And here was Roxana, doing her a favour, regardless.
‘No,’ Marisa had said, watching Roxana and Val.
‘But it’s him,’ Roxana had said.
‘Yeah, it is,’ Val had said, looking at Marisa curiously. ‘It’s Gio. Josef, from the Carnevale.’
Roxana had felt her brain whir as she said it.
I knew it
, a small voice was insisting,
I knew there was a connection
. But the rest of it was just crazy static. It didn’t make sense.
‘Seems like it,’ Val had said. He had shrugged. ‘Weird, huh?’ Giving every impression of not understanding the weirdness of it at all.
‘We should call him,’ Roxana had said decisively, and that was when Marisa had been galvanized into action. ‘Cellini. I have his number somewhere.’
‘No,’ she’d said. ‘No way, not on company time, not on company phones.’
‘But it’s him,’ Roxana had said.
‘You didn’t recognize him?’ Val had been looking curiously at Marisa.
Marisa’s jaw had set. ‘A guy from the porn cinema,’ she had said, her voice flat and cold, not even a raised eyebrow.
‘I didn’t mean—’ Val had looked alarmed. ‘No, I just meant, he’s in once a week, you must have seen him.’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ she had said. ‘He could be Il Cavaliere, Berlusconi, for all I care. I’ve given that detective enough of my time; I told him I might have seen him in with Claudio. Is it going to help the bank, looking for this – this guy? No.’
‘He was pretending to be Claudio,’ Roxana had said, to herself, her eyes on the picture. There was something about it – so cheap, so poorly reproduced – that had made her sorry. The girl’s face, she looked so happy hanging on to this – fake. Pretending to be Claudio? It didn’t make sense.
‘I guess maybe it’s this girl that’s looking for him,’ she had said slowly. ‘Although he didn’t say it. Sandro Cellini.’ She felt in her jacket pocket: was that where she’d put his card?
Staring each other down like cat and dog, Marisa and Val had paid her no attention.
‘All right,’ Roxana had said. ‘I’ll call him when work finishes.’
Reluctantly, Marisa had shifted her gaze and nodded stiffly. ‘Only an hour to go,’ she’d said, the expensive gold watch sliding down her smooth brown forearm as she raised her slim wrist to look at the dial. ‘You can follow me on your Vespa. To my place.’
I can, can I?
Now the automated gates swung smoothly closed behind them as Roxana dismounted on to the gravel path. The air up here was different. It was different for the rich, all right. It smelled of roses and wet grass; a sprinkler was rotating beside the big, square villa, a glittering rainbow behind the flowerbeds.
There were two cars parked against the villa: the Cinquecento and a little canary-yellow Punto. The other inhabitants of the villa must be away for the summer, as Marisa would have been if Claudio hadn’t been so inconveniently killed. Or inconveniently killed himself.
Marisa was still in the car, tapping something into her mobile. As Roxana watched, she climbed out and briefly her long-legged frame stuck in the car’s low-slung door; she looked uncomfortable, wrong, awkward. And for a second Roxana wondered whether it was all made up, all an illusion. She hadn’t gone with Paolo on Thursday, Val had said. What if this wasn’t really her place and Marisa was housesitting, she was squatting, her boyfriend and his yacht didn’t really exist at all, it was borrowed, all borrowed? What next? She’d got her tan at a campsite, her clothes from a discount outlet?
Marisa put the phone away. ‘Paolo,’ she said briefly. ‘He’s in Elba.’ And strode past Roxana towards the villa’s vast door.
Sweetly Val had whispered to her as they’d left Marisa’s office, ‘I’ll call him. The private detective guy.’
And he’d quickly gone to the spot by the door where you got the best signal and dialled the number, while Roxana had looked from her counter at Val hunched over his phone, then at the closed door to Marisa’s office, and back again at Val. Urging him on.
It had been almost a relief when he’d hung up, shaking his head, and hurried back to his post. ‘Engaged,’ he hissed, sliding back into his seat. ‘Busy guy.’
Roxana had realized she wanted to talk to Sandro Cellini herself, anyway. Not here, though, not in the toxic gloom of the bank, where everyone could hear everything she said.
Why was that?
she asked herself, hurrying across the gravel after Marisa, who was impatiently holding open the heavy door. The scent of roses and jasmine was almost too much, along with the hypnotic motion of the sprinkler and the sense that there were servants, discreet and well-trained, hovering just out of sight.
Why did she want to talk to Sandro Cellini? There’d been something in the man’s eyes, something of her father’s look as he stood in the
cantina
by his jars of nails, turning some part of machinery over in his oil-stained hands and working out what it did and how to fix it.
Damn, thought Roxana, and in a moment of panic she stuffed her hands in her pockets, looking for it. Had she given it to Val? Cellini’s card. Would he be in the phone book? Roxana was in the phone book, sensible ordinary people didn’t have any problem with being in the phone book – and then there it was, dog-eared but intact, in her shirt pocket.
‘Coming,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ And slipped inside.
Marisa had the ground floor of the villa: cool, even in weather like this. They came into a wide, dim hallway, pale flagstones on the floor, two sets of double doors on either side of it. There was a smell of polish, of wood and leather and cold stone: all seemed chill, clean, empty of life.
‘Hello?’ Marisa called out, her voice high-pitched and strained. Roxana saw her look down and as her eyes adjusted she noticed that a small neat suitcase stood beside a console table. Marisa’s shoulders relaxed just a little. ‘Ah, Irene?’
The doors on their left opened. ‘Hello, Marisa.’ Irene Brunello stood there a moment, looking from Marisa to Roxana with weary doubt. She seemed much smaller than Roxana remembered from her occasional visits to the bank, sometimes with a young child in tow. Smaller and more uncertain, but dignified.
‘You remember Roxana?’ said Marisa with a stiff gesture. ‘She wanted – she just wanted –’
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry,’ said Roxana, taking a step towards Irene Brunello then stopping abruptly. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Irene Brunello stepped back hurriedly, disappearing into the room, leaving the doors open behind her. There was a quick intake of breath – surely not impatience? – then Marisa went in after her. After a moment’s hesitation Roxana followed. This was a mistake.
Irene Brunello was blowing her nose, and pulling on a jacket. ‘Thank you,’ she said, not looking anyone in the eye. ‘Miss Delfino, Roxana, I didn’t mean to – thank you. It’s just that I haven’t got used to – to this, yet. My mother keeps calling me. The police keep calling me.’ She sat down abruptly on the sofa.
Marisa seemed rooted to the spot.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Roxana asked desperately. ‘A glass of water? A glass of – anything? Brandy?’
‘I’m driving,’ said Irene Brunello, pushing her handkerchief into her pocket. ‘I – it’s time for me to go back to the children. I can’t make arrangements for the – for the – for Claudio’s funeral, they say I can’t do that yet. I have to tell the children.’
Roxana sat beside her and took her hand. It felt cold. ‘Your mother’s with them?’ she said.
Irene nodded. ‘At the seaside,’ she said, with such desperate mournfulness that Roxana felt like crying herself.
‘You don’t mind if I have one?’ said Marisa, her back to them. Roxana heard something clink and smelled whisky.
‘They’ll be all right, for a bit,’ said Roxana. ‘They’ll be asleep by the time you get back, won’t they?’
Irene looked at her, struggling to regain composure.
‘You can’t tell them at night,’ said Roxana, knowing she was right. ‘You have to do it in the morning.’
Irene frowned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’
Marisa came over and sat on the opposite sofa, nursing a large tumbler of amber liquid on her narrow knees.
‘The police called?’ she said, her tone made careless by the whisky.
‘They came by,’ said Irene, sitting there with her hands in her lap clasped so tight the knuckles were white. ‘I went with them to our apartment. There was nothing, I told them, nothing was out of place, everything was normal.’ There was a tremor then to her voice. ‘The gas and the water were switched off, just as we always leave them, there was no sign that anyone had been there, but they took things from his desk, anyway.’
‘Things?’ said Marisa distantly. ‘Do they know anything yet?’
Roxana tensed: the question seemed so brutal. Irene Brunello looked at Marisa curiously, as if she didn’t know her. ‘I don’t think they do,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘They just ask me questions. More questions. They never answer any.’
‘What questions?’ Marisa took another slug from her tumbler, and Roxana stared at her, willing her to shut up. Saw the greedy expression in her eyes and it occurred to her that Marisa was a drunk. Maybe she usually had it under control, maybe she was just good at hiding it.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, keeping hold of Irene Brunello’s hand. ‘You don’t need to go over it again.’
Irene showed no sign of having heard, staring at the long window open on to the grass and the rainbow shed by those sprinklers spinning to and fro. ‘I don’t think I would like to live here,’ she said and turned to look Marisa in the eye. ‘It’s too quiet. I need to hear – something. To hear other people. The children.’
Marisa looked away from her, down into her glass. She could pretend to be embarrassed by the non sequitur, but Irene was right. It
was
too quiet out here.
Detaching her hand gently from Roxana’s, Irene sat up very straight. ‘The questions didn’t make sense to me,’ she said. ‘They asked me if we had money worries, then if we’d had a windfall recently. They asked me if the bank was in trouble. They asked me how Claudio was behaving when there was talk of a takeover of the bank, a few months ago.’
She shook her head. ‘I said, we were careful with money, always: that didn’t change. I said, Claudio dealt with all the money matters. I said, Claudio took everything seriously.’ She was sitting very still and Roxana saw that it was becoming harder and harder for her, not breaking down. ‘He was honest. He was an honest man.
‘It wasn’t the normal thing, to go to the big supermarket in La Spezia, because it was cheaper. Only I think now that was an excuse. He never went to the supermarket, he was coming to Florence to meet someone, and he knew I would be angry, so he told a lie. He was coming to Florence all the time.’ The words came out in a rush. Roxana saw Marisa was very careful not to raise her head.
‘They said that?’ asked Roxana gently.
Irene shook her head. ‘They said they’d been in contact with the mobile phone company and at ten o’clock someone had called Claudio’s mobile, from Florence, on a prepaid phone, bought God knows where, not registered. They asked me if I recognized the number.’
‘Did you?’ Marisa’s eyes were fixed intently on Irene now, and Roxana wondered for a second whether she’d been brought out here to play the part of good cop in Marisa’s planned interrogation.
‘I know it wasn’t your number, Marisa,’ said Irene. ‘It’s all right.’ The two looked at each other with a strange sort of calm. Irene turned back to Roxana.
‘I didn’t recognize it,’ she said dully. ‘But I don’t have a good memory for numbers. When all you have to do is press a button on the phone, you don’t need to remember a number any more.’
She looked at Roxana. ‘I wonder,’ and as she said this she tilted her head stiffly as if to relieve some pain. ‘Did I leave too much to him? Would a good wife have known all about bank accounts and mobile phones and takeovers?’
‘You did know,’ said Roxana gently, not knowing where the words were coming from. ‘You knew your husband inside out, he relied on you for everything. You were a good wife. You are a good mother.’
On the far sofa Marisa made a stifled sound and got to her feet, stalking back to the liquor cabinet on her long legs.
Irene didn’t even turn her head.
‘I don’t know,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I don’t know anything any more. How could this happen to us?’
‘Terrible things do happen,’ said Marisa, leaning back against the cabinet with her newly filled glass in her hand. ‘We manage not to think about them, that’s all.’ But her voice was cool and distant.
Irene Brunello did turn her head then and looked at Marisa for a long moment, before getting to her feet, smoothing her skirt carefully, buttoning her jacket. When she spoke her voice was steady again. ‘I should go,’ she said. ‘If I leave now, I will be – will be home by nine. At the sea, I mean. By nine.’ She smiled tentatively down at Roxana. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘It was good of you.’
Roxana stood too. ‘You know how to get hold of me,’ she said. ‘If you – if you need – if I can help.’
‘I know how to get hold of you?’
‘You called my home. When …’ And Roxana saw Irene Brunello’s face crumple.
‘I did,’ she said, ‘oh, I did.’ Catching a sob in her throat. ‘When I didn’t know where he was, I was desperate.’ She passed a hand over her face. ‘What was I thinking of? I called Inquiries for numbers all over the place, anyone I could think of.’ Her hand stopped at her mouth, covering it. ‘God. I talked to your mother.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Roxana, wishing she hadn’t said anything. ‘Of course you phoned. We would all have done the same.’
She didn’t even bother to look over at Marisa to recruit her. Marisa wouldn’t have called anyone. Irene’s shoulders dropped, as if she was close to exhaustion.
Gently, Roxana put a hand under her elbow, guiding her towards the door, edging her out, Marisa watching their every step without moving until they were out in the hall. Then Roxana heard the heavy clunk of the tumbler put back down on the sideboard, and at the front door Marisa appeared beside them. Irene picked up her bag.
While they’d been inside, the light had faded and in the dusk the roses glowed against the luminous green of the grass, the sprinklers only audible as the faintest rhythmic swish.