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Mozart and pappardelle, he repeated to himself more than once as he drove by the new site of the Accademia di Santa Cecilia. Nothing voiced the Italian mania for designer labels better than the name of the restaurant inside the building: ReD–Restaurant and Design, for the chef prided himself on turning the cheap dishes of the local cuisine into works of art. The Roman press had rejoiced at the project. In their affected style, enriched by the usual blend of savagely misspelt English words and bureaucratic lingo, they’d written that the chef had reinterpreted the traditional flavour of the “territory”—by making “designer food” with pecorino cheese and those broad noodles called pappardelle.
He took the Corso Francia local traffic lane and at the Via di Vigna Stelluti junction turned left, heading for the unauthorized car park and wondering if the chef had the cheek to mould a slice of pecorino into a pretentious logo and put it on a dish of pasta. The next issue of the Meridiano with his piece on the fashion scam was due next Saturday. It was an outspoken attack on the Italians’ knack of buying things only with a designer label, and on the group of cunning manufacturers who exploited their flashy tastes. Working women who would never dream of frying a couple of eggs spent a fortune in designer kitchens. Young men in their mid-twenties who still lived with their parents without ever doing any work or taking their university examinations wouldn’t wear a pair of jeans unless they bore the Armani logo. How would the press, so proud of the made in Italy mark, receive his criticism?
Paul saw the attendant waving him to a narrow space. He parked, and handed him one euro. There was a traffic warden near by, who looked at him but said nothing. Paul smiled at him and rushed towards Lelia.
She stood in front of a luxurious apartment block a few yards away, dressed in a gold lace blouse with a delicate bead trim and black trousers with ornate beading to the hem. The high heels of her sandals made her much taller than her five foot eight. Her pale complexion enhanced the darkness of her long hair and almond eyes. This contrast, now that in July most young and not so young women were suntanned, gave her the look of a convalescent athletic girl.
She hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks. Paul stayed still, studying her. She was graceful. Upper class and sexy. He could not understand how her husband, or any man for that matter, could have left her, in spite of her drug addiction, in spite of her promiscuity.
Her promiscuity...She carried a Pan American bag that didn’t fit her apparel. It looked as though she’d moved out of her house in a hurry yesterday night after her man had found out that she’d had an affair with the chauffeur. And indeed that couldn’t be far from the truth. She’d replied to his message by saying she could make it for lunch—they should meet here because she would spend the night at a friend’s place. It was obvious that she’d dined with him and then they slept together. The Pan American bag was for her make-up stuff and linen change.
“I hope your friend used a condom,” he said.
She chuckled. “I’m on the pill.”
“You know what I mean.” He led the way to the Euclide, the big café a few yards away, hoping she hadn’t been infected with HIV.
They sat at a table outside. Paul ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice for her and a double espresso for himself. She put her arm around his shoulder.
“D’you know who I’ve just screwed? A chap you know.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he replied, coolly.
“Doesn’t it make you jealous? I’m jealous that you screw Debby.”
“Stop it!”
“Wouldn’t you like to know who it was?”
“No.”
“An actor. Furio Daddi.”
Jesus! That shit he’d seen at the Gambrinus on Sunday. “You’re a bitch.”
“If we’d lived thousand years ago we’d have had a terrific fuck.”
“Stop it! I have to talk to you.”
“Incest is the only experience I haven’t had. I sort of miss it. After all, it’s only a cultural taboo.” She broke into laughter.
“Be serious for a moment.”
“I’m not joking,” she said, still laughing. “It was old Sigmund Freud, wasn’t it, who said there isn’t such a thing as a joke.”
“Look, we’ve got to talk about San Bernardo. I’ll tell you what I know and then you’ll tell me what you saw,” he said, determined to play fair with her.
When he was finished with explaining his theory and recounting his conversation with Dr Fossati, he asked, “Now, am I right, Ernesto Lodiacono knew of the murder, didn’t he?”
She lit a cigarette, and drew at it agitatedly. “Yes.”
“Did Claudia Fossati know of it, too?”
She nodded.
“Tell me the whole story.”
Lelia stood up. “Paul, you’re the only person I love and so I’ll always do whatever you want me to, but I cannot tell you the whole story. I can’t stab Ernesto on the back.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, and hopped off.
The same words she’d spoken fourteen years ago—except that it wasn’t Ernesto. It was Giorgio. She was fifteen then...
* * *
D’you like my bikini, Paul? Doesn’t it make me look sexy?
She was fifteen. Fourteen years ago, one year before he got married. Why did he spend that summer in Italy? Silly question. He shouldn’t keep asking himself silly questions. He’d promised himself not to. He couldn’t reshape his past. At the time it seemed the right thing to do. A month up the hill off the Appian Way. Mamma’s country house was nice and comfy. He’d always been quite happy down there. A swim in the swimming pool in the morning, a nap after lunch, a walk through the woods in the evening, a supper cooked by the cook and served by the manservant...
What did he feel for her then? A silly question again. Nothing special. Well, perhaps a sort of tenderness. He was so much older than Lelia. He wanted to protect her, he didn’t want to let her down, to let Mamma know about her affair with the steward. He remembered her as a four-year-old child, when he would take her to the funfair, when she didn’t want to go to sleep if he didn’t kiss her goodnight.
But now she was already a fully grown girl and he couldn’t kiss her goodnight; when he did, she tried to kiss him on the lips and he sensed he was about to get an erection. What was it, an automatic function of his body? He liked her, he could see she was attractive, but she was his sister—he shouldn’t have an erection when she hugged him and he felt her breasts rubbing against his chest...
Kiss me on the neck, Paul, if you don’t want to kiss me on the lips...
What a dirty mind d’you have, Paul! There is nothing improper in kissing your own sis...
D’you know, Paul, how old I was when I exchanged my first kiss with a man? He was a man, much older then me, and he was handsome. As handsome as you are, and I was just eleven...
Paul, I am no longer a virgin...You know who I sleep with, don’t you?
OK, Paul, I’ll play the good girl, but kiss me, kiss me...
The good girl...she’d never play the good girl. Perhaps it wasn’t her fault. Mamma only thought about herself, but she wouldn’t have called the carabinieri, would she, had he told her that Lelia had helped the steward steal the necklace. I haven’t got anything to do with the theft—I’m keeping my mouth shut because I can’t stab Giorgio on the back, she’d said to him. Why did he believe Lelia’s lies...why?
* * *
There was no receptionist. The San Camillo was the best if not the best one in town for heart diseases and yet the only people he could turn to for help were attendants and stretcher-bearers, who looked like rough gravediggers rather than gentle health carers. There was a defiant air about them, as if they didn’t give a crap about the doctors and even less about their visitors. He couldn’t ask them if Dr Manni would eventually show up.
The window of the large corridor was open and the sun angled through it. He gazed outside at the big courtyard. They were resurfacing it; the noise was maddening. He thought about the patients. The noise must be almost more than anybody could bear, but would they fare any better in an NHS hospital? Well, they might have to bear the same kind of noise in Britain, although they would have quite a few receptionists, and a newsagent, and a larger number of nurses going from one room to another with a tray full of cups of tea for their colleagues, and an inordinate amount of old magazines and new NHS pamphlets. A very poor consolation— here in Italy, in spite of the apparent lack of organization, they had much shorter waiting lists and doctors more willing to talk.
The Sister he’d asked if he could see Dr Manni passed by, smiling at him cheerfully. Would the doctor be long? Paul was about to enquire, but noticed that her gait resembled Debby’s—and hesitated. She disappeared. Was she married, did she have a partner, did she enjoy having sex with him? She wasn’t likely to make a fuss about living in Rome. She was Italian; more that this, her man didn’t have an erection problem. What would she have replied if he’d told her, You see, I have an erection problem but I can get over it if you come to bed with me?
The Sister reappeared in the corridor coming towards him with a big man in a white overall at her left. It was Dr Manni.
“Ah, it’s you,” he said, holding Paul’s card in his hand.
“Buongiorno dottore. I’m sorry to interfere with your schedule. I don’t think I told you when we met that I am a journalist. I work for the Meridiano. I wonder if I could check a couple of points about the accident with you.”
The Sister put in, “I don’t think you need me, doctor—”
“Please, stay here,” he replied. “I’ve got nothing to say that you or everybody else for that matter can’t listen to.” He turned to Paul. “Which points?”
“Were you present when Dr Fossati recognized the two bodies?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m writing a cover story about the Landi case. I’d like to give a vivid description of the scene when she found out who the two dead men were.”
“She looked sad—more than sad, distressed I would say.”
“Did she recognize them immediately?”
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing in particular. I want to give a vivid description, as I said.”
“No, she didn’t recognize them immediately. She took a long look at them first.”
“And then what did she say”
“Haven’t you asked her?”
“No, not yet,” lied Paul. “I’m going to San Bernardo tomorrow.”
“You’d better ask her. I don’t recall her words.” The doctor looked pensive…“No, I don’t recall her words…I believe she first mentioned that she was the San Bernardo psychiatrist, or something like that.”
“I understand that she volunteered the information that Nino Landi was a drug addict on the road to recovery. Am I correct?”
Dr Manni half closed his eyes and glared at Paul. “You are more concerned about Dr Fossati than in the circumstances leading to the two men’s deaths. It’s time you tell me why.”
“I only want to report the scene of the identification as it happened, and to make it more ‘mimetic’— using as much dialogue as I can, if you see what I mean.”
“As far as I remember, she didn’t mention that Landi was on the road to recovery. At least not to me.”
“And what did she say to you?” queried Paul.
“That he was a drug addict with an abstinence syndrome.”
“Did she volunteer the same statement to the police?”
“All of us gave our statements at the police station. I wasn’t privy to Dr Fossati’s statement. And now if you will excuse me, I’m afraid I must go back to my ward.”
* * *
The Sister had a receding chin, but was slender and agile. Not as tall as a model, but tall. Like Debby, like Lelia, and he could see that she, too, had sexy boobs. Much sexier than those of the anorexic model who’d had a boob job. Where did she come from? She did not have a Roman accent—she had no accent at all.
The sun was beating down in the courtyard. Paul wondered why she was still walking by his side towards the street gate. She’d asked him if he knew the way out and when he said he did she came down with him all the same. Was it her lunch break? Was she going to buy some food?
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Rosanna Veneziani.”
“Are you from Florence?”
“From Urbino.”
“May I call you Rosanna?”
“Sure.”
“Are you married?”
She gave a chuckle.
“D’you know your gait resembles my wife’s?”
“Pity I can’t tell yours resembles my partner.”
“Why a pity?”
“Look, I’ve become inured to men trying to chat me up this way.”
“I wasn’t meaning to chat you up…I need your help. I’m serious.”
She stopped. “Is this a joke? I know nothing about the accident, or what Dr Manni may or may not have told you.”
“Please, don’t pay any attention to what I said.” He had a lump in his throat.
“Are you all right?” she enquired.
“My marriage is in turmoil.”
“I’m sorry. Why are you telling me?”
“I need to tell a woman. I told a cousin, a psychiatrist, but he is a man. I might tell my sister, if she wasn’t a drug addict and if she didn’t hate Debby. Debby is my wife. You see many people dying in your ward. Debby will ditch me, I can feel it, and for me it’s like dying. You may tell me what dying is like. What do they feel when they realize they’re dying?”
“Aren’t you kidding?” she asked, looking at him incredulously.
He fought back tears. “I’m confused. I am very much in love with Debby. I am attracted to her…but cannot maintain an erection with her and she is very hacked off.”
“You don’t want a nurse, you want either a urologist or a counsellor.”
“Can’t I talk to you? There’re so many things I may tell you—things I shan’t find the courage to tell a stranger again.”
“I must ask you the same question once more. Why me?”
“Because I sense no hostility from you.”
“Look…” She paused. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to collect a certificate at X-rays’. Follow me, then we can talk five minutes.”
They walked a few yards, and instead of making for the gate, she led him through a footpath toward a pavilion. “Wait for me here,” she said as they reached the entrance.
He took off his jacket, undid the knot of his necktie, and started pacing the footpath up and down in the broiling sun. What had he done? Losing face this way, and with a stranger. What had he expected she could do for him? What was he going to tell her now? Something even more humiliating for himself, and for Debby. What was running through his mind? How could he trust Sister Rosanna Veneziani? He was going to write a story, perhaps also quoting Dr Manni, when she was likely to tell him, You know, that reporter cannot get it hard—he said it himself, out of the blue, in the hospital courtyard…
He was pouring with sweat when she came back. She smiled. A sweet smile. Much sweeter than that of Debby, in spite of her receding chin. He would overcome any problems if Debby smiled at him like that. No, Rosanna wouldn’t speak disparagingly of him. He could trust her.
“Can we meet tomorrow evening at six?” she proposed.
“Of course. Where?”
“The Tazza d’Oro off the Pantheon is all right with you?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll stay with you until seven, so you can tell me what you feel like. Your problem isn’t uncommon, believe me. You’ll be all right if you take a positive view of life. Don’t think about death. You’ll be all right—you won’t die.”
* * *
He finished drinking his dry white and replaced the glass on the counter. For a moment he thought he had been right all along. It was some consolation to have found out that the official version of the case was also faulty on another ground. Nino Landi hadn’t been on the road to recovery before being battered to death; he was still a drug addict. This was what Claudia Fossati said to Dr Manni on the spot, and surely she said the same thing in her first statement to the police, didn’t she? Caramia’s death from heart attack had caught her unawares. There wasn’t Lodiacono to prompt her to make up the tale of the trafficker cheated by the pusher. He fabricated it later, when he knew about the Via del Mare accident, and had his obliging psychiatrist repeat it to the deputy attorney. Sure, not to the police—to the deputy attorney. Strangely enough, it didn’t occur to anybody that no trafficker who was also sober would use a guy suffering from an abstinence syndrome as a pusher.
Paul left the café and started walking home. Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere was full of Japanese tourists holding their cameras. They must have taken some good shots of themselves in front of the church—at least judging by the sense of satisfaction shining in their eyes. It would have been nice to be as carefree as they looked, but he knew it was going to be tough. There was no throwing his nasty thoughts out of his mind. It didn’t work. They came up again and again, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on his investigation.
He was a little out of breath as he reached the fourth-floor landing of the building. There was another flight of stairs to climb and he wondered if he would miss his flat. He loved it. Debby had furnished and decorated it herself, with enthusiasm. Was it true that she could no longer stand Rome, or did she just feel resentment towards him and anything connected with him? He doubted she had a lover, but that meant nothing. She wanted to regain her independence and to her mind she would be much freer in England. Free, as well as from a shaky sexual relationship, from a social environment in which she did not belong. She picked at her food, and they moved in a circle, his circle, where nobody did. She would like to dress casual, to put on the first shirt she had to hand; she hated to go to the hairdresser every four days, to the manicurist every week, to the chiropodist every fortnight, to the beautician every month—and the life with him, their useless social life, had forced her to dress up and hobnob with a group of people to whom an intellectual English girl was only remarkable for her lack of polish.
He couldn’t face her. Not now. He could not pretend that nothing happened yesterday. He would like to discuss his problem, his erection problem, he would like to secure her help to overcome it. But Debby fought shy of digging into his bed performance. She would keep pressing him to allow her to leave Rome immediately; she would say her presence here made things much worse for both of them.
He opened the door and stepped into the flat. Debby wasn’t alone. He heard a voice, the voice of a man. He entered the sitting room. Stefan Popovic sat on the sofa besides her.
He got up. “Buonasera. D’you remember me?”
“I do indeed.”
“Stefan doesn’t live very far,” said Debby. “We bumped into each other in Piazza Sonnino and I told him to come up for a glass of iced tea.”
He smiled, “I’m glad to see Debby is on the mend. It was a terrible shock.”
“It was,” said Paul. “But please, continue…sit down…” The telephone rang. “Will you excuse me?”
He left the room, running to his study. The telephone wasn’t on the desk as usual. It was on the computer station by the keyboard, and as he lifted the handset, it fell down. He picked it up and said hello twice. He said it again, and at last heard Lelia’s voice.
“Paul…Paul…Paul?”
“Yes, it’s me. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, now I can hear you. Listen, I’m calling from Calcata—”
The line had gone dead. He sat at the desk, waiting. She would ring again. That was all he needed this evening—Lelia on the telephone and the Bosnian in the sitting room. Why had Debby invited him in? In gratitude for consoling her on the Via del Mare or because she found the little man simpatico or interesting? Didn’t she see he was as pushy as the Romans she despised so much?
The telephone rang again. “Paul…Paul…I am short of coins. Say yes or no—can we meet tomorrow morning here at my place? It’s urgent.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Can’t explain. Please, come by nine. OK?”
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