Errant Angels (19 page)

They had sat on the sofa, each smoking a cigarette, the silence acting as confirmation that their son's condition could well lead down the path Giacomo had already suggested.

‘Do you know of any doctors?' Penelope had asked, eventually, as she stubbed out her cigarette. A few weeks later, however, the need to know of any leading psychiatrists was brutally and quickly dispensed with, as Enrico di Capezzani-Batelli – in a terrified world of his own – sought to escape his demons by running out of the villa as fast as his still unsteady little legs would carry him. With saliva dribbling out of his silent, open mouth and arms flailing the air against the pursuing demons, he tottered across the narrow corridor of well-maintained lawn. He reached the statue of Ceres with her arm raised in an imperious blessing of fertility to the vineyards which spread before her, turned on the top stair to fend off his invisible pursuers, caught his foot on the ridge at the end of the lawn and flew headlong out and down to the lower terrace.

There were those in the district who mourned along with the family; those who admired Giacomo's stand against Mussolini. There were also those who muttered that it had been an appropriate sacrifice to the goddess. After all, had not
Il Conte's
elder brother been a diehard Fascist with blood on his hands? There were many still living in the surrounding area that were as vehemently anti-Fascist as Giacomo's brother had been pro-Fascist. They felt nothing; they had also lost family members recently to both the Fascists and the SS; the Germans had been no friends of Italy. To some of Giacomo's fellow countrymen, one Capezzani-Batelli was much like another.

When the grapes were harvested a few months later it was a bumper crop and the resulting vintage was one of the best anyone could remember. Matteo Ignazio, Gilda's father and also the hard-working overseer of the villa's
vineyards and extensive gardens had just reason to be proud. Ceres, the smiling marble goddess, had, indeed, been bountiful.

‘Everything is as the Contessa always requires: blooms which are magnificent in themselves, but without any fragrance … to protect the singers' voices.'

Gilda Ignazio's voice echoed hollowly in the Contessa's head. She forced her mind's eye to dim the unwelcome scene at the foot of the goddess's marble stairs as she returned her attention to what Gilda was saying.

‘What was that, my dear? I'm afraid that I didn't quite catch what you said. I was thinking of something else. I do beg your pardon'

Gilda smiled patiently. She had come to realize that elderly people sometimes did tend to drift off during a conversation. ‘Your bouquets will be ready for delivery tomorrow afternoon, as usual,' she repeated. ‘Everything is as the Contessa always requires: blooms which are magnificent in themselves, but without any fragrance … to protect the singers' voices.'

‘Ah yes, the angels,' corrected the Contessa. ‘They have the voices of angels, every one.'

Gilda smiled good-naturedly.

‘It promises to be a very fine concert. They have all worked very hard towards it. We have a final rehearsal tonight and then…' The Contessa smiled happily, closed her eyes and raised both hands, as if playing the music she had started to hear in her head.

‘And where is Carlo today?' asked Gilda pleasantly, noticing, with relief, that neither of the Contessa's wrists were tethered to a leash. Every time the little beast came into her shop a trail of devastation, of chewed or mangled foliage, bore grisly testament to his movements. And speaking of movements, there had been that time when… But
Gilda Ignazio was spared any further dwelling on
that
topic by the Contessa's reply.

‘He's at home having a bath with Elizabeth. She seems to be far better at it than I am these days. My back, you know…'

This simple statement of fact produced two quite different responses in the two women. For her part, the Contessa had a mental picture of the irascible maid hell-bent on getting the better of a snarling and snapping Carlo. He would be standing in the bath, resembling a chipolata sausage – a largish one at that – on four thin toothpick-like legs. Once his luxurious curls got wet, the true proportions of his grumbling form made themselves clear. Elizabeth would be covered in more suds than there were in the bathtub or, for that matter, on Carlo. That expensive dog shampoo purchased from the vet didn't go far at all. There would be water everywhere, but, with a little luck, it would soon dry and Elizabeth would neither slip on anything nor trip over a bedraggled pedigree bent on canine revenge. Gilda Ignazio, on the other hand and despite her pleasant smile, had only the image of the little beast meeting its grizzly and waterlogged end. She had been scared of dogs – especially bad-tempered ones like Carlo – ever since she had been badly bitten on the arm by Carlo Terzo (the third of the Contessa's Maltese poodles) when she was a girl of just five – not much older than Enrico had been.

Carlo Quinto could hardly be held responsible for the actions of one of his predecessors, but as far as Gilda was concerned, one Maltese was the same as another. Because of this firmly held belief, she wished the Contessa's current Carlo nothing but the very worst. She had absolutely nothing against his mistress. In fact, Gilda Ignazio had an enormous amount of respect for
La Contessa
, and that was not just because the Contessa had recently given her the huge green awning that stretched over the front of the shop
and in the shade of which a considerable portion of her stock was now comfortably displayed. Gilda also remembered the emotional support she had received when her father had died and the financial assistance she had been given to set up her florist's shop. The Contessa regarded her as one of the family and ‘families should always stick together', she had said on the day the shop had opened nearly ten years before. Gilda loved the elder woman for that and admired her simply for being a good member of the human race.

Somewhere in Lucca a clock chimed the half hour. ‘I had best get on,' said the Contessa. ‘I know I can leave the flowers in your capable hands, my dear,' she said, ‘and you know we're performing at the
istituto
as usual.'

Gilda nodded and smiled. ‘All will be delivered and ready for your performance.'

‘Thank you, my dear,' said the Contessa, ‘and now I really must be getting along. Things to do, you know.'

She almost made to tug at the leash to get Carlo into a walking position, but remembered in the nick of time that he was at home, hopefully washed and dried by now. She made a theatrical gesture to her cheek to hide the unnecessary movement.

‘Such beautiful flowers,' she said as she turned to go. She seemed to be trying to find a way out of the shop, through the large phalanxes of greenery and perfumed colour. ‘I must say that you've done really well for yourself, my dear,' she continued as she carefully picked her way through the buckets and display stands, ‘but I think that you are going to have to find a bigger shop, you know.'

Four stories above them, Maria Santini was still rocking gently backwards and forwards. She continued humming softly to herself. It had not escaped the notice of the two herons that the intricate, yet faded, beauty of the cherry
blossom that entwined them was now flecked with several random blotches of melted chocolate. Even more silver
Carezze
wrappers lay on the floor. Though Maria's considerable bulk prohibited direct communication, the herons knew that they would be in for a rough flight before the day was out.

28

Amilcare Luchetti had a girth of ample proportions, which was well-matched to the glorious velvet of his deep bass voice. He was COGOL's totally reliable vocal foundation. He loped, perspiring, into the main hall of the
Ufficio Postale
on the
Piazzetta della Posta.
The day was edging towards its hottest part and tempers in the large expanse of the crowded post office were rising in sympathy. Luchetti took a ticket from one of the machines serving the postal side of the hall. Other machines dispensed tickets to those wishing to use the banking and business side of the same hall.

Clutching his ticket in his free hand, he made his stately way across to a seat and sat down to await the appearance of his number over one of the service counters. In his other hand he held a small packet, the size of which was diminished by the podgy fingers of his hand. He rolled in his seat, removed a large white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. His weight seemed to be out of control these days. He had always been well-built, but that solid construction seemed to be leaning a little too much towards simple bulk these days.

And what is one supposed to do?
Luchetti deliberated.
There is no competition between a bowl of salad with no dressing and either a steaming dish of fresh cannelloni in a cream sauce or generous ravioli in a rich tomato passata with extra olive oil!'

The image of these delectable delights – despite the high calorific content promised particularly by the cream sauces – caused his mouth to start watering. He switched the
cotton handkerchief from his face to the flow of saliva that had suddenly started to well up on his lips. Suddenly, he felt a little stupid as he held the handkerchief over his mouth and looked over the top of the crumpled folds of the fabric at the other people in the hall. The action of clamping the cloth to his mouth had pushed his ample cheeks, which were not quite jowls, but were well on their way to becoming such, up into his face. This produced the undesirable effect of a pig-like appearance. His eyes, reduced in size by the restructuring of his cheeks, peered out over the rolls of flesh in a somewhat startled manner. He suddenly felt that the entire hall was staring at him, which of course was not the case at all. The saliva suddenly dried up. He coughed and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket without even folding it back into its neatly creased squares. He rolled back onto the iron mesh of the seat, so that with protesting equality, both ample buttocks once again supported his bulk, which towered above them. Others of less substantial build often complained about the discomfort of these utility seats at the post office, but Amilcare had to confess to never having felt the same discomfort himself.

A number flashed above one of the counters. 89. His ticket was 95, so it should not be too long now. At least, he hoped it would not be as it was getting close to lunchtime and… He closed his eyes tightly and tried, in a half-hearted sort of way, to banish the highly appealing pictures of food that had suddenly appeared in his imagination. He fought to regain control of himself as the saliva started to fill his mouth once again. He opened his eyes – 90 flashed above another desk – and he sighed.

He suddenly became aware of a heated discussion at the counter nearest to where he was sitting. Without turning his head he moved his eyes towards the noise, which was of sufficient intensity to be heard above the general din of the hall.

‘Aaww … come on, mate!' said a young man in accented English. ‘Ya gotta be joking! How's a fella supposed to know which is which? Where's the English on it, then?'

The counter clerk glared back in barely hidden contempt.

‘
Siamo in Italia…
' he said, a smirk appearing on his face, ‘…
quindi la forma è in italiano
.'

‘What's that?' said the young woman who was standing next to the young man with the accented English. ‘
Non comprendo
,' she said, using the universal expression for ‘I haven't a clue what you're talking about'.

‘Ah! Lei parla italiano?
' continued the clerk, his smile deepening. He knew perfectly well that she did not.

‘Geeze, mate, all we want to do is send one miserable little packet back home.'

‘Eh?' replied the clerk, whose expression indicated that he understood far more than he was about to let on. This was sometimes the case; those Italians who were working with the public would often have a good comprehension of English and would be able to respond where necessary. But in his opinion, these two, who were obviously backpackers and foreign, had been quite rude and he wished to satiate his position of power behind the safety of the post office counter. At least the man had been rude, he thought; the young woman, however, was very attractive in an adventurous sort of way with her firm young breasts filling her T-shirt with its message, ‘Enjoy the Delights of Siena'. The nipples were erect, so that the taut fabric seemed to place undue emphasis on the ‘Enjoy the Delights' part of the message. The clerk's mind was dwelling on that very thought as he surreptitiously eyed her up from behind the restrictive barrier of his counter. Her attitude had been no worse than the average local customer.

‘Excuse me, please,' boomed a deep, molasses-like voice in English. ‘Perhaps I can be of assistance? I use the post
office regularly and I know this gentleman,' he continued, moving his head slightly in the clerk's direction.

Just in time to catch the movement, the two backpackers turned to face Amilcare Luchetti, who had padded across the short distance of marble floor to join them at the counter. Further on down the row, 91 flashed above another service point.

‘I am 95,' he said, smiling and waving his ticket in the air with his free hand.

‘Oh … right y're mate,' replied the man, a look of relief crossing his face. ‘We just want to post this packet back home and they're making such a performance out of it.'

Luchetti smiled and shuffled nearer the counter.

‘
Ciao
, Salvatore,' he said in Italian. ‘What is the problem?'

‘They have filled in this form, which is only for internal posting. They want the packet to go to Australia and so they have used the wrong form,' he replied rapidly, ‘and he thinks he is so smart and yet he cannot read the instructions on the form and complains that they are in Italian. We are in Italy and he cannot read Italian. And suddenly that is everyone's fault, but not his own! At least she is not so arrogant – quite attractive, actually, wouldn't you say?'

‘What was all of that?' asked the young man, a look of non-comprehending expectancy on his well-tanned features.

Luchetti flushed slightly. Wanting to placate the situation, he realized that the moment could be a little tricky, given Salvatore's observation of the stretched message on the Siena T-shirt.

‘It is simple,' he said, switching back to English. ‘It is just a case of using the wrong form.' Amilcare turned back to the clerk. ‘She is like a ripe peach ready for the picking,' he said, ‘but a little of the wild beast about the quarry often heightens the excitement of the chase and eventual capture, would you not agree?'

Salvatore burst out in a peal of lecherous laughter, breaking the tension of the previous few minutes. Luchetti continued, smiling.

‘We must keep our grip on reality, must we not? Some fruit in wild orchards is simply not attainable, no matter how desirous.' He smiled and shrugged, his ample cheeks vibrating as he did so. ‘So, my dear Salvatore, can you remedy their ignorance and fill out the correct form … for Australia.'

Number 93 appeared, a fact which, despite the jocularity and relaxed laughter between himself and Salvatore, Luchetti did not fail to notice. He was not about to lose his place in the queue.

‘What was all that about?' asked the young man.

‘He will fill out the correct form for you … to Australia.'

‘That's great,' said the young woman, smiling and leaning forward towards the counter. ‘Enjoy the Delights' wobbled as she did so. Salvatore kept one eye on the message and the other on the form he was filling in.

‘Yeah, that's great,' echoed the young man. ‘Thanks, mate.'

Salvatore looked at him with an expression of intolerance. ‘
Prego
,' he muttered.

‘He says that you are welcome,' translated Luchetti. Further up the row, 94 suddenly flashed. ‘Excuse me, please, I must prepare for my number, which is next. I wish you a pleasant stay in Lucca. Goodbye.' He did not tell them that the implied tone of Salvatore's voice really meant ‘idiot'.

The Contessa emerged from the subdued interior of the
Cattedrale San Martino
– the
duomo
– into the warmth of the early afternoon. Speaking to those two Australians the previous week, about the choir stalls now displayed in the Museum Guinigi, had reminded her that it had been many
years since she had been into the
duomo.
It had been built after the erection of a
campanile
or bell tower, and so – a little like the Contessa's mind at times – was a little disorganized in its layout. The usual symmetry of cathedral architecture was largely lacking and the building was of a quixotic, cramped and unbalanced design. Still, it held many interesting features, not least of which included a painting by Tintoretto and the
Volto Santo
, the so-called Holy Face of Lucca, a much venerated wooden crucifix. Indeed, such was the fame of this object that Dante even mentioned it in his
Inferno
. The Contessa had tried to read Dante, but it had been many years before she had managed to master some, if not all, of the colloquialisms and other turns of phrase the great author had used. She had not been particularly religious since Enrico had been taken from her. Although she found some comfort in the silent tranquillity of the buildings themselves, she now debated if there had ever been a God in any of them. Such was her loss of faith.

She turned left and continued eastwards down the
Via del Duomo.
She was humming quietly to herself as she strolled into the
Piazzetta della Posta
and did not see the two backpackers as they bounded down the steps and out of the post office. She collided with the man.

‘Geeze, I'm sorry about that,' he said, grabbing hold of the elderly woman before she could fall over. ‘Are you okay?'

‘Er … yes … quite well, thank you, if only a little winded. No damage done, I assure you.' As she replaced her glasses on her nose, it seemed to the Contessa that increased dangers on the roads from tourists on hired bicycles and on the footpaths from tourists reading guidebooks instead of looking where they were going, was a small enough price to pay for the continuing prosperity their presence brought to the city.

‘Oh! Hello again,' said the young man's female companion in a friendly voice. ‘Fancy meeting ya here, as they say.'

For a moment the Contessa looked blankly into the face of the young woman.

‘It's Victoria,' continued the young woman, realising that some sort of prompt was necessary to assist identification. ‘You remember; you helped us with that ticket business on the station platform last week.'

‘Oh yes, of course … I remember now… You are the nice young couple from Australia. I had just been thinking of you both. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?'

‘We're just fine, thanks,' continued Victoria, ‘and we've had a really great trip.'

‘Have you been in Lucca for the whole week?' asked the Contessa, all the time recalling more and more about these two youngsters and the circumstances of their last meeting.

‘No. We've been around quite a bit,' said Jez. ‘That tip ya gave us about Roberta in the Tourist Information Office … what a find! She gave us a map and pointed out all sorts of things we should go and see.'

‘She even helped us plan a little trip further afield,' continued Victoria. ‘She wrote it all down for us, so travelling was dead easy, 'cos all we had to do was show the paper and point to where we wanted to go.'

‘Oh … how very exciting,' replied the Contessa. ‘So where did you go?'

‘In a big circle on the train,' replied Jez. ‘Down to Arezzo, then to Siena, back to Florence and then Pisa and now back here for our last couple of days. We go home on Sunday. We want to go and look at the architecture of the
Café Margherita
in Viareggio and then go and look at a town called Petersinta, where there are a lot of artworks and artists and so on … sculptors, too.'

The Contessa was sure that he had meant to say
Pietrasanta, where she knew the retired actress Gina Lollo-brigida had established a reputation as a sculptress, but she kept that to herself.

‘And guess what?' asked Victoria, without waiting for a response. ‘We've decided to spend our last night in Lucca at a Puccini concert.'

‘Yep … we did the Puccini stuff, like ya said, and thought that if the guy was that important to this tow… city, we'd better check out what he's all about. So we had just enough for two tickets.'

‘How interesting…' replied the Contessa, who found it a little difficult to keep up with both the accent and the speed at which Jez spoke. ‘I'm sure that you'll enjoy yourselves. The music is ravishingly beautiful at times … very romantic.' She smiled at the mention of ‘romantic'. Her dear Giacomo had been right when he had told her about the magic of the
maestro's
music. ‘I'm having a concert of my own on Friday night – the Chamber Opera Group of Lucca. We call ourselves COGOL for short. I'll give you some tickets… Do come along and listen to us. We raise money for all sorts of charities, so don't tell anyone I gave you the tickets. You are both to come as my guests.'

She wore a sling bag over her shoulder, like a Sam Browne belt. She pulled it around in front of her and rummaged through the contents.