by Joanna Hines
Such a strange time it was. That much they knew. A time without responsibilities of any kind. David had been more aware of that than most. He’d often said he was ‘making hay while the sun shines’. Maybe it was because he knew he would soon have to go back and take his place in his father’s company. There’d be no more freedom for him once that life started.
Kate no longer knew what her own future held. She knew she couldn’t go back to the life her parents expected her to live: a string of secretarial jobs ‘for experience’ before getting married to a man who was as much like her own father as possible. But that wasn’t enough any more. For her, those few weeks without responsibilities of any kind gave her something more valuable by far: they gave her ambition. She knew, before that final, fatal weekend, that she wanted to spend her life repairing beauty. In among the filth and the destruction, Kate’s aesthetic appreciation had been born.
The November flood had stripped Florence of its surface gloss, but the bones of the place, its real beauty, was untouched. There had been an illusion that the Florence the mud angels knew was somehow more ‘real’ than the restored Florence that would be open to tourists again once the clean-up was completed. In the same way, they had thought that their present lives, scruffy and intense and disconnected from family and their everyday world, were somehow more ‘real’ than the ‘normal’ lives they had left behind. They maintained this pretence even though it was rumoured that Anna’s brother had been diagnosed with leukemia, Dido’s parents were heading towards a messy divorce, Jenny had a back injury that might make it hard for her to return to her career as a dancer, and Larry was not the free-floating intellectual he pretended to be: Hugo had heard from someone that he had a wife and baby in Enfield. Such inconvenient details had no place in their angelic world. They were leading a charmed life.
What an illusion that had been. It made them feel infallible, as though nothing bad could happen to them while they were still living in their magic city.
They were free and they were safe.
Kate sat alone in the darkened room. She didn’t know what had happened to any of the others, apart from David, and she’d only caught up with him in the last few months. After Francesca’s death she’d broken off all contact with the others. After Francesca’s death, those lazy illusions had had no place in her life. After Francesca’s death, everything had changed.
Chapter 19
Ghosts
KATE FINISHED BRUSHING TALC off one section of wall and looked around her in the twilight gloom of the Baptistery. It was over half an hour since Francesca had slipped out for a cigarette and she still hadn’t returned. Kate decided to go and look for her. She pulled off the scarf that was supposed to protect her hair, releasing a cloud of white powder, and went through the wide doors into the sunshine. Even though it was nearly March, there still weren’t that many people in the square so she was able to spot Francesca right away. She was sitting at a little table outside a cafe and she wasn’t alone.
When she saw who Francesca’s companion was, Kate felt unreasoning fury: how dare she skive off without telling anyone! How dare she meet up with Mario without including her! How dare Mario show up in Florence and not tell her first! Kate was supposed to be keeping an eye on Francesca for him, so why hadn’t he told her he was coming to Florence today? What the hell was going on?
She was so angry, so eaten up with unexpected jealousy, that she acted without thought. Circling round the outside of the square, she approached the cafe from behind them, then hovered, trying to make out what they were talking about so intensely. If only she’d learned more Italian during her weeks in the country! She heard Mario use the word ‘game’—he was calling something a ‘stupid game’. Then Francesca tilted back her head and said defiantly that it wasn’t a game, it was her new life. Kate saw Mario gesture his annoyance, a downward movement of the hand. Clearly, he was running out of patience. Good, thought Kate. He probably wanted to see her really, not Francesca.
‘Hi, Francesca!’ She came round into their line of vision, smiling, as if she just happened to have noticed them there. ‘I thought it was you.’
Francesca seemed relieved to see her, but Mario caught her eye and frowned, a small, instinctive frown of warning that Francesca did not see. Of course, thought Kate. We’re not supposed to know each other. Their shared secret, something Francesca didn’t know, was a small glow, deep inside her. She pulled a chair from one of the other tables and said brightly, ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Francesca. Mario looked away. He was tapping his foot lightly as he always did when something displeased him. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one free and lit it quickly.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ said Kate.
‘Not at all,’ said Francesca. Mario slid her a sideways glance, but remained silent.
‘Isn’t this the man who was hassling you that night?’ asked Kate. ‘I thought you might need rescuing again.’
Francesca raised a single white eyebrow. ‘Do I need to be rescued, Mario?’ she asked in English.
He shrugged, then said coolly, ‘You will introduce me for your friend, Francesca?’
‘Sure. Kate, this is Mario Bassano. I’ve known him for a long time and—well, I’ve known him for a long time, that’s all. Mario, this is Kate Holland. She’s…’ Francesca hesitated. She caught Kate’s eye and Kate smiled encouragingly. ‘Kate is my very good friend,’ she finished firmly.
Mario put out his hand, as if to a total stranger. ‘Good day, Kate ’Ollande.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Kate. A small cloud of white powder rose from her hand as Mario gripped it in his. But that couldn’t have been the reason for the jolt of electricity that seemed to pass between them as their palms met. Mario must have felt it too, because he withdrew his hand quickly, as though he’d been stung. Kate laughed, her laugh just a little too sharp and too loud. ‘Sorry. Now you’ve got talc all over your sleeve.’
‘Talc?’ asked Mario.
‘It’s what we use to clean the walls,’ explained Francesca.
‘Did you realize,’ said Kate, ‘that you’ve just shaken hands with one of the six professional talcum-powder throwers in the world? I can’t believe we exist anywhere but here.’
‘Is it our tea break?’ asked Francesca. Behind Kate, a handful of pale figures were emerging from the Baptistery into the sunlight.
‘Yes. A chance to refresh our battered lungs with a cigarette.’
Mario offered her one. ‘Tell me, Kate,’ he said. ‘How long you are in Italia?’
She hesitated. He knew precisely how long it was since she came to Florence. ‘Nearly eight weeks,’ she said, entering the game. ‘I arrived just after Christmas.’
‘And ’ow you like our city of Firenze?’
‘Oh, I love it. Even with all the mud and problems, I think it’s the most beautiful city in the world.’
He smiled. ‘Firenze is fortunate to have the angeli dell’alluvione to work for her.’ Kate felt the compliment was more for her acting skills than her work as a mud angel. She was enjoying herself. There was something unexpectedly sexy in this game of let’s-pretend-we’ve-never-met-before.
‘And how about you, Mario? Do you live here in Florence?’
‘No. My ’ome it is in Lucca. I work at the ospedale.’
‘Oh really?’ Kate feigned surprise. ‘You are a doctor, then?’
‘Yes, I qualify as dottore since one year.’
‘Are you an ordinary doctor or are you some kind of specialist?’
It was a trick question. ‘I am working with the neurology specialism. In two years I will be—hm—the psychiatrist.’ As well Kate knew. Only three days ago, when they’d last met, she’d made him say the word ‘psychiatrist’ several times, just to hear the way his pronunciation teased the word out into its separate consonants.
Francesca was watching them closely. She said, ‘Mario will make a great psychiatrist. He
’s got a real weakness for crazies.’
‘Is my job.’
‘It must be why he’s so devoted to my family.’ She turned to Kate. ‘Mario has been trying to persuade me to visit my relatives.’
‘Ugh.’ Kate pulled a face. ‘Don’t do it.’
‘You do not understand, Kate,’ said Mario earnestly. ‘Is most important that Francesca she make visit to her uncle ’ouse next weekend. Her parents are go. He is very ill man. The ospedale can do nothing for him more. The cancer it has spread to his bones. Francesca must make the visit before he die.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Francesca.’
‘Why? I want him to die,’ said Francesca. ‘Slowly and painfully. He deserves to suffer.’
Even Kate was shocked. Mario said, ‘Francesca, you must not talk that way about your uncle.’
‘But it’s the truth, Mario. I’ve had enough of all the hypocrisy, all the lies and pretence. I can’t do it any more. I won’t do it. I hate Zio Toni and I’m not ashamed to admit it. He’s a wicked old man and—’
‘Enough. If you will not make the visit for your uncle, then make it for your parents. They go at the weekend, too. Is big occasion for them. Very important.’
‘I’m not going, I tell you,’ said Francesca. She looked around restlessly. ‘Isn’t there any service in this place? I’m going to the bathroom. If a waiter ever does appear, you can order me an espresso.’ She stood up swiftly and disappeared inside.
Kate let out a sigh of relief. ‘Ciao, Mario.’ She leaned towards him. ‘How am I doing?’
‘You’re doing good,’ he said. He was regarding her thoughtfully.
‘This is fun, isn’t it?’
He said, ‘Kate, I think maybe you can ’elp me.’
‘How?’ Kate liked the way Mario’s eyes were studying her face and she had to remind herself that Francesca was her friend. She knew almost nothing about Mario, except that he had the kind of attractiveness that grew on you.
He said, ‘It is most important that Francesca she make visit with her family this weekend. Molto importante—for her, most of all.’
‘But if she doesn’t want to go?’
‘In her heart she want to. And is one day only. Maybe two day. Make big difference for the rest of her life.’
‘Why’s it so important?’
‘She will tell you, if she want.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Make her be sense. Persuade her to go to the Villa Beatrice at the weekend.’
‘The Villa Beatrice?’ A memory was stirring in Kate’s brain. When Francesca first joined the team, Professor Fuller had mentioned someone with the same surname as her who lived at the Villa Beatrice, but Francesca had denied the connection.
‘Is where her uncle live,’ said Mario.
‘And his name is…?’
‘Signor Bertoni.’
‘Does he have a private art collection?’
‘Certo. Is famous art collection.’
‘Why won’t Francesca visit him?’
‘They have big fight, before she go to America—’
‘America?’
But before Mario had a chance to answer, Francesca was coming back, an apologetic waiter in tow. When he had taken their orders, Kate asked casually, ‘What’s the Villa Beatrice like, Francesca?’
‘Nothing special,’ said Francesca swiftly.
But Mario answered at the same time, ‘Is like no other place. The situation is most beautiful. Kate, you should make visit at same time as Francesca.’
‘Kate wouldn’t be interested,’ said Francesca scornfully.
‘But it sounds like magic.’
‘Black magic,’ Francesca corrected her.
‘Besides, I’ve never really seen the Italian countryside, apart from that trip to Viareggio.’
‘Near the Villa Beatrice is very different,’ said Mario. ‘Many mountains and woods and rivers. You will like it.’
‘She’s not going.’
‘And La Rocca,’ said Mario, ‘where the uncle live, is very old tower ’ouse.’
‘So who lives at the Villa Beatrice?’ asked Kate. She liked the way the Italian pronunciation sounded on her tongue.
‘It’s empty,’ said Francesca. ‘My family get to use it for visits.’
‘An empty house…’ Kate was thoughtful.
Mario said, ‘Simona will be there too.’
‘Simona?’ Francesca’s white-fringed eyes were suddenly huge.
Mario nodded. ‘She come back from England this week. She will be happy for see you.’
‘Who’s Simona?’ asked Kate.
‘My sister. Maybe she can visit me here?’ She was appealing to Mario.
He shook his head. Francesca slumped.
Kate said, ‘Do you think your uncle would let us use his house for a party? I mean, this villa place sounds ideal for a visit. Maybe we should all go. Make it a day trip like the visit to Viareggio. Everyone’s getting restless here. Jenny and Dido will be leaving in ten days—we ought to have one real party before it all stops.’
Mario frowned. Kate had overstepped her usefulness. ‘Party is not good idea,’ he said firmly.
Francesca had cheered up. She grinned. ‘Sounds okay to me. Do you think anyone would come?’
‘Are you kidding? They’d all jump at the chance.’
‘No,’ said Mario.
‘Kate, that’s a brilliant idea. We’ll all go, liven the place up a bit, have a happening.’ Francesca’s eyes were bright with the prospect of scuppering Mario’s plans.
‘But your parents,’ he said.
‘We’ll go on Friday. They only ever visit for the day on Sundays. We can have a great time for a couple of nights and clear out before they ever get there. Do you really think it will work, Kate?’
‘Sure it will.’
‘But your uncle—’ protested Mario.
‘Oh, I’ll go and see him too, don’t worry about that. I’ll do the dutiful family thing and have fun at the same time. This way everyone gets what they want. Kate, you’re a genius.’
Francesca sat back in her chair and sipped her coffee. Under its coating of white powder, her face was shining with anticipation.
Mario, on the road out of Florence, did not share Francesca’s belief that Kate was a genius. Far from it. He was angry that the two girls had conspired to make the situation even more complicated than it was already. He worried all through the drive back to Lucca. The consequences if she turned up at the Villa Beatrice with her disreputable friends in tow might well be worse than if she didn’t show up at all. He gripped the steering wheel and cursed.
How could Francesca be so wrong-headed? It was because of her parents’ crazy world of show and no substance that she was so naive about money. Her whole future depended on whether her uncle left his estate to her and her sister or to a cousin. All she had to do was go along with the family plans for a few more weeks, otherwise… He loved Francesca and wanted the best for her. Why did she have to make it so difficult?
On the journey back to Lucca his little Fiat was caught behind a huge oil tanker which belched black exhaust at him. He rolled up his window in a vain attempt to keep the toxic fumes out of the car. The trouble with these little Topolinos was that they were not much bigger than the wheel of a large lorry, so his head was at the worst height. Already his lungs were raw from the pollution of the Florentine air. He glanced down and noticed the white smudge on his jacket where the talc had fallen from Kate’s hand. Again, that jolt of sexual energy. Well, so what? He wasn’t going to do anything about it, and if she was attracted to him, he might be able to use that…
Mario was well aware that most of his contemporaries, unless they were actually training for the priesthood, regarded the annual influx of nubile young foreign girls as a gift straight from heaven. Italian girls were still strictly watched by their families, but these Swedes and Americans and English girls seemed to have no brothers or fathers to watch out for them. They wor
e shorts and halter tops in the street and tried to gain entry to churches dressed for the beach. They were fair game. Some of them, it was rumoured, came south because they were looking for adventures, their own northern menfolk lacking the sexual prowess of Italians. Like fishermen watching out for seasonal shoals, Mario’s schoolfriends had hung round the stations and the main tourist attractions waiting for the first tourists of the spring. It was a sport, like football. Everybody played.
Mario had never had much time for these games. In his teens all his energies were focused on his single aim of getting away from his home town and becoming a doctor. All he knew was work. It seemed cruel timing that now he should find himself attracted to a foreign girl for the first time in his life. Now, when more than ever before he needed to keep his mind on the target.
Kate stood next to Francesca while she dialled the number on the public phone. Behind them, the bar was noisy with the dubbed voices of an American soap chattering on the television, Gilbert Becaud on the jukebox. Francesca pushed the money in. Her shoulders were hunched and, when she spoke, it was in a voice quite unlike the one she used with her friends. It was breathless, like a little girl’s. Kate picked out the words ‘my friends’ and ‘maybe three or four’. She smiled. If Francesca’s weekend party was anything like Jenny’s birthday supper, there’d be more than three or four of them turning up at the Villa Beatrice this weekend.
‘Grazie,’ said Francesca several times in her little girl voice. Then, ‘Arrivederci.’
She hung up. ‘All settled,’ she turned to Kate with a grin. ‘We can go on Friday night.’
‘Fantastic,’ said Kate. ‘A real party in a real stately home. Let’s go and tell the others.’
