Christobel Kent - A fine and private place

Frollini. And there he was again, between them, with his tan, his fine moustache, a beautiful villa not far from where Sandro stood, and a shiny sports car. He’d always been very good to Luisa; whenever he met Sandro, perhaps a couple of times a year, he would seize Sandro’s hand between his and shake it vigorously. ‘You’re a lucky man, Cellini,’ he’d say, before clapping him too hard on the shoulder.

On the frosty hillside Sandro made an involuntary, throat-clearing sound of exasperation at the thought of Frollini, at the memory of his own deceitful responses to Luisa last night, and at the pay-off. Served him right.

‘Well,’ he’d said earnestly, ‘that’s fantastic.’ He didn’t know what idea he’d had of what buying meant; Luisa looking through slides, or brochures, perhaps, or surfing to websites? Going to the Florentine shows, Pitti Uomo and the like, and picking out whatever took her fancy for the new season; harmless enough.

Well, up to a point, it had turned out.

‘When do you start?’ he’d said.

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Luisa had replied. ‘He wants me to start going with him to the shows. Frollini does.’

Sandro had felt his smile turn rigid at the thought of the handsome old man in his cashmere suits, holding his car door open for Luisa to climb in. He had a wife, up in the villa; they’d been married forever, their children grown up and working abroad. There’d always been rumours about Frollini and his mistresses, but he was discreet all right. And it came to Sandro that Luisa had always defended her boss against any such charges. ‘He’s not like that,’ she’d always say. ‘He’s not sleazy like that. No.’

But then you’d expect her to say that; loyalty was Luisa’s middle name.

‘Right,’ he’d said, nodding vigorously to cover up the fixity of his expression. ‘Shows. So, when? And where?’ He’d shrugged, with pretend nonchalance. ‘Milan?’

Next to him on the narrow sunlit street someone emerged through the arched side door to the school: the janitor. Sandro had already introduced himself. He’d had to; middle-aged man hanging around outside a school. Grudgingly the man had given him the benefit of the doubt; turned out he was an ex-cop himself.

Sandro nodded; the man nodded back.

Last night, Luisa hadn’t been able to look him in the eye. ‘Actually,’ she had said, and the flush deepened, ‘New York. The next shows are in New York.’

Sandro had nodded, dazed, not even asking the next question because the whole edifice he had constructed — the world in which Luisa would return to her old self and they would spend the weekends and evenings together on sedate meals out, picnics and drives inthe country — was crashing down around him with such calamitous inevitability that he knew there would be no need to help it on its way. She was going to tell him.

‘Next week,’ she’d said, looking up from her hands. ‘Flying out Monday morning early. Back Wednesday.’ Her expression had been half defiant, half guilty. ‘Late, Wednesday.’

He’d been dumbfounded. She was leaving in two days? So it was already arranged. So there was nothing he could do, anyway; feeling anger stir and knot inside him, childishly — ask me? She’s not asking me — Sandro had made a supreme effort.

‘How exciting,’ he’d said numbly. ‘ Mamma mia .’

She’d leaned across and put her arms around him then, having heard his assent; Sandro could feel her softness against him, could smell her sweet familiar scent mingled with the richer smells of cooking and wanted to rage like a thwarted child. He’d said no more; he’d eaten the polpettone , which had smelt so delicious and tasted like nothing but sawdust in his mouth; he’d washed it down with too much Morellino and become too falsely jovial. He hadn’t slept well.

But this was where they were.

The sun was higher in the sky and the wall was warming despite the fine dusting of frost still visible in the valley below; beside Sandro the janitor was taking advantage of it, standing in satisfied contemplation. His bunch of keys dangling from the gate’s lock, he held a lighter in cupped hands around a cigarette, leaned back and let out the blue smoke with deep fulfilment.

It was 8.30 and Carlotta was inside, at school, where she should be.

The janitor turned to Sandro. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how’s it going?’ He nodded at the open gate, and the keys dangling. ‘The surveillance operation?’

The whole scene was so absurdly peaceful, the sharp blue winter light, the dazzle of white stucco, the picturesque, winding lane and the city spread out below them, that the question for a split second made no sense; for that second Sandro had even forgotten why he was there. Then the faint sardonic edge to the question hit him.

‘I saw her with a boy this morning,’ he said roughly. He wouldn’t have this man patronize him.

The janitor took a small circular tin out of his pocket, opened the lid and stubbed out his cigarette in it before shutting it up again with the butt inside. ‘Otherwise I only have to clean it up myself,’ he explained. ‘Tall, skinny boy? Long hair?’

‘That’s the one,’ said Sandro. ‘Is he bad news?’

‘Alberto? Depends how you look at it.’ Tight-lipped. ‘I wouldn’t want my daughter going out with him.’ Then he seemed to take pity on Sandro. ‘Though her parents might not object to him.’ His tone was sarcastic; Sandro looked at him blankly.

‘Very rich,’ said the janitor patiently. ‘One of the old families, but they’ve consolidated; they own half the warehousing in Prato. They’ve got a castle somewhere in the country, keep a yacht in Porto Ercole, mother spends half the year in India somewhere. Goa? She’s there now.’

He looked at Sandro expectantly, waiting for him to ask more. Sandro was damned if he would; he wasn’t interested. Leave it to airheads to buy the celebrity magazines. Goa, though: mostly what he knew about Goa was that there were plenty of drugs there. Or was she one of those religious nuts, yoga and Zen stuff? Either way, this wasn’t the kind of family he liked. As if responding to his expression the janitor laughed sourly. ‘Open house when the old man’s away visiting one of his girlfriends, that’s what I hear. And she’s — she’s a good kid, don’t get me wrong — but she’s not in his league.’

‘Ah,’ said Sandro. ‘I wonder if she’s told them about it. The parents.’

The janitor shrugged, already turning away. ‘Maybe there’s nothing to tell them, anyway,’ he said. ‘He’s just stringing her along.’

Hands in his pockets, Sandro nodded. He was cold.

‘Come back at one,’ said the janitor. ‘School’s out at one today. Get yourself a coffee, you look frozen.’ And he was gone.

Just inside the Porta San Miniato, a little bar was spilling its customers out into the cold air where they were smoking with gloved hands; inside it was warm and bright and bustling with local oddballs and artistic types, and a fat, theatrical, bearded barman served him anexcellent coffee and a pastry. Sandro settled himself down, and dialled Giuli.

At one he headed back up the hill to the Liceo Classico Marzocco. Carlotta Bellagamba was gone. He had lost her.

They called a meeting at eleven in the dining room, for all the staff. Luca Gallo, obviously, was in charge; he ran the place, after all, not her, even if she was called the Director. Dottoressa Loni might host the dinners and greet the guests and talk painting or books with them, but Gallo, who ate at his desk most nights, did everything else. Everything; his crowded office, above the kitchen, was like a general’s bunker; he even had a map of the world on his wall, with pins in it. Each pin represented a guest, past or present; Venezuela, Finland, Mexico, Germany, America, wherever.