The Faces of Angels (38 page)

‘And Mantua.'

Something that might be a smile flicks across his face. ‘And Mantua,' he agrees. ‘Actually,' he adds, ‘it will cover the whole country. Even Sardinia. She's not missing, technically, but I think we'd like to talk to her.'

He pulls an envelope out of his inner pocket and pours the seeds from the paper cup into it as I stand up and Pierangelo puts his arm around me. ‘And perhaps tomorrow,' he says, ‘if you have a moment to drop one at my office, a picture would be helpful.'

‘I have one here.'

This morning I transferred the photo of Billy and me from my back pocket to my wallet. Now, as I take it out and hand it to Pallioti, I get a brief glimpse of me with my hair in my face, the little table littered with glasses, and Billy, smiling.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
when I get up, Piero is already in his study. He takes my hand, kisses my palm and presses it to his cheek while he scrolls pages down his monitor. When he finally looks at me and sees I'm dressed, he raises his eyebrows.

‘I'm going to the apartment, to see if Billy's back, or has left a message.'

‘Do you want me to come with you?'

I shake my head. ‘I won't be gone long.'

Pierangelo opens his mouth and closes it again, deciding he knows better than to argue. Instead he squeezes my hand. ‘I'll be here,' he says. ‘Call if you need anything.'

If you need anything.
The words go around and around in my head. What could I need? I have everything I ever wanted. Pierangelo. The run of one of the most alluring cities on earth. Next week lectures will start again on the most beautiful buildings, the most magnificent pictures. The weather is turning, summer's coming. I don't have to worry about money. So what could I possibly need? Except for this not to be happening. For Billy to come back. But Pierangelo can't give me that. I lied when I told him I was fine. Last night I had horrible dreams. About Billy's laughter. And things that writhe. About Karel Indrizzio. And the skins of snakes. And drops of blood, crimson and curled as the petals of tulips.

I know, even before I turn my key in the lock, that Billy hasn't been here. There's no sign of her. No clogs left in the hall. No message on the machine. Already the air is gelling, turning solid without our bodies and voices to stir it. Absence builds up like dust.

‘Shit, Billy,' I mutter, standing in the living room. ‘Where are you?'

I don't want to go back to Pierangelo's. And I don't want to call Henry and Kirk and hear that Billy isn't there. I don't actually even want to be inside, boxed by walls. I switch my loafers for my running shoes, and for a perverse few minutes I actually consider going to the Boboli Gardens. It's the same impulse that makes you pick at a scab, eavesdrop on conversations you know you're not going to like, basically do things to make yourself feel worse than you already do.

In the end, however, I give it a miss and head towards the bumblebee houses instead. What Pallioti says makes sense, but I can't understand why Billy would do it. Why deliberately frighten me? We're friends. And yet, if that's not what she's doing, why doesn't she call? Why doesn't she come back and talk to me?

Restless as a caged cat, I prowl past the cars parked in the broad avenue that leads to the Art Institute. Half restored, it sits like a great wrecked battleship, ‘Bravo Mussolini!' spray-painted across its boarded-up windows. People walk dogs and play frisbee, their shouts following me as I pick my way along the worn path to the gap in the railings and slip into the world beyond. Like Alice through the looking glass.

Grouped around their toy piazza, the little houses are as neat and still as ever. Their glossy doors shine in the sun. Their window boxes are pert with marigolds and pansies. Behind them, the soft grey tops of the olive groves sway in the breeze, while directly in front of me the derelict villa sits like a rotten tooth in the middle of a smile.

Its shutters blister in the sun. The two squat towers perch on the roof, looking as though they might break loose and tumble down. A brand-new chain twists through its door handles like a silver snake. I wander up the side and look down the narrow little alley that separates the villa's rear wall from the house closest to it. The kitchens should be back here, and the garden. Sure enough, when I peer down into the cool darkness, I see ivy climbing over the high wall, and what looks like a fruit tree, its branches long and spindly from lack of pruning, but still sporting blossom, puffballs of white in the overgrown shadows. There's a strong smell of urine. A cat jumps from the wall, saunters through the weeds, and I catch the glitter of broken glass.

Beyond the villa, the little neighbourhood's order is soothing, and I wander along until I come to a dead end at a low stone wall that marks the edge of the groves. San Miniato hovers on the horizon, and up the hill to my right I can see the pretty pink façade of the House of the Birds. Pale shapes of statues stick up from the terrace, probably gods and half-naked ladies, and it's easy to imagine Byron living there or later, the Brownings, sitting out of an afternoon, drinking tea, while the strains of a piano drift down the hill from the villa above, where Tchaikovsky is busy dying.

‘Ha! The Madonna of the Steps!'

The old man has come up behind me so quietly that when I turn round I almost step on his tiny poodle.

‘I know you,' he says, and gives me a toothless grin while the dog wags her stumpy tail.

It takes me a second, then I remember the first time I ran into him. Back then it had been chilly, the wind blowing off the mountains and slapping its way down the valley, but today it's beautiful, almost hot, which doesn't seem to have affected his outfit. He's wearing the same fawn-coloured raincoat and a navy-blue woolen beret, like an ancient member of the French Resistance.

‘Perla,' he commands, tweaking the ancient poodle's leash, ‘say hello to the Madonna of the Steps.' The dog continues to wag her tail and smile at me, blinking her watery eyes.

‘Deaf as a post,' the old man shouts, as I lean down to rub the little poodle behind the ears. ‘Deaf as a post! Just like me!'

Perla wriggles in pleasure while he shakes his head and taps his cane on the sidewalk. ‘It's a crime!' he announces suddenly. ‘To leave a building like that, closed. Abandoned. You like houses?' he asks. He fixes me with his bright black eyes, and I look down towards the tear-streaked villa, its towers sticking up above the bumblebee roofs, and imagine what it must once have been.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘Yes, I do.'

‘So do I.' He shakes his head. ‘And there's no excuse for it. Leave a beautiful house like that. And them with plenty of money. More than God himself.' He bangs his cane on the sidewalk again and lets out a bark of a laugh. ‘God's bankers. And what do they do? Send a caretaker round once a week. A stupid youngster who doesn't even cut the grass, that's what. How can a house live like that?'

He leers at me, his toothless smile stretching over half his face, wrinkles accordioned almost to his ears. ‘A house is like a woman,' he says. ‘It has a soul. And it has to be kept warm. Not with fires. With love!'

Before I can think of a suitable answer to this, my friend yanks on Perla's leash, almost tipping the little dog over. ‘
Arrivederci
.' He turns to go as suddenly as he came, winking at me over his shoulder. ‘Don't be gone so long this time, Madonna of the Steps.'

I walk all the way up to Viale Galileo, and down past the cat colony to the San Niccolo gate, then across the river and up through Santa Croce, and by the time I reach the Palazzo Vecchio, I am in a much better mood. Perla and my French Resistance friend have cheered me up, and I wonder if I've also discovered the secret to brown-field regeneration:
Love your house as you love your wife and both will blossom.
I imagine the poster. Then, as I cross Piazza della Repubblica and see the crowds sitting out at the cafés, I imagine Billy. In Siena, drinking wine in the late-afternoon sun on the Campo. Or by the seaside, eating grapes and telling lies to a new lover. Suddenly I'm certain she'll turn up tomorrow on the Ponte Vecchio, just like she said she would, and express great surprise that anyone might have been worried about her.

The flower seller has set up outside the big bookstore in the arcade and I stop and buy a bunch of daisies for Pierangelo, to apologize for being such a pain yesterday.

He isn't there when I get home, and I'm putting the flowers in a vase, smashing the stems with the handle of a knife, and making sure the water is not too cold for them, when he finally comes in doing what I can only call ‘beaming'. I have seen him look pleased before, but never like this. His whole face is creased in a smile and before I can ask him what's made him so happy, he takes both my hands and kisses them.

‘Ah-ha. Don't ask,' he says. ‘Not one word! I'm taking you out to dinner to celebrate!'

‘What? What is it?' His smile is infectious, and I find myself starting to laugh. ‘Has Pallioti called? Have they found Billy working in a travelling circus?'

Piero dances me round in a little circle in the kitchen. ‘This has nothing to do with Billy,' he says. ‘It has to do with you and me. And don't be so nosy. I'll tell you when we get there.'

‘Get where?'

He names one of the fanciest restaurants in the city, and I look down at my clothes in dismay. Jeans and running shoes.

‘I can't go like this!' I have returned Billy's belt and earrings but, if I hurry, I have time to retrieve them, then I can wear what I wore on Sunday. I start reaching for my bag. ‘What time is the table?'

‘Nu-huh!' He shakes his head and grabs my bag. ‘You're my prisoner!'

Before I can protest, Piero puts my bag back on the kitchen counter and leads me into the living room where he pushes me down on the couch. ‘Stay there,' he says, ‘and close your eyes.'

The box that he places in my lap is huge and tied with a bow. The gold letters spell the name of one of my favourite boutiques, for window shopping. The place is just off Tornabuoni and has price tags I can't even dream of affording.

‘Open it!' Piero commands. He's as excited as a child.

The dress inside is a beautiful blue-green silk, long and sleeveless, and there's a little angora shrug jacket to go with it. Underneath are a pair of high-heeled sandals that match.

‘Do you like it?'

‘It's beautiful. It's perfect!'

The designer is a famous name from Milan. I've never had anything like this before, and I jump up and put my arms around him. ‘Thank you, thank you. I love you,' I whisper in his ear, and Pierangelo laughs and lifts me off the floor.