'If you like,' her mother said during dinner, 'you can have a room on the first floor, no 114. We've just refurbished it and it has everything. Cable TV, fax, a well-stocked minibar . . .'
'Thanks, Mummy, but I prefer mine.'
'It's up to you. It's just so small and uncomfortable. But it's ready if you want it.'
'I don't know how you can sleep up there,' her father said. 'There isn't even a toilet in the room, you have to go halfway along the corridor. And with all the work going on, it's a real mess up there.'
'My things are there - my memories ... I like it. Don't worry'
'If you're sure.'
Valentina wanted to be back in that room she had known as a child, she wanted to take refuge in it and forget.
Even though, as she herself had said, her memories were in that room . . .
The sloping ceiling, the Spice Girls posters, the Barbies neatly lined up on a white shelf, the lilac wallpaper, the collection of cups and medals won in skiing competitions, the television with the built-in VCR, the stereo unit and the CD rack, the books, the comics. Valentina looked around, and did not find the welcome she had expected from these objects. They were no longer childhood companions: they had suddenly become silent but accusing witnesses of her betrayal.
She had betrayed her family, her future, her hopes. She had brought it on herself, with all the unawareness of youth, and now she didn't know what to do.
Everything had started right here, in this little room that had originally been intended for the staff, and which she had been determined to have when she was ten.
She slipped into bed and turned out the light, but found it hard to get to sleep. Even the bed was accusing her.
*
It had happened on Christmas Eve 1994.
Valentina was sixteen, Cinzia fourteen.
The Robertis had arrived late in the afternoon. Valentina had been impatient to see Cinzia, eager for news of the city, and her friend had not disappointed her. After dinner they had all gone into the village, the girls to have snowball fights and the adults to drink the hot punch being distributed in the main square by skiing instructors dressed in Santa Claus costumes. There was a big Christmas tree, and multicoloured lights were strung from house to house. Music was playing, and people greeted each other merrily and exchanged wishes. Many of them, including their parents, were waiting for midnight mass, but the two girls had managed to wriggle out of it by promising to go to bed immediately. They had run back to the hotel to try and guess from the sizes of the packages under the tree what to expect in the morning.
'Can I come to your room?' Cinzia had asked.
'Yes. But you'll have to leave before your parents get back, or they'll notice we're not asleep!'
'I have so many things to tell you,' Cinzia said. 'I'll just put my pyjamas on and I'll be right with you!'
Valentina ran to get changed and clean her teeth before her friend joined her, because the bathroom was some distance from her room.
When Cinzia came, she made Valentina's head spin with her tales of all the things she was discovering, all the exciting things that happened in a city like Bologna, the clubs she'd started going to even though she was underage, the new friends she'd made at school.
'Do you smoke?' she asked suddenly.
'No, do you?' Valentina asked.
'I smoke these,' Cinzia said, taking from her pocket some cigarette papers, a bag of tobacco, and a small light brown cube which looked like a piece of plasticine.
There was a sly look in her eyes, and her face was lit by a crafty smile.
But she was only a child. A child playing at being adult, Valentina thought. Not that she herself wanted to stay out of the game.
Cinzia crumbled part of the little cube, mixed the shreds with the tobacco, and rolled the cigarette. Valentina admired her skill.
At that moment, she heard the noise of the lift reaching their floor. 'Shhh.'
'What is it?' Cinzia asked.
'Be quiet. It must be my parents. Turn the light out.' They waited. They heard footsteps approaching the door, whispered words. Then silence. 'She's asleep,' her father said. The footsteps receded.
'What about your parents?' Valentina asked, as the lift started to descend.
'I locked my door. They'll think I'm asleep, too. Don't turn the light on, it's fine like this. Maybe open the window to let the smell of smoke out.'
Cinzia lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs. The moonlight lit her face, and Valentina thought she looked very beautiful.
'Here, try it,' Cinzia said, and explained what to do.
They kept on talking, passing the cigarette from one to the other.
Cinzia was becoming more and more relaxed, and laughing at the slightest thing. Valentina just felt a bit confused.
'It's cold,' Cinzia said when she had finished the cigarette. 'Let's get under the blankets.'
Valentina obeyed. She lay down flat on her back, and her friend snuggled up to her, as if in need of protection. She's just a child, she thought, and was moved. She almost didn't notice that Cinzia had put her hand on her breast. It may have been a natural, innocent gesture, but she felt her own nipple react to the contact.
She held her breath, embarrassed.
'Do you ever touch yourself?' Cinzia asked, in a hoarse, tremulous voice, warming her neck and ear with her breath.
Valentina realised with astonishment that her friend's hand wasn't still. With slow, gentle, circular movements, it was caressing the material of her pyjamas just over her nipple, which was becoming hard.
She turned hesitantly to her friend in search of an explanation.
Cinzia's feverish black eyes were fixed on her, her ferret-like face jutted forward, her lips curled in an inviting smile. Lips coming close, ever closer. Warm breath mingling with hers. Sickly-sweet marijuana breath fusing with her mint-fresh breath.
They exchanged a timid kiss, then another, and another. She felt Cinzia's hand insinuating itself between the buttons of her pyjamas, exploring her soft, firm breasts. She lost control.
That night they had become lovers, and they had remained lovers ever since. From that point on, neither of them had ever felt any curiosity about the other sex. They considered themselves uniquely happy, and their only experience of the male sexual organ - the 'hideous penis', they called it, laughing - came from magazines and pornographic videos, of which Cinzia in particular was an avid consumer.
In the years that followed, they hated to be apart and they were constantly looking for excuses to visit one another. The Arts, Music and Drama course in Bologna was an almost obligatory choice for Valentina.
Then they'd started living together. And the quarrels had begun.
Now, for Valentina, the final reckoning had come.
She had thought that, alone in that little room, she would find the peace and quiet she needed to help her think clearly, but the first night left her confused and anxious.
It wasn't going to be easy, she realised.
'I miss you, you know.'
That was how the voice at the other end greeted her when she answered her mobile phone on the morning of 25 December. But it wasn't Cinzia's voice.
'Is that you, Mike?'
'Yes, it's me.'
‘I’m glad you phoned. Happy Christmas.'
'When are you coming back to Florence?'
'I don't know yet. For the moment I'm staying here at least until Twelfth Night.' But she was already having her doubts. Perhaps she missed Cinzia, perhaps she needed to see her again in order to have the courage to say goodbye for ever. 'Why don't you come here? It's packed, but I can find you somewhere, if you like. The ski slopes are fantastic'
'I'd like to but I can't. I have things to do.'
All right, I'll call you when I get back to Bologna, okay?'
'I'll be waiting. Happy Christmas!'
As she ended the call, Valentina wondered if the American didn't have more to do with her quarrels with Cinzia -
and the crisis she was going through - than she cared to admit. He was actually the first man she'd shown any interest in.
Until now, she had attributed this sudden attraction to the fact that he was so different from the other people she knew. Although he was not much older than her, he had already had his byline in the New York Times, and went around the world looking for subjects to suggest to the paper.
When she had met him again in Florence in November he had shown her a long piece he had written about San Gimignano and an exhibition of torture instruments, and had promised to take her there one day; the exhibition was fascinating, he said, and the town was beautiful.
Her English was too poor for her to understand much of the article, but she had certainly seen his name at the end.
And she couldn't ignore the fact that he was a very good-looking young man.
'Who was that?' her mother asked: she had come in and seen Valentina talking on the mobile.
'Happy Christmas, Mummy. A friend.'
'Happy Christmas, darling. Is he handsome?'
'Er . . . yes.'
'Why didn't you bring him?' 'He's working.' At Christmas?'
'He's a famous American journalist.'
'How old?' she asked anxiously. If he was famous, he had to be of a certain age.
'Very young, Mummy. You'd like him.'
'The important thing is that you like him. That's all I ask. Tell him he can come whenever he wants. Are you going skiing?'
'Of course.' She headed down to the basement, where the skiing equipment was kept.
*
But not even meeting old friends and skiing down the Plan de Corones, across the Furcia as far as the foot of the Miara, managed to settle her nerves.
'You know something?' her father said that evening. 'You seem worried.'
'It must be the exams, Daddy.'
'Really? I thought everything was fine.'
'I still have my thesis to finish. It's very demanding work . . .'
'Of course. As long as it's nothing else. You're not short of money, are you?'
'No, Daddy, don't worry. You give me more than enough.'
'What about the Panda? It must be ready for the scrapyard by now. Are you sure you don't need another car?'
'It's fine, and anyway I don't use it much in Bologna. When I go to Florence, I take the train.'
'Wise idea. Saves crossing the Apennines. This has nothing to do with that young American your mother told me about, does it?'
'No, Daddy. He's just a friend. Everything's fine.' 'What about Cinzia?' her father asked, with a hint of disappointment. 'Everything fine there, too?' 'Yes, really. Don't worry'
Did they know? she wondered for the umpteenth time.
And her torments started over again.
Cinzia hadn't come, and she didn't know whether to be pleased or upset. She remembered the apartment they shared, which had once seemed like paradise and now increasingly seemed as suffocating as a prison. Like her attic room, where she had spent that first, agonising night. The thought of going back scared her, but at the same time she wanted once again to be clasped in the hungry arms of her childhood friend.
Perhaps that was the problem, she said to herself in a sudden moment of lucidity. That they weren't children any more. That they had become women. But who really wants to grow up in a world like this?
That night, she slept badly.
She dreamed of Cinzia at the age of thirteen in her first communion dress. She came into Valentina's room, smiling happily. Valentina was naked and ashamed. She tried to hide, but Cinzia wouldn't let her. Then she laughed and asked her if she wanted her spotless white dress. She turned her back on her and let it drop to the floor. Then she turned again and, hiding her private parts with her hands, started walking languidly towards Valentina. Valentina stared, enraptured by her friend's immature body and paralysed by her shameless exhibitionism.
Cinzia laughed, coarsely. In her hands she was now clasping a huge, hideous penis.
Valentina screamed in her sleep, but did not wake up.
The scream had smashed the image to smithereens. In her dream, she made a huge effort to put it together: she wanted to suffer again. But the fragments refused to obey. The dark hair was replaced by blonde hair, the satanic grin by a reassuring smile, the hideous penis by a male appendage as innocuous as the ones you saw on marble statues in museums.
In Valentina's sleep, it was the face and body of Mike Ross she now saw.
It snowed all day in Santo Stefano and the pistes remained closed. Still confused by that strange night, Valentina hung about the hotel, giving a hand to the waiters and cooks. She did not call Cinzia, not knowing what she would say to her, and Cinzia did not call her.
Nor did she call on the days that followed.
On the 28th, though, Mike phoned again. 'I've found the perfect Christmas present for you,' he announced. 'What is it?'
'A little apartment. As it happens, it's the apartment above mine. It's a bit of a distance from the university, but still better than going backwards and forwards from Bologna.'
'I don't understand.'
'You've only got your thesis still to finish, isn't that right? You don't need Bologna any more. You should be living in Florence. For your research. And this is a great opportunity. The way the prices are here
'But you can't just decide like that, Mike, off your own bat.'
'I don't know how you Italians do it, but I always think that if you don't make a move right away, by tomorrow it's already too late.'
'Listen, it's not as simple as that.'
'Well, do as you want. But they're only holding it for me one more day. I gave my word. Let me know.' 'I'll think about it. And thanks anyway' 'Let me know,' he repeated.
Not even half an hour had passed - half an hour of anguish and uncertainty - when the mobile rang again. 'Valentina?' It was Cinzia. 'Hi.'
'Why didn't you call me?' 'You didn't call me either.'
Valentina was surprised at herself. She was dissolving inside, she realised that she had wanted this phone call more than anything in the world, and yet she had found the courage to answer back.
'When are you coming back to Bologna?'
'Do you care?'
Silence.
'I can't hear you.'
'You haven't answered my question.'
'I don't know. After Twelfth Night, I think.'
Are you having fun?'
Are you?'
'Oh, you know, the usual.'
'Listen to me, Cinzia. I don't know if I want to go back to Bologna. I've been offered an apartment in Florence . . .'
'Your journalist friend, I suppose?' Cinzia's tone had become curt and defensive.
'He doesn't matter. What matters is what I think.'
And what do you think?'
'I don't know. Honestly, I don't know. I have to think of my future and
And you don't see your future with me, is that it?' Silence.
'So that is it.' She sounded offended.
'I told you, I don't know. I came here to think and so many things have happened. Strange things ..."
'Well, maybe it's just a question of making your mind up. We have to do that sometimes, in life. I made my mind up early. Maybe too early. I made my mind up that I wanted you. And I still want you. Now it's up to you.'
'I want you, too, but—'
'You see? There's a "but". In love there shouldn't be any "buts". I shouldn't have to tell you that. The truth is, you've already made your mind up. Not the way I was hoping for, but I'm not going to beg. What's the point? Unfortunately, I know you too well. Better than you know yourself.'
'Maybe that's true. You've always known too much. Right from the start. Where to touch me, how to turn me on. You made me yours, totally yours, only yours, too much yours . . .'
'And you made me yours, don't forget that.'
'Do you really think that? If that's true, then why can't I leave Bologna? Why can't I have a man as a friend?'
'Because I don't want to lose you.'
'Maybe that's not enough. Nobody wants to lose the jewel they wear round their neck, but how do we know the jewel is only happy round that particular neck?'
'That's a bit much, comparing yourself to a jewel - and I've hardly been able to show you off. This isn't a society that accepts lesbians gladly. And that's what we are, don't forget that. If it's someone else's turn now, all I can do is wish the two of you good luck. But remember: there are jewels and there are jewels. Some are cursed, and bring bad luck to anyone who puts them on.'
That was all Valentina needed. Twenty minutes later, she called Mike.
The next day she left.
3
It was two o'clock in the morning on 9 January 2000 at the Central Park disco in the Parco delle Cascine. The music was deafening. The place was full to bursting, as it was every Saturday night. The ventilation system had been turned full on, to try and get rid of the white clouds of smoke that hung in the air. From time to time, multicoloured beams of light swept the room.
Leaning against a pillar, with a glass of whisky in his left hand and a lit cigarette in the other, Pino Ricci, a Squadra Mobile officer in Serpico's section, was looking around with a bored expression on his face.
Malicious rumours had been circulating for a while at Headquarters that he moonlighted as a bouncer at the Central Park on Saturdays. When Ferrara had heard the rumours, he'd shrugged his shoulders. 'He certainly has the body for it! Six and a half feet tall, built like a tank. Just looking at him is enough to scare you. Maybe they pay him just to be there.' But the rumours had never been proved.
'Hi, Pino!' came a familiar voice from behind him. 'They can't be paying you much in the Squad.'
He turned.
And smiled.
'We're used to it, Spiderman, it's part of our job.'
Fabio Nuti was an old friend. They'd known each other as children, but then their ways had parted. Pino had entered the police force and Spiderman had gone in the opposite direction. Famous from his days as a burglar for his agility at climbing the fronts of houses - hence the nickname - he was now a pusher. His speciality was selling ecstasy in discos.
A Florentine Death Page 7
