The Faces of Angels (31 page)

‘But you think it means something? It has to.'

‘Yeah. Probably.'

‘Will you tell Pallioti?'

‘
Certo
. Although,' he adds, ‘they probably already have it. I think they have specialists who work on that kind of stuff, the homicidal version of the Stendhal syndrome.'

‘But you will call him?' I stop, tugging on his hand like a stubborn child. ‘You'll make sure? Even if he has it anyways?'

Piero turns to me. ‘Of course I'll call him,
cara
,' he says. There's a hint of exasperation in his voice now. ‘I promise,' he adds.

The whole piazza's taken on a slow, drunken feeling. A saxophone wails, and behind us the singer starts crooning in something that might, or might not, be Italian. Pierangelo's so tired that he sways slightly to the music, eyes half closed.

‘Let's go home. Please,' he says. And I nod. Then I remember I haven't told anyone we're leaving. Pissed off as I am with Billy, I still feel that I should let her know. I'll tell Henry, and he can tell her. I edge my way back along the side of the piazza, Pierangelo following me. But when we step up by the fountain and get a clear view of our table, both of us stop.

The fight must have blown up as fast as a summer storm, because five minutes ago Kirk and Billy were dancing. But they certainly aren't now. Now they're standing beside the empty table, screaming at each other. Kirk is holding the back of a chair as Billy leans towards him, and although we're too far away to hear them, I know right away this is much worse than Fiesole.

Billy's arms are straight, her fists balled. She's virtually spitting with anger. I've never seen her like this before, neck rigid, back braced, and the effect is creepy. It's like seeing someone else in Billy's body. She pulls herself up straight, and in her red dress she's fearsome. And beautiful. And, I suspect, enjoying herself. A diva giving an epic performance.

Kirk, however, looks stricken, and I look around instinctively for Henry, thinking he'll know how to stop this. After all, it's his stock in trade. But when I spot him in the crowd, I see at once he's oblivious. Surrounded by a bevy of witches and half-masked men, Henry's grinning blissfully, his glasses askew as he dances with the Japanese girls like Pan with his nymphs.

More people in fancy dress have appeared. They must have seeped into the edges of the crowd while we were discussing Mantegna and serial killers. A Dante and a monk, each clutching a Botticelli angel, circle past us. On the church steps, I glimpse Romeo making out with Juliet, and someone in jeans and sneakers has gotten hold of one of the penitents' hoods and walks solemnly through the dancers swinging a beer bottle for a censer and blessing couples who cross in front of him. He stops and raises his hand, making a half-finished sign of the cross over Henry as Ayako and Mikiko and Tamayo orbit around him like woozy stars.

Back at the table, Kirk is white and immobile. He wraps his arms across his chest, and raises his chin, as if he expects Billy to slap him. They have quite an audience now. The people at the next table have given up trying to ignore them and stare openly. Others watch from where we are, laughing and whispering, cheering for one side or the other. Someone claps. Billy leans into Kirk, so close she could almost kiss him. Her lips move as her hands chop up and down, dancing to a choreography of their own, and then, abruptly, she pulls the heart ring off her finger, throws it at him, and turns away.

Kirk reaches for her, but she jumps over the trampled plastic hedge, leaving him standing beside the littered table, his hand hanging uselessly in the air, a cop with no traffic to direct. A second later, he bends down and gropes amid the old paper napkins and spilled wine for the ring. Finally he straightens up and sinks down in his chair.

I start to step forward, feeling that I should say or do something, but Pierangelo puts a hand on my shoulder. He shakes his head, and I guess he's right. Kirk would probably just be embarrassed. Then Piero inclines his head, and I see Billy too.

She's already dancing with someone else. The music has picked up, morphed from the slow sticky groping song to an erratic swinging jazz. She twirls and pirouettes across the dance floor, the skirt of her red dress fanned out around her like a parasol. People move back to make room for her, and the guy she's dancing with, who's wearing a
Carnivale
mask, gold one side and silver the other, spins her so fast her hair comes loose. A wild cascade of snarls and ringlets ripples down her back and falls away like the froth from a waterfall as he dips her low to the ground.

When the man swings Billy up, she puts her arms around his neck and catches my eye, and I'm sure I see her smile.

The next morning is Palm Sunday. It rains, and Pierangelo and I sleep late. I wake up once, early, and hear the hard beat, like a shower turned on up on the roof terrace. Grey light filters through the linen blind, and I drift off again. I don't know how long it is after that when I roll over without opening my eyes and reach out to feel Piero sleeping beside me. Or apparently not. Because he takes my outstretched hand and kisses my fingertips.

‘Hey, sleepyhead,' he says, and I open my eyes to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed.

‘How long have you been up?'

He shrugs and smiles. ‘A while. It's almost ten.'

‘You're kidding.' I sit up and run my hands through my hair. We were so beat when we came in last night that we virtually passed out, but even so I feel stiff, as if I've been in a wrestling match. The dancing. I'm getting too old for my scarecrow act. ‘I must have slept ten hours. I think my muscles have atrophied.'

‘Have a hot bath.' Piero stands up. ‘I'll run it for you.'

The night comes back as I watch him walk towards the bathroom: the sickly shifting lights, the weird white penitents, Billy and Kirk fighting. The awful dinner.

‘Did you?' I ask suddenly.

Pierangelo turns round and smiles at me, his hand on the bathroom door. ‘Yes,
piccola
,' he says. ‘I told you I would, and I did. First thing this morning.'

‘And?'

Pierangelo laughs and goes into the bathroom. I hear water start in a gush. ‘Ispettore Pallioti sends you his best wishes,' he calls.

By the time I get out of the bath, the table is set. There are pastries and fruit and coffee and a vase of roses in the centre. And the Sunday paper. Two copies. Pierangelo's article on D'Erreti is a six-page spread. ‘Fifty Years Lived in the Shadow of God.' We read in silence, cups of coffee in hand.

The piece is at least partially in honour of the fact that this Saturday, the day before Easter, is Massimo D'Erreti's fiftieth birthday. Pierangelo runs through his career in the church, concentrating especially on his early missionary work in Africa, where D'Erreti was heavily influenced by some of the more right-wing African bishops. He was tagged as a star from early on, and by the time he did a stint in the States and returned to Italy in the early nineties, his mindset was pretty well gelled.

His investiture as the Bishop of Florence was, D'Erreti claims, an occasion for humility, a chance to serve the native city he so dearly loves, and I understand at once part of the reason Pierangelo identifies with him, albeit reluctantly. Not only are they the same age and both love Florence, something Piero considers virtually a moral duty, but Massimo D'Erreti is apparently a genuine populist, something I know Pierangelo admires. I wonder if, having lived through the same decades and come to virtually opposite—but equally strongly held—conclusions, they're flip sides of the same coin, one politically left, one politically right.

I look at the top of Pierangelo's head as he bends over some other article, his curls showing a faint tinge of grey, and understand his frustration, why he had such a hard time with this article.
Massimo D'Erreti, Man of the People
. The cardinal's been working on the performance all his life and it plays well, so it must be frustrating as hell to know what really lies underneath, and have to figure out how to reveal it. The original Savonarola at least was ugly.

The next page is given over almost entirely to pictures, which is what caused Piero such a headache earlier this week. Digging them out was hard enough, especially the early ones, and verifying them and providing accurate captions was a nightmare. I see D'Erreti as a young man, newly ordained and at seminary, and even before that, as an altar boy. Then there's one of a row of children sitting outside a building, motley and unhappy, a priest standing on either side of them. D'Erreti is the third from the left, a wimpy-looking little boy who looks cold in dark shorts and lace-up shoes. School, I think. Then I read the caption, and my heart flutters. ‘Raised as a foundling by the church, the young Massimo found refuge in God and felt his calling early.'

I stare at the page in front of me. Now I understand the other part of Pierangelo's
sympatico
, even fascination, for the cardinal. It's the instinctive tug that makes him recognize one of his own, like me with pictures of the dead women, makes him see, perhaps, if circumstances had been just a little different—if there had been no loving aunt to take him in, no uncle to be his father instead of God—what he might have been. It's not just that Massimo D'Eretti and Pierangelo Sanguetti are both idealists with a special love for Florence; it's that they're both orphans.

I get up and wind my arms around Piero's shoulders, rest my cheek on the top of his head. He reaches up absently and takes my hands, his fingers lacing through mine.

It's after five p.m. when the telephone rings and Pierangelo comes back from answering it to ask me if I want to drive out and have dinner with some friends of his in Tavarnuzze. Nothing fancy, he says, but they have a villa to die for. I'll like the buildings. This is a tease, of course. He knows perfectly well I want to go. I know almost none of his friends, and I'm eager to meet them. But I won't go dressed like this, in my clothes from last night. My hair is clean, but I want my makeup. Earrings. Shoes and a dress. Piero shrugs. No problem, he says. We'll stop by on the way out of town so I can change.

It's still pouring when we get there. The wind has come up and splats of rain hit the side of the car so hard it feels like someone's throwing buckets of water at us. Piero pulls up opposite our building and I tell him to stay put and listen to his favourite CD of Puccini arias, I won't be more than fifteen minutes.