by Gian Bordin
Everything is ready, but still I walk back and forth checking myself for the third time in the full-length mirror close to the entrance door. I’m wearing a sleeveless black knit with a narrow silk scarf casually slung around my neck and falling down in front and behind. The choice is both demure and provocative — no décolleté, but skin hugging. I wear no bra, the scarf both hiding and revealing my breasts. Standing sideways, I observe my silhouette — breasts like half lemons, maybe on the small side, a flat stomach, the slight curve of my thighs, a hint of red in my dark-brown curls, falling loosely to my shoulders, the result of a red-head father and a dark-haired mother. I feel reassured.
When the entrance intercom finally chimes at five past seven, I deliberately count to ten before answering and releasing the door. However I open the apartment door the moment I hear the elevator arrive. Silvio is carrying a bottle in his left hand and a small bouquet of red roses in his right. His warm smile goes right to my heart. Rather than the customary brushing of cheeks, he kisses me on the mouth. A short kiss, but full of promise. Then he steps back and exclaims: "Cecilia, let me feast my eyes on you … You look gorgeous." He hands me the roses. "Look, they match the color of your scarf."
"Thank you Silvio. Call me Ceci. That’s what close friends call me."
"Ceci? How cute!"
"Most people here don’t know what it means. Come in."
I step aside to let him enter, close the door and follow him into the living room. I notice that he surveys the room with interest.
"You’ve got a nice place here." He picks up one of the ceramic vases and looks underneath. "Orvieto … exquisite shape."
"Yes, and the colors are so subtle, not the often glaring tones of Orvieto. Take a seat, while I put the roses into a vase. Is Prosecco all right with you?"
"Certainly, it comes from where I grew up." Naturally, we spoke Italian.
When I return from the kitchen with the roses in a vase and the Prosecco, he is studying the two remaining antique prints that have yet escaped Carlo’s fingers. I offer him a glass and we chime them together, saying "cin’cin" and smiling at each other.
While we nibble on the ciabatta — he compliments me on the Dukkah — he asks if there have been further develop.m.ent in my current troubles. I report that the police returned the computer. Referring to his remark on the Prosecco, I question him about where he grew up.
Fifteen minutes later, I get up. "Will you excuse me? I have to do some final preparations."
"I’ll join you," he replies, taking the tray with the nibbles and the bottle of Prosecco, and follows me into the kitchen. "Nice kitchen and this smells enticing." He stands close behind me, both hands on my shoulders. I can feel the heat of his body. "And what is this?" he asks, pointing at the bramata. "Instant polenta. You disappoint me, Cecilia."
"Not instant, never. It’s very coarse bramata."
"Sorry, but cooking it —"
"— takes an hour? Not the way I do it in the microwave. Twelve minutes at most."
"Really?"
"Yes. Three times four minutes, stirring and breaking up any lumps in between." I turn around, pleased that I could teach an expert something about making polenta without having to stir constantly to prevent the mush sticking to the bottom of the pot.
He sees my triumphant smile, laughs, and then kisses me again, lingering this time. The sensation shoots right to my groin. It is disconcerting, taking me by surprise. Almost alarmed, I turn back to my final dinner preparations.
He tells me more about his youth.
"And what made you come to London?" I query.
"I was head hunted, and the money was twice what I got in Padua."
"But life is also much dearer here."
"Yes, I found that out only after I arrived."
"And do you intend to stay here?"
"No, sooner or later I want to be my own boss, run my own restaurant."
"In England?"
"No, I miss home, the mountains, even the people. No, it will be somewhere in Northern Italy, hopefully at one of the lakes or in the mountains. And you? How come you speak both Italian and English without the slightest accent?"
So I tell him a bit about my life, growing up in London, the parents’ divorce, early adulthood in Lugano, before returning to London. By then dinner is ready. He praises my cooking. I can’t quite believe him. I presume that he is simply being nice and say so.
"Oh, no, you’re mistaken. The seasoning of the osso buco was exquisite. No chef could do better."
"Real Swiss Maggi chicken cubes," I reply laughing.
"I thought there was a hint of chicken in it. And this is the best polenta I’ve eaten ever, truly. We usually don’t use a mixture of milk and water. Not stirring it intermittently makes it less mushy. One can still feel the grits, and the Parmesan at the end gave it the final touch. So don’t put your cooking down."
"Thank you, Silvio, it’s very generous of you to tell me that."
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "It isn’t only your food that is delicious. It is also you."
I actually blush. Nobody has ever said something like this to me. I suddenly realize that Gary simply took me for granted for most of our time together. I almost get angry with myself for letting Gary intrude into the easy intimacy between Silvio and me.
We eat the dessert and drink the doubly strong espresso in the living room, sitting side by side on the sofa.
At one point, he holds my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. His are a deep, dark brown, under bushy eyebrows, bright, full of questioning expectation.
"I want to kiss you," he murmurs and pulls me closer. Our lips touch, the pressure increasing slowly. His tongue reaches to meet mine, provoking long forgotten sensations. The urge to unite with him becomes suddenly unbearable.
"Come, Silvio," I murmurs, "I want you."
Before I can fully rise, he lifts me up, kisses me more passionately, and asks: "Which door?" and then carries me to the bedroom.
Tuesday, 28th October, 6:45 a.m.
I wake with a feeling of utter contentment. I would have liked to have Silvio still next to me, to stroke his well-toned body, to sense his touch on mine. He left somewhere around two or three in the morning. I stay with that feeling of contentment. It has been more than two year since I’ve made love to someone so passionately, so full of abandon, without holding back. I wonder how it has been for him.
Why is a wonderful man like this not married? … Or is he? I didn’t even ask him. He didn’t wear a wedding band, but that doesn’t mean much nowadays, nor have I ever seen him with a woman. When my parents split up I made a solemn pledge never to get involved with a married man. I didn’t want to be the one who made a man stray from his marriage. My father’s affair with Lucy caused the final rupture between my parents. My mother went into hysterics for days, screaming at him every time she saw him, ultimately driving him out of the house for good, although now, with hindsight, I have come to realize that their marriage had been one on paper only for years before that. I must ask Silvio. Maybe I should call him later today. The vague sense of unease lingers.
Finally I force myself to rise. The weather has again turned sour, cold, a light drizzle from a low cloud cover, visibility maybe two hundred yards. Nevertheless, I go for a run, come back soaked both inside and out, and then warm my body with a hot shower. Having missed out on the planned night of work — hacking into Long’s computer — I want to make the most of today.
Any change in his spending pattern will be a giveaway. I’ll check if he has finally bought the penthouse he always bragged about. If possible, I will also check out some of the other Lewis’ employees, particularly Fred Garland, and hopefully find out if any of them repaid a substantial part of their mortgage recently. If that line of inquiry doesn’t lead anywhere, I will see if anyone suddenly drives a fancy brand-new car.
Tuesday, 8:40 a.m.
On the way to the Bayswater underground station, I walk past my van. It is
still where I parked it the day before. By nine I am at the Land Registry Office.
I am armed with the phone list of Lewis’ employees that I received early September. It shows their home addresses, as well as their e-mail addresses. I fill in the request forms and then pay the three pounds for each of the five addresses I want to check out. Armed with copies of the registration documents, I return home.
Long has indeed purchased the penthouse studio. Its valuation is 1.07 million pounds. The change of ownership is dated the third of October, less than two weeks prior to the Sanvino transaction. That’s when the equity and mortgage funds must have changed hands, but the negotiations for the penthouse would have happened on the weeks before. The settlement date doesn’t mesh in with the transfer of funds for the Sanvino affair, but it matches the opening of the account at UBS Willis showed me. Coincidence or significant? I also wonder from where the guy might have received the equity for such an extravagant apartment? Unfortunately, the document contains no information on whether there is a mortgage against the title. But if he took out a mortgage, he would still have needed about a quarter million of his own funds. He started at Lewis five years before me. Could he have saved that much? Not with his lifestyle. From what I saw, his commission income isn’t that great. He is too lazy to work hard. And could he support mortgage and interest payments of about 100,000 a year? Or did he suddenly inherit big? If he really is behind the scam, it is my educated guess that he would have needed bridging finance. Again, could he have arranged that with his record?
All I have is questions, but no answers, no promising leads. He though still remains my most likely culprit. Maybe one of the private land registry firms can find out the size of his mortgage.
What puzzles me even more is that he never mentioned or hinted to me that he actually bought the place. I reckon that he would consider even me a good enough platform for bragging, but then we’ve hardly exchanged a civil word during the last two months of my employment. Has he, in fact, told anyone else about the purchase? If he kept it a secret from everybody at the office, then this could be a strong indication that he doesn’t want any connection to be made between the purchase of the apartment and the Sanvino affair. A tenuous conclusion I intend to investigate further.
The documents for the other junior employees yield nothing of interest. However, Fred Garland’s is more startling. I would never have suspected that he lives in a house with extensive grounds, valued at more than four million pounds. Again, there is no information on mortgages against the title. I also remember office gossip that he comes from a modest background, but made it big in the business. Still, maintaining a mortgage on a mansion of that value can even be tough at his income level.
Out of curiosity I go to the Google maps sky view. It shows a small two-storey mansion, pre-WWII style, possibly containing ten rooms, a fenced-in ten-yard, kidney-shaped swimming pool, a well-kept garden with ornamental bushes and lawns around the house, the whole surrounded by tall deciduous trees. In the street view, the house is mostly hidden behind trees and bushes. The metal fence and gate around the property alone must have cost a small fortune. I print out an enlarged sky view and the street view approaching the gate.
I don’t seem to get anywhere. There is no choice but to see if a private property agency can help. I search the yellow pages and find an outfit within walking distance at the far end of Craven Road near the Paddington Railway Station.
Tuesday, 11:50 a.m.
Mr. Warren of Cossgrove Land Agents ushers me into his office. On the way there I pondered what story to invent for my request. In the end I decided to pretend coming from a credit-checking bureau that needs verification of financial asset statements made by loan applicants to a small private lending agency. Warren seems to buy my story, but the cost of making the two checks, one on Edward Long, the other on Fred Garland, is a staggering one hundred pounds each. He promises to have the results by tomorrow early afternoon.
When I come out of the building and set out back toward my apartment, Mr. Swarthy, the mafioso, comes up from behind and blocks my path. Did he follow me to the agent? Is he shadowing my movements? I don’t like the thought of that.
I try to step around him, but he puts a hand on my shoulder and says in Italian: "Wait, woman. I have another message for you." This time he drops the ‘Lei’ and instead uses the familiar ‘tu’.
My first instinct is to floor him. Nobody touches me on the shoulders without my consent. But then I think better of it. I might as well listen to what he has to say. I will learn more that way than by letting my rightful anger teach him a lesson. So, I wait, facing him.
"It seems that you did not take my first message seriously. It’s now three days and I have not seen you take any steps to cough up that money. It’s only another three days till Friday. You would not want to have any of your relatives come to harm, would you?"
"Signore, do not give me the ‘tu’ and do not dare to touch any of them, I warn you."
"It is all up to you." He actually switches back to the formal ‘Lei’. "Two million pounds. Three more days. I am not kidding." With that he turns and crosses the street to the railway station.
My father’s family are the only relatives in England. The girls! A shiver runs up my spine. They are really in danger. It isn’t simply my florid imagination. I have to warn my father again.
Then it occurs to me that the mafioso must have followed me last Saturday evening when I went to warn my father, or possibly earlier when I went to visit the girls. I inadvertently revealed where they live. I can’t think of any other way that guy could have found out. Nobody at Lewis knows where they live. My father has an unlisted telephone number. Gary is the only one of my acquaintances who has met him, and I doubt that the guy obtained that information from him.
The moment I’m back home, I call my father’s office. He is away for the day and is only expected to be back later tomorrow. I wonder if this means that he took Lucy and the girls to her parents in Wales. So I call Lucy. My heart sinks when she answers. She tells me that dad is at a meeting in Glasgow and will only fly back tomorrow noon.
I don’t let slip anything about the renewed threat by the Mafia guy. It would only upset Lucy unnecessarily, nor can she do anything about it. I have to be the one protecting them until I manage to convince my father to take the threat seriously. I figure that the girls are most vulnerable on their way to and from school. Lucy usually accompanies them and picks them up again, but occasionally, especially on nice days, Susan, the older one, picks up Clara and takes her home. It is only three blocks through roads with little traffic. At home, they are relatively safe, I reason. Lucy doesn’t let them out into the street. In the garden, Jack, their golden retriever will protect them. He is a good guard dog. I see no other alternative but to be their guard to and from school even if it cuts into my efforts to find the real culprits of the scam.
Tuesday, 2:50 p.m.
I’m waiting in the shadow of a tree, opposite the school gate, observing the street, particularly parked cars. I’m in my running outfit, big sunglasses, my hair hidden under a white cap. I reckon that the Mafia guy hadn’t shadowed me when I went for a run at seven in the morning. So he won’t recognize me, nor does he have a reason to suspect me being at the school.
This time I’ve taken precautions to come to South Kensington. Not only did I leave the apartment building by a back door, but rather than take the Circle line from Bayswater directly to the Gloucester Street station, I changed to the Central at Notting Hill Gate, at Bond Street to the Jubilee and one station later to the Piccadilly line. All the time I unobtrusively scanned the people around me for a possible shadow. Once I even intentionally entered a carriage and, just as the doors closed, forced my way out again. I saw nobody suspect. I got out at Gloucester Road, pretty certain that nobody has followed me.
There are several cars parked in the street, some even illegally, with people waiting in them. Most are women. I rule those out. An elderly man sit
s in a Lexus a few steps from me. Not a suspect either. A minute or two before three, Lucy arrives, together with another woman. Dependable Lucy making sure to be there when the girls emerge from the school gate. A gray Ford Focus drives by slowly. I cannot see the driver’s face, since he has his head turned toward the area in front of the school, but he has the same short dark hair as the mafioso. The car continues down the road, speeding up. A few minutes later the same vehicle drives up the street on my side, just as the two girls come running out of school and join Lucy. I’m tensing up. The driver slows, his face again turned toward the school. By now I’m pretty certain that it is the mafioso. Once past the school, he speeds up and disappears. Is he gone for good, I wonder, or just making another U-turn to follow Lucy or even to ambush her in a side street?
I decide to get out of hiding and join Lucy, who is still talking to the other woman. The girls spot me first and come running to embrace me.
"Ceci is here, mom, look mom!" Susan calls out, trying to draw her mother’s attention away from the woman.
Lucy turns, a sweet smile lighting up her face. "What a nice surprise!" she exclaims. The other woman excuses herself, and leaves with her boy. "Are you on a run?" Lucy queries.
"No, I just felt like seeing you and the girls. The leisure of those out of a job."
"Oh, you won’t be long out of a job, not with your talents."
"Thanks. In fact, right now I’m not even looking."
We start walking toward their house, both Susan and Clara holding hands with me. There is no sign of the mafioso.
