Errant Angels (4 page)

La Contessa
Penelope di Capezzani-Batelli (to some the mad Englishwoman of Lucca and to others – those she considered her true friends – simply ‘Pen') had kept to her predictable routine after all.

‘I hope the Contessa is well?' asked Gianni with genuine interest, relieved that she had restored order about herself.

Even Anna, who had straightened up from behind the counter just in time to be greeted by the Contessa's bird-nest mop of grey-white hair, the crown of which had been presented for inspection as she had bent down to put the Walkman into her bag, involuntarily found herself suddenly under the spell of this elderly lady.

‘Contessa,' she said respectfully, taking a step forward,
nearer the counter. She had forgotten the large slice of cream cake on the floor, but was instantly reminded of it as she felt the cream well up through the ornate lattice work of her expensive
Andrea di Favellor
shoes. The smile on her face suddenly became very fixed, as if chiselled on.

‘Good afternoon, Anna my dear. I hope you are also well?' she beamed. ‘Such a pretty pair of earrings you're wearing.'

Anna, still smiling fixedly, made a mumbled sound in the affirmative, but her mind was firmly focussed on her cream-filled shoes. In Venice, at the
Biennale
, a cream-filled shoe might become a prized exhibit; even in the nearby artistic community of Pietrasanta, which was well known for its sometimes artistic excesses, such a thing might happen. But not here in Lucca – the
Lucchese
were far too level-headed for that. Here, it would simply remain a cream-filled shoe – and a rather expensive one at that. Anna sighed. The Gaggia spat and gurgled in sympathy.

‘Excuse me, please,' she said, as she hobbled away towards the kitchen.

‘Will the Contessa be taking her usual tea?' asked Gianni as he handed her handbag and medicine back to her. He kept one eye on the Contessa and the other on Carlo, who continued to growl softly, as yet another group of tourists attempted to escape through the main door and seek the security of their luxury coach. The dog's glare followed them as they passed.

‘Not today, thank you, Gianni. I've been to Pisa and then I helped a young Australian couple at the station. They had managed to work Alessandro up into such a state over their tickets, but it's all sorted out now. And I have much still to do before this evening.' Although her Italian was fluent, even after nearly sixty years, she spoke with a strong English accent. ‘So, if you please, I would like my usual pastries … and I have to compliment you on last week's Florentines –
delicious, if perhaps just a little sweeter than usual?' Despite the outward appearance of a dithering old woman, she had a relaxed, gracious air about her. ‘My regular selection if you please and as a special treat today, a large piece of your famous peach and cream cake. We have our weekly rehearsal this evening and my artistes will appreciate the gesture.'

She smiled contentedly and took the glasses off her nose. They once again dangled free against her chest.

‘I trust the Contessa had a pleasant day in Pisa? It is many years since I have been there myself,' he continued as he prepared the Contessa's order, carefully packing the items into a large, white cardboard box. ‘Most unfortunate as Pisa is such a short distance away, but there is never the time.'

‘You work too hard, Gianni,' replied the Contessa, suddenly looking serious. ‘I know how much work goes into maintaining the standards we have come to expect from
Café Alma Arte
. It is those standards that make a visit to this place such a delightful event. Where else in Lucca is it possible to absorb such atmosphere … such aromas' – she took in a deep breath – ‘and to enjoy taking a quiet cup of tea quite so much? Do you know that I have been doing so since before you were born?' She smiled at him, a warm, generous, maternal approval of both himself as a person and of his efforts.

‘The Contessa is too kind,' replied Gianni, smiling even more broadly than before.

‘Nonsense! It is the simple truth. Good quality requires a lot of effort and hard work. I know how hard it can be.'

For a moment, Gianni wondered how this woman, this Contessa – the present holder of an aristocratic title that went back to the Renaissance – could know about hard work. It occurred to him that, despite the support and help she had given to his family over the years, he knew very little about her.

‘Yes Gianni, in answer to your previous question, I had a lovely day in Pisa. I went to see some friends I have there – dear old friends of my poor Giacomo. They are going to help me with my next project: another concert in two months' time to raise money for…' She suddenly stopped, a look of mystification on her face, and removed the other earpiece. ‘I thought that this thing was making a hissing noise, but I've just remembered that I turned it off.' She looked around the café, trying to locate the sound of the low noise, which had suddenly become such an irritation to her. ‘Is it his growling again or has he turned into a cat and started hissing?' she muttered, more to herself that to Gianni. She bent down to listen closer. As she did so the glasses on the end of their gold chain swung out crazily. ‘It is
very
bad manners to make a noise like that in public,' she continued, as if talking to a very young child. That was how she sometimes saw her Carlo, how she had seen all of them over the years, as the next best thing she had to her dear, lost Enrico. Then she would chide herself; such a thought was unseemly and very unfair on darling Luigi. The dear boy always came around for supper on Saturday. That was the occasion on which she would make a fuss over him as a kind of penance for her unappreciative thoughts. Luigi had been a loyal and loving son over the years, even if he was not darling Enrico. But that was hardly his fault.

Gianni craned over the counter and looked down at the dog. Carlo half-turned his head at his mistress and partially opened his right eye to look at her, as if to say,
What are you making a fuss about now?

‘Oh, I say … how curious,' continued the Contessa, straightening up. ‘It's not him after all. So what
is
that hissing noise?'

‘The Contessa must not concern herself,' he replied casually, ‘it is the Gaggia; the steam pipe for frothing milk is in need of attention, that's all.'

‘Oh, I see, but don't you find the noise irritating? All day?' she asked.

‘I don't really notice it above all of the other noise,' he replied, ‘but we have sent for someone to have a look at it. The Contessa was saying that she is going to organize another concert?'

‘Was I?' she replied absently, waiting for her memory to provide the appropriate information. ‘Oh yes, of course I was, wasn't I. How silly of me!' She had suddenly lapsed into English. Gianni's English was good and had improved over the years to the point where he was able to converse equally well in either language. ‘I will be asking for your help again … for the catering and to display a poster … and possibly some small handbills on the tables.' She gestured around the café. Carlo yawned loudly.

‘But of course,' replied Gianni gallantly. ‘We are always at the Contessa's disposal. Also, I can assure you that we will be ready with the consumables for next week's concert.'

‘How kind. I know I can always rely on you. What a good boy you are, Gianni,' she beamed, picking up her bag as he finished tying up the white cardboard box with some thin pink ribbon.

‘The Contessa has still to mention for whom the next concert is to be organized,' he continued, passing the box over the counter. There was no question of payment. Such things were never discussed with long-established and much-valued customers. The amount would be entered in the day book and the account would be promptly settled at the end of the month.

‘Didn't I?' she asked as she fought to balance the various items of her load against the handling of Carlo's leash. ‘Well, it's something quite new for me, I have to say.'

The dog was sitting up and had once again become his belligerent self, growling
sotto voce
at the few remaining customers. For their parts, they had thought it prudent to
delay their departure until after the noisy – and possibly dangerous – dog had left.

‘The Contessa's concert?' prompted Gianni, softly. ‘Who will be the beneficiary?'

‘The concert… Ah yes, the concert,' she replied, suddenly back at a familiar point in the conversation. ‘I recently read about this wonderful charity. They work with horses and donkeys … in poor countries, you know. Teaching the locals how to look after their animals and keep them fit and healthy for work … that sort of thing. It was all started by one single woman's determination and compassion. Just think of it, Gianni; one person had the vision and the drive to help all of those poor animals…' She seemed to have drifted off somewhere. ‘So, I thought to myself, we are going to do our bit and help them too … from here in Lucca.'

‘Ah, I see,' replied Gianni, but he was not sure that he actually did. The English were funny, with their clockwork routines and their obsession with animals.

‘But I mustn't keep you any longer. It's already quite late and I'm sure that you will want to be tidying up and going home to your family.' That was a thought generally shared by the other customers remaining in
Café Alma Arte
, who were already preparing to follow the Contessa out of the door once the threat of the little Maltese poodle had been removed. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot to ask you – how is Fiorenza? Not many weeks left now and then you'll have a little brother or sister for Virgilo.'

‘It would be nice to have a sister for our son, but God will decide,' replied Gianni. ‘Both my wife and our expected baby are doing very well and, as always, we thank the Contessa for her many kindnesses.'

The Contessa would never forget the complications that had followed on from the birth of his firstborn. She had been only too glad to help. The memories were of a worrying
time, which cut close to her heart. Happily, unlike the memories she held of her own dear Enrico, the memories of the Canetti family's problems had a happy ending.

‘Good, good. You will keep me informed? And I'll let you know about the horses and donkeys concert and bring you some posters and things when they are ready,' she continued as she replaced both of the earpieces, fumbled around in her large bag to retrieve the Walkman and pressed the ‘play' button. Then, once again the model of her usual composure, she turned and negotiated the door. ‘Everything is still at the planning stage and I have a lot of arrangements to work out.' She had started to shout as the Walkman's earpieces shut out the sounds on the border between
Café Alma Arte
and
Via Fillungo
, and replaced them with the last rousing appearance of the choir singing the big tune in Elgar's march. The British presence was very much alive and well in Tuscan Lucca, as the immortal notes of the melody bounced and ricocheted off the tall buildings that lined the ancient road.

‘Mind you don't step in the cream,' said Anna, who had reappeared behind the counter carrying a mop and pail.

‘She still did not tell me the name of these people who concern themselves with horses and donkeys,' said Gianni.

‘What do you expect?' replied Anna as she bent over the bucket to rinse the cream-filled mop. ‘She is a mad English-woman.'

6

Despite the lateness of the hour it was still warm. The sun had traversed the canyon of
Via Fillungo
and the tall facades of the buildings that formed the sides now relaxed into the approaching cool of late afternoon. The tinny echoes of ‘Rule Britannia', which escaped from the Contessa's earpieces, rebounded robustly off the steep walls of plaster, masonry and decorative architectural relief that made the ancient way such a magnet for tourists. As she walked steadily along, surrounded by the iconic sounds of her homeland, it seemed as if this little elderly woman played the role of a representative of a foreign empire that, together with its considerable power and influence, had long since ceased to exist. Accompanied by the still-grumbling Carlo, and proceeding as stately as Kitchener's gunboat moving up the Nile towards the relief of Khartoum, the Contessa was making her way home to her spacious apartment in the walls of what had once been the town's Roman arena.

‘Nearly home, you noisy boy!' she announced over the sound of Thomas Arne's patriotic air. ‘Come along now. Keep up.'

Tethered as he was to his mistress by the leather leash, Carlo Quinto didn't have much choice other than to obey. As if to remind her of this fact, he yapped loudly twice then resumed his semi-permanent soft growling.

‘Oh, here we are at Gregorio's,' she said, stopping in the middle of the pedestrianized road. The sudden manoeuvre
required considerable concentration on her part, laden as she was with her armfuls of bags, the Maltese's leash and the white box with its delicious contents. ‘I wonder if he has one?' she muttered to herself as she fought to put her glasses back on her nose. ‘Come on, Carlo, let's have a look then, shall we?'

She moved to the side of the street and stood in front of the window of
Casa dei Gioielli
. Again, Carlo had no choice but to accompany her, which annoyed him somewhat. He had noticed an interesting splash up the wall and a corresponding puddle on the pavement and would far rather have investigated that. He was, after all, only a dog. He growled to himself.

‘I wonder if he has a screen we could use; we'll need it for the
Marriage of Figaro
excerpt,' she said, talking to the dog as if he were human.

Although the lights were on in the shop, there was no sign of life. So the Contessa took the opportunity to stare intently through her own reflection on the glass and scrutinize the contents of Gregorio Marinetti's antiques emporium. As her eyes adjusted to the light levels, she focussed in on the large object standing in the centre of the shop. From the street it was difficult to work out exactly what it actually was, as it had been placed with its narrow side towards the window and had a length of brocade draped over it. She made a note that the cloth was neither swagged nor generously draped with the usual artistic flair Lucca had come to expect from this flamboyant antiques dealer: she would have to have a word with Gregorio about that. Nevertheless, this object intrigued her and by moving further along to her right she found she could catch the reflection of the back of the screen in the large gilded mirror that hung on the side wall. She was now convinced that this was a screen that would do justice to her staging of the Mozart item in her programme, even if it did have
an animal of some description painted on it.

As the Royal Choral Society launched into the third verse of Arne's great song, the Contessa reached out with her free hand and tried the handle of the door. It was locked. Carlo yapped again. Putting her hand up to open the door had jerked his leash and taken him even further away from the alluring puddle, which was destined to remain unexplored by his inquisitive little nose. The Contessa looked down to see what all the noise was about and it was then that she saw the neat handwritten notice propped up in the bottom corner of the window.

‘
Ritorno subito
'
–
‘I'll be back immediately,' it read.

Oh dear, that is a pity! He's gone out
, she thought wondering how long Gregorio's ‘immediately' might be? Carlo couldn't have cared less if Gregorio Marinetti never returned. He was not sure if he even enjoyed going into the shop in the first place, as he got the feeling the man harboured a permanent suspicion that he was up to no good and might well either chew something to unsellable oblivion or leave a calling card somewhere on the marble tiles. Furthermore, the man always seemed to be on edge and nervous, and there had been instances during the Contessa's regular rehearsals when he, Carlo Quinto, had had to get up from his cushion and leave the room, almost suffocated by the stench of cologne which emanated from the man. His eyes narrowed as he remembered the worst incident three weeks ago, when the cologne had been so liberally applied that he had started to sneeze and had only managed to stop the irritation in his delicate little nose by submerging it in the cleansing coolness of his water bowl.

‘Come along, you noisy boy, we won't wait. It's time to go home,' she declared as her little caravan resumed its progress up the nearly deserted
Via Fillungo
towards the Roman arena.

The Contessa resolved to speak to Gregorio about
borrowing this screen and about the gilt chair he had already promised. In her mind's eye, she was already seeing the tableau of singers involved in this excerpt using the chair in some dramatic way, with the screen in the background draped with some pale-blue damask to brighten the setting.
It will be the highlight of the concert
, she thought.

The Royal Choral Society had reached the end of their performance and the machine had clicked itself off at the end of the tape – not that she'd noticed at all. Still with her earpieces in her ears, the Contessa walked on, listening to a silent Walkman.
I wouldn't be at all surprised if it's not to everyone's taste, so it is possible there will be no interest in it before next week … not until after the concert… Let's hope that nobody else has seen it yet.

But she was wrong. There
had
been someone who, a few minutes before, had stood almost exactly where she had just been standing. This someone, who had been walking up
Via Fillungo
and had seen Marinetti disappearing in the opposite direction as furtively as one of the guiltier characters in an opera plot, had also peered through his own reflection and into the
Casa dei Gioielli
, with a pair of eyes in far better working order than the Contessa's. Those eagle eyes had also seen the dark bulk of what looked like a screen, decorated as it was with the doleful expression of what he knew to be a lion – not just any lion, but the winged Lion of Saint Mark.