The Faces of Angels (16 page)

He shakes his head and stirs the thimbleful of espresso that has just been put down in front of him. ‘People are different.' Henry shrugs. ‘It doesn't work the same way for everybody,' he says. ‘But, personally, I don't think it's fair to ask a bird to fly back into a cage.'

By the time we leave, there is no longer a line. The dessert display is pretty much empty. Couples are scraping spoons around the inside of glass dishes and pouring the last of their wine while the waiter snuffs out candles and strips red and white cloths off of the tables. Out on the street, people walk arm in arm, savouring the memory of the first warm day.

‘Sure you don't want me to walk you home?' Henry asks. But I tell him, no, I'm fine.

He kisses me on the cheek before we part, splitting in opposite directions. Henry shuffles off towards the apartment he shares with Kirk in Torquato Tasso, his big bear figure merging into the shadows.

I don't know this part of town that well, but I'm not concerned. If I head in the right direction, I'll hit the Carmine or Santo Spirito sooner or later. A couple drifts past me, languid and leaning into each other. Their whispers hang in the dark and the woman's perfume trails behind her like smoke. Looking at them makes me miss Pierangelo, suddenly, like a pain in my stomach. The city seems bigger than it is, and strange, without him in it.

I cut down a side street that I'm pretty sure is leading the right way, and find myself in a tiny piazza. There are dozens and dozens of these in Florence. Like this one, they are often just a widening of an alley fronted by a forgotten church. The space is almost entirely filled by municipal garbage bins, and by the empty deck of a wine bar, its windows thick with condensation. Lights from inside glint off the stainless-steel chairs stacked and chained to the outdoor tables. I am skirting around them when a hissing sound comes from behind me. I didn't notice them before, but when I look into the shadows I see a pair of young men, both in tight jeans and leather jackets, lounging in the portico of the church.

‘
Ciao, ciao, bella
,' they mew, sounding like the hungry feral cats that slink across the rooftops and drop into the sleeping streets.

I shrug off a tinge of unease, telling myself this isn't a threat, just a pastime so routine it doesn't even qualify as a compliment. Then I realize I'm wrong. One of them detaches himself from the wall and saunters towards me, his shape gaining bulk as he comes into the light.

‘
Ciao, ciao
,' he mews. ‘
Mi chiamo Gianni, dimmi chi sei
.' Tell me who you are.

I feel a throb of panic and start to step backwards when I realize that the other one has circled around behind me. The railing of the wine-bar deck is at my side, hemming me in, and suddenly my bag seems huge and ostentatious and obviously filled with money. Shit, I think, I'm about to get mugged.

I open my mouth to scream, but before I do there's a burst of noise, people talking. A wedge of light streams into the piazza, and Gianni falters. Confusion flashes across the weaselly features of his face, and I realize something's happening behind me. Turning round I see his friend staggering unnaturally backwards. Unnaturally because someone has hooked an arm around his neck and is tipping him sideways as though he's a life-sized wooden doll.

‘Get the hell out of here, scumbag,' my saviour says in Italian. Two other guys who have just appeared are looking on and they start to clap. Gianni flashes them the finger and says something unsavoury about their mothers, but the bravado's fake. Already, he and his pal are slithering into the shadows of the alley. My heart thumps as I watch them melt away, then I feel a hand on my shoulder and a voice says: ‘Signora Maria, are you OK?'

I realize with a shock that my saviour is Marcello from the grocery store. He looks older and suddenly more substantial in the requisite leather jacket. There's no hunch to his shoulders now, and if he's blushing, it's lost in the dark.

‘I'm fine.' It takes me a second to find my voice. ‘Really,' I add, nodding. ‘Thank you. I'm fine. They didn't even touch me.' Relief and nerves mingle in the words. ‘They didn't have a chance,' I add.

The door of the wine bar bursts open again, and now there's a small crowd coming and going. People nudge past us. The sound of laughter shoots up and bounces off the high walls of the piazza. A lighter flares in the dark and there's the smell of cigarette smoke. Marcello takes his hand off my shoulder, some of the awkwardness returning. ‘Look,' he says, ‘are you going home? I'll walk you.'

I start to insist, as usual, that I'm perfectly OK alone, but when I look at the alley I can almost feel the slithering shadows. Marcello must see the hesitation in my face because he adds, ‘Really. I'm going that way.'

The people around us, mostly young men, indistinguishable in a uniform of jeans and leathers, are dispersing. They move off in groups down the alley. The owner pulls down the blind on the wine bar's door as Marcello and I follow them. He has his hands dug deep in his pockets, his head ducked. His shyness grows with every step we take away from the piazza. I can feel it walling him in. It's practically a physical disability, and it makes me ache for him.

‘Thanks,' I say again, trying to crack the silence. ‘Really. That was pretty impressive.'

I feel rather than see him shrug. ‘They taught us in the academy. I was going to be in the police.'

‘Wow.' I glance at him sideways. We've just come out onto Santo Spirito, and the fine lines of his face, the round cheeks and soft boyish curve of his chin, are caught in the wash of the church floodlights. ‘What happened?' I ask. ‘You change your mind?'

He shakes his head, a lock of hair coming loose, and I hope I haven't put my foot in it and embarrassed him further because he was kicked out or something.

‘An accident,' he says. ‘On a scooter. I broke my leg. There are four pins in it.' He looks down as he speaks, as if we might see the pins through his jeans, and I notice for the first time that he walks with a slight limp. ‘I was in hospital a long time,' he adds. ‘The police gave me disability. Now I'm trying to figure out what to do.'

Damn, I think. No wonder he's embarrassed to be riding around on a Vespa covered in vegetables.

‘Well, hey, you've got lots of choices, right? Whole new start.' I try to sound as though this is really great, and it looks as if maybe I succeed, because Marcello actually glances at me and smiles.

‘I've tried some other jobs,' he shrugs. ‘I was a gardener for a while, but that isn't a career.'

‘Any other ideas yet?'

‘You'll laugh.'

‘I won't.' I hold two fingers up. ‘Swear on my mother's grave.'

‘I want to do something good.' He shrugs again. ‘There's a lot of crap in the world. I think we all have to fight against it, do what we can.' He glances at me sideways. ‘That's why I wanted to be a cop. I thought about the lay ministry, but, I don't know.'

‘You mean, like social work?'

He shakes his head. ‘It didn't work out. I volunteer for stuff, though.' I can feel the effort it costs him to say this much, and my heart goes out to him again.

‘Not a lot of young guys think that way.' This comes out horribly. Patronizing and icky. Not at all what I'd intended. ‘You've got all the time in the world,' I say quickly. ‘You'll think of something, and it'll work out because, obviously, your mother raised you right. That's the expression we use in America,' I add. ‘You know, when somebody does good.'

‘I'd like to have a family,' he says. Then he asks abruptly, ‘You're married?'

‘Not any more,' I say. ‘I was. My husband died.'

I don't know if this makes Marcello blush again or not, because it's dark. ‘I'm sorry,' he says quickly. And then oddly, ‘He must miss you.'

It's the sort of inappropriate remark really shy people often make, and it makes me smile in the dark.

‘I don't know about that,' I say. ‘He was a much better person than I am. He tried to do good in this life too.'

‘What did he do?'

‘He was a teacher. Little kids. He taught in religious schools, mostly.'

‘I'd like to do that.'

‘You'd be good at it.'

I don't know why I say this, really. Ty's ghost, I guess, egging me on, getting me to recruit for the cause. Even so, walking along like this, I can imagine Marcello doing what Ty did. Kids probably wouldn't embarrass him as much as everyone else seems to. They usually like shy people.

We round the corner and in a few seconds we've reached the front of my building. He waits while I grope for my keys, fit them into the lock.

‘Well, listen,' I say, ‘forget kids, you're my hero. Really.'

This time he does blush, I can see it in the security light that blinks on under the archway as I push open the gate. Marcello shrugs as I start to step inside, then his face turns serious. All of a sudden I can see him in uniform, the young knight out protecting damsels in distress.

‘You should be careful, signora,' he says. ‘Really. You never know who's on the streets. There are Roma around, gypsies. Not all of them are so good.' He gives a little bow and turns away as the security gate clicks shut, locking me in.

The night has turned damper and colder, and as I cross the courtyard I realize the mist has come down because I'm leaving footprints on the sidewalk. Inside our entryway the elevator cage is open, and the smell of cooking, of some kind of roasted meat and something tangy, hovers in the stairwell. As a rule, I don't use the elevator, but tonight I make an exception. The cage slides closed with a bang, the ancient gears grind and whimper, and a few seconds later I step out onto our landing, and slip my key into the heavy locks.

It feels good to be back inside, back in my own lair, safe from slithery shadows and the Giannis of this world. I don't think the two of them would have hurt me, it was too close to the wine bar, probably what they had in mind was nothing more than a quick theft of opportunity. But, nonetheless, I'm glad Marcello appeared, and I realize I hope he gets his life straightened out, and that the vegetable signora is nice to him.

Our unlit hallway is so still that I assume Billy must have stayed with Kirk over in Torquato Tasso, but I call her name anyways to check. There's no answer, just a faint glow from the kitchen, so she must have been back and left the little table lamp on for me. My boots sound unnaturally loud on Signora Bardino's inky-green marble floor as I go down the hallway to turn it off.

Ahead of me the linen panels on the French windows are bright white against the night and as I get closer, I see that the latch hasn't caught again. I'll buy some string tomorrow, or find a shoe lace to tie them up. I should tell Signora Bardino, but that would make her come over, and I have to do something about the state of the apartment before that happens. I run my fingers along the half moon of the little hall table and across the top of the absurdly delicate rococo chair outside Billy's door, leaving tracks in the dust.

Night air hits me as I come into the kitchen, and I'm all the way across the room, actually reaching for the handle of the French windows, before I sense Billy.

She's sitting at the table, a book open in front of her. Her hair looks wild in the halo of light from the tiny lamp, and although she's still wearing her pinafore dress she now has a baggy brown cardigan thrown over her shoulders. The effect is disturbing, as if she's an old lady pretending to be a child.

‘Hey. I didn't know you were here.'

I try not to sound resentful, but she's rattled me. I can't figure out why she didn't answer when I called. ‘What's up?' I ask, trying to keep the pissed-off sound out of my voice.

Billy has an unlit cigarette in her hand. She picks her Elvis lighter up off the table, flicks it and takes a deep drag. ‘I thought I should wait up,' she says. ‘To make sure you were OK.'

Her voice is completely flat. She's not joking. A prickle of irritation runs down my back. I feel like a teenager caught sneaking in from a date. Maybe I should check that I don't have bite marks on my neck, or my lipstick smeared across my face.

‘I'm fine.' I go to the sink and pour myself a glass of water, more to disguise how annoyed I am than because I want it.

‘So, you went to dinner with Mystery Man?' This is how Billy refers to Pierangelo, which annoys me even more.

‘Henry, actually.'

She takes another pull on the cigarette. ‘You could have left a note,' she says, and something inside me snaps.

‘You're right.' Now I'm not even trying to mask my irritation. ‘You're absolutely right,' I say. ‘I could have. But since I'm almost forty years old and you're not my mother, I didn't.' Billy stares at me impassively and I stare back. Then, I slam the glass down, turn on my heel, and march out of the room.