Errant Angels (14 page)

‘Well, not really … but I suppose yes, in a way… We offer them dignity and peace … and compassion,' continued the Contessa, who saw from the expression on the other woman's face that she had still not understood what the project was about. ‘It's really a … how can I put it …
e un ospedale specializzato nell'assistenza ai malati terminali
,' she said, lapsing into Italian.

‘A place for the terminally ill to die?' replied the Reverend Mother.

‘Exactly so,' said the Contessa. ‘We make no charge for what we can do to help. I play the piano there several times a week. It is of no medical help, but it seems to please the patients and Doctor Bardini is convinced that it is a form of mental therapy and that it does cheer the poor souls up.'

The hospice – the first in Lucca and quite possibly the only one in the whole of Tuscany, if not all of Italy – had been started in one of the family's disused buildings, in the far north-eastern corner of the city. The building had been thoroughly cleaned, the small garden tidied up and one or two suitable building alterations – mysteriously approved at near breakneck speed by the
comune's
planning office – carried out.

‘That is, no doubt, a great blessing to those who need it most,' replied the Mother Superior, finding it hard to hide in her voice the genuine admiration she felt for this English woman. For one who possessed so much and, in consequence, had the privileged opportunity to do so little, the Contessa di Capezzani-Batelli was a powerhouse of good deeds, all fuelled by the fire of genuine, often anonymous altruism.

‘Perhaps, there is something the convent could do for the hospice?'

Although the Contessa didn't see religion, of any faith, being an important part of the palliative care programme the hospice would offer, the presence of Catholic nuns in a country such as Italy may have a relevance to some of the patients. She knew that any additional offered help would have to be accepted by Doctor Bardini at the hospice and certainly, any suggestion of work by the convent in the
comune
would have to be verified by the bishop in Pisa. Nevertheless, it was a good idea; if nothing else it would get some of the sisters out of the rarefied atmosphere of the convent and would expose them to the outside world.

‘Maybe it would be sufficient to just visit and perhaps read to the patients if required,' she suggested.

Now that the seed of interest in her new project had been sown, the Contessa decided to move on as time was flying by and she still had much to do before the day was finished. ‘May I now enquire as to Christina's progress?' asked the Contessa, abruptly changing the subject. ‘She should be in her final year.'

‘Indeed, Christina will qualify as an architect at the end of this academic year. That is all thanks to your generosity … not that she will ever know that,' added the Reverend Mother, ‘exactly as per the conditions you requested. Those lucky ones whom God places in our care and who progress well through their education will never know it was not Holy Mother Church who paid for their university education,' she continued, nodding her head slightly towards the Contessa.

For years, the Contessa's grant had allowed for two adopted orphans – a boy and a girl – to benefit from the privilege of a university education and a springboard to a professional career. It was a rather complex selection process, in which the Contessa had no wish to become involved, but it seemed to work.

‘And Guido?' asked the Contessa.

‘He, too, will graduate at the end of this academic year. And I am reliably informed that he has shown such promise that he has been offered a junior position with a highly respected law practice in Siena and that again is all thanks to you, Contessa.'

The Contessa smiled dismissively and waved the leashed hand in the air. There was the sound of water slopping on the stone floor as the bowl scraped across it when Carlo was tugged unexpectedly forwards and collided with it.

‘I rather think that Guido's good fortune is more a result of his own hard work,' she said.

The Reverend Mother smiled as a series of short grunts rose above the level of the far side of her desk.

‘I have enjoyed our conversation and have detained you for quite long enough. Now I must get on. We have a concert on Friday and there is still much to prepare. Come along, Carlo,' she said as she got up from her uncomfortable chair. ‘Oh, you are a messy little boy! Look what you've done!' she looked down at the landscape of puddles. ‘He's flicked water all over the floor. I am so sorry.'

The Mother Superior rose from her own chair and peered down over the end of the desk. Carlo smiled smugly back at her.

‘Do not concern yourself, my child,' replied the elderly nun. ‘That is a problem which is easily remedied.'

Over the years there had been far worse mementos to clean up resulting from the various Carlos who had visited. Water would present no problem at all.

‘How kind,' muttered the Contessa as she took up the slack on the leash and turned to go. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,' she said, turning back and balancing the ‘Pisa Museums' bag on the end of the desk. She rummaged around in it and took out two large white envelopes, each of which bore the lily logo of the
Banca Toscana
in the top left corner. ‘I'll just leave these here,' she continued, putting the envelopes on the desk. ‘I am very pleased to be able to say that we have had a good year.'

The Mother Superior's face seemed to suddenly fill with the light of admiration as she looked straight into the Contessa's eyes. She did not look down at the envelopes – she had no need to. Rather, she kept her gaze on the Contessa's face. The Contessa di Capezzani-Batelli's contributions to the good works of others, which were usually far from modest in their financial generosity, were well known and had she not said that it had been a good year…?

‘God will bless you for your compassion, my child, as will
we all. Go in peace,' said the Reverend Mother as the door opened and the young nun appeared once more.

A few minutes later, the Contessa and the complaining Carlo were once again out in the morning sunshine, strolling away from the convent down the
Via Galli Tassi
. Suddenly, something made her stop and turn. The convent and former orphanage of Saint Jerome Emiliani stood on a corner, where it had done so for several hundred years. Next to it, set back a little, almost hidden behind protective barriers and festooned with surveillance cameras and
Keep Out
signs, stood the regional headquarters of the
Polizia di Financia
, the branch of Italian law and order charged with stamping out anything even remotely illegal in the world of finance.

How very odd
, thought the Contessa as she and the dog resumed their progress down the ancient road.
One building only too keen to invite you in and the other one – the next door neighbour as it were – only too keen to keep you out and yet to know all about you. It is a sad mirror of modern society
. ‘Come on, you naughty boy,' she concluded. ‘It is time to be on our way.'

Carlo growled at a passing cyclist.

21

As usual,
Via Fillungo
was crowded with an army of tourists. Some walked purposefully, first studying their guidebooks and then following the instructions that they had just read, pausing to study both the ancient architecture and the more recent Art Nouveau shop fronts that lined the street. Others ambled along aimlessly, uninterested in the riches of the abundant heritage that seeped out of almost every surrounding stone. They were concerned only with how much farther their guides would drag them before they had the opportunity to eat or drink something.

At Number 102
Via Fillungo
, the
Casa dei Gioielli
glittered like a beacon of good taste, displaying its treasure trove of exquisite antiques in the most alluring way possible – not that the average tourist paid the contents of the shop window much attention. The lure of the echoes of blood sports in the nearby Roman amphitheatre – long since restored to expensive and much sought-after apartments – proved far stronger than any attraction the finest craftsmanship of previous centuries had to offer. Inside his shop, Gregorio Marinetti was late finishing off his mid-morning snack of a mozzarella and tomato
panino
. He stood in front of the counter at the rear of the shop, his back to the window. For a change, he was feeling contented. It had turned out to be a reasonable morning, following the unexpected appearance of a long-standing client from Pistoia, who had made a rather expensive purchase.

‘Is it not funny how the smallest and most delicate items
often carry the largest price tag?' the customer had quipped.

Marinetti had smiled knowingly and shrugged in that peculiar Italian manner. If it had been an attempt to obtain a small discount, it had been unsuccessful. Marinetti needed every euro he could get his hands on.

He screwed up the greaseproof paper that had encased his
panino
and tossed it over the counter and into the bin that stood in the corner, discreetly hidden from view. It narrowly missed Nicola Dolci, his assistant of many years, who was standing on the other side of the counter facing him. In front of her, she was wrapping the item for Pistoia in bubble wrap and cardboard, ready for the client's collection later that same day. Being a Wednesday, it was also Marinetti's afternoon off. This was a time he found to be full of conflicting, contradictory emotions; half of him deeply resented leaving all of his beautiful objects in the care of someone else – even if it was the faithful and totally reliable Nicola; the other half couldn't wait to get back to his modest villa up in the cool of the foothills behind Lucca. After a restorative swim in his pool, he would run through his exercise routine, before donning his pure silk dressing gown and giving himself over to the other great obsession of his life – his singing. The rest of the afternoon and early evening would be spent at the piano, practising his arias and ensembles for Friday's concert.

‘Before I go, I must tell you about that chair over there,' he said, flicking a few crumbs off the lapel of his tailored jacket. ‘That is the one the Contessa wishes to use for our concert on Friday.'

He was always immaculately groomed and presented. Some secretly accused him of dangerous vanity, but had he been party to any of those comments, he would most certainly have ignored them, treating them with disdain. He waved a finger in the chair's general direction. It was an
ornately gilded, seventeenth-century throne-like chair from the Bologna region and it was quite valuable, at least in terms of the potential profit to be made from an excessive mark-up. It had been moved from position to position in the shop over the past month and it had still not sold. In fact, over the last three months, very little
had
sold, which had largely given rise to Marinetti's current financial predicament. He took consolation from the fact that it was a difficult situation, which was shared by a great many in these hard times, including his arch opposition, Alonzo Adriani. The rumour was that this rival antiques dealer was about to go under. Marinetti considered himself more fortunate than the rest, especially the over-opinionated Adriani, because his situation was about to be remedied. The solution now resided safely hidden away in his lock-up, up in the hills close to his villa and well out of the way of prying eyes.

‘You have told Francesco?' he asked, raising his eyebrows at Nicola. ‘He does know to collect the chair from the lockup on Friday? If he collects it at about four o'clock and then delivers it to the
istituto
, it will be in good time for the concert; none of his last-minute appearances please.'

Nicola looked at him tolerantly as she put the roll of bubble wrap back in its position under the counter. She could often be as sweet as her surname, but that softness hid a hard side to her character, something she had learned to develop over the years.

‘Of course,' she said flatly as she stood up again. She was used to Marinetti's worrying. He had the habit of carrying on like a mother hen at times and she had learnt that it was far easier just to agree with him. There were also times when she had to hide her amusement at the prima donna attitude of her employer, an attitude that was emphasized by an excessive use of expensive cologne.

‘And tell him to be careful with it. I would do the job
myself, but I shall be resting prior to the concert.' Marinetti had decided that he would take the gilt chair, which was to be used in the concert, to the lock-up that afternoon on his way home. Also, it was an opportunity to double-check on the screen to ensure it was ready for collection tomorrow when his client's agent would come to take it away.
Then my worries are over
, he thought gleefully. ‘You haven't forgotten that I will not be available on Friday, have you?'

‘No, I haven't forgotten that you will not be available on Friday, because you will be resting before the concert,' repeated Nicola, smiling at him as she drummed her fingers on the counter top. She had been to several of the Contessa's concerts over the years, but more out of a sense of job-preservation than any interest in opera or singing generally. To her untrained ears, the singing always sounded good and she quite often recognized the tunes. However, she had tickets for this Friday's concert and had purchased a new frock in which she would sparkle.

Not that Nicola would have known, but Marinetti would also be doing something else on Friday afternoon as part of his pre-concert relaxation – something he preferred no one ever found out about. In a discreet gay club he knew of in the back streets of Pisa, he had found a leaflet advertising ‘A way of relaxation and stress reduction'. It promised a weekly programme of one-to-one sessions with Tezziano, a bronzed, bearded Adonis who resembled both a Greek god and, in certain other respects to judge from the leaflet, a virile stallion. In the misguided hope that it might lead to something, Gregorio had promptly signed up. He had struggled to pay the fee, but he had consoled himself with the thought that
something
might happen and that his recent anxieties would soon be released – one way or the other. He had indulged in the fantasy that his over-stressed body would be soothed by the laying-on of the Adonis' hands. Words had failed to describe his total disappointment when he had
appeared for his first session, the previous week, only to discover that he got exactly what was advertised – no more, no less. Tezziano ran a nude yoga studio. Whilst he displayed his highly desirable attributes in a mind-boggling variation of positions, Gregorio Marinetti valiantly attempted to emulate the master, but, in reality he suffered, lusted and dreamed.

Perhaps this week will be different? If nothing else, I shall be really relaxed before the concert
, he anticipated. ‘I'll take the chair with me now and drop it off at the lock-up. Tell Francesco to collect the spare key from you on Friday. I have left it in the top drawer of my desk in the office as I must not be disturbed.'

‘Yes, I'll tell him,' she said,
and don't forget to touch up the grey roots before the concert
, she observed.

Francesco was Nicola's drop-out brother and Marinetti's general odd-job man and, like Nicola, was totally trustworthy.

‘Good, then I'll load up,' said Marinetti as he picked up the chair. ‘Oooff!! It's heavier than it looks,' he said, straining to lift it before almost staggering across the shop to the door, which Nicola obligingly held open for him. ‘I'll be back in a minute,' he puffed, pausing in the doorway, ‘so, in the meantime, can you please turn your imaginative attention to how best to fill that empty corner with those new items in the stockroom.'

‘Of course,' she replied, amused at the rather grand name for what she secretly called the closet. She thought this label more appropriate to describe the facility's true dimensions.

The door swung closed and with some difficulty, Marinetti battled his way through the tourists before turning sharp right and entering the relative tranquillity of the dead-end side street that ran adjacent to his shop. As usual, he had parked his little van in the recess at the rear of the
shop. As he struggled towards it he asked himself silently – and not for the first time – why no one had thought of putting a door in the back of his building when it had been built centuries before. Now, the
comune
planning office – guardians of Lucca's architectural heritage – steadfastly refused to even consider an application for such a cosmetic triviality. Planning permission was totally out of the question.

‘I'll get away in a minute,' he puffed as he re-entered the shop, his appearance as dapper as ever, despite the beads of perspiration that ringed his forehead like the illuminated lights sometimes found around the head of the Madonna. ‘I need to make a notice, so that Francesco knows which chair to take on Friday. The partial set of dining chairs is also in the lock-up. The Contessa would not be pleased if she was presented with a straight-back dining chair, even if it was once sat on by Ambrogio de Medici!' He sniggered slightly, a gesture which ended in a little snort.

‘Do you have any news on the delivery of the two missing chairs?' asked Nicola.

‘Any day now, I should think,' he replied, ‘and sooner rather than later, I hope. I need to move some of the items into the shop. There is a crisis of available space at the lockup at the moment.'

That's because we haven't sold much lately, so there's little that needs replacing
, mused Nicola, but she thought it unwise to say so. ‘Um hum,' she mumbled as she busied herself with displaying the items she had removed from the closet.

‘That should do it,' said Marinetti as he clipped the cap back onto a thick, black felt pen. He looked down at his handiwork on the counter in front of him. ‘Take this to the Institute' it read in large, well-formed letters. ‘I'll be off then, Nicola,' he said, picking up the notice. ‘Enjoy your siesta and fingers crossed for a sale or two when you
reopen. Give me a ring if anything exciting happens … otherwise not and I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘There is just one thing before you go,' said Nicola.

‘Yes, my dear and what would that be?' he asked, his free hand balanced on his hip, one foot slightly in front of the other. It was his usual stance.

‘Those,' she replied, stabbing her well-manicured finger with its shimmering red nail polish towards Marinetti's chest. ‘They are quite fetching, but I think not really an improvement on the original pattern.'

He looked down at his white silk brocade waistcoat and saw to his horror, that across the top right-hand side, just clear of the lapel of his jacket, a jagged line of tomato pips descended.

‘Oh, my God,' he muttered, his voice rising several pitches as he desperately tried to flick the offending objects off his waistcoat without damaging the surface fibres. ‘And you let me go out into the street like this?' he asked, incredulously.

‘Don't worry about that; I've only just noticed them, so nobody else would have, not in that crowd,' she replied, turning her attention back to her display. ‘It's nothing a good dry clean won't fix. Just make sure you ask for the “P” cycle.'

That is ‘P' for precious
, she added silently as the door swung shut behind him.

Some forty minutes later, Gregorio Marinetti reached the concealed security of the foothills. As he bumped his way along the dirt track, drawing ever nearer to his secure treasure trove, his mind – quite involuntarily – had turned to the highly valuable and potentially extremely dangerous von Hohenwald screen, which resided in incongruous splendour against the wall of the crowded garage. It was large and rather heavy – as was his present secret burden of
debt – and he regarded it as the object of his salvation or damnation, depending on the mood of the fates. Of late it had always been the same – Marinetti felt the bile rise and his unease grow with each passing kilometre, as the distance between his van and the garage lessened. He was hopelessly inadequate at being dishonest – at least, in everything except his true self.

He looked yet again in his rear mirror, just to make sure that he wasn't being followed, before instantly feeling a little stupid. Who on earth was going to attempt to follow him? Then he remembered only too well the tension-ridden interview with that inspector and promptly changed his mind. Perhaps he had good reason to be over-cautious at present. He cast another glance up to the mirror. There was nothing behind him, just dust rising from the dirt road. Then he noticed the tell-tale sign of his untouched-up roots.

How thoughtful of Nicola not to mention it
.

He cast his eyes down to his waistcoat, the top of which, if he sat upright to his full extent, he could just see in the mirror. The tomato pips had left a dry residue of pale red, which, as Nicola had predicted, would only be vanquished by a good dry clean.

He covered the last few kilometres to his lock-up, bounced to a halt and switched off the engine. He got out of his van and stood in front of the door of the lock-up. It was a small, free-standing building on the smallholding of one of his neighbours. They were an elderly couple. As a result of macular degeneration, the husband had gone almost blind and the wife had never learned to drive, so they had been obliged to sell their ancient Fiat. As a result, their garage became a painful reminder of happier, more mobile days now long past. Never one to miss an opportunity, Marinetti had commiserated over their unexpected misfortune and had then quickly moved to obtain an agreement
with them to use the now defunct garage, with its convenient up-and-over door, as his lock-up. It was water-tight, easily accessible on his way to and from the villa, secure in its anonymity and – above all – inexpensive to rent, at least by Marinetti's standards.