Courtesan's Lover (31 page)

Modesto drained the last dregs of his wine and put the cup back on the table. He looked around the kitchen, stripped now of all the colorful pots, copper pans, bunches of herbs, and glittering ranks of glassware that had filled the room until a few days before. Everything but the table, two chairs, and this last bottle had been wrapped in straw, packed into wooden crates, nailed down, and stacked in the front room.

Leaving the kitchen and climbing the stairs, he mentally ticked off the last few remaining items on the inventory. He peered in through each door on the upper floor: the
sala
was quite empty, the small antechamber was no more than a wood-paneled box, and the big bedchamber had been cleared of everything but the Conte di Vecchio's great mirror and the bed, both of which the Signora had said were to be left in the house. A couple of crates remained, still open, with the last of the Signora's personal belongings carefully packed in them. Not a problem, Modesto thought; the boxes were too big for him to carry downstairs by himself, but he would arrange for the boy with the cart, who had been commissioned to remove the crates to the other house, to help him tomorrow. He did not want them forgotten.

He stood for a moment, regarding himself critically in the enormous glass. Stocky and barrel-chested, black-haired, dark-eyed; Modesto scowled at his reflected image.

“It's over,” he said aloud, pointing at himself with an accusatory forefinger. “That chapter's over now, and there's no point regretting it.”

Deciding that he had better get himself over to Santa Lucia to ensure the Signora was ready to receive all these boxes in the morning, Modesto ran back downstairs, grabbed his coat from the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and left the house.

Some moments later, halfway down the Via Toledo, it lanced through his mind that he could not remember locking the front door. He debated upon whether he should go back to make sure, but, thinking it through, he decided that, given the fact that he would be away a matter of an hour at most, and given, too, how few items were left in the building, there was little need to concern himself.

There was no breeze, and the streets were thick with warm, stale air. Modesto walked briskly, his doublet over one shoulder, sidestepping every now and again to avoid the scattered rubbish and excrement that always seemed to be an inevitable, fly-infested hazard on any journey through the city. Turning down an alleyway so narrow he could have touched the houses on each side had he stretched both arms out sideways, he arrived in the small piazza at the top of the Signora's street.

Her front door was open. Nobody seemed to be concerned with keys today, he thought. He walked down toward the kitchen and saw Ilaria chopping onions with a long-bladed knife. Her eyes were streaming, and her big face was blotched and puffy.

“The Signora not back yet?”

Ilaria shook her head, pressing the back of one hand to her eyes.

“Where are the little girls? Did she take them with her?”

“No. They were out on the front door sill a little while ago. Did you not see them as you came in? Naughty little things, they were playing me up all morning.” Ilaria shook her head. “I was glad of a bit of peace when they stopped all their bickering and carryings-on.”

Modesto frowned and walked back into the hallway. He stood with one hand on the banister rail and called upstairs, “Beata! Bella!”

The lack of response did not immediately alarm him. They quite frequently played hiding games. He ran up the stairs and peered first into the
sala
, into the girls' room, and then into the Signora's chamber, listening each time for the expected breath-held, stifled giggles.

Nothing. He called again, sharply now, with no response.

Back downstairs, he knocked on and then opened the door to Ilaria and Sebastiano's chamber, which proved equally empty.

“Are you sure they are not with their mother?” Modesto said to Ilaria, leaning back in through the kitchen door.

“Yes, I told you—they were on the step, not more than an hour since.”

“Well, they are nowhere to be seen now.”

Ilaria put down the knife and wiped her hands on her apron. “I'll go next door. They've probably gone in to aggravate poor Signora Bellini in the next house.”

She hurried off while Modesto went from room to room once more, banging open doors he had opened no more than a moment before, lifting covers, snatching back hangings he knew hid nothing, and calling pointlessly into silence.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up when Ilaria came back into the kitchen, breathless and clumsy in her agitation; her eyes were now fearful and her hands were twisting together.

“She's not seen them. I…I don't know where they are, Signore,” she said, her voice high and sharp.

“How long since you last saw them?”

The dull flush that suffused Ilaria's face implied longer than the hour to which she admitted.

“Where's your husband? Might they be with him?”

She shook her head. “He's away. He went down to Sorrento two days ago to see his mother, and—”

“You stay here,” Modesto interrupted, “in case they come back, and I'll start searching. They can't have gone far.” Attempting to believe his own reassurance, he pushed his arms into his doublet sleeves and ran out of the open front door.

***

“Trotti said he wants those outlines finished by next Tuesday,” Gianni said. “Have you done yours yet?”

“Are you mad? I haven't even started it!” The young man spoke cheerfully, and, looking across at Gianni, he grinned. “Trotti can whistle for it. I'll get it done as soon as I can, but…well…other…erm…other
things
seem to be taking precedence at the moment.”

Gianni laughed. “One of those
things
being the lovely Signorina Tacciarello?”

The young man smirked. Gianni shoved at his friend's arm, pushing him off balance, and he staggered before righting himself and reaching to push Gianni back. Gianni, however, sidestepped neatly out of reach and, both laughing now, they broke into a run. Reaching the end of the street, they vaulted over a low wall and set off across a dilapidated, weed-infested square toward their preferred tavern, outside which several wooden benches were already peopled with a noisy assortment of drinkers. The boys sat down in the only two available seats.

“Do you want an ale, Raffa?” Gianni asked.

“Yes, but I'll get them. You paid last time. Stay here. I'll go and find Fat Massimo.”

“You'd have to be blind to miss him.”

Laughing, Raffaele handed Gianni his things—a roll of paper and a large wooden-backed book—and strode off toward the tavern door in search of the landlord. Gianni leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and crooking one foot up onto the opposite knee. The conversations of the other drinkers drifted past him; he listened with half an ear.

“…and before I had taken more than two steps outside the house, she throws a bloody pitcher full of wine into the street after me! Full! What a waste! As if any of it had been my fault!”

“Does she admit to having been there?”

“Cazzo!
Are
you
joking
me? My Caterina admit to a fault?
Il Papa
is
as
likely
to
admit
to
a
belief
in
witchcraft!”

Gianni smiled to himself and opened an eye. At least twenty men were milling around outside the tavern; most were seated on the benches, a couple of them had sprawled on the ground, and one had perched a bony buttock on the edge of a table. In one group of some half-dozen drinkers, the husband of the self-righteous Caterina was red-faced and gesticulating, though, despite his obvious discontent, he seemed to be rather enjoying being the center of the group's attention.

But then a very different voice pushed through the deep-toned male hum of conversation. A softer, much higher-pitched voice. Anxious. A child. “How long will it take to get to where Desto is? We mustn't be late for Mamma.”

“Not long—I told you.”

Gianni's head snapped round at the sound of the second voice.

A shiver trickled like cold water across his scalp and down the back of his neck. Carlo. Carlo was walking quickly across the top corner of the square, hand in hand with two identical little girls. Gianni was certain he had seen these children before—but where? Why were they familiar? He stared at the trio, leaning forward on his bench seat, searching his mind for some clue as to where he had seen them.

And then a memory…

***

Two
little
girls
are
threading
beads, sitting on the floor of Signora Zigolo's workshop. Their similarity is enchanting—Gianni stares openly for a second, quite entranced by the sight of the extraordinary replication of such overt prettiness.

They
look
up.

“Buongiorno,”
he
says, bowing. Both little girls smile at him—identical smiles. “Forgive me for staring, Signorine, but I was quite taken aback by your beauty,” he says, with a creditable attempt at solemnity.

Both
girls
giggle
behind
their
hands.

“Hmm!” says Signora Zigolo. “Pretty they might well be, but make no bones about it, Signore—this is a pair of very naughty little minxes, and there is no hope for them: for they are just like their even naughtier mother!”

Gianni
laughs
and
the
little
girls
wriggle
with
pleased
embarrassment, and giggle even harder. Charmed, he bows again, then straightens, thanks the Signora, and leaves the shop.

***

Why? What the hell were these children doing with Carlo? Whoever they might be, they were certainly nothing legitimately to do with his brother—he was quite certain of that. Getting to his feet, without realizing what he was doing, and dropping his and Raffaele's books onto the ground, Gianni started walking away from the tavern, ignoring the muttered comments of the drinkers.

One of the little girls was sniffing, wiping her nose and eyes with the back of her hand. She tried to push her hair out of her eyes with the hand held by Carlo, and he jerked it irritably back toward himself. Gianni could see that Carlo's boneless, loping stride was too fast for the children, who were trotting in their attempt to keep up with him.

He heard his brother say crossly, “It's not far now—we're going down to the water. You like the docks, don't you?”

“Is that where Desto is?”

“We'll see him when we get there—I told you.”

A pause.

“I want to go home. I don't want to see Desto anymore.” There was a whining sound in the child's voice now, and when Carlo spoke again, he sounded more irritable than ever.

“Well, we
have
to go there now. He's expecting us.”

Even from the other side of the square, Gianni could see that both girls were now struggling to pull their hands from Carlo's grip, but Carlo's white knuckles implied an equal determination not to let go.

Gianni sped up, but a second later, Carlo and the children rounded a corner and were lost from sight. Gianni began to run. He reached the same corner in seconds, but they were nowhere to be seen. He listened, but could hear nothing.

***

Raffaele edged his way out of the tavern, a pewter mug of ale in each hand and a flat loaf of bread tucked under one arm. Looking across to where he had left Gianni, he saw only an empty space on the end of the bench, and their three books abandoned on the ground. One book was bent and scuffed, and several pages had torn free. The rolled papers had blown across to the opposite side of the square. Of Gianni, there was no sign at all. Raffaele stood staring around him, bewildered.

***

At the end of a dingy alley that opened out onto the dockside, a thin young man with a greasy pigtail leaned against a wall, his weight on one foot, scuffing down into the dirt with the toe of the other boot. He was scowling: a deep frown had creased between his brows, his lower jaw jutted, and, somewhat surprisingly, the gleam of a tear flashed along the lower edge of one eye. He bit his lip.

“Marco!”

The boy looked round to see one of his fellow tavern workers.

“Hey, Marco! Thought you'd gone off to…er”—the new arrival grinned and waggled his eyebrows—“to meet the lovely
Signor
Stupendo
.” He pushed his tongue into his cheek so that it bulged out sideways for a moment. “Where is he, then? Not turned up? Lost interest?”

“Fuck off!” Marco hunched his shoulders and turned away. A vivid picture of Carlo's sneering dismissal the day before came into his mind. “
For
God's sake, Marco—what did you think? That I was in love with you or something? A cheap little
bardassa
like
you? Please! Allow me a touch more sophistication!
” Remembering the pleading tone in his own voice that he had not been able to prevent, he felt a sickening lurch of shame creep up into the back of his throat like a cold slug.

He slouched off down toward the water, trying to pretend that he was not hoping to bump into Carlo. He was well aware that he was being foolish even
thinking
of attempting to see him again so soon, but he couldn't help wanting to. It was like having a full bottle of
grappa
within reach on a shelf, when you badly needed a drink, and not reaching for it. Carlo could well be here, Marco thought, trying to convince himself that he merely wanted to catch a glimpse of his friend. He wouldn't talk to him, or touch him or anything. It would just be good to know…whether he was on his own…or with someone. If Carlo
was
on his own, Marco told himself, then he would stay out of sight, go home, wait a few days, and then try to win him round again. He knew the tricks—he'd be sure to be able to manage it. It had worked before. He would have to play a different game this time, though—convince Carlo that he only wanted a bit of fun. Nothing more. All those things he had said before had been a big mistake, he knew that now.