Broken Chord

by Margaret Moore

  “Heaven forbid.” He sat down at the table and flicked his napkin open brusquely. If Ursula could be forceful, then so could he. He felt angry about the way she was putting him down. There was a lengthy silence, which Ursula decided not to break. She patted his head as she left the room.

  Lapo who had remained immobile and watchful during this fascinating little scene, now tittered audibly and reached for his coffee cup. Guido glared at him and received one of Lapo’s amazing smiles in response, which enraged him even further.

  “Shall I pour you some coffee, dear boy?” asked Lapo in a mocking tone, holding out his hand for Guido’s cup.

  Guido looked at him as though trying to work out what was going on. Lapo was academically brilliant but often behaved like a half-wit. He knew it would be a mistake to underestimate him. There was something cunning about him. As Lapo held his gaze, with blazing eyes, he also wondered whether he wasn’t quite mad.

  Later that morning Guido made it his business to bump into Piero. “I’ve already warned you, there’s going to be a few changes round here after my marriage, so be prepared. I don’t like the way you behave as though you think you own the place.”

  Piero looked at him with steely eyes. “Things have always been to Madam’s satisfaction.”

  “Well, they’re going to have to satisfy me too.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just watch it. I don’t think I trust you. You’ve always done as you please. Just remember I’ll be checking up on you from now on.”

  “I think you’ll find that everything’s as it should be.”

  “It’d better be.”

  Piero walked slowly down to the kitchen and told Marta about it. “Guido’s ruffling his plumage and making noises about the way I run things. He’s a little shit.”

  “You’ve dealt with that sort of thing before. Madam’s always been very supportive.”

  “Yes, but the others were gentleman. This is a jumped up little gigolo out for all he can get. He obviously thinks everyone’s as bad as him. Well, all I can say is, if he thinks he can push me about, he can think again.”

  ***

  Dragonetti was smoking out of the window and staring gloomily at the monotonous blue sky. It was hot and humid and he was bored. His recent transfer to Lucca meant that he had to get up earlier because now he had a good hour’s drive twice a day. What’s more, he was stuck in this provincial town which was heaving with tourists and petty thieves and illegal immigrants. He’d hardly seen his two daughters this summer. His ex-wife, Diana, and her new husband had taken them away on holiday to the Dolomites. He would take them on holiday later, to the sea, in August, the last two weeks. Tonight, he would go back to an empty house again. He thought about the kitten. There was something plucky about the little guy that appealed to him. He made a mental note to pop out and get some cat food just in case.

  He felt as though he was the only one stuck here with nothing very interesting to do except sign papers and look efficient, not that anyone would notice if he wasn’t, because the whole place seemed to be shutting down. Everyone who could, had gone on holiday, but he was going to have to wait, probably because he had got up someone’s nose again. He had a very unhappy knack of saying what he thought and on more than one occasion had really put his foot in it. It was impossible for him to do the kow-towing that so many of his colleagues performed with such ease. He knew that in this he took after his father.

  Always present in his mind was the memory of his father’s death. His father, a judge, had become a household name when his car had been blown up by a car bomb, shortly after finding a Mafia Boss guilty of instigation to murder. It had happened a life-time ago, when Jacopo was a boy of fourteen. The perpetrators had never been found and probably never would be now, unless some ‘pentito’ turned up and decided to sing. Every so often someone would defy the Mafia and the omertà code of absolute secrecy and silence that all members were subjected to if they wanted to live, and then, suddenly, under police protection, spout out a load of information that sometimes helped solve old crimes or more often muddied the waters even further. Some of the information was blatantly untrue and given out for complex motives. Anyone out of favour might find a pentito, a repentant, suddenly remembering his presence in the house of an already compromised Don at an inopportune moment. Consorting with known Mafia members was a crime. It didn’t pay to move against the Mafia then, or now. With a recent head of the government accused of knowingly employing a Mafia member in his household, with another party member calling a Mafioso who had died in jail and kept his mouth firmly shut, a hero for doing so, one had to tread carefully. Furthermore, his own left-wing views were well-known and in the current political climate, hardly likely to further his career.

  He threw his half smoked cigarette down to the courtyard and slammed the window shut on the heat. The air-conditioning was working only too well and his office felt like a cold storage room. He often had to put a jacket on to bear it. He sighed again and fiddled with his pen. He hated inactivity. He paced up and down the room. What he would really like was an interesting murder inquiry, not a run of the mill knifing of Romanians or Moroccans by their fellow countrymen. The poor squabbled and fought over their miserable belongings, their women and their illegal ill-paid jobs, and in this heat tempers seemed to rise fast with lethal results. There had been two knifings in the last month, but there was no real investigating involved. He wanted something that would tax his brain, take him out of himself and make him forget the heat. He shivered, well, maybe not the heat, not in this room.

  He glanced at a report concerning a suspected drug dealer. The drug squad had been handling that but now the man had been run over in the early hours of the morning on a small country road and it looked like attempted murder. Considering the severity of his injuries it would be some time before he could be questioned and even then it was doubtful that he would say anything. If this was a warning, then if he spoke he would be a dead man. Furthermore, if it turned out to be an attempted homicide, a clean and useful method for disposing of unwanted or troublesome employees, then they’d probably try again. Drago knew this case was a no-go from the start but he would have to go through the motions. He made a brief phone call and turned the investigation over to the local police. Let the carabinieri handle this one on their own. It was not interesting enough for him to make a move. He felt afflicted by inertia, that summer ailment when everything slows down and grinds almost to a standstill. He lit another cigarette and promised himself he would stop, very soon, but not today.

  Marianna threw her mobile phone away from her impatiently. Roberto wasn’t answering for some reason. She leapt out of bed. Something must be wrong. It had been great last night and she wanted to hear his voice. Perhaps he was still asleep and hadn’t gone into work this morning. Quite a crime! She giggled. When they got married, he could forget all about that ridiculous little job. She would have more than enough money for them both. In a little over a month’s time she would be eighteen and have control over her financial situation. Her father’s death had left her well provided for. She was sure that Ghiberti was her father, whatever Lapo might insinuate about her dubious parentage, and Ghiberti himself must have believed it too, because he’d left her everything. She took a hurried shower and rushed out, not even stopping for a coffee. She hadn’t found her mother’s car keys on the hall table. Piero was just getting into the vehicle.

  “Piero,” she shouted.

  He turned, “Yes, what is it?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Down to the car wash.”

  “Will you give me a lift?”

  “Where to?”

  She told him.

  “Does your mother know?”

  “Know what? That I’m seeing Roberto? Of course.”

  “Why are you wasting your time with that boy?”

  “What! It’s none of your business what I do, Piero. I didn’t ask for your opinion and I don’t want it.” She got in t
he car and added icily, “Drop me off at the Town Hall. I’ll make my own way back.” The car set off at a gentle pace.

  From her bedroom window Ursula watched them leave. Poor silly little Marianna. Let her go running off to her young man. It was over whether she liked it or not. She sighed, it seemed that there were always problems to be solved. She had hoped that when her children grew up and got over their tedious infancy and their boring adolescence she might have a little more freedom. She remembered them whining and wanting far more than she was ever prepared to give, grabbing at her dress with sticky fingers and having to be carried away screaming by the nanny of the day and then as they grew older, Teo with the drug problem, Marianna and, of course, Carletto. Her hand went to her mouth as she felt a sharp jolt of pain. How she’d loved the dissolute Carletto, but with all the fuss and bother… if she’d had an inkling… thank God for Marta who’d seen to all that, but she’d lost her Carletto, who was so charming, so wild and so adorable and quite frankly so good in bed… She thought of the many men she’d loved, married, divorced or lost in other ways and then thought again about Guido. Why was she marrying him? He had pushed for it so hard and she wasn’t as young as she had been. He might be the last. In a last ditch attempt to have someone for herself she had said yes. Would she be able to trust him? Would he go running after younger women too? It was a gamble and she knew it. The first symptom of what might happen had been evident this morning. He would want more than she was prepared to give him. There were limits, and before the wedding he’d better realise exactly what they were.

  She called, “Come” in answer to a knock, and blonde, gorgeous, Jean Pierre came in with his box of tricks.

  “Jean Pierre,” she trilled, “I want to go two shades lighter. Tell me I’m right.”

  Jean Pierre gave her a broad smile. “Of course you’re right. It will look divine. Let me get my colour chart out and we’ll choose exactly the right colour for you.”

  Another knock on the door and Guido came in. “Darling, I’m just off to Lucca. I’ve got some stuff arriving.”

  “Anything lovely?” She tried to keep the tone of her voice neutral but inwardly was still quite angry with him.

  “Nothing suitable for us, I’m afraid. Besides the house is getting rather full.”

  “Will you be back for lunch?”

  “No, I’ll spend the afternoon cataloguing and making a few contacts. I’ll be back well in time for dinner. Have a lovely day.”

  Ursula’s eyes swivelled round to look at Jean Pierre who was studiously ignoring them. He was such a vicious little gossip, which was another reason she loved to have him. He always gave her the latest updates on all sorts of interesting situations, but it would be wise to keep her temper under control in front of him. “And you too, my love,” she said with a big smile at Guido.

  They blew kisses to each other while Jean Pierre diplomatically searched in his case. Guido had ignored him as usual and he felt slighted, as he always did on these occasions. After all, who was Guido to give himself airs? Everyone knew that he’d come up from nothing. All that crap about his aristocratic family origins might fool Ursula but it didn’t fool him. Only after the door had closed did he speak again, and then in such a hurt tone that she laughed, “Jean Pierre, stop sulking, take no notice of Guido. You know what men are like. He only has eyes for me. He probably didn’t even see you.”

  “That’s a comfort.” Jean Pierre kept his counsel, but he knew when someone was available and he had thought that Guido might be, when he’d first met him. It wasn’t the sort of thing that Ursula would notice, but he did.

  He thrust a colour chart at Ursula.

  “Well, here are the two colours I suggest. We could use one or both, you know, gently shaded in. What do you think?”

  “Both please. I love that shaded effect. You don’t think it’s too light?”

  “Well, it is much lighter but with your amazing skin colour it will look great.”

  “You’re such a flatterer. I do hope you’re telling me the truth.”

  “The whole truth. Why should I lie?”

  “Dear boy, let’s get on with it and tell me all the latest news.”

  Jean Pierre began happily to mix his potions.

  Piero drove through the town in a pristine car. He had done a few chores while waiting for the car to be washed and have the glass on one of the front headlamps replaced. Marianna not only drove without a driving license, she wasn’t even very good at it. Along the road that led from the town to the Villa, a short distance of perhaps two kilometres he ruminated on the startling news he had heard in the bar where he’d stopped for a coffee. Roberto, Marianna’s unsuitable boyfriend, had been the victim of a hit and run accident in the early hours of the morning. It must have happened on his way home from the villa. He’d been on foot, because earlier Marianna had brought him to the villa in her mother’s car. No-one knew exactly at what time it had happened, but Piero who had heard him leave, guessed it must have been at about three. Roberto hadn’t been discovered until first light when a farmer driving out to take a load of fodder for his chickens had come across the young man, unconscious, at the side of the road. He was still alive but rumour had it that his injuries were so severe he might not make it.

  Piero kept an eye out for Marianna but didn’t see her on the way home. He guessed she was probably at the hospital, no doubt embarrassing the boy’s family. Well the problem had been solved for now. Roberto, even if he did live, would be out of action for some time and Madam would doubtless make sure that her daughter saw as little of him as possible. He swept into the drive and knew that the news he was bringing would be well received.

  Dragonetti was back at the open window smoking again. On the other side of the busy road were the massive walls of Lucca. They were unique, in that the whole of the old town was enclosed within their circumference, which had remained intact over the centuries. They rose, built with a warm coloured brick, compact, and surrounded by the wide, well-tended, lush grass field that had once been a moat, now reduced to a small stream. They were crowned with huge trees in full summer leaf now. The effect was spectacular and had stunned generations of tourists. The many spires of the churches and towers of notable villas were just visible and he knew some of them quite well now as he had spent a few of his lunch hours visiting them. Today he was going to visit the Duomo, San Martino. At lunchtime he left his office and went out into the heat. It was like walking into an oven, and within a few minutes he could feel his hair damp against his collar. He crossed the main road streaming with traffic and walked along past the fortified gate of St Peter until he came to a small path that cut through the field and led towards an invisible opening in one of the huge round ramparts. The walls were so big that there were roads inside them. An exhibition had been set up in there showing how Lucca had evolved over the centuries, with huge papier mâché knights on horses, maps of the town and boards with illustrated summaries of historical events. Baroque music played continuously in the background.

  He emerged from the tunnel and climbed up to stand on top of the tree-lined walls. It was a little cooler up here, and tourists cycled lazily on the bikes or tandems that were available for hire. He went down a flight of steps cut into the grass embankment, and into the town. When he reached the Duomo of San Martino he paused in the piazza to look at the façade. Intricately sculpted columns supported three asymmetrical arches that lined the front of the church. The facade then rose in three tiers above them. Entry was through a side door and he plunged into the dark interior of the church, grateful for the comparatively cool air. He made his way to the small, octagonal temple within the main body of the Cathedral, where the Volto Santo, the Sacred Countenance, could be viewed. He found a curious wooden statue, a thirteenth century replica of the original said to have arrived from the Holy Land, carved from a cedar of Lebanon, apparently depicting the true face of Christ, and executed by none other than Nicodemus, his contemporary. Although a crucifixion, the Chri
st wears a long robe-like dress and, he read in his guide book, ‘it is speculated it was originally the statue of a virgin who grew a beard to avoid an arranged marriage with the king of Sicily (thus inevitably losing her virginity) and who, as a consequence, was crucified by her father’. This strangely barbaric effigy of the Christ was annually decked out heavily with gold, though no longer carted about in a procession. Drago was not religious but did admire both sacred music, art and architecture. What he disliked intensely were pilgrims totting up the count of the shrines they had visited, as though that conferred extra virtue on them, and he had a real problem with the sanctimonious and evangelists.

  After paying extra he was admitted to the tomb of Saint Hilary, another virtuous woman, who had died young in childbirth. Her grieving husband had commissioned the tomb sculpted by Jacopo della Quercia. At her feet lies a dog, symbol of faithfulness. Dragonetti remembered that the restoration of this sculpture some years back had caused a furore with serious accusations from various experts, of work badly carried out. Not being an expert himself, he thought it looked good, the marble gleaming as it surely must have done when it was first put there.

  After that he went back out into the heat, half blinded by the sunlight but did notice on the wall beside the entrance door a sculpted labyrinth believed to predate the more famous one in Chartres Cathedral. The inscription in Latin recited: ‘This is the labyrinth built by Dedalus of Crete; all who entered therein were lost, save Theseus, thanks to Ariadne’s thread.’

  At the first bar he found he grabbed a toasted focaccia oozing with melting mozzarella and grilled aubergine. He ate it standing up and then quickly downed an espresso. While walking back to his office he smoked a cigarette, wishing he could have smoked it while drinking his coffee. Smoking was now strictly forbidden in all public buildings and that included his office. He spent the afternoon twiddling his thumbs while he listened to Radio Toscana Classica which transmitted classical music all day and half the night.