Lucca (16 page)

S
he arrived in Florence after midnight and found a cheap
pensione
in a side street. A bald man with liver spots on his pate showed her the way along a murky corridor. She opened the shutters, the window looked onto a narrow courtyard. She put her head out and looked up to the small section of dark sky. When she had undressed and was lying under the blanket between the worn sheets, it seemed completely absurd that she should be in the same town as Giorgio, that he was in another bed somewhere, alone or with an unknown woman. Maybe she would never find him, maybe he would have no wish to see her. Maybe he had moved to another town.

In the morning when she went out to the little reception desk at the end of the corridor the bald man had been replaced by a pregnant woman in a large apron. Behind her the door to the kitchen stood open, pots were already steaming on the stove. An elderly black-clad woman sat in a corner of the kitchen watching television. The television voices almost drowned out Lucca's and she had to gesture furiously before managing to convey to the woman that she needed a telephone directory. There were four people with the name of Giorgio Montale. She wrote down the addresses and phone numbers. The pregnant woman stood at the stove stirring the pot with one hand pressed to her side. Lucca asked to borrow the telephone and held a clenched fist to one ear. The pregnant woman smilingly shook her head without ceasing the mechanical circular movement of her ladle in the steaming pot.

There was a bar at the end of the street. Lucca asked for an espresso and poured in three bags of sugar. She had never drunk black coffee before. That was something the witch in Milan had taught her. There was a pay-phone at the end of the bar. She
dialled the top number on her list and pressed a finger in her ear to muffle the loud voices and the hiss of the coffee machine. The first Giorgio Montale was an old man with a cracked, piping voice. A woman's voice answered to the next number. Lucca asked for Giorgio Montale, and the woman's voice repeated the same incomprehensible question in an insistent tone until she finally gave up. Lucca thought the woman had cut her off, but the next moment she heard a soft man's voice. She asked in English if he was Giorgio Montale. He was. The man with the soft voice spoke a little German.

Lucca started to shake at the knees as she introduced herself and explained why she was calling. The man was very friendly. No, unfortunately he didn't have a daughter in Denmark, but he and his wife had always wanted to go to Stockholm. He had two sons, but she was a girl, why was she called Lucca? She explained that she was named after her father's home town. It was a beautiful town, he said, she must be a beautiful girl. He himself came from Palermo. Lucca could hear his wife talking to him in the background. He was sorry, he would have to hang up. He was sure she would find her father.

Neither the third nor the fourth Giorgio Montale answered the telephone. Lucca found her way to the station and bought a street plan at a kiosk. She found the addresses in the index, unfolded the map on the floor and bent down over the crooked web of streets, surrounded by the shoes and suitcases on wheels of passers-by. One of the Giorgios lived in a suburb, the other in the city centre, on the other side of the river. She decided to walk across there. It was hot, and the narrow streets were crowded with tourists, trudging sluggishly along in groups. She walked map in hand so as not to lose her way and only fleetingly noticed the façades of green and white marble of the churches she passed en route. The river was yellowish brown like the house walls, and from the bridge where she crossed she could see another bridge with small houses built on it, at a distance they looked like birds' nesting-boxes. Behind the flat, tiled roofs beside the river rose the dome of the cathedral, it too was covered with red tiles, slightly pointed in its vast curvature.

Soon afterwards she was on the second floor of an old building ringing the doorbell. The marble floor of the landing was checked like a chess board, and the wooden panels of the staircase were dark and shone with varnish. She rang again and was about to go when she heard a bolt being drawn. She jumped, she had not heard steps inside the apartment. The man who opened the door must have been in his early thirties. His short hair was fair and stood on end, but his skin was dark and his eyes brown. He was very muscular, and there was a marked contrast between his broad hairy arms and the soft movement he used to smooth the collar of his kimono, as if he was caressing himself. He smiled and put his head on one side, giving her an inquiring look.

She asked if he was Giorgio Montale. He shook his head, still smiling, negatively waving his index finger to and fro as if she was a child who had done something wrong. She asked if Giorgio Montale lived there. He nodded but she could not understand what he said in his lazy, melodious voice, which was surprisingly high. The man looked at her expectantly. A large blue-grey cat appeared in the doorway. It laid back its ears and pressed its head lovingly against the man's powerful legs. She couldn't find anything to say. He held up a flat hand as a sign for her to wait, pushed the door partly closed and came back soon afterwards with a notebook and pen. She wrote her name and the name of the pensione.

Walking back to the river she realised she hadn't eaten anything yet. Everything seemed pretty hopeless. She felt sure it was not her Giorgio who lived with the blue cat and the man with yellow hair. The idea made her smile. The list of addresses was already crumpled from being clutched in her hand. When she caught sight of a taxi she signalled. She gave the driver the last address and leaned back in the seat. Gradually the historic buildings came to an end, and the town looked like any other city with straight streets and modern houses. They drove for a long way before the taxi suddenly stopped in front of a big housing block. She paid and stood looking around her. A group of boys were kicking a football around on the bare ground between the
blocks of damp-stained concrete with covered balconies where washing hung in layers. The sun was already low in the sky. In the distance a water tower loomed over the row of cypresses beside a motorway. On the other side she saw the silhouette of the big arched roof over the rows of seats in a stadium.

She rang several times when she had finally found the right door. No one was in. She sat down on the stairs and leaned against the cool wall. Voices sounded from the surrounding flats, a child cried, and a television blared a high-pitched fanfare. She bent her knees and pushed against the wall when a woman passed her on her way up with her bulging bags of shopping. Shortly afterwards an old man came down, slowly, his back was bent. He stopped a few steps further down and looked at her curiously with his runny eyes. His shirt stuck out of the fly on his shiny worn trousers and he had forgotten to shave his throat. Lucca smiled at him. He didn't seem to notice or else did not take in her friendly expression. He merely stared at her vacantly before going on downstairs.

Half an hour passed before Lucca heard steps approaching again. A woman came in sight and stopped where the old man had stood. She must have been in her late forties, fifty perhaps. Her thick hair was a grey and black bird's nest around her pale, worn features. She had narrow eyes which fixed Lucca with a hard glance as she slowly came on up the stairs. Lucca stood up and introduced herself. The woman brushed the hair from her eyes with a bony hand before hesitantly extending it towards Lucca. She spoke English with a strong accent, in a hoarse voice. As she unlocked the door she explained that Giorgio would be in later. She turned in the open door. Her name was Stella, by the way. She looked at Lucca and gave her a delayed smile.

She apologised for the mess. Lucca glanced round. It looked as if no housework or tidying up had been done for a long time. The furnishings were so anonymous that they said nothing about the inhabitants of the flat, other than their total lack of interest in its appearance. There was a dining table at one end of the living room, still adorned with cups and plates from breakfast. At the other end were a shabby sofa and two assorted armchairs. There
were no curtains and the walls were bare. In one corner were a television and an ironing board in front of a pile of cardboard boxes full of clothes. Stella asked if she was hungry and started to clear away the cups and plates.

The door to the bedroom was open, Lucca glimpsed an unmade bed. It is a small flat, said Stella behind her back, putting a plate of cheese and salami on the table. Did she have somewhere to stay? Lucca nodded and sat down. When had she arrived? Stella lit a cigarette as Lucca ate and explained how she had found them. Stella would have to go out again soon, but she could just wait for Giorgio. They both worked in the evenings, actually he should be home by now. But she should have something to drink as well! She shook her head at her own vagueness and went back into the kitchen. Lucca looked out at the covered balcony. Three man's shirts hung on the line floppily waving their sleeves.

Stella came back with a bottle of mineral water and a glass. Unfortunately that was all she had. She should have known Lucca was coming. Lucca said she had tried to telephone. Stella lit another cigarette and inhaled, looking at Lucca with her hard narrow eyes. She had expected her to turn up one day. Suddenly she got to her feet, Giorgio would be sure to come soon. She went into the bedroom. When she came back she had on a white shirt with a black bow tie, a black, thigh-length skirt and black stockings. There was something inappropriate about the tie, and Stella looked as if she could see what Lucca was thinking. Her hair was combed back from her forehead and gathered with a clasp. Her face seemed still more angular and wasted without the bird's nest of unkempt hair to frame it. She put out her hand in farewell. Lucca would probably have left when she came back. She hoped she would have a pleasant stay in Italy.

Lucca heard her steps fade out of hearing down the stairs. She rose and opened the bedroom door. Their clothes were jumbled together in heaps on the bed, the floor and over a chair. A low bookcase held books in close-packed piles and on top of it was a framed photograph. She recognised Stella, a younger, sunburned Stella in a flowered dress. Beside her stood a man with dark curly
hair and a full beard. He wore a checked shirt hanging loose over his trousers. The same old shirt he had worn when they were at the summer cottage. Lucca recalled the feeling of the soft, washed-out material when she pressed her face against his stomach. She put a hand over his jaw. The eyes were the same too, the creases around them when he smiled.

She lay down on the sofa in the living room. Now it was just a question of waiting and she would hear the steps coming up the stairs and a key inserted in the lock. She thought of Stella's hard, inquiring scrutiny before she took the last steps up and stretched out her hand.

She awoke in semi-darkness. At first she did not know where she was. She could feel there was someone in the room and sat up in confusion. He sat astride a chair over at the table with his arms resting on its back. He looked at her, supporting his chin on his crossed arms. His beard had gone and his unruly hair looked as if someone had emptied an ashtray over his head. Slowly she recognised his features from the youthful black and white picture, behind the furrows carved into his face. He had been observing her while she slept. It's me, she said in Danish, in a muted voice. It's me, Lucca . . .

He nodded and smiled faintly, and only then did she notice the tears that had gathered at the corners of his eyes. She rose and went over to him, but stopped when he turned his face away. She stood still for a moment before cautiously laying a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, dried his cheeks with his palms and got up from the chair. Then he suddenly smiled and flung out his arms like a clown, as if to excuse his tears. He embraced her. She didn't cry. She would have liked to cry, she had pictured herself weeping.

She was surprised he was not taller. He smelled slightly of sweat, but his smell was not as she remembered. While they stood there embracing he said something she did not understand. He held her away from him and smiled again. He spoke Italian to her. Apparently he had forgotten the scraps of Danish he had learned while he lived with Else. She hadn't imagined they might
not be able to talk together. It made them shy. He pointed to his watch and smiled again.
Andiamo
, he said and nodded towards the door.

She had no idea where he was taking her. Now and then he looked at her with his sad eyes and smiled mysteriously. He asked her to wait outside a shop and soon returned with a bottle of wine and a bag smelling of grilled chicken. He waved the wine and the bag and smiled, indicating they should go on. He put on speed, occasionally glancing at his watch. They had walked for a quarter of an hour when they came to a cinema. Was he going to invite her to the movies? Giorgio went first up a steep staircase on the side of the building. The steps led to a door in the middle of the bare wall. He unlocked it, switched on the light inside and held open the door for her with a gallant gesture.

While she watched he took a big reel of film from a round box and fixed it with practised movements on one of the projectors. He called her over with a cunning look and pointed to a little window. Down in the auditorium the audience were taking their places. He pressed a button and the lights dimmed in the hall. Then he started the machine and the spool began to rotate with a ticking sound while the film ran past the bright ray of light that penetrated the darkness of the cinema. Giorgio pointed to his watch again and shook his wrist as if he had burned himself. Lucca had to smile.

He took plates, cutlery and glasses from a cupboard and laid a small table between the projectors. The grilled chicken was still warm and Giorgio watched her gleefully as she gnawed the meat from her half and sucked her fingers. He took a sip of wine and washed it around his mouth with the air of a discriminating connoisseur which brought the smile to her face again. They drank a silent toast, Giorgio assumed a ceremonial expression, and it all made her feel she was in a silent film, partly because of the ticking sound of the machine, partly Giorgio's comic gestures. He wanted to amuse her, but the melancholy look did not leave his eyes. The wine relaxed her, and the tension that had held her in its hard grip for two days was replaced by a crestfallen flatness. There was so much
she would have liked to ask him about, so much she had wanted to tell him.