by Rosanna Ley
She found the apartment block, though she had to check twice because it was as grimy and tatty as any other in the street. The balconies were crumbling, the wrought iron had rusted or was missing altogether, and there were no flowers, only a few broken terracotta pots to be seen. There was graffiti on the walls, and what looked like a snapped and fraying electric cable hanging down by the front door. Mamma mia – this was so much worse than she had feared. She rang the bell for Apartment 5 and waited. Minutes passed. She rang again.
She was about to walk away when at last the door creaked open. An old woman stood there – rather bent and certainly frail, since she was leaning on a stick. So, yes, this must be the mother of Signora Conti – Chiara could spot the resemblance, although this woman had a look of gentle warmth about her while the daughter had been brittle as a ginger snap. Chiara understood about brittle though – didn’t she see it in her own daughter every day? – she knew what could lie underneath.
‘Buon giorno.’ Chiara spoke softly. ‘Signora Gavino?’
‘Sì.’
‘Your daughter came to see me. My husband is your landlord. My name is Chiara. Chiara Mazzone.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Buon giorno, Signora.’ The woman was immediately deferential. ‘Come in, please. My apologies. I was not expecting visitors. So, you see . . . you catch me unawares.’
‘It is quite all right, Signora.’ Chiara stepped inside. ‘Is the intercom not working?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Hmm.’ The communal hallway was not the cleanest and it could certainly do with a slap of paint. The floor tiles were dirty, thick cobwebs were tangled in the far corners of the ceiling, and there was a general air of neglect. But it was nothing too awful. She supposed most city apartment blocks of this calibre would be much the same.
She stood expectantly by the lift, but Beatrice Gavino tottered past. Chiara raised an eyebrow as she followed her up the communal stairs. The old woman clung to the banister, moving painfully slowly. ‘Is the lift not working either, Signora?’
‘No, not for a year or so.’
‘A year!’ Chiara clicked her tongue. That wasn’t good enough. The old lady should not have to walk up and down from the third floor, for goodness’ sake, especially not at her age.
It seemed to take forever for them to get to the third floor. From here, Signora Gavino led the way into the narrow hall of a small apartment. It was dark and dingy, and Chiara noticed the unmistakeable smell of damp. They entered the living room, which was furnished with an armchair and a sofa covered with a throw and a few scatter cushions – probably covering up something stained or threadbare, Chiara thought. Beatrice Gavino had tried to make the room cosy, but Chiara immediately spotted the worn rug, the light fitting hanging from the ceiling like a dismembered limb, the tears of condensation, and the paint flaking from the walls. The old lady had done her best, but the place was definitely in need of some urgent maintenance.
‘I wondered. Could you show me the letter asking you to leave the apartment?’ Chiara asked her. ‘And perhaps your contract, if you have it to hand, Signora? Do you mind?’ It was rather an intrusion, but she had to get some idea of how things stood before she stepped in.
‘Of course, Signora, one moment please and I will find them for you.’ The old woman hovered in the doorway. ‘And in the meantime, can I make you some coffee?’
‘Please. That would be most appreciated.’ Chiara followed her into the kitchen so that she could check it out. On top of the stove was a two-ring unit attached to a bottle of gas. Signora Gavino filled the ancient and battered coffee percolator and put it on the gas to brew.
‘The stove doesn’t work?’ Chiara frowned. How many more things weren’t functioning as they should? Many of the tiles were chipped or broken, and the grout was crumbling to dust.
‘No.’
‘You’ve told my husband about all these things, Signora?’
‘Sì.’
And he had done nothing. Chiara looked around. There were a few dirty dishes lying in the cracked sink, but generally it looked as if Beatrice Gavino was keeping the place clean enough. But it hadn’t been maintained. Some of the floor tiles were cracked too, which was unhygienic and probably a health hazard because the old lady could easily trip over them. Even the plinth below the units had fallen down and not been mended or replaced. There were grease stains on the ceilings and walls, and the creepings of black mould visible under the window.
‘How long is it since anyone came to look at the apartment, Signora?’ Chiara asked. ‘There must be a regular maintenance check, surely?’
The old woman looked blank. ‘Allora, Signora, I’m afraid I can’t remember the last time.’
Chiara frowned. No maintenance check then.
Back in the living room, Chiara sat on the sofa, added broken springs to the list of what was wrong with the apartment and sipped the bitter espresso. The old lady passed her some paperwork with a trembling hand and Chiara read the letter Alonzo had sent to his tenant. It was short and to the point. The apartment needed to be renovated (he was right about that, at least). Signora Gavino had been given two months’ notice – and the letter was dated a month ago. No word of apology, no further explanation. She could hardly believe it. She scanned the contract. And it seemed that the period of notice was legal and above board.
‘If I could keep most of my things here, then I could live with my daughter for a few weeks,’ she told Chiara. ‘We have told your husband that. It wouldn’t be easy, but not impossible. And when the apartment is fixed up . . .’ Her voice trailed. Her expression alone told Chiara that she knew she wouldn’t be moving back in. ‘Though the rent might be too high.’ She sighed.
‘How did my husband respond to your request?’ It sounded reasonable enough to Chiara.
‘At first, he didn’t respond at all, Signora. Then he said it was too late. Since then we haven’t managed to speak to him at all.’
Chiara nodded. Hence the visit from her daughter.
‘Can you help?’ The woman was gazing at her with pleading eyes. ‘This is my home, Signora. I have lived here for twenty years. I don’t know where else I can go. Or how.’ She gazed around the simple room. The situation was obviously affecting her badly.
Chiara understood. But . . . ‘Forgive me. But there are other apartments, Signora.’ She had to say this. She guessed it was what Alonzo would say.
‘Yes, you are right. I must accept it. I must move from here.’ Her faded brown eyes were sad but brave.
But you shouldn’t have to, thought Chiara. Alonzo had some moral responsibility here did he not? She found herself thinking of Giovanna. Their families were not even blood-related and yet they had always protected her, and the idea that Giovanna too could ever be treated this way by someone, that she could ever lose her home and her security like this . . . This thought cut Chiara to the quick. And it was her own husband Alonzo who was responsible for this old lady’s distress. She’d always known he wasn’t perfect, but this showed a callousness that shocked her.
‘My daughter and son-in-law will help me.’ But the signora looked perfectly desolate at the prospect. ‘Although . . .’
‘And my husband?’ Because there was more that Chiara needed to know. ‘Can you tell me what sort of a landlord you have found him to be over the years?’
‘What sort of a landlord?’ The old lady looked away. ‘Oh, not so bad, Signora, not so bad.’
Chiara suspected she was simply being polite. And after all, the evidence spoke for itself. ‘But your daughter said—’
‘Pah!’ She swished this away with a gesture of her bony hand. ‘People talk. She is angry. Always angry about something that one. And her husband . . .’ She shook her head.
‘I see.’ Chiara finished her coffee. ‘I will talk to my husband,’ she said. ‘And I will telephone you and your daughter. Do you have a phone here?’ She doubted the old lady would have a mobile.
�
��Yes, there is one in the hall.’ She wrote the number in a spidery and trembling hand on a piece of notepaper on the side table.
Chiara got to her feet and took it from her. ‘I will be in touch in the next few days to let you know,’ she said. ‘Please don’t get up. I can see myself out.’
‘Thank you very much, Signora, grazie mille.’
Chiara shook her head. ‘Let’s wait and see.’ She hadn’t done anything yet. And she wasn’t sure how much she could do.
Outside the building she bumped into Signora Conti herself, who was talking to a younger woman. The signora looked just as she had when she’d visited The Lemon Tree Hotel, though it struck Chiara that here she did not look out of place. The other woman had jet black hair and was wearing a short denim skirt and high heels and an abundance of cheap jewellery.
‘You came.’ Signora Conti was clearly surprised to see her.
‘I said I would.’ Chiara held out her hand, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Signora Conti took it. ‘I’ve been talking to your mother.’
‘And?’
‘If the worst came to the worst, could your mother stay with you for a while – until she finds something else, I mean?’
She sighed. ‘It’s not me,’ she said.
‘Your husband?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s got a point. We’re over-crowded as it is.’
Chiara nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Alonzo. I don’t know what else I can do.’ She noticed the two women exchange a sheepish look.
‘Do you live here too?’ she asked the second woman. Perhaps she could find out more from her.
‘Sì.’ The woman sounded defensive. She shifted her gum from one side of her mouth to the other and stared back at Chiara.
Chiara stood her ground. ‘And do you have any complaints?’
‘Complaints?’ She groped in her bag for a pack of cigarettes and lit one.
‘About the condition of the place, the maintenance, the rent?’
The woman let out a short laugh. ‘Oh, don’t you worry. It works just fine for me.’ She looked Chiara up and down. Insolent, was the word Chiara would use to describe this look, though she continued to hold herself upright and refused to feel intimidated.
‘See you later,’ the other woman said to Signora Conti. She pulled a key from her bag and let herself into the apartment block, slamming the door behind her.
Chiara shot a questioning look at her companion ‘So what’s going on with her?’
Signora Conti moved her shoulder bag from one shoulder to the other and winced. ‘You don’t want to know, Signora.’
‘But Signora Conti,’ Chiara steeled herself, this was why she was here, ‘I do want to know.’
She let out a loud sigh and gave Chiara a long and appraising look. ‘She has visitors,’ she replied at last. ‘Male visitors. Your husband, he turns a blind eye.’
Chiara gasped. ‘You mean she’s a prostitute?’
‘Ssh.’ She flapped her hands at her. ‘No need to spell it out, is there? These things happen. We all have to live.’
‘But is she?’ Of course, Chiara knew that these things happened – but surely not in Alonzo’s apartment block? He couldn’t know. With his pride, he would be mortified.
‘I suppose so, yes, if you want to call it that.’ She seemed uncomfortable. ‘But look, it’s easy to think in black and white when you have money, no?’
Chiara took this on the chin. She was right. Chiara and her family lived in a privileged world. Even so . . . ‘Is she the only one?’ she asked.
‘Probably not.’
‘And what else should I know?’
The woman shot her a dark look.
‘Come on now, think of your mother.’ Alonzo had behaved badly, no doubt of it. And she must know that Chiara might be able to help.
‘A couple of tenants are dealers.’
Chiara flinched. ‘Drugs?’
‘Ssh. I told you. Keep your voice down.’ She looked warily from left to right.
Madonna santa! Chiara was feeling dizzy now. She put a hand to her head. Surely Alonzo was not aware of all these things going on under his nose? ‘My husband . . .’
‘I wouldn’t mention it to him.’
‘But why not?’ Chiara was struggling to understand. Naturally, she must mention it to him. The whole matter must be dealt with – it could not be allowed to continue. Certo this woman did not know Alonzo – not like Chiara did. He was a businessman, and he could be ruthless. He was greedy too. He wanted to get the best rent for his properties and he lacked compassion and any sense of moral obligation, as she had just discovered. But he wouldn’t countenance drug-dealing and prostitution on his property – absolutely not. Of that she was certain.
‘You seem like a decent woman,’ said Signora Conti. ‘You’ve got a fancy hotel. You’re not like me and my family, not at all. But I like you.’
‘Thank you.’ Chiara wasn’t sure what to say to that. ‘I like you too. But—’
‘And I don’t understand what someone like you is doing with someone like him, to be honest.’
Chiara was conscious of a sudden chill in the air. ‘Someone like him?’
‘There’s all sorts of ways of paying rent, that’s all I’m saying. And it’s only fair that you’re aware of that, Signora. A nice woman like you. It’s not right.’
‘All sorts of ways?’ Chiara frowned. What was she saying? What should Chiara be aware of?
‘It’s been going on for years as far as I know. And as for the drugs,’ she added, ‘the way I heard it, if he gets his money, he doesn’t care.’
Chiara stared at her. She was in shock. Her mind was reeling. What sort of place was Alonzo running here? A brothel? A drug den? She was desperately trying to assimilate all this new information about her husband, and she was coming to an awful conclusion. If he gets his money, he doesn’t care. Was this the kind of man she was married to? And what else? What did she mean about other ways of paying rent? For years? Surely, she wasn’t suggesting . . . Chiara felt the chill of fear. How could she take all this in? Mamma mia. Until recently, that man had been in her bed.
‘What will you do?’ Signora Conti’s expression was mildly curious. And there was something else. Chiara imagined that although she had wanted Chiara to know the truth for her own good, she was also rather pleased at being in a position to give it. Chiara was the one in the fancy hotel, and this woman lived a very different sort of life. But her husband was a problem to her too, so perhaps their lives weren’t so very different after all.
‘I’m going to pay my husband a visit,’ Chiara told her. ‘And after that . . .’ She shrugged. After that, who knew? At this moment in time, Chiara could look no further ahead.
CHAPTER 29
Chiara
Chiara’s mind was still buzzing with unanswered questions as she made her way towards the square. There was so much traffic it was making her head hurt. Scooters, trucks, cars, queued up at the traffic lights revving their engines impatiently; a bus careered around the corner as if it were going to plough right into the stately loggia of the Palazzo. She stepped out into the road without looking, the driver of a black Fiat blasted his horn, and Chiara jumped back again. She was shaking. ‘Crazy country woman,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Pay attention. You’re in the city now.’
But a walk might clear her head. She passed the bustling Palazzo, the row of orange trees, the marble benches, and the statue of Vittorio Emanuele II in the square. She could stop at one of the cafés with the burgundy parasols, but she didn’t want to stop – not yet. She went straight on down the busy Corso Italia instead, which was lined with shops and tall narrow buildings. Funny, she’d never noticed how claustrophobic it was here. And how strange – that everyone was going about their business, continuing with their lives, not guessing how she felt right now, not caring.
Not keeping up the maintenance of his apartments was one thing. Chiara was surprised but not shocked at that. She’d always known Alonzo lacked th
e integrity of his parents, she’d always known he was lazy, greedy even.
So why in the name of Madonna, had she married him? That was easy. Just as she’d told Dante only days ago – oh, Dante . . . For a moment she felt a thrust of regret that was so startling, so strong that it took her breath away. She had married him because her parents had wanted her to. And when she came to think about it, what kind of crazy reason was that? Dante had been right in that respect. Her parents would be happy they were now related by marriage to Papà’s oldest friend, they’d be proud they had an obliging daughter (pah!) but they didn’t have to live with him, did they? They didn’t have to experience the emptiness of a loveless marriage; a relationship based on little more than a business arrangement? Chiara had hoped that mutual respect and parental friendship could lead to love. But they hadn’t. They had led to separation, to irritation, to chilly politeness. And now, even the mutual respect had gone.
Her breath was coming so fast as she hurried on that she thought she might faint. Steady, Chiara. She paused when she reached the Carmelite church. She stood in the doorway for a moment, looked up at the high vaulted ceiling, then took a step inside, her heels tapping on the cool black-and-white marble tiles. The simple wooden pews were empty, but at the altar a tray of candles burned and incense hung in the air. It was so peaceful, quite at odds with the busy and commercial street outside, and Chiara felt herself slowly grow calmer. She would give Alonzo a chance to explain, an opportunity to make good what he had done; she owed him that much at least.
On emerging from the church, Chiara walked more unhurriedly. She passed the fabulous stained-glass windows that she always admired when she came this way, and the loggia at the end of the road where the colourful antiques market was held on Saturdays. How many times had she browsed through the black-and-white photographs of the old film stars, examined the pieces of ornate jewellery, flicked through the records and thought of the old days? But today the loggia was just another empty space that seemed to echo her own state of mind.
