Tell Me No Truths

by Gill Vickery

  The restaurant tables spread out over the edge of a small piazza tucked away behind the Mercato Nuovo. They were covered by a green awning supported on tall straight poles, spreading above the diners like a canopy of leaves. It reminded Nico of the glade in Botticelli’s picture.

  James seized the menu card as soon as they sat down. He pointed. ‘I’ll have that,’ he said and passed the card to Mum. ‘I’m off to the lavatory. Order for me if the waiter manages to get to you before I’m back.’

  The waiter heard. He glared and moved towards a couple who’d just sat down. It’s going to take forever to get served now, Nico thought, and I’m starving. He picked up a grissino and broke it in half. A sparrow flew under the awning and landed on the edge of the table. It stood poised on its matchstick legs, its calculating black eyes fixed on Nico and his breadstick. Nico pushed some crumbs towards it. It hopped warily forward and pecked at the food. Nico got out his book and pencil and began to draw.

  ‘Vermin!’ A waiter swiped a napkin at the sparrows and they darted away. ‘You do not encourage them,’ the waiter said. He flicked the breadcrumbs from the table and stalked off. Nico knew the wait for lunch was going to be very, very long. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled to Mum.

  ‘Don’t apologise, Nico, they’re adorable. And you’re not the only one who likes sparrows, look.’

  Mum was right. The waiter was busy cracking his napkin and telling off another group of diners. The sparrows were ahead of the game, appearing on tables like magic. ‘I wonder if sparrows can give you bird flu?’ Mum said. Nico ignored her and carried on drawing.

  ‘There’s Nico,’ Jade said and steered Mum and Dad to where Nico was sitting with Hattie.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Collier,’ Jade said politely, trying to make sure she got into Hattie’s good books. ‘Have you had a nice day?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Amber.’

  ‘I’m Jade.’ She hoped Amber wasn’t going to get in a strop about the mixed-up names or she might start cheeking Hattie in the broadest Derby dialect she could manage, which was pretty broad, and she’d start muddling up her grammar on purpose. She always did that when she thought posh people were being patronising.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jade, please excuse me,’ Hattie Collier said. She sounded sincere.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘That’s very gracious of you. I think it would annoy me!’

  Nico stood up and drew out his chair for Luisa. ‘Would you like my seat, Mrs Thompson? I can sit with Jade and Amber and you and Mr Thompson can sit with Mum and James.’

  It was like a politeness competition, Jade thought, except that it came naturally to Nico, he’d been trained.

  ‘Sweet,’ Jade said as they found another table, ‘we can talk here without them hearing.’

  ‘And it means I don’t have to sit with the muppet James,’ Nico said.

  ‘Is he that bad?’ Amber asked.

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . sometimes. It’s complicated.’ He piled cards and booklets onto the table. ‘I hope these are what you wanted.’

  Jade glimpsed white marble limbs and a bright saffron cloak as she gathered up the material and pushed it into her bag. ‘They’re great. Now, about this plan.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know we want to find Nonno’s long-lost family in Borgo Sant’Angelo?’

  Nico nodded.

  ‘Well, we hadn’t sorted how to get off on our own for long enough to do it. Mum and Dad are only OK about a few hours and we need to be sure of having all the time we want, when we want it.’

  ‘I get that, but how does it affect me?’ Nico asked.

  ‘We want you to take us round all the Michelangelo things in Florence and show us his art and where he lived and worked and that.’

  ‘For an imaginary art project,’ Amber added.

  Nico’s black eyebrows pleated in a puzzled frown. ‘How’s me giving you a guided tour going to help?’

  ‘We won’t really be going round Florence,’ Jade said. ‘We’ll start off together then split up and do what we want on our own.’

  ‘Why would your parents let you go off with me?’

  ‘Because you’re posh and clever,’ Amber said.

  Jade glared at her sister. ‘She means you’re polite and well-educated. Mum and Dad respect that.’

  Nico didn’t seem to mind. He laughed. ‘It might just work. You’re fluent in Italian so there wouldn’t be a communication problem if we got into trouble.’

  ‘Why would we get into trouble?’ Jade said.

  ‘We won’t – it’s just that my mother sees disaster lurking round every corner but if she’s convinced we’ll stay together she might go with it. I could give her an itinerary and keep in touch by mobile. We can let them see us together in Florence then split up and report back together when we’ve finished. How about that?’

  Jade couldn’t see any flaws in the plan. She nodded towards the adults’ table. ‘I bet they’ll be all right with it.’

  James and Dad were deep in conversation over the CDs from Dischi Norberti.

  ‘Does your father like heavy metal?’ Nico asked.

  Jade and Amber groaned. ‘He used to be a roadie with Xtreme Measures,’ Jade said.

  ‘They’re James’s favourite band!’

  That explained the sudden, unlikely friendship. But what about our mums? Jade thought. The two women were leaning over The Shattered Mirror, Hattie waving her arms about and being animated and sparkly. Amazingly, Mum looked fascinated.

  ‘They’re all friendly,’ Jade said, ‘It’ll make it a lot easier . . .’

  ‘. . . to convince them to leave us alone,’ Amber finished.

  Nico smiled the small, sly smile Jade was getting used to. She could tell that he couldn’t believe their luck either.

  Nico and the twins lounged on the steps of San Miniato al Monte. After the meal James and Kevin had decided it would be a good idea to walk to the little church. James’s guidebook had described the picturesque views from this side of the hill but forgotten to mention the gradient. Even Nico was so tired he’d opted to sit on the steps and draw rather than walk around exploring the building. He could do that later – if the plan worked. For now he was content to draw Florence as it lay in the valley below him, sleeping like a golden cat curled in the hollow of the hills.

  ‘It’s very peaceful here,’ Amber said.

  ‘Not many tourists,’ added Jade.

  ‘They can’t be fussed with the slog up the hill,’ Amber said.

  Nico laughed. ‘They could take the bus, or ride a Segway.’

  ‘How’s your foot?’ Jade asked.

  ‘Fine, just a bit bruised.’

  ‘They were good, the Segways, but too expensive,’ Amber said. ‘And you can’t use them on the roads like a scooter. We were going to hire scooters to get to Borgo Sant’Angelo till we found out you’ve got to get a special licence.’

  ‘You can ride scooters?’

  ‘Dad’s got trail bikes and we’ve been riding those since we were little.’

  Nico couldn’t imagine Mum letting him ride trail bikes; she’d see too much potential for a broken neck.

  ‘Kids!’ James called from above them. The adults had come out of the shadowy cool of San Miniato and were walking down the steps.

  ‘We’re going for ice creams,’ Kevin said and led the way along the curving road to the Piazzale Michelangelo dotted with stalls and kiosks. Another statue of David was dominating the square, this one gazing down on the city.

  ‘D’you think this is a good time to tell them about the project?’ Nico asked the girls.

  ‘Yep,’ they agreed.

  Nico caught up with Hattie, and saw Jade and Amber do the same to Luisa, walking one on either side of her like friendly police officers.

  ‘Mum,’ Nico said, ‘we’ve been talk
ing and we’ve had this idea.’

  In order to understand what happened that day at the farmhouse I must look further back, to the lives of four young friends, Gaetano, Elena, Roberto and Ilaria. The story, as told to me, really began in 1933 with an encounter between two boys . . .

  Gaetano was on his way back from the well, his bucket of water slopping as he hurried to the farmhouse, when a movement by the stable door caught his eye. He left the water and went into the stable. At this time of day it should be empty. What was making the noise coming from the far stall? He went to look. A bare foot protruded from a heap of straw in one corner. Gaetano wasn’t afraid; the foot was even smaller than his and, besides, he was tough.

  ‘Come out!’ he demanded.

  For a moment nothing happened and Gaetano thought maybe he should prod the straw with a pitchfork, then the heap heaved and a boy emerged.

  ‘Roberto?’ Gaetano looked at his friend in surprise. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hiding.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want to go to the orphanage.’

  Gaetano understood that; orphanages had a fearsome reputation, though he didn’t understand why Roberto would be sent away when he had a home of his own. ‘Your nonna’s going to send you to the orphanage?’

  Roberto nodded, his eyes wide. ‘She’s ill and her family will take her in but not me.’

  Gaetano wasn’t surprised. No one wanted a bastard in the family. Roberto’s mother had run away leaving her baby son with his widowed grandmother. The woman had raised him harshly, bemoaning the fate that had willed this unwanted child on her. Gaetano had often heard her complaining in the streets of the small town where they lived and seen her beat him when he annoyed her. Now he had no one, not even her.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  Roberto nodded.

  Gaetano jerked his head towards the farmhouse. ‘Come on then, Mamma will feed you.’

  Gaetano’s mother plied the small boy with food and then sent him off to help Gaetano with tasks around the farm while she talked to her husband. After the evening meal Gaetano’s father called both boys to him. He put a hand on Roberto’s head and said, ‘You can stay here for tonight and in the morning I’ll go into town and make arrangements for you to stay permanently.’

  Gaetano grinned at his friend. ‘Now I’ll have a brother to help me when Tecla bosses me around!’

  ‘No,’ his big sister said as she dumped bedding into Gaetano’s arms, ‘it means I will have two little brothers who have to obey my every word. In the meantime, go and make up a place for him in your bedroom.’

  As the boys assembled a makeshift bed in the corner of the room, Gaetano realised that Roberto hadn’t spoken since he’d been discovered in the stable, not even to say thank you to Babbo or Mamma. He’d simply looked with round eyes at whoever was speaking to him and nodded. Gaetano thought that Roberto’s eyes were strange, like an old man’s looking out from his thin child’s face. He shivered.

  ‘Let’s get ready – I’ll show you where the privy is.’

  Still Roberto didn’t speak, only nodded and stared. It went on that way until Mamma had said goodnight and the boys drifted off to sleep. In the night Gaetano was woken by the sound of muffled crying. He listened for a while, unsure of whether to offer comfort to his friend. He fell asleep again before he had decided. In all the years that followed, he never heard Roberto cry again.

  CHAPTER VI

  NICO THOUGHT HE’D feel guilty about deceiving his mother; he didn’t, he was too excited at the thought of being independent. If Mum wanted to worry about his roaming Florence without her that was too bad; her new friendship with Luisa would distract her and if not, there was always James.

  It didn’t take Nico and the twins long to walk to the Accademia and by the time they got there he’d forgotten all about Mum. ‘Let’s do the photos,’ he said.

  He took pictures of the three of them outside the building and a few close-ups with just a glimpse of sky and stone behind them.

  He snapped his camera shut. ‘I’ll get leaflets from here and then from the Medici Palace where Michelangelo lived. You can use them to blag to your mum and dad.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jade said.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  The twins left and Nico went into the Accademia. He bought postcards of Michelangelo’s unfinished sculptures. He liked the sculptures much more than the paintings in the Uffizi: the prisoners looked as though they were alive and struggling to escape the rock they were embedded in. Nico wished he had time to look at them properly. I’ll come back, he promised himself as he made his way to the Medici palace.

  He turned into Via Cavour. Sudden roaring traffic spouting petrol fumes poured down it like a berserker army. He waited for a gap and loped into it. Instantly a cavalry of mopeds surged towards him and he only just managed to leap onto the far pavement before a phalanx of cars and strange three-wheeled vans thundered after them like an infantry charge. Nico didn’t know why his mother feared paedophiles and axe murderers; traffic was Florence’s real and present danger.

  When Jade and Amber stepped off the bus in Borgo Sant’Angelo Jade felt as though she’d walked into a familiar dream. The small town was exactly as Nonno had described it: here was the old square with its central well, there was the pastry shop, the mediaeval town hall studded all over with painted stone cartouches, even the busy market with its waving white awnings.

  ‘This is really, really strange,’ Jade said and clung to her sister. Despite all their planning, things felt different now that they were really here. Even Amber, usually so sure of everything, sounded unnerved as she said, ‘I don’t want to look around – let’s go and find Nonno’s place.’

  They walked quickly through a small public garden where they found another jarring memory: a bronze fountain of Arion riding a dolphin. Nonno had loved it when he was a boy and Jade knew she’d love it too, in time. Amber didn’t give her the chance; Jade had to run to keep up with her sister who was walking rapidly up a steep, cobbled street with a church at the top. At the bottom, on the other side, was an old bridge spanning the River Rondine.

  ‘Left or right?’ Jade asked.

  ‘Left.’

  They turned down a narrow, unpaved road with silvery grey-green olive trees to one side and vineyards on the other, the twisted lines of vines like plaited cornrows stretching over the scalp of the land.

  When they reached the wood, Jade’s feet knew just where to go and they found Nonno’s pool with no trouble at all.

  Nico got more postcards from the Palazzo Medici shop and very nearly bought tickets to see Gozzoli’s frescoes. He knew almost every brushstroke from prints and books and yearned to see the real thing, bursting with colour, sparkling with gold. I can always come back, he told himself. It’s more important to go to the Oltr’Arno district for now. He set off for the Ponte Vecchio.

  The Old Bridge, with its random arrangement of dusky yellow, red-tiled goldsmiths’ shops jutting over the river, was a fantasy illustration come to life. Nico walked down the stone-flagged centre of the bridge leaving sightseers to crowd the pavements and peer into the shop windows. Over the hubbub of voices and the constant clicking of cameras, he heard a fragile thread of music coming from behind a knot of people on the middle of the bridge. Curious, he eased through the group. A man with a harp sat against the parapet, playing in time to the swirling of the brown river. Nico listened for a moment then remembered he had somewhere to go and walked on, the music drifting after him like mist until it faded away as he reached the other side of the river.

  Jade wondered if the pool remembered Nonno as a boy, dangling his feet in its cool water as she was doing now. Did places have memories, or was it only people?

  ‘Listen,’ Amber said.

  The sound of church bells came drifting up from the town.

  ‘Don’t
they ring bells on the hour?’ Jade said.

  ‘Yep.’ Amber was already slipping her shoes back on. ‘Time to go, c’mon.’

  Jade didn’t want to – she liked the pool and its earthy, green smell. ‘I could stay here for ever.’

  ‘We’ve got to get to the house. We can’t waste time or we’ll miss the bus back.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Jade pulled her feet out of the pool sending ripples shooting across it to slap like wet hands at the opposite bank. She followed Amber through the woods and fields, across the bridge and back into the town where they linked arms and set off for the Villa dei Fiori.

  It was different on the other side of the Arno where the craftsmen and artisans worked: there weren’t many tourists and the side streets were quieter, narrower. Nico walked down sloping lanes, through a small piazza and under an archway to the street he wanted. It was all that he’d hoped for – a tumble of workshops and houses with small restaurants and bars and bakeries here and there between them. Now he needed to find number 10. High up on a crumbling stucco wall a white enamel plaque said ‘4’ in blue. Above that was a small, square slab of stone with a faded red ‘12’ painted on it. E. J. Holm hadn’t mentioned two sets of numbers in The Shattered Mirror. Which was the right one? Nico followed the blue ones.

  Via dell’Unicorno d’Argento 10 turned out to be a private house with a firmly shut front door. Nico backtracked along the street and followed the red numbers, which he realised were businesses: 14 was a silversmith’s and 12 was a bookbindery. Number 10, the Bottega degli Specchi, was where Alessandro’s beloved Semiramide had died among the gilded mirrors of the workshop. Nico took a photo of the stone unicorn above the door. It was exactly as E. J. Holm had described it.

  Jade pointed. ‘It’s down there.’ At the top of a dirt road running between a stand of trees and a rocky stream was a sign reading, Villa dei Fiori. Underneath it, another sign advertised olive oil for sale. A fresh problem struck Jade. ‘Nonno never said anything about the people who lived at the villa having a business – what if these are new people?’