Errant Angels (7 page)

10

‘Make sure that you keep your phone switched on; there might be something I need you to do … and don't spend all evening fiddling around with your wires and things. By the way, I didn't have a chance to do the kitchen floor this afternoon,' she said, admiring her finely manicured fingernails before gazing into the mirror and attending to an errant curl of her thick auburn hair.

‘Alright, Letizia, I'll try and do it. What time do you think you'll be home?'

She cast him a sideways glance in the mirror, as she adjusted her blouse so that her cleavage was displayed to advantage. It was a look devoid of any affection or warmth.

‘Whenever the girls think we've had enough,' she replied, a little brutally, ‘which could be any time at all. Tomorrow's Sunday, so I can lie in. Don't forget that you have to take the children to see your parents first thing in the morning. Make sure you're back here in time for Mass. We don't want the neighbours gossiping again like they did the last time…'

Tito Viale was only allowed part of his wife's voice; the rest of it had gone through the front door with her and like Letizia herself, was now lost to him. The reality of his situation was that she had been lost to him for years, but he tried hard to grin and bear it for the sake of the children – the two girls, both now in primary school, and little Paolo, not yet three. Tito stood in the passageway staring hopelessly at the bulk of the stout front door with its heavy, almost industrial quality locks. Letizia was obsessed with the
threat of burglary and had nagged and nagged – more so than usual – until he had fitted the multi-tumbler security locks on the front and back doors of their apartment. As he stood looking down the empty passageway, he thought the large locks were the encapsulated metaphor for almost the entire twelve-year span of his married life. The locks didn't keep burglars out as much as keep him in; they also kept him apart from Letizia. He sighed heavily, turned and walked back into the kitchen to finish clearing up the dinner things. He slowly stacked the dishwasher that he had purchased for Letizia a couple of years earlier, thinking that it would make her housework easier. He need not have bothered; it made absolutely no difference whatsoever, because he still did most of it. He sighed. At least he had the kids and his music. He consoled himself with the thought that things could be worse.

‘
Papà
, can I have a glass of juice please?'

His younger daughter's voice was melodiously sweet and in direct contrast to the acerbic tones of her mother.

‘Of course you can,
tesoro
. Help yourself from the fridge. Has your programme finished on the television?'

‘Yes,' nodded the nine-year-old girl, filling her glass. ‘It was funny,
Papà
. We all laughed a lot, but Paolo fell asleep.'

Paolo had been the result of one of the rare occasions that Letizia had permitted Tito any kind of intimacy. Once she had found out that she was pregnant again, further opportunities had been withdrawn.

‘And I am not at all surprised he did. Look at the time – it's late. You should all be in bed by now. We have to go and visit
nonna
and
nonno
early tomorrow.'

Within a quarter of an hour, teeth had been brushed, bladders emptied and prayers said. The usual feeling he experienced when he returned home from his job at the electricity planning department of the
Comune di Lucca
had melted away. He fought constantly to ignore and deny the
feeling of hopelessness he felt from being trapped in a union with an unloving partner and not being able to see a future for them. Now, as he bent over the sleeping forms of his three children, Tito Viale smiled down lovingly at their peaceful faces before kissing them tenderly in turn on their foreheads.

‘Sleep well
tesori miei
,' he whispered as he put the light out. He was fully mindful that his three treasures were his future and they were
all
that he had to show for twelve hard years of trying to make his marriage work. He left the passage light on and walked slowly back to the sitting room. It was not a large apartment – the children all slept in one room – but it was all they could afford on his salary from the
comune
. Things had become difficult after Letizia stopped working. She was a qualified beautician, but one day had suddenly decided to exercise all of her considerable skills on a single client – herself. The resulting drop in their monthly income had proved to be a huge millstone around Tito's neck. It didn't seem to bother Letizia at all; she carried on as she always had done.

He tidied up the sitting room and put the girls' colouring books back in the basket that served as their toy box. Then he sat down in his own chair and for the first time that busy Saturday, slowly felt himself start to relax. He picked up the TV remote control and scrolled through the programme listings. Nothing really took his fancy, so he settled for an American crime film on one of the movie channels. It was abysmal, but there was no alternative, as the video player had not functioned since Paolo decided to share his honey yoghurt with it, by force-feeding the slot where the video cassette usually went. They had only discovered the sabotage later in the evening, by which time the honey yoghurt had dribbled over the vital internal parts of the machine, rendering it useless and in need of repair. As usual, Letizia had managed to blame Tito for this, even though he had
been at his desk on the other side of the city at the time. An argument had ensued, as there was no money for either a new video machine or a DVD player, which was even more out of the question. Letizia's constant demands for things – cosmetics and new dresses – made a sizeable hole in the family's limited finances; not that she ever seemed to acknowledge this.

Tito had been watching the film for half an hour and was starting to feel his eyelids grow heavy, when he became aware of a scratching at the back door.

‘All right, Brutus. I'm coming. Calm down,' he muttered to himself sleepily, as he got to his feet and walked slowly to the kitchen. He let out a long yawn as he reached the back door and opened it, but he stifled the end of it as a mongrel came bounding through. ‘Hello, Brutus, you sloppy dog,' he said, cupping the smiling face in both of his hands. ‘Have you been out on the town again?'

As if to reply in the affirmative, Brutus opened his mouth and let out a low whine, his wet tongue protruding from his pink lips and his tail thrashing the air like a propeller. But Brutus did not bark as a reflection of his excitement at being home. Instead, there were just a couple of subdued yaps – nothing more, despite the dog's obvious pleasure. Although Letizia had insisted that they got a dog, she had not liked his barking. In fact, Letizia did not like the dog at all. Being rather clever, Brutus had quickly learned that it was only safe to bark or yap on the regular occurrences when Letizia was out. Tito soon realized that Brutus seemed to be scared of his wife and the dog made hardly any effort to get too close to her.

‘Come on, boy, it's just you and me again. Look what I've got for you. I've saved you the bones.'

The dog seemed to understand his master perfectly and forgetting himself for an instant let out a peal of excited barks.

‘Shush! You'll wake the kids if you carry on like that,' said Tito good-naturedly, as he put the bones in the dog's food bowl.

Later, with a second large glass of red wine in his hand and Brutus smiling contentedly on the sofa next to him – something which Letizia
never
allowed – Tito returned his attention to the film. Having missed so much of it, he now found it difficult to work out what was actually happening. Despite the shallow characterisations, which he regarded as usual in American films of this type, it became apparent that the female partner of the gang boss was planning to get rid of him and take over the gang herself.

‘What a genius,' muttered Tito, as he drained the wine glass and put it on the floor next to the sofa. ‘She knows all about electricity and wiring and such … and is able to work out a schematic diagram … and plan the circuitry.' He felt his concentration slowly fade as the flickering image of the television and the sound of the dubbed actors' voices merged into a kaleidoscope of nothingness and he became lost to a half-sleep; one ear fixed on the kids' room, the other on the now-distant television. As he fell deeper into his sleep, a carousel of images revolved through his brain; the gang leader seemed to be in the room with him – the man was trying to use the same video machine that Paolo had made inoperable – the movement on the sofa next to him must be the gang leader sitting down; he seemed to be reaching for the remote control to start the tape – nothing happened. Tito thought he heard a sigh as the man got up and crossed to the video machine. As the man bent down and pressed the play button, there was a blinding flash and lots of sparks. Tito flinched. He then became aware that on the television, the gang leader's girl – the electronic genius – was unplugging the still-smouldering video machine from the wall socket. Then she seemed to rip out several wires from its mangled rear, laughing amateurishly as she did so.
Tito thought that the acting was appalling.

‘That's the problem with B movies,' he muttered through his closed, sleep-heavy mouth, ‘far too corny to be at all believable!' Then he suddenly felt a cold, wet sensation on his left hand, which was accompanied by a rough, rasping feeling. One of the other gang members was saying something about the gang leader having been electrocuted by a faulty video machine. He pointed to the charred and twisted shape of what was left of it.

It was shortly before midnight when Tito Viale, with Brutus' head resting contentedly on his leg, suddenly opened his eyes with a start. The dog sat up, let out a soft yap and licked the back of Tito's hand again.

‘What happened to the film?' asked Tito, yawning and stretching.

Brutus did not answer, but just looked expectantly at his master, his head cocked to one side.

‘Oh well, boy, time for bed I suppose,' he said, scratching the dog under the chin. Then he rose stiffly to his feet and yawned. He should have gone to bed hours ago, instead of watching that stupid film. He and the kids had an early start in the morning. ‘Come on,' he said to Brutus. ‘Two biscuits and then out you go.'

As he turned to walk to the kitchen, he suddenly stopped. Turning his head slightly, just enough to allow him to see the television and the useless video machine underneath it, he stared through sleep-laden eyes.
It's neither charred nor twisted. It must have been the video machine in the film that blew up.

Then he stumbled off to bed, innocently unaware that in his subliminal consciousness a thought had been planted.

11

Comfortably surrounded by the splendour of her apartment the Contessa once again felt that certain tranquillity from which, over the years, she had drawn her inner strength. Life was good, but she would never forget that it had not always been so. She sat in her boudoir, relaxed in her favourite chair, looking out over the railings of the small balcony. Beneath her in the space that had once been the Roman arena, the lights of the restaurants and other apartments that had long ago been fashioned from the former amphitheatre twinkled. Several hundred years earlier, when the arena had been little more than a ruinous pile of ancient rubble, expensive and highly desirable apartments had been created where once the hungry population of ancient Roman Lucca had satiated their blood-lust. From her boudoir, which occupied a position on the northeastern wall, she enjoyed a panoramic view of the entire structure.

‘Himself will be late, so he will. 'Twas what he said into the
trellifoam
.'

There was a clattering of claws on the highly polished marble floor, as Carlo trotted into the boudoir, nearly tripping up Elizabeth as he did so.

‘Saints preserve us!' she said, tottering slightly in mid-stride. ‘Where is the blasted, cursed beast?'

She cast around trying to locate the dog, but Carlo had already reached the safety of the Contessa's lap. He seemed
to be grinning up at the maid as if to say,
nearly got you that time!

‘He's here, Elizabeth,' said the Contessa, transferring her attention from the activity in the brightly lit arena below to the tangled curls on top of Carlo's head. ‘What has mummy's darling been up to? Who's been a good boy, then?'

'Twill be a fine day when you can
honistelly
say that
, thought Elizabeth, eyeing the dog with a strange mixture of tolerant affection and outright, distrusting dislike.

‘He's got them
cryptics
up his rear again,' she announced flatly. ‘Yourself isn't to think that all of the marks out on the sitting room floral
crepit
are part of the pattern, neither,' she continued, crossing in front of the Contessa to the large window and closing it with a bang. ‘Elzeebit saw him pulling himself along across it, so she did. That's a sure sign of the
cryptics
up the –'

‘Yes, thank you, Elizabeth,' interrupted the Contessa.

Carlo growled softly, but he still seemed to be smirking at the maid.

‘Poor Carlo,' continued the Contessa. ‘You do seem to be having problems at that end, don't you? We'll have to take you to the… Well, we'll have to sort out the crystals.' Everyone avoided the use of the
vet
word, as any mention of it usually sent the unpredictable little dog into fits of hysteria barely matched by most humans. The Contessa patted him on his head. ‘The design on the carpet in the sitting room is quite busy enough already, without you adding anything to it.'

Elizabeth had made no mention of having cleaned off the undesirable addition to the design of the seventeenth-century Aubusson carpet, so the Contessa did not enquire. Such things were always best left to Elizabeth.

‘You said that Luigi telephoned? Did he say that he'll be late?'

The question went unanswered as Elizabeth wrestled with the internal shutters on the window. In doing so, she caught her foot in the generous length of curtain that flowed onto the floor. The result was that her foot suddenly started to slide ahead of her. She lashed out with her hand to steady herself and grabbed the nearest thing, which was the bulk of the hanging drape, held back regally by a heavy, fringed tassel tie-back. For a split second it looked as if Elizabeth McGraunch was about to descend gracefully to the hard floor, but the fabric proved more substantial than she was and she simply gave a couple of small semi-twists, until she had regained control of her balance.

‘You'll be making do with the shutters, so ye will,' she said as she stopped vibrating and released the drape. ‘The
cretins
will do just nicely hanging where they're at for tonight.' As she spoke, a delicate frosting of un-removed dust gradually descended over her from the upper reaches of the swag, which had been manipulated into unaccustomed swinging life by the semi-frantic movement of the drape underneath it.

‘Luigi?' repeated the Contessa, who had missed most of Elizabeth's performance as she had been deep in conversation with Carlo, who still sat on her lap looking up at her. ‘What did Luigi have to say?' She had raised her voice at the further repetition of her question. Recently, she had begun to wonder if Elizabeth's hearing was starting to deteriorate.

‘Yes, himself was speaking into the
trellifoam
and he'll be a bit behind himself. So he said.' Elizabeth had regained what passed for her usual demeanour, following the near disaster with the puddle of heavy curtain. She turned to walk back towards the door. The Contessa inhaled and was about to speak, when Elizabeth – never pausing in her progress out of the room – cut across her.

‘Elzeebit was after telling her highness in the kitchen to not be so punctual with the food … unless she wants it all
stuck to the pans and spoiled by the time himself arrives.'

‘Thank you, Elizabeth. Perhaps you could ask –'

The loud click of the door lock stopped the Contessa in mid-sentence, as the door closed behind the retreating maid.

‘But, then again, perhaps not,' the Contessa continued to the now-empty room.

Carlo jumped down and trotted off to sit on the sofa, which stood diagonally opposite the Contessa's chair.

‘Luigi works far too hard, bless him,' she said, looking at Carlo, who had suddenly sat up, raised one of his back legs in the cello-playing position and turned his attention to the irritating matter of his anal crystals. ‘Still, I suppose that's what he wanted when he started his career. And he has done very well for himself at the hospital.'

Carlo paid her no attention, but continued his licking. In the distance, the bells of the
duomo
chimed the hour, the sound of which carried easily on the balmy evening air.

‘Seven o'clock,' said the Contessa, getting up out of her chair. ‘Let's see what has happened today in the wide world, shall we?'

Carlo kept licking. As she walked past the window where Elizabeth had performed her choreographic routine with the heavy drape, she looked down at the little Maltese.

‘Oh dear! Mummy's little boy isn't well at all, is he?' she said, pausing at the sofa to tickle behind the dog's left ear.

Carlo, who had stopped his licking, looked back at the Contessa with that specific look of intolerance, which said simply:
What on earth are you on about? I have a small problem, that's all.

‘We'll have to have something looked at, won't we?'

She gave Carlo another tickle and then walked to a sleek, modern-looking laptop that stood on a small, marble-topped, round table in the corner of the room. Luigi had bought the computer for her last Christmas and Tito Viale
had wired it up after an extra rehearsal one Saturday afternoon. Luigi, who was a brilliant pathologist by career, might have known all about the wiring of the human body, but he was woefully ignorant as to the mysteries of electronics. Familiar only with the basic uses of such electronic equipment, he had tried to show his mother how to send emails, but to no avail. Although impressed with her son's prowess in such matters, the Contessa could not be convinced that she would ever need to use such facilities. Instead, she had once again counted herself very fortunate that her little band of singers – her COGOL, her angels – contained splendidly fine people with a wide-ranging collection of skills, some of whom would know considerably more about computers than she, herself, was ever likely to know.

Tito had tried to explain how the signal came into the apartment through a satellite dish, mounted discreetly on the side of the chimney. The well-meant attempt at broadening her understanding of the twenty-first century had been a total flop as, like Luigi's attempted explanation about emails, she had understood practically nothing of what Tito said. In fact, Tito had been obliged to revise his approach and had confined himself to showing her how to switch the thing on and off and which icon on the desktop she had to click to access BBC News 24 or BBC Radio 3 and Classic FM.

It's marvellous, when you think of what's going on inside of this thing.
That had been her reaction as she watched the screen glow and the image of her desktop fade up and into life for the first time. Tito had also borrowed an old photograph of the Contessa's, which he had scanned onto a memory stick and which now resided proudly as her desktop background image. He had tried to explain how he had used a scanner to copy the picture, but she had thought that was what Luigi sometimes used in his work up at the hospital to see the inside of bodies, which didn't make much sense to her
at all. The modern world could be so uncomfortably confusing. The image was an old faded photograph of the Count, taken just before the war, during happy days at the Royal Academy of Music in London. He was standing at the head of a phalanx of students, who were grouped around a large grand piano. Seated behind the keyboard was a young girl of, perhaps, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Penelope Strachan was her name and she was an outstanding student pianist.

‘This is the Six O'clock News,' said the voice of the BBC newsreader.

And it will be the usual round of depressing revelations
, contemplated the Contessa as she walked back towards her chair, patting Carlo once again as she passed the sofa. As she sat down, she drew a footstool nearer to her and rested her feet on it. Her prediction about the contents of the news had not been far off the mark, as one item after another reported doom, gloom, corruption or outright mayhem. As she sat in the gently lit room listening to the news (she hardly ever watched the pictures on the laptop's screen, as she thought that they flickered too much and gave her a headache), she felt her eyes grow heavier and heavier; she had not had her afternoon nap and now felt that she was paying for failing to recharge her batteries.

‘…main line and Eurostar trains are worst affected. It is not clear how long it will be before the Eurostar service returns to normal. This will depend on how long it is before the damaged length of track is repaired. A company official said that further breakdowns could not be ruled out, given the age of some of the signalling equipment and track. Questions have been raised in Parliament about this accident. Passengers planning to travel to France should ma…'

The Contessa's eyes became even heavier. Carlo had started to snore softly.

‘…it is anticipated that the worst passenger congestion will be at Waterloo Station.'

The news changed to another item, but the Contessa was no longer listening…

‘There you are dearie. That'll be tuppence, please.' The severe-looking waitress in the tearoom on Waterloo Station stood behind the counter holding out her hand for the required payment.

‘Oh … yes … right. I'll just get my purse out and …'

In the sudden confusion that resulted from changing bags and raincoat from one hand to another, the bulging leather bag fell to the floor with a dull thump, spilling its contents all over the floor at the young woman's feet.

‘Oh dear, dearie,' offered the waitress dispassionately. There was a war on and she had seen far worse over the last couple of years than this gangling, clumsy girl. ‘That's a bit of a pickle, isn't it? That'll be tuppence,' she repeated, her voice carrying a steely edge as she eyed the queue that was building up.

‘Yes, I'll just get my purse out… It's in my coat pocket… No, it's in my bag … I think.'

The waitress stared at the younger woman with something bordering on thinly disguised contempt. She reached up and adjusted the white, triangular cloth she wore on her head, the two ends of which were tied neatly into a knot just above her forehead. She craned forward slightly to see what it was that had fallen out of the case.

‘Them's funny books, dearie.'

She was looking at the pile of books on the floor, several of which had fallen open to reveal pages of music. Some were manuscript sheets, on which music notes had been written in black ink in a very neat, flowing hand; some were printed scores and some were music for piano.

‘Yes, they're music books. I'm a student at the Royal
Academy,' replied the young woman as she bent down to collect the books and replace them in her music bag.

‘Oh yes?' replied the waitress, folding her arms across her chest, putting her head to one side and trying to adopt a superior expression. ‘Royal Academy, is it? And them's music books … with all them dots and things?'

The young woman nodded up at her. ‘Yes, I play the piano and this is the music I have to prepare over the holiday … at home.'

With the help of the man behind her, most of the books and manuscript sheets had been quickly returned to the secure captivity of the music bag. Only the score for
Lucia di Lammermoor
, which had fallen open at the beginning of the famous sextet, still lay on the floor awaiting recovery.

‘Thank you ever so much,' said the young woman as she stood up again.

The young man behind her, who was dressed in army uniform, smiled and nodded his head.

‘Right then … tuppence you said, wasn't it?' she said, holding out two copper pennies.

She had found her purse at the bottom of the music bag which, together with the coat, was now securely held in check under her left arm, leaving her right hand free to proffer the two coins.

High up on the wall behind the waitress was a large poster issued by the War Ministry.
LET US GO FORWARD TOGETHER
, it proclaimed, repeating Winston Churchill's recent exhortation to the war-weary British public. From the look on the waitress's face, it seemed to be precisely what she was about to do. She saw herself as a guardian of state security and was prepared to report anything unusual that came within her sights in order to help Mr Churchill win the war. The waitress took the money and stared long and hard at the fresh young face, as if she was trying to impress the features indelibly into her memory. She had
heard about suspicious happenings before. The war gave rise to all sorts of unusual stories and rumours. The lines and dots on those pages, at least the ones she had seen before they had been hastily retrieved could be more than just music. What if they were some sort of secret code? Music books, indeed!
If this slip of a girl turns out to be an enemy agent
, thought the waitress,
I need to be able to identify her to the authorities. Winston would expect nothing less of me. We all have to do our patriotic duty
. ‘Ta, I'm sure,' the waitress grunted, her gaze never wavering from the face of her customer. Even after the young woman had picked up her cup of tea and turned away from the counter, she stared after her, wondering…