by Penny Feeny
‘I carry you,’ he said.
She giggled. ‘No, Joe. Take, not carry, but I can handle it, no worries. Left and left again, right?’
He blinked. ‘Scusi?’
Her shorts were sticking to her thighs; trickles of sweat were running down the backs of her knees. She longed for the evening. ‘That way?’ she said, pointing.
‘I show you.’
He was determined to follow Gina’s instructions to escort her, so she had to let him take the lead – though she was able to orientate herself within moments of turning the corner. And even when they arrived at the station he hovered in the background like a bodyguard, unwilling to leave her by herself.
Renate and Ilse strolled off the Ostia train and down the platform arm in arm, swinging their beach bags. They were followed by four Italian youths talking with animation among themselves, but failing to keep up. ‘Ciao!’ said Renate, embracing Sasha. A dusting of sand freckled her left cheek. ‘How was the football?’
‘Not great. I mean not great for me. Antonio was, “Wow, this is so cool, I’m a real hero.” Imagine!’
Ilse peered beyond her, at Joe, who was keeping his distance. ‘That’s not him?’
‘No.’
‘He is your date?’
Sasha turned, trying to see Joe through the German girls’ eyes. He was holding himself very erect, but there was something louche and untamed about him too, barely reined in. Actually, she thought, if you didn’t know anything about him, you’d think this guy was well fit.
‘He’s someone I met through a friend,’ she said casually.
‘He is student also?’
‘No, he’s, um, a male model.’
The girls both looked approving. ‘He will join us?’
But this, Sasha was not ready for. ‘He’s got stuff to do,’ she said. ‘Maybe later.’ It was too big a step to include him but, if he asked, she might be prepared to exchange phone numbers.
9
Gina preferred to have notice of Roberto’s visits. She didn’t like him to catch her unawares. She needed time to clear away disordered magazines and dirty crockery – especially the latter, in case he’d assume it was recent and react as if she had someone hidden in her wardrobe. If she said, ‘Actually it’s my cup from yesterday’, he’d be appalled by her slovenliness, and if she said, ‘A friend was here’, he’d want to know who and when, male or female? She’d find herself seething at his questions and not at all mollified by his insistence that he found her so fascinating he wanted to know everything about her. And the worst of it was when her rage translated into arousal, making her growl like a cat on heat, biting and scratching as he tried to pin her down. The sex that followed would be tremendous and the man with whom she had this entirely unsuitable love-hate affair would strut off preening, like the bloody cock of the walk.
It had disturbed her to discover he’d used his key to let himself in and although it had only been the once – allegedly for her benefit – she didn’t want it to happen again. So she arranged for him to collect the photographs late one afternoon. She’d compiled a presentation pack of half a dozen 8x10s for him to take home. Her favourite showed Antonio with his head tipped back, the ball suspended like a saucer of leather, almost out of the frame. The line that flowed down his throat and sternum bisected the shot in an unbroken arc; the expression on his face was rapturous. She hoped her selection would satisfy the family, that she wouldn’t have to edit another bunch of images.
Roberto had a site visit; he wanted her to join him there but she refused. He was so used to people marching to his orders it didn’t occur to him they might have other priorities. Gina was adamant. ‘Bertie, I don’t want to tramp around some dusty tip where I’d have to wear a hard hat.’ And then she got him to admit he’d also scheduled another appointment at the bank, who were being difficult but not so impossible that a little pressure wouldn’t work its charms. No doubt representatives of the bank would be invited away for the weekend – or perhaps the house party had already taken place and they required reminding of any indiscretions.
‘Text me when you’ve finished with them. I’ll be home waiting. And the least you can do, if you’re going off on your family holiday, is come over and say goodbye properly.’
The Boletti household would soon be relocating, along with other family members – grandmother, aunts, cousins – to the villa they owned in Fregene. Built in the sixties when the resort was in its heyday and much envied for its generous size and prime position, it was near enough to Rome to enable Roberto to trot regularly back and forth, attending to his affairs. His wife, ensconced in an undemanding career as a civil servant, would be taking her full holiday entitlement. Sasha Mitchell, whose course was almost over, wasn’t going with them; she’d be flying home at the end of the week. Gina didn’t expect to see her again.
When her doorbell rang and she picked up the intercom she assumed Bertie was early.
‘Ciao, Gina!’
‘Oh… Sami, it’s you.’
Sami was a frequent visitor. Like some of the other lost boys, he’d turn up at the slightest excuse. Some people, who didn’t approve, warned that she was courting disaster; she would be robbed and deceived. But her expensive equipment was at the studio, and her treasure chest – repository of her few items of sentimental value – was kept locked, the key buried in a kitchen canister. Besides, Sami was no stranger. She’d taken him under her wing three years before, seen him gain in confidence and prowess. He’d finally been granted leave to remain but there was little chance of legal work or getting a permit to perform. Every time he took his stand in Piazza Navona he was taking a risk. He’d decided this risk was small compared to some of the others he’d run. One of the worst, he’d told her, was the dogs used to sniff out human cargo as well as narcotics; he’d escaped them by hiding in a container of fish, partially rotting. He could no longer eat fish.
‘I can come in?’ Sami asked.
‘No, I’m sorry, not today. My landlord’s due.’
‘Five minutes only? Please! For my make-up.’
She sighed, reconsidering. ‘Okay, if you must, but we have to be quick.’
She sat him on the swivel chair under the anglepoise lamp. The shutters were wide open but the day was dull; an overcast sky threatened thunder. She smoothed a thick white base over Sami’s face and neck and with one of her fine sable brushes traced a web of light grey to create a marbled effect. He could do the backs of his hands himself.
‘How’s Joe?’ she asked casually. ‘I’ve heard nothing lately.’
‘He’s seeing the English girl.’
‘What English girl?’ Even as she spoke, she realised he meant Sasha. ‘What do you mean? They’ve been meeting each other? More than once?’
Sami nodded.
‘What on earth are they doing together? Not dating?’
‘They walk.’
‘Walk? I see.’ But she didn’t. ‘Where?’
She tried to picture them wandering in the area around the Pantheon, blending into the mass of sightseers, maybe drinking at night in the bars around Campo de’ Fiori where the foreign students clustered like iron filings. Was that likely? What did girls of Sasha’s age drink? Syrupy slugs of sambuca or limoncello? Pina colada? As for Joe, he wasn’t used to alcohol. Although he’d been excited to discover its effects, most of the time he couldn’t afford to go to bars. She wouldn’t have thought the pair had much in common, but she couldn’t stop the images forming. There they were: a couple of misfits – one who had seen too little of life, the other who had seen too much – holding hands in front of the Trevi Fountain, or leaning over the parapet of the bridge to Isola Tiberina, watching the river gush around the forlorn fragment of the Ponte Rotto, sharing the experience of being in tune with somebody else, if only for a fleeting moment.
Sami said, ‘I don’t know where, but he meet her again tomorrow.’
Gina couldn’t help feeling twitchy. ‘Look, I know it’s nothing to do with me –
apart from the fact that I introduced them – but warn him he shouldn’t get involved, will you.’
Sami’s eyes were uncannily round and dark in their ivory mask. ‘I tell him?’
‘Yes, I think it’s better coming from you. She’s a kid, he’s an adult. Do you understand what I mean?’
He gave a non-committal grunt. She stood aside to let him out of the chair. ‘Shit, what am I doing, leaping ahead, jumping to conclusions? Mountains out of molehills. Forget it.’
‘I’m sorry, what you want me to do?’
‘Niente. Forget I said anything.’ In a way, she wished he hadn’t said anything either. Imagination overdrive, that was her trouble. Packing away her tubes of greasepaint, she added, ‘Right, you’ve had your five minutes so you better get going. I need to buy some more sugar for Signor Boletti’s coffee so I’ll come out with you.’
She was anxious to escort him from the building herself, she didn’t like to think of him lurking, inviting Bertie’s suspicion. He was looking especially incongruous because he hadn’t yet changed into his full costume. He was carrying his cloak and toga in the crate he used to stand on. He would cut a bizarre figure on the bus: a sculpted laurel-wreathed head rising from the collar of an everyday polo-shirt, but Rome was a place where people regularly stared at extraordinary sights. Gawping was something you got used to.
She accompanied him down the road and then dived into her local alimentari for the sugar. Once inside, inhaling its ripe and salty air, it was not hard to be persuaded to add a carton of olives, maybe some artichoke hearts and ham to her purchases. While slicing the transparent crimson wafers of prosciutto crudo, Signora Bedini updated, for Gina’s benefit, her lengthy and convoluted feud with her daughter-in-law. The bones they quarrelled over were son and grandson and resolution seemed unlikely. The Signora had won the most recent round. She’d refused to babysit on the occasion of a formal dinner. ‘At very short notice, when it becomes impossible for them to find an alternative. Magari! Next time maybe she won’t be so quick to criticise the way I treat my son’s child.’ Her lips smacked in satisfaction and Gina nodded in approval. She’d been a customer here for several years, listening to the Signora’s laments for the way things used to be, and had joined the ranks of her confidantes. She looked forward to her tales of one-upmanship.
‘They had to pay for the dinner in advance, I suppose?’ she said as she was handed her waxed paper package of ham.
‘Naturalmente!’ They smiled in harmony at each other.
She had been longer in the shop than she intended. As she stepped outside she felt a fat drop like a tear on her cheek. She looked up. The sky was livid, a puddle of spilt petrol, dark and iridescent all at once. It wasn’t surprising; humidity had been escalating throughout the day. More drops splashed around her. She cradled the shopping bag close to her chest for protection, put her head down and ran into Sami who was trying to shelter under the awning of the nearby bar.
‘Sami, what are you still doing here?’
He regarded her mournfully. ‘I cannot work in the rain.’
‘Bollocks, it’s only a shower. It will be over in minutes, you know that. By the time you get off the bus the sun will be out. Sbrigati! Hurry up.’
He didn’t move. ‘There will be no sun today.’
‘It’s a summer thunderstorm,’ Gina insisted. ‘It’ll clear the air. And if everyone else is rained off, you’ll have the piazza to yourself. The tourists will be grateful. They need extra diversion in the rain.’
‘I can come inside again?’ he said.
‘No, Sami, you can’t. And you know why. Do you have enough money to get yourself a coffee? You can sit in Gae’s place till it stops. Quit acting like you need a bloody mother to hold your hand.’ She broke off. ‘Hey, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t…’ The rain was pelting them both. Her hair and clothes were plastered to her skin. His make-up was running. ‘Go,’ she said, giving him a gentle push through the doorway of Gaetano’s bar. Then she took a deep breath and sprinted home.
It was amazing how wet you could get in such a short time, she thought, as she squelched up the stairs and fumbled with her keys. If Sami hadn’t appeared she could have popped out twenty minutes earlier and escaped the downpour. And it turned out to be a wasted errand: as she let herself into the apartment she loosened her grip on her shopping. The olives careened across the floor in all directions and the sugar, its packaging already damp, burst open on impact, scattering grains like white sand, coarse and sticky underfoot. Maybe she could rescue some of it, scoop a few spoonfuls into a bowl. Who would know? Then she’d sweep up the rest, collect and rinse the olives, take a shower and, if there was time, effect all the other little touches that would show Bertie she was a good tenant: taps sparkling, rubbish emptied, CDs in cases, pillows plumped in readiness…
She was part of the way there when she recognised his peremptory ring on the doorbell and had to admit him in her bathrobe.
‘Ah Gina,’ he said, tugging her towards him by its cord. ‘I’m sorry if I’m late. You’re impatient for me?’
‘No,’ she said, towelling her hair. ‘I was caught in the rain. I got soaked.’
He let her go and rested his umbrella by the door. He took off his jacket, gave it a little shake and hung it on her coat stand. He removed his tan leather loafers and lined them up under the jacket. He padded towards her again, not the type to waste time. ‘Allora,’ he said. ‘Al letto.’
‘Don’t you want to see the photographs first?’
‘The ones you emailed? I’ve already seen them on the computer.’
‘But those were raw unedited shots, like old-fashioned contact sheets. I’ve printed up the ones you said you liked so you can frame them. Or you can choose one or two to enlarge even more. It’s up to you and Antonio, whichever you prefer.’
‘I’m sure they’re magnificent,’ he said, slipping his arms around her waist, inside the bathrobe, squeezing a handful of flesh.
‘Bertie! This is unprofessional.’
He was perplexed. ‘How?’
Gina couldn’t bear to admit to herself that he’d no interest in her skills as an artist. Why should he? They’d kept up this fiction for nearly two years: that she was a lonely widow and he was saddled with a wife who was ‘un po’ stronza’; that they could comfort each other without making unreasonable demands. In practice this spelt escape for Roberto from his witchy wife, security of tenure for Gina and athletic love-making for them both. But there were limits.
‘Right now,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my photographer’s hat on, so you need to treat me properly, as you would your architect or your accountant.’
He laughed. ‘You think I sleep with my accountant?’
‘No! That’s my whole point.’
‘My wife does,’ he said, trying to push the robe off her shoulders. ‘So I let her think it. That way she doesn’t suspect anything about us.’
‘Just look at the damn photos, will you.’ She grabbed the folder and thrust it into his straying hands, determined to keep up appearances.
He loosened the ribbon and opened the cover, picking up the prints one by one and holding them gingerly at their edges. She watched closely, hoping she’d see him register delight and admiration, but in truth it was hard to tell. ‘Very good,’ he said.
‘Very good, you mean that?’
‘Certo.’
‘You’re happy with them?’
‘Yes! You’ve done an excellent job. What more can I say? What else do I have to do?’
‘You could pay me.’
He laughed again. ‘Of course I’ll pay you.’
‘I’ve included my invoice, as you’ll see. Cash would be good. Now, if possible.’
This time he scowled and his tone was contemptuous. ‘This is the behaviour of a puttana.’
‘Why?’
‘To ask for money in advance.’
Gina could feel the heat rising in her face. ‘In advance of what?’ she said furiously. ‘I’ve
done the work. I’ve given you and your son my time and skill. It’s true that my usual terms are thirty days, but since you’re about to go on holiday I thought you’d prefer not to have an outstanding debt to me.’
‘Calma, calma, carina mia,’ said Roberto, unembarrassed, but backing away from her towards the coat stand. He plucked his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a handful of notes. She’d known he would have the cash. Credit cards did not grease palms in the same way; they didn’t offer the casual flourish of a colourful euro note.
She accepted his payment, signed a receipt and retied the folder, all the while trying to control her breathing.
‘I love it when you’re angry,’ he said and she knew, as he propelled her towards the bedroom, that she’d blown it again, worked herself into a state of over-excitement. He shed his trousers and chased her across the sheets, tugged her legs up by the ankles and wrapped them around his neck; she drummed her heels against his back.
Afterwards, he didn’t leap straight for the shower. He drew her head onto his breast and said, ‘I have a proposition for you.’
Gina, lulled into his warm embrace, murmured to him to continue.
‘I mentioned this, at the football ground.’
‘Oh yes, I remember. Jam tomorrow.’
‘It’s a pity you couldn’t come on the site visit this afternoon.’
‘I was working. When you’re self-employed, you know, there’s no let-up. I can’t drop my clients for something that isn’t even built yet. I mean, if you wanted to commission before and after shots that would be different, but you’ve been very secretive and I don’t have the time or inclination for a magical mystery tour.’
He twisted a lock of her damp hair around his finger. A blade of sunlight crept through the window, striking the costume jewellery heaped in a bowl on her dressing table, her glass perfume bottles; the rain storm was over. ‘Actually one of the apartment blocks has been completed,’ he said. ‘The builders are in liquidation. That’s why the rest of the development is only at foundation stage. I don’t know if we can raise the money, but we’re negotiating. We’re hopeful. You see, the block that’s finished is very fine, the fittings are lavish: travertine marble on the floors, granite worktops in the kitchen, the best appliances. The shower is so powerful it can give you a massage. There’s a lift, very fast. Each apartment has a balcony with a superlative view: one way the sea, the other way, the city – ’
