‘There’s nothing I can do either except try and understand … Would you mind if I sent to your office for the photograph album that was in the safe—and the few photos we took from the flat as well?’
‘You needn’t send anyone. I’ll see they get to you the minute I get back. By the way, there hasn’t been time to mention it until now but I did telephone the Rossi parents and they had nothing but praise for you. I’m sorry if I caused you to worry needlessly.’
‘You did right to warn me. Given your experience.’
‘You have your own experience, you don’t need mine.’ He pressed the marshal’s arm. ‘Follow your instinct. You have no better friend. By the way, did you really have Umberto D’Ancona’s name?’
‘No, no …’
‘Ha!’
The marshal watched him get in his car and drive off. He stood still a moment, staring towards the exit, feeling for his car keys and his dark glasses. ‘I’ll find them,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll find both of them. Sara’s brother, if he’s real, and Jacob Roth.’ Glasses first. It was fairly shady in the cloister, where a fountain trickled, and the vaulted, stone-flagged passage leading out of it was dark. Beyond that, framed by the arched entrance, the rainwashed air in Via Borgo Ognissanti was dazzling under a clean, burning sun.
‘Don’t interrupt me unless you have to.’ As if Lorenzini ever did. He was the sort we all take for granted until they are sick or on holiday and life erupts into a thousand pimples of irritation. He closed the door quietiy as he left the office and the marshal setded down to open the big photograph album. It wasn’t dusty. It had been preserved with great care inside a brown velvet bag with a drawstring. The earliest photographs dated from the end of the last century, formal groups of ladies in high lace collars and piles of hair. The album probably wasn’t as old as those first pictures, which were mounted on thick board not at all adapted to the diagonal slits meant to hold them in place so that they were loose under their protective page of tissue. On the base of the mounting board was the name of the photographer, written diagonally in elaborate script difficult to make out, perhaps because the name was foreign. Praha was printed clearly. Prague, he supposed. Some pictures of individual ladies and of married couples had props, perhaps a marble column or archway, or a backcloth of a garden or country scene. Portraits of soldiers, seated rigidly holding one glove or standing in dress uniforms holding swords. What looked like an engagement photograph. The young man in uniform, staring straight at the camera, she looking up at him, leaning on his arm. The same couple in wedding clothes, this one mounted, loose in the page, the same Prague photographer, 1919. Then there was another wedding scene, this one with bridesmaids seated cross-legged at the front holding enormous bunches of flowers. There was no date but this was later, the marshal thought, probably the twenties, judging by the shining headbands low on the women’s foreheads, the narrow frock and pointed shoes of the bride. The pictures fitted into the slots now and were a little less formal. No more marble columns or painted trees. Barefooted children sat on fur-draped stools, girls and boys alike in dresses and loose curls, their names and ages added in sepia copperplate below.
‘Ruth, aged five. 1931.’
There she was, Sara Hirsch’s mother in a white sailor suit, a loose satin bow in her long dark hair. Another with a man and a woman in a park—real, not studio scenery. He turned back a page or two and found the same couple, the woman holding a baby wrapped in a long shawl. He looked more closely. They were in a doorway and the narrow strip of window to their right had the beginning of a name on it of which only the H was visible.
Further on, he identified the same couple, a little more mature now, no doubt photographed in honour of some anniversary, she in a big carved chair, he standing behind her in a tight suit and stiff rounded collar. Sara’s grandparents. The last part of the big album was empty. The world had stopped in 1939 for them. Sara’s mother, Ruth, had brought this—the seven-branched candelabra, the prayer shawl, the Talmud, and the rest, her history, her inheritance—to Florence, where her parents had contacts, where they thought she would be safe. A little girl carrying a great burden. The marshal had no doubt that Samuel Roth in Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti was the contact. And Jacob Roth, the son who was so clever…
‘I’m willing to bet that he was Sara’s father!’ said the marshal. ‘So now, where’s that photograph? I’d swear young Lisa Rossi said—’ He was lifting the receiver when Lorenzini knocked and came in. ‘What is it?’
‘Someone to see you. It won’t take a minute. It’s not that—’
‘No, no. It’s all right. Send him in.’ Because he was sure of his ground, could hold the entire picture in his head. No amount of talking could disturb him now.
‘It’s a she.’
‘What?’ But Lorenzini had withdrawn.
Dori appeared.
‘No … !’
‘Yes! I’ve done it and here’s the ring to prove it. Registry office, of course.’ She looked wonderful. She had always been beautiful but now there was a difference. Perhaps it was because she was dressed more discreedy, perhaps because she was living a more regular life. The pregnancy still didn’t show but then she was so very tall and slender. T can see you’re busy’
‘That’s all right. Sit down for a minute.’
‘Okay’ She sat. ‘What’s that? Your family album?’
‘No, somebody else’s.’
‘Hm. That reminds me: You lied to me about Mario’s mother. She’s dead.’
‘I know. Sorry …’
‘It’s all right. You’re a good man. You’ve been to see Enkeleda in the hospital a couple of times, haven’t you?’
‘She told you? She’s herself again?’
‘You’re kidding. They say she has a mental age of about five and is likely to stay that way. That woman in the other bed told me you’d been, the one with her skull all stitched up—Christ!’
‘I know …’
‘Anyway, they’re trying to get her moved to some place where they’ll teach her to walk. She seems happy enough. That bastard Lek …’
‘Yes, well, don’t forget your friend, his cousin Ilir, who wasn’t averse to that sort of work himself with girls who didn’t play ball.’
‘Ilir’s all right. I’d best be going, leave you to your family album. Thanks again, Marshal.’
‘Your testimony’s all the thanks I need.’
‘And thanks for going to see Enkeleda, as well. Poor little bugger.’
‘She’s had bad luck.’
‘Yeah, right. She was born female.’
Enkeleda … When Dori had gone, the marshal thought about that broken little body as he dialled the Rossis’ number. Even if she learned to walk, what then? Where would she walk to?
‘Signora Rossi? Marshal Guarnaccia here, good evening, good evening. I wonder if I could have a quick word with your little girl—no, no, just something she told me that I’d like to check on—and, Signora—if you wouldn’t mind leaving her alone while she’s talking. She feels she was in Signora Hirsch’s confidence and I’m trying to respect that—no, I don’t think she knows anything dangerous, besides which she’s very discreet … thank you. Lisa? Lisa, do you remember telling me about the secret photographs in the safe? No, I’m sure you haven’t and neither have I. Just tell me again: There was a photo that Signora Hirsch said was of her mum and dad. Can you tell me any more about it? For instance, did it look like it was taken in a photographer’s studio or a house or outdoors? What? It was? You’re sure of that—she told you so? I can imagine, yes, a very long time ago. And was anybody else in the picture? Just the two of them—how old did you think they were? Try and tell me what they looked like. I see. All right, Lisa. Now, try and remember: Did she ever show you a photo of her brother, or even say she had one of him? No. And the secret picture was the one of her mum and dad? And the flowers, the picture of the flowers. Thank you, Lisa, you’ve been a big help. Yes, it’s very important … and still a secret for the moment
, yes. You mustn’t worry about that because I’ve asked your mum not to ask you. When it’s all over we’ll both tell her. Put her back on the line … Signora, thank you for your help—oh, you did. Yes, it’s true. Two men have been arrested. You’ve heard already … the seven-thirty news? Is it as late as that?’
He mustn’t be late for supper again. Nevertheless, he sat a moment, taking in what Lisa had told him.
He looked old—I mean grown-up. All the grown-ups look kind of old and sad in those brown pictures, and he had sad clothes on, a really gloomy suit and a hat. He was long and thin and dark but she was only a little girl. She was only up to his shoulder and she had plaits.’
A little girl. Sent alone with her past in a suitcase to the place that they thought was safe. Where the photograph was taken.
‘She told me. You could even see the stuff in the window behind them. It was right here in Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti’.
Yes, of course. He had said it before and he was still convinced of it. Despite Prague, despite London, he knew that this was a Florentine story and the important elements were all right here. 'Right here in Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti’…
Rinaldi, now, he was as guilty as hell, but guilty of what exactly? He said he’d paid the porters for nothing, that instead of what he wanted he got a dead body, a murder investigation on his doorstep.
The marshal scribbled a list on the left-hand side of a sheet of paper from his drawer.
Photo of mum and dad in Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti.
Photo of flowers Video?
Little Lisa hadn’t seen a video in the safe but if all the videos were gone, then …
He hadn’t paid them for nothing. These things were gone.
‘No, no,’ said the marshal aloud. Sara Hirsch was frightened but she wasn’t stupid and whatever this business was about, it had occupied her whole life. They had already been in her house. She wouldn’t have taken risks after such a warning.
‘Talk with your lawyer and tell him what I’ve told you.’
‘I will … I intend to defend my rights.’
Her lawyer. He had to find her lawyer. Any trace of him was gone from the flat so Rinaldi had achieved that, at least If Jacob Roth was her father, then she would have gone to the same lawyer, this Umberto D’Ancona. If he was her father…
On the right-hand side of his sheet of paper he scribbled a few more things, copying them from the few documents in the Hirsch file. Jacob Roth’s date of birth taken from the Land Registry. Sara’s date of birth and her mother’s from their baptismal certificates. The purchase of the building in Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti. These few facts, and they were very few, had to fit together. If they did, then they would show a gap. An empty space which, if he could define its edges, would tell him what he should be looking for.
Jacob Roth was born in 1913 in Great Britain.
Ruth Hirsch was born in 1926 in Czechoslovakia In the photograph Lisa had seen, Ruth was a child in plaits, Jacob, would have been thirteen years older, a man in suit and hat. But Ruth grew. Those apartments, he knew, had only two bedrooms. But there was a war on, people had to manage. In 1943 Ruth was pregnant. Was it love, proximity, marriage? Not marriage or why the convent? Jacob had a foreign passport and could have taken her away before the Occupation. Did he himself leave? Where was he that he survived the war when Ruth was hidden in a convent and his parents were deported and killed?
It always came back to the same question. Where was Jacob Roth? Where was he then, where did he die, where was he buried? Rinaldi hadn’t much liked telling them anything at all about the man and must have known a great deal more than he told. No knowing, of course, if what he did tell was true.
‘Just a minute! Rinaldi …’ He scribbled a note about Rinaldi’s taking over the business.
The door opened and Lorenzini looked in. ‘Did you call?’
‘No, no … I mean—nothing. I was just thinking aloud. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay. I was coming in anyway. Prosecutor sent this over. Further autopsy report on Sara Hirsch. And there was a phone call from the hospital about the Albanian girl. They said you’d asked to be kept informed.’
‘How is she?’
‘They’ve operated again. Condition’s stable. I suppose that’s not saying much in her case, is it?’
‘No. No, it’s not.’
‘You could almost wish … anyway, and there’s a young man waiting out here to see you.’
‘I suppose …?’
‘Has to be you.’ By this time, Lorenzini had accumulated quite a little ‘clientele’ for himself but people didn’t accept substitutes in every case. The marshal frowned and looked at the sheet of paper in front of him. Two or three scribbled lines, a few dates. The great investigator. He’d have been ashamed to let the prosecutor, or even Lorenzini, see them. Lorenzini was brighter, more on the ball, younger. Well … pride never solved a case.
‘All right, you can send him in—come here a minute first. Just be taking a look at these dates, will you? Those two men we arrested this morning …’
‘Falaschi and Giusti?’
‘Right. This antique dealer, Rinaldi, the man they work for, do you know much about him?’
‘I know him. See him occasionally about the monthly list of stolen goods.’
‘What do you think of him? Slippery?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, no. Not honest, either. The complete opposite of the chap on the corner of Piazza San Felice who does his own restoration work, has a passion for it. Rinaldi’s passion, I’d say, was for clever dealing. And I don’t think he needs to be slippery, as you put it. I’ve had my suspicions of him over the years but never been in a position to move against him and he knows it. He’d laugh in our faces.’
‘I’m sure he would. The point is…just look through these dates from the Hirsch case, will you? Rinaldi says he took over the shop after the war and I’m trying to make sense of it and I can’t. I don’t know what it is but … everybody’s Jewish in this story except for him, that’s one thing. Take the whole file and come back to me when I’ve seen this man.’
‘I’ll send him in.’
Proximity, love, marriage … whichever it was, the picture he’d never seen was the one most present in the marshal’s head. The girl with pigtails standing next to the young man in a suit. Proximity, love, marriage … pregnant at eighteen in a foreign country, running from a war, prejudice, and persecution.
‘Mama!’
That was Enkeleda’s voice. They had operated again. Another child …
A young man had come in quiedy and was standing in front of the desk. The face was familiar, blue eyes … the recollection pleasant, but he couldn’t quite place …
‘I don’t suppose you remember me. We met at L’Uliveto recently. I work in the garden there.’ He ran a hand through floppy blond hair, hesitating, a bit shy. He looked exceptionally tall in this small room. The marshal had seen him before but outdoors—
‘Of course. The poor relation—I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean—’
‘Oh, don’t worry. After all, I was the one to tell you that’s what I was. I’m the same myself. Never forget a face but then when I see somebody in a different setting I have trouble remembering who they are. Jim’s the name. And I suppose even now you know who I am you’re surprised to see me. Well, do you mind if I sit down? I think it’s time we had that little talk.’
Nine
Oh, Lord … he’d better straighten this out right away. With the best will in the world, he couldn’t afford to waste time today.
‘Look, it’s very kind of you to say that Sir Christopher thinks well of me—and I’m not disbelieving you either because it does seem that way. You’re not the first to say it, though I can’t imagine why it should be. He hardly knows me. And I understand that these are hard times for young people trying to get work. But I’m in no position to help you. I’m sorry …’
‘Help me? I think you must have misunderstood me. What I’m worried about is our li
ttle robbery. You see’—Jim leaned forward and looked earnestly at the marshal in a way that held him almost hypnotised—'/think, and the head gardener thinks, that it was faked. You know, an inside job, so when there’s a more serious robbery, it will point suspicion at somebody who could have let them in, like at the housekeeper.’
‘But I’ve already told you that no one ever suspected her.’
‘I passed that on to her but you know what happened last time: The current “Giorgio” andthe butler went, pushed out by the powers that be, even though you people didn’t suspect them either. Not a scrap of evidence. But the housekeeper says there’s more to it this time. She says that with the DNA testing they can do nowadays—’
‘She’s talking nonsense.’
‘Do you think so? I suppose she might be, but as I said the other day, she’ll leave for her holidays in August and she’s talking about moving in with her sister. We think Sir Christopher’s dying, and once he’s gone—well, you know what I mean, you’re dealing with the case, but that doesn’t alter the fact that if there is a big robbery there’s still Giorgio who can be blamed and at the same time protected, so he’ll keep quiet, or say what he’s told to say. You understand me?’
‘I … no. Giorgio’s the boy from Kosovo who’s cataloguing the library or something, is that right?’
‘The collection. Theoretically, but his lips will be sealed on that subject, too. Yes, the boy from Kosovo. The last in a long line of boys.’
‘I’d gathered that he was—though, surely, Sir Christopher, in his condition—’
‘Oh, no. He just likes to have them around. A lot of them were pretty much saved from the streets, illegal immigrants, Italian kids with a bit of a record, you know…Just a bit of self-indulgent kindness on his part, really, and in this case he’s on to a good thing. Giorgio speaks perfect Italian and good Russian and he’s brainy. A medical student. He’s willing to turn his hand to anything he’s asked to do as well as the cataloguing and they pay him a pittance.’
‘I follow you. He must be unhappy away from his home, though. He’s very young.’ Through the doorway, a weeping boy and Porteous’s hand massaging …
Some Bitter Taste Page 14
