Three Days in Florence

by Chrissie Manby

  After a couple of minutes, a passing carabiniere in shiny black boots tapped the side of Kathy’s shoe with his toecap and told her she couldn’t sit there. She was making the Duomo look untidy. ‘Is not allowed,’ he said.

  Kathy struggled to get up. The combination of the race to catch the thief and the heat of the Florentine afternoon had left her feeling quite weak. She wasn’t sure she could stand up without leaning against something. The carabiniere looked on impassively but suddenly Kathy felt a hand on her elbow as someone finally stepped in to help her find her feet. It was a woman, around Kathy’s age. As she helped her upright, the woman was simultaneously upbraiding the police officer in angry Italian. The officer shrugged and walked off.

  Kathy’s new friend made a lewd gesture at his back. ‘Stronzo!’ she added, for good measure. Then she turned back to Kathy. ‘Inglese?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kathy. ‘How can you tell?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘An instinct.’

  She meant Kathy’s outfit, Kathy was sure.

  ‘Are you OK? Do you need to sit down again? Here, let me help you to a bench. That arsehole policeman won’t bother you any more. I told him you’d just been robbed and if he was doing his job properly, instead of bothering tourists who aren’t doing anyone any harm, he’d be running after the thief who took your bag. He could do with the exercise. I ran after that guy as far as I could,’ the woman continued, ‘but at the top of the road over there he had a mate with a moped waiting for him and they were gone in a flash.’

  ‘You were the one who ran after him?’

  ‘Yes. I was in the alleyway when he came flying through with you in hot pursuit. I knew at once what had happened. That wasn’t his bag, I said to myself.’

  ‘You tried to stop him with your own.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I’m sorry that didn’t work. I should have swung at him harder. I wish I had. I’m Carla, by the way.’ She offered Kathy her hand.

  ‘Kathy.’

  Kathy winced as they shook on their new acquaintance.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’ Carla asked. ‘The thief?’

  ‘No. But I fell over just after you joined the chase. I landed on my hands and knees. And I’m winded from all the running.’

  Carla took both Kathy’s hands in hers and turned them over so that she could see the damage. ‘Ouch. We need to get you cleaned up.’

  ‘It looks worse than it is,’ said Kathy.

  ‘All the same …’ Carla fished in her bag for some wet wipes. ‘Where were you when your bag was taken?’

  ‘In the piazza della Signoria. I was sitting outside a café. One of the big ones opposite the Palazzo Vecchio. My bag was on the table.’

  Carla shook her head and tutted. ‘They watch for that. You think your bag is safe because it’s in front of you where you can see it but, pouf, if anything, when it’s up high like that it’s easier to snatch. I expect he was watching you, waiting for the exact moment your attention was elsewhere.’

  Kathy shivered at the thought. She’d been so happy outside that café. So utterly oblivious. The idea that someone had been watching her, like a sparrow hawk watching a mouse in the grass, was most upsetting.

  ‘Was it an expensive bag? Did you have much in it?’ Carla asked.

  ‘My purse. My phone …’

  ‘Your passport?’

  ‘No, thank goodness, that’s …’ Kathy patted her breast pocket a little anxiously. ‘Yes, that’s still here. My fiancé is always telling me you should keep your passport separate from everything else for exactly this kind of eventuality. He was right.’

  ‘Well, that is good news at least. Credit cards and phones are easy enough to replace. A passport is a whole different matter. I don’t think you can even do that in Florence any more. Anything else in your bag? Anything important?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just some make-up. Some loyalty cards.’ But then she remembered. She covered her eyes with her hands again. ‘Oh, my God. And my engagement ring!’

  ‘Your engagement ring?’

  ‘Yes. It’s brand new. I only got engaged yesterday.’

  Carla didn’t ask why the engagement ring was in Kathy’s bag and not on her finger. Instead, she nodded grimly and said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out.’ She pulled a bottle of water from her bag and waited while Kathy drank some. ‘You’ll need to cancel your credit cards and I’ll take you to the nearest police station. There’s no point talking to any of the muppets patrolling round here but you’ll need a case number for your insurance. You do have travel insurance, I hope?’

  Kathy was sure Neil must have arranged that, though whether it covered her belongings if he wasn’t with her, she had no idea. And would it cover a brand new diamond ring that should have been on her hand?

  ‘It will be OK,’ Carla reassured her again. ‘At the end of the day, it’s only stuff. All of it. Even the ring. Your fiancé will just be glad you’re safe.’

  Kathy hoped Neil would see it like that.

  Chapter Twenty

  While Carla walked with Kathy back to the piazza della Signoria to find the wheelie case she’d left behind – which the Americans on the next table had taken into their care – she asked if there was someone Kathy wanted to call.

  ‘Your fiancé, of course,’ she said. ‘But perhaps you ought to wait to call him when we’ve finished at the police station. There’s no point unduly worrying him. Once we’ve seen the police, you’ll feel better.’

  That seemed like a solid plan. Though, as it was, Kathy couldn’t remember Neil’s mobile number, only the number for their home landline, which no one ever picked up because the only people who called it were salesmen or Neil’s mother. Neither Neil nor his children seemed to want to talk to Granny Margaret.

  The waiter at the café told Kathy that the Americans had not only looked after her bag, they’d paid her bill.

  Then it was off to the police station where they joined a queue of unhappy tourists all waiting to report similar incidents. While Kathy used Carla’s phone to call her bank and stop the stolen cards, Carla took control of reporting the theft, going straight to the desk and asking for the relevant forms in a way that suggested it wasn’t the first time she’d had to do this. When an officer finally appeared, Carla chivvied him into getting the forms stamped ‘pronto’.

  Kathy was profusely grateful. Grateful but slightly confused. She’d heard of the kindness of strangers but never before had she actually experienced it. This wonderful bilingual woman didn’t know her at all yet she’d gone out of her way when she’d tried to catch the thief. Perhaps even put herself in danger. She must have better things to do than help a British woman she’d never met before.

  ‘Why are you helping me?’ Kathy asked, as they filled in the forms together.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Carla said, looking surprised. ‘Actually, think of it as a case of what goes around … When I was a student in London, people were kind to me in the same way.’

  ‘They were?’

  ‘I was at art college and worked as a waitress in the evenings. I lived way out at the end of the Piccadilly Line. One night I fell asleep on the way home, and when I woke up as the train reached its destination, I realised all my bags were gone. My handbag. My bag with my clothes in it. I was still wearing my TGI Friday uniform. They even took the big folder I used to carry my artwork around. All of it was gone. I had nothing. I didn’t even have my keys to get back into my flat and my flatmate was away for the weekend.

  ‘Two old ladies came to my rescue. Proper old Londoners, sisters, on their way home from the pub. They took me to the station and made sure the police treated me properly. Then, when I’d made my report, they took me back to their flat and made me tea and spaghetti hoops on toast. Because that was the only Italian food they had, they said.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘And the next day they clubbed together to give me fifty quid to keep me going until I could get my bank cards sorted out. That’s the sort of kindness you don�
�t forget. Think of this as me paying it forward.’

  ‘Then I’m very grateful to those Londoners,’ Kathy said.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Carla asked. ‘When we finish here I’ll walk you there.’

  ‘I don’t have a hotel,’ said Kathy. ‘I was supposed to be flying back to London this evening.’

  ‘Then what time is your flight? We can get you a car to the airport.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m on it. I mean, it wasn’t confirmed.’ Kathy explained the situation.

  ‘Then you had better come with me,’ said Carla.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back to my family’s place.’

  ‘I don’t want to impose. It’s one thing you helping me file a police report, it’s another taking me back to your home.’

  ‘You would not be imposing. We’re used to having guests. We run a hotel.’

  ‘But I can’t pay. I’ve only got …’ Kathy pulled out the euros she had folded into her passport. That was another of Neil’s travel tips. Don’t keep all your cash in one place. ‘… Fifty euros to my name. That’s not enough for a hotel room. Is it?’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Carla. ‘You don’t need money to stay at the Casa Innocenti. I’ll text Mamma to say we’re on our way.’

  And that was that. Since Neil had not yet returned the call Kathy had made from Carla’s mobile while they were in the police station – she’d had to leave a message on the landline – she wasn’t sure what choice she had but to follow this Italian stranger home. She couldn’t just go to the airport and sit there, could she? Neil would have no way of getting in touch with her. She very much doubted she’d be allowed to sleep in the airport departure lounge until her Monday flight.

  Besides, there was something about Carla that made Kathy feel she could trust her. Something about her eyes and her smile as she’d talked about the old ladies in London who had helped her in her own moment of need. That sounded like a genuine story. Then there was something about her face, which was as warm and open as the face of a Renaissance Madonna and which seemed somehow familiar, like the face of someone she already knew and liked.

  ‘But how can I repay you?’ Kathy tried one more time.

  Carla laughed. ‘Believe me, Kathy, everyone at the Casa Innocenti ends up singing for their supper.’

  Carla insisted on taking Kathy’s suitcase for her. She said it was no problem because she was used to carrying heavy bags, thanks to growing up in a hotel. Kathy was grateful. It was hard enough to navigate the uneven pavements without the case and she was suddenly so very tired.

  ‘It’s nice to find someone I can bore with my memories of London,’ said Carla. ‘I was at St Martin’s College. Do you know it?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘No. I studied fashion. Like in the song. You know, the Pulp song? Except I was living like the common people in London because I had to, not because I wanted to. Which is why what those two old ladies did when they took me under their wing that night was life-saving. I think I would have given up and gone home to Italy without them. They gave me the strength to stay.’

  As they walked, Carla talked about her home city. The Casa Innocenti – ‘It sounds far grander than it really is’ – was on the Oltrarno, she explained, the opposite side of the river from most of the big tourist spots. ‘Though I won’t take you over the Ponte Vecchio,’ Carla said. ‘Have you been across it yet?’

  ‘No,’ Kathy admitted. ‘It was on my plan for today.’

  ‘Well, now is definitely not the moment to try. It will be full of international fashion bloggers taking wistful selfies. It was always bad enough with the tourists but now everyone is a blogger and they all have to take a hundred shots then look through them, then shoot them again, and then look through them, and start again with a different lipstick on. Then they add so many filters, you can’t tell what they’re standing in front of anyway. So many tourists, it’s a wonder the bridge doesn’t fall down. The Ponte Vecchio is like a Brueghel painting of Hell in the summertime. That’s what my brother says. You’ll meet him later on.’

  A brother? Kathy felt a small wave of weariness at the thought of meeting more new people.

  ‘You’ll like him.’ Carla was sure.

  They paused on a bridge upstream from the Ponte Vecchio – the Ponte alle Grazie – to look back at the iconic bridge that had come to symbolise the city almost as much as David and the Duomo.

  ‘You can take a selfie from here if you like,’ said Carla. ‘I won’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t have my phone,’ Kathy reminded her.

  ‘Of course! I’m sorry. I should check mine. See if your fiancé has called while we’ve been walking.’

  He still hadn’t. There was nothing. How long would it take him to wonder why he hadn’t had a text from Kathy in a while?

  Seeing Kathy’s frown, Carla assured her, ‘He will call soon.’

  Neil would pick up the voice message, wouldn’t he? When he hadn’t heard from her for a few hours, he would start to worry. Or was he sending messages to her mobile and assuming she was getting them? He wouldn’t automatically check the answer-machine at home.

  ‘You can try to reach him again from the house,’ said Carla, reading her mind. ‘Don’t look so worried. He’ll be pleased you’re safe.’

  Am I safe? Kathy wondered.

  As Carla had explained, the other side of the river was quite different from the Florence most people who visited for just a few days got to know. Only a couple of streets back from the riverside, the crowds had largely disappeared. The streets were labyrinthine there, the houses tall and close together. The further they got from the river, the quieter the streets became.

  They were oddly anonymous. Kathy didn’t know how she would ever find her way back if she had to. Though she wanted to trust Carla absolutely, and their conversation about London and Florence and all the differences between the two cities was comforting, a sense of unease was creeping in. The dark, shuttered windows of the houses to either side seemed ready to turn a blind eye. Although the sun was still high in the sky, the height of the buildings made the narrow streets dark and gloomy and, in places, actually dank.

  They seemed to walk for ages but, at last, they arrived at a plain blue gate in a plain grey wall. In the gate, which was faded and peeling from years of Italian sun, there was a small door that could be opened if you weren’t planning on bringing anything bigger than a person through. It wasn’t obviously a hotel, though a smudged brass plaque announced that this was the Casa Innocenti and visitors should ring the bell to be admitted. Carla searched through her bag for a moment or two, using her phone to see better into its depths, before she found a suitably ancient-looking key. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘It looks like the key to a castle,’ said Kathy. Yet the door looked like it went straight into a dungeon.

  ‘Oh, once upon a time this was the key to a castle. Or at least to a palazzo.’ Carla struggled with the lock. ‘This door needs to be rehung,’ she complained. ‘The lock is always tricky.’ At last it worked. ‘Mind your head as you come in. The people who made this gate weren’t as tall as we are today. And watch your step on the other side too. The floor’s a bit uneven. We were going to get it sorted out for the beginning of the tourist season but I suppose now we’re waiting for the end. We’re always waiting for something!’

  Carla pushed open the door, making a bell ring somewhere deep in the house, and ushered Kathy inside.

  ‘Welcome to the Casa Innocenti.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  If the key had looked like the key to a fairy-tale castle, then the view beyond the door did not disappoint. In true fantasy style, the plain grey wall and the sad blue gate in desperate need of a lick of fresh paint opened onto a most unexpected and wonderful view. Kathy stepped over the threshold into a sort of cloister, which she would come to know was a loggia, that was open to a garden beyond. The loggia was high-ceilinged with huge stone sla
bs on the floor. They were uneven from wear, as Carla had warned. An enormous brass carriage lamp hung from the ceiling. It was garlanded with cobwebs.

  From the loggia Kathy could see a vast, sweeping lawn that led down to a line of cypresses and umbrella pines. Though it had been dark in the narrow street outside, the sun still bathed the enormous garden. The heady scent of lavender drifted across the grass. It was planted in huge swathes in the flowerbeds. Meanwhile roses grew everywhere, like weeds, winding up the loggia’s arches, like the briars around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. There was even a campanile, a folly, Carla would explain, which was shaped like a twist of brick-built barley sugar.

  ‘You live here?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘I live here,’ said Carla, jerking her thumb upstairs from the loggia. ‘All that beyond the wall used to belong to my family, too, but, well, now most of it belongs to a Silicon Valley billionaire. Who never visits, I should add. Beyond those trees is the Palazzo Innocenti. Home of my forefathers and -mothers. We’ve just about hung on to this bit – the Casa Innocenti – which is a very grand name for the gatehouse. We live on this side of the arch. The hotel guest rooms are on the other.’

  Someone upstairs must have heard them come in because as Carla opened another door, which led into the building, a small dog rushed out, all fur and ferocity. He barrelled straight for Kathy’s shins. Had he not been so tiny, he would have been frightening. As it was, the little beast was merely comical as he danced like a boxer around Kathy’s shins barking his I’m-a-bigger-dog-than-you-think-I-am message.

  ‘Faustino, sssh,’ said Carla. ‘Be nice to our guest. Faustino is my mother’s dog, though he loves my brother best. Forget all bark and no bite. He’s all fluff and farts. Aren’t you, Fausty?’