my house is far more suitable.”

  She ate a meagre but healthy breakfast.

  “You know, Lapo, I wish your sister would make an effort to come to the breakfast table.”

  “It’s the summer holidays. I don’t know why I got up so early myself.” He did; it was because he’d had a particularly unpleasant night tormented by nightmares. When he’d woken for the fourth time, his eyes anxiously seeking reassurance that he was indeed in his own bedroom and not in some land of horror, it had been a relief to find it was an acceptable hour to get up. He looked at his mother and wished he could find the kind of serenity she apparently had this morning.

  “Actually, I would have expected Guido to join us,” he remarked quietly.

  “Poor boy, he’s so tired. Late nights don’t agree with him. Well, it wasn’t that late actually but he had had a very busy day.”

  “Well, I expect Marianna had a late night, too.”

  “I know she did. I do understand that she’s young and prefers living at night rather than in the day, but I hardly seem to see her lately.”

  “No, she’s… busy”

  “Lapo, I’m well aware what your sister is doing and I’ve made plans to deal with it. She’ll be leaving for a holiday with Aunt Felicity. I’ve already phoned her, early this morning. Piero will be making the arrangements today.”

  “My God!”

  “Felicity’s not that bad, is she?”

  “No, she’s just old, rather eccentric, and tremendously boring. Hardly good company for someone who’s being forcibly split up from her boyfriend.”

  “I want to get your sister away. By the time she comes back it will all be over.”


  “I admire your optimism.”

  Marta came in with fresh coffee.

  “Lovely, I’ll have just one more cup and then I must be off. Marta, my dear, send Jean Pierre up as soon as he arrives, please, oh, and could you ask Piero to take my car down to be washed. It looks grubby; all that summer dust shows up so much on black.”

  “Of course, Madam.” She set the coffee on the table, poured Ursula a cup and handed it to her before leaving the room.

  “Isn’t it a wonderful morning, just the way I like it,” said Ursula looking out of the window with approval as though she was personally responsible for the clear blue sky. She quickly downed the small cup of black coffee

  The door opened and Guido came in. “A truly fabulous day,” she said, moving towards Guido to give him a kiss.

  “Ursula, I saw Piero with the post. Why do you always let him go through it?” asked Guido, with undisguised irritation.

  “Guido, Piero has been seeing to the post for the last twenty-five years. I trust him implicitly,” she said rather sharply.

  “Should you?”

  “Unless I have reason not to, then I’m afraid I do. Things stand as they are.” She felt her good humour start to evaporate. Guido had to realise that she would not allow any kind of interference, no matter how well meant, in the running of her life.

  Guido appeared to be quite oblivious to the change in her tone of voice. “It’s just that that’s the sort of thing I can help you with. Why let a stranger go through your mail when I’m here.”

  “Dear boy, how thoughtful you are, but Piero is hardly a stranger.” Her eyes glittered coldly now. He looked so surprised that she softened that with, “We’ll see, shall we? I don’t want to upset him.”