Christobel Kent - A Darkness Descending

‘No,’ she began indignantly, pushing his hands away and shoving herself back in the seat. ‘No! Do you think I haven’t got a mind of my own?’

‘That’s the last thing I think, cara .’ He could see her frown at the endearment: he never called her by anything but her name. And saw her decide not to feel patronized. She was growing up, his Giuli. She let out a breath and her narrow frame collapsed a little more in the chair.

‘I just don’t understand this — this Frazione Verde thing.’ He could hear the unease in his own voice. ‘And I don’t like to see you like this. All fired up, all emotional — I don’t know. I like — an even keel. The middle of the road, a quiet life. What do they stand for, after all? Your party.’

Giuli was staring at him. She knew what he was saying, all right. ‘I’m clean, Sandro,’ she said distinctly. ‘I’m not in it for the rush. I love my place, the city, Santo Spirito, the people. And it’s all going to ratshit, isn’t it? This government … I want to — do something for other people, to be part of something. You ask what the Frazione stands for?’

Sandro lifted his head, listening.

‘Change,’ Giuli said defiantly. ‘Concentrating on the local, and working up. Just — change. It feels good, yeah. But it’s the right kind of good.’

Sandro shoved the briefcase with the insurance claim away from him across the scuffed leather of the desktop. Reluctantly he leaned over and turned the computer on under Giuli’s gaze, her arms folded as she waited.

‘What are you, my conscience?’ he said irritably. ‘Bad enough with Luisa at home. I’ve got work to do, you know,’ nodding towards the briefcase. ‘I’ll manage better without you looking over my shoulder.’

‘I’m nobody’s conscience,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I’m just worried about him. Nobody’s telling us anything.’

Sandro leaned back in the chair and examined her fierce, frowning face. ‘Who is there to ask?’ he said.

The frown relaxed, just marginally. ‘That’s the trouble, really,’ said Giuli. “The Frazione — well, it’s grown, kind of, organically.’ Sandro winced at the word: even Giuli seemed embarrassed saying it. What did it mean?

‘Because of that, there aren’t any — any structures,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘Power structures, hierarchy. It’s all very — democratic. The office is a little box room behind the hall, with a couple of computers. We all turn up to the meetings, everyone who wants to can have their say, and Rosselli — well, he kind of listens, then sort of puts our thoughts into order. Reinterprets them.’

‘So what’s the — um — manifesto?’

Giuli shifted, uncertain. ‘It’s to do with local people, and resistance to city hall decisions that affect lives. To do with asking questions.’

‘For example?’

‘Rubbish collection,’ she said, ‘education, local health provision, the clinic. Money pulled for a new nursery and put into roadbuilding for some retail park instead. You’ve heard of the development on the edge of Scandicci? Business interests are being set over people’s interests.’

Sandro looked at her mildly. ‘Isn’t there an argument about economics in there too? Jobs being provided — for local people? Aren’t you being a bit simplistic?’ He was unprepared for the answering flash in her eyes.

‘This country,’ she said. ‘You know as well as I do, those jobs will go to someone’s cousin, someone’s nephew. We might pick up the drudge work. But our community will be changed, invaded. Houses and gardens will go.’

Sandro blinked at her certainty. ‘Maybe you should stand yourself,’ he said. ‘You’re good at this.’ But he felt unaccountably anxious for her: it wasn’t that simple, in the end. She went on staring at him.

‘So who’s in charge?’ He pulled the computer back towards him, and typed the words ‘Frazione Verde’ into the search engine.

‘There’s Rosselli.’ She chewed her lip. ‘There’s a lawyer, too. Was at college with him, I think, his name’s Bastone.’ She hesitated. ‘He was on the stage with him last night, he — well, I don’t know if he knew what was coming, but before Roselli went down, his friend put out his hand, like, to keep him steady or something.’

She took a breath: Sandro scrutinized her, holding his peace.

‘So he’s literally the right-hand man. Otherwise, it’s all very — makeshift still. There’s Rosselli’s wife, of course. She used to be the kind of secretary, taking the minutes, administration, only she’s taken a step back since — are you listening?’

A gaudy page had come up, bright green and ill-designed. Giuli leaned down, beaming. ‘That’s Enzo,’ she said. Sandro frowned: he could only see the same shot of Rosselli that the newspaper had used. ‘I mean, Enzo designed their webpage,’ she said shyly. ‘Democratic, you see.’

Sandro had to restrain himself from shaking his head at the limitations of democracy. ‘I didn’t know he was a web designer,’ was all he said, mildly. Knowing quite well that in fact Enzo was a computer engineer and that design, quite clearly, was not his forte.

‘No, he’s-’ Giuli’s face dropped a little as she broke off, understanding.

‘There’s a number,’ he said, peering down at the page. Giuli shook her head. ‘That’s Rosselli’s home number,’ she said. ‘No one’s answering, or it’s engaged — or off the hook most likely, because people will be calling, won’t they? They must be loving this. Wanting him to fail. Wanting us to fail.’

‘Who?’ Sandro asked, impatiently. ‘Who is this they?’ The look she turned on him almost made him smile, it was so full of pity and contempt. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Feeling that they were at an impasse that could only get worse, he looked back at the screen.

‘He was going to stand as a deputy, with no — no structures in place? No nothing, leaving aside this college friend, this lawyer? No advisors, no manifesto, no platform?’

‘If you can elect a porn star, why not Rosselli?’ said Giuli savagely. ‘Did she have a manifesto?’

‘I believe she did,’ said Sandro drily. They were talking about La Cicciolina, elected in the eighties, though plenty of other jokers had been elected since. ‘Hers involved something about cuddles.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s democracy in action.’ Giuli said nothing, her expression darkening.

Turning to the window, Sandro saw that the air outside was clear and soft and blue. He needed another coffee, and the briefcase on his desk reproached him: real work. ‘Giuli, I don’t know what you want me to do,’ he said.

She perched like a schoolchild on the edge of the chair, hands white-knuckled as she clasped them together. This really had got to her, and he still didn’t know why. ‘What?’ he said gently. ‘Tell me.’

She looked up. ‘Them,’ she said mulishly. ‘Whatever you say — they’re out there. He’s a threat to them. Rosselli — Niccolo. He’s got too powerful, his voice has grown too loud.’

‘Niccolo,’ repeated Sandro. First-name terms, was it? What was this man to Giuli? She looked into his face, imploringly, and he tried not to think that way. Tried instead to think back to a time when he’d been idealistic, had believed in — something. Had he ever? ‘You think he’s in danger? You think there’s some kind of a conspiracy.’

He couldn’t keep the dull scepticism out of his voice. It sounded wrong to him: it sounded false and melodramatic; it didn’t sound like Giuli. ‘But you don’t know who’s behind it. Is this you talking, Giuli? Or some kind of mass hysteria?’

For a long moment they stared at each other and Sandro felt a shiver of foreboding, saw the breach ahead. Had he seen Giuli through so much only for some tinpot little bunch of green zealots to steal her from him?