The Faces of Angels (33 page)

This time, Billy's made a sort of spiral. The outer circle are scenes that feature Florence: Ghirlandaio's pictures from the life of Mary with the Loggia dei Lanzi in the background, di Bonaiuto's scenes from the Spanish Chapel, a marriage procession on its way to the Baptistery, the Santa Trinità from Stradano's fresco in Palazzo Vecchio. And of course, the burning of Savonarola.

As the pictures circle inwards, the city recedes and groups of people become more prominent. There's Piero della Francesca's eerie resurrection from Sansepolcro, the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Brancacci Chapel, and a bunch of others: Christ mocked from San Marco, spat at and whipped by disembodied heads and hands, a Giotto crucifixion, a St Sebastian I can't place, a naked woman with a halo and long dark hair covering her body, and another holding a tray. After that, the postcards spiral inwards in a series of Madonnas. Botticelli, Simone Martini, Michelangelo, Raphael. And the photo of Billy as a Perugino.

Without meaning to, I give a slight start because right in the centre of the coil there's a postcard of a painting I've never seen, but recognize anyways. A young man raises his sword and drives creatures, fleeing, from a garden. They stumble and crawl and fly, and among them is a monkey with the face of an old woman. Her breast is wizened, arms scraggly, and she walks upright, four red bags dangling from her bony naked shoulders.

It's grotesque. Billy must have looked all over to find it, combed the postcard kiosks and museum shops. Who knows? Maybe she even went to Mantua to retrieve this trophy. Because that's clearly what it is—the centrepiece of her collection that she's left here, displayed on the living-room rug for me to see.

Forget performance art, this is make-your-point art. Rub-Mary's-nose-in-it art. I sit there for a second staring at the snake coil of images, then I get up and leave the room, slamming the door behind me.

It's all I can do not to go back into the living room and slew Billy's postcards across the floor. But I don't. She did this to get a reaction out of me, just like she tried to goad me in front of all the others on Saturday night, or left my make-up all messed up on my bureau, and I'm damned if I'll give her the satisfaction. I feel as if we're in a sort of silent battle of the wills, and I have to marshal my forces. Telling her anything was a mistake, I think. Really, really stupid. I should have followed my instincts and shut up. I take a long bath to calm down, and afterwards I apply myself to cleaning the kitchen with grim determination.

I scrub and polish and dust, even stand on the table and take a few wipes at the chandelier. Then I wash the outside table and chairs and sweep our little balcony, sending a shower of grit and what look like seeds cascading over the edge, down past, and very possibly through, Signora Raguzza's open window. I am considering washing the French windows when the phone rings.

I know it won't be Pierangelo because he always uses my cell phone, so it's probably for Billy. I stand in the hall for a second, my hand on the living-room door knob, wondering if I should just let it go through to the machine. Then I figure it might be Henry, or someone else looking for me, and answer it. As I reach for the receiver on Signora Bardino's little ormolu desk, I'm extra careful to step over the postcards, not disturb a single one.

‘Bill?' the voice on the other end says when I pick up, and it takes me a second to realize it's Kirk.

‘It's Mary,' I say. ‘Sorry, she's not here.'

There's a longish pause. ‘Well,' he says finally, ‘do you know where she is?'

Despite the fact that Kirk can't see me, I shake my head. I guess I was assuming they'd made their fight up and she was over there.

‘No idea. I came back a couple of hours ago, but she was already gone when I got here. I thought,' I add, ‘she might be with you.'

Kirk gives a long and theatrical sigh. ‘I don't think she's talking to me. At least, she hasn't replied to any of my messages. Goddam it,' he says. ‘I told her to get a cell, I even offered to buy her one, but she won't let me. I'm sick of pleading with her through Bardino's machine!' I look down at the little black box, but the red number says 0. Billy must have wiped them off.

‘Look, I'm sure she'll get over it,' I say. Although, to be honest, I'm not sure what ‘it' is, and I'm not as optimistic as I sound. Billy can probably stay mad for quite a while—the wiped messages aren't a good sign—but the poor guy sounds so miserable that I feel I have to try to say something positive. ‘Look, if you got her a cell, she probably wouldn't turn it on anyways,' I point out. ‘You know what she's like. She won't even wear her watch. I'll get her to call you,' I add. ‘As soon as she shows up. I promise. You know how she can be.'

‘Yeah. Crazy.'

‘She'll forget about it sooner or later. Probably sooner. Bet you.'

Kirk makes a humming sound as though he's not so sure. ‘Well, I'll be here,' he says finally. ‘And we're supposed to be at the bar tomorrow, for lunch. Signor Catarelli's joining us, at one. I left Billy a message. The poor guy's back from Genoa and La Bardina's dispatching him, as an Easter treat, to explain the inner meaning of the
Primavera
. Catarelli's Botticellis.'

He puts the phone down and I hop my way back out of the room, jumping over Billy's art installation, ‘Very innovative, Bill,' I say out loud. ‘But not convenient.'

Then I write a big note in her purple gel pen: ‘For God's Sake Call Kirk, He's Going Crazy!!!' and stick it on her bedroom door where she can't possibly fail to see it.

In the afternoon I go to the covered market and do all the shopping for Easter weekend. That's our deal: I'll shop if Piero cooks. Then I spend the afternoon reading. When he comes home, we have a drink on the roof terrace while he tells me about a big series they're thinking of doing on Italian female writers, and then he starts dinner while I lie on the couch, listening to the news. My Italian is good enough that I can get most of it, but I still have to concentrate, so the first time he calls from the kitchen, I don't really hear what he's asking. The second time, he sticks his head round the door.

‘Do you want to come to the football tomorrow night? There're tickets for a bunch of us from the office.'

I shake my head. ‘You go, have a good time.'

It's nice of him to ask, but I'm not really a fan, and I know these tickets are precious. Besides, it's good for him to go out and do boy stuff without me. ‘I'll stay at the apartment,' I yell. That way he won't have to worry about coming home smelling of beer. Not that I'd mind. But I ought to make things up with Billy. I'm not mad about the red bags any more, just curious as to what the hell she's been up to.

‘You sure? You're welcome.'

‘I'm sure. Have fun.'

I wave and he vanishes back into the kitchen. A few minutes later he appears again. ‘The big yellow dish,' he says. ‘I swear it was under the sink.'

There's something about the illegal sex trade and human trafficking on the news, and a map with complicated lines I'm trying to follow, so without even thinking I say: ‘Graziella borrowed it.' Then I think,
Oh, shit
, and sit up.

Piero is standing in the kitchen doorway, his head cocked like a dog that's just heard a strange noise. ‘Graziella?' he asks. ‘She came and took it?'

I nod, reach for the remote and turn off the TV.

‘When? Did she leave a note? I didn't see it.'

‘No.' I look at him for a second. There's no way out of this. ‘It was about a week, ten days ago. I was here. I gave it to her.'

Maybe I can do this without actually breaking my promise to Graziella. If he doesn't ask, I won't tell him she was going to Monte Lupo. Or who with.

‘You met her?'

I can't tell whether Pierangelo's annoyed with me or not, and I nod again, trying to read his face.

‘I was here doing laundry. Actually, she frightened the life out of me. I didn't hear her come in. I thought I was by myself, and the next thing I knew, there was somebody in the kitchen.'

Pierangelo thinks about this for a second, then he laughs. ‘Typical,' he says. ‘In Zella's world the intercom was never invented. So,' he asks, ‘what did you think?'

He doesn't seem to be annoyed with me for not mentioning it, which is a relief.

‘Of Graziella? She's beautiful. Stunning. She looks like you, has your eyes exactly. It's almost creepy. And nice. She was very nice to me,' I add quickly in case he gets the wrong idea.

A wide fatherly smile breaks across Pierangelo's face, and I remember what Graziella said, that she was his child and Angelina was Monika's. Now, looking at her father, it's patently true. He's flushed with pride.

‘Well, I'm glad you liked her,' he says. ‘I've been meaning to introduce you, but with Zella at college…' He shrugs. ‘The plate's a pain, though,' he adds. ‘It's one of my favourites. Let's just hope she doesn't break it. Zella's got a good heart, but she's not the most careful person on earth.' He laughs as he turns back into the kitchen.

I sit on the couch for a second. It feels like a window of opportunity is open here, and if I don't ask now, I might never have the chance again. I get up slowly and follow him into the kitchen.

‘Piero?'

He turns round from whatever he's doing at the stove. With a spatula in one hand and an apron almost as big as Marcello's tied around him, he looks like one of those TV celebrity chefs.

‘When Graziella was here—' I take a breath, feeling as though I have to say this all right now, really fast, or I might never say it at all. ‘When she was here,' I start again, ‘she said something about your mother.'

Something happens to Pierangelo's eyes. Their pale warm green dulls, as if he's retreated behind them, taken a step back inside his own head. ‘What?' His voice even sounds flat.

Damn, I think, this was a mistake. But I can't stop now. I screw up my courage and spit it out. ‘She said that you and Monika were fighting over Monte Lupo, that Monika wanted it, but that she shouldn't get it because it belonged to your mother. Your real mother. When I asked her what she meant, Graziella said that you never really knew her. That you were raised by your aunt and uncle. It wasn't Zella's fault,' I add quickly. ‘I mean, she assumed I knew.'

Pierangelo stands there looking at me and I honestly have no idea what he's thinking. He puts the spatula down, slowly, turns the stove off so whatever it is he's got in the sauté pan won't burn, and walks to the refrigerator. He opens it and takes out some white wine. ‘Want some?'

‘Sure.'

Pierangelo pours us two glasses, slowly, as if now it's him weighing up what to say, what to tell me and not tell me. ‘What else did Zella say?'

He hands me my glass and I shrug, choosing my words carefully. I've got poor Graziella in enough trouble already. ‘Just that,' I say finally. As if ‘that' wasn't enough.

Pierangelo looks as though he doesn't believe me, or knows Graziella better. ‘Nothing about Angelina?' He sips his wine. ‘Or her mother?'

‘Oh sure.' This is almost a relief, I was working myself up to lying to him about the boyfriend. ‘She said Monika was angry with you. That she blamed you for everything, and that Angelina sided with her, but she'll probably come round. She also said Monika was crazy,' I add. ‘Crazy as a bug, actually.' I leave out that she called her mother a bitch.

Pierangelo actually smiles. ‘Well, she's right there.' He shakes his head. ‘Monika's a very unhappy woman. Partly my fault. She's been very unhappy for a long time, and she blames me. According to her, I ruined her life.' He sips again, swishes the wine around in his mouth and swallows. Then he says, ‘Angelina no longer loves me.'

‘I'm sure that's not true.' Pierangelo has made the words matter-of-fact, but I can hear the hurt underneath. ‘Really. She's just hurt. She's just trying to defend her mother. From what Graziella said, Monika makes it that way.'

Pierangelo shakes his head. ‘You don't know Angelina,' he says, and turns back to the stove.

I watch his back for a second. Then I put my glass down and come up behind him, put my arms around his waist and lay my cheek against his back. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the fine material of his shirt. He pats my hand.

‘She'll get over it,' I insist. But Pierangelo doesn't say anything.

Finally I kiss his back, let go of him and retrieve my glass.

‘She will.' I take a sip of the cold wine and feel a pang of relief as he smiles at me over his shoulder, normal again. I thought his mother would be the sore point, I had no idea about Angelina. Probably, I think, this has more to do with the rivalry between the sisters, each of them staking out a parent, than with Piero himself. And it doesn't sound as though Monika helps.