A Florentine Death (14 page)

'Can you manage?' he asked. 'If you don't mind, I won't see you upstairs. I have an article to finish and fax by tomorrow morning. Good night.'

Cheering up, Valentina climbed the first flight of stairs, looking in her handbag for the key to her apartment as she did so.

On the second floor, sure that he hadn't followed her, she breathed a sigh of relief. She felt better now. Or so she thought.

Outside her door, she hesitated, and listened carefully for the sound of footsteps on the landings. Nothing.

She put the key in the lock with a somewhat abrupt gesture. An observant psychologist would have said she was angry.

Father Francesco divided the mail according to who it was addressed to. The bigger of the two piles was for Don Sergio, who was in charge of book-keeping and had to check the many bills and invoices they received. But today, unusually, there was also a letter addressed to him personally.

'These are for you,' he said, handing out the envelopes to Don Sergio, who was sitting opposite him on the other side of the desk. Aren't you going to open them?'

'Yes, of course,' Don Sergio hastened to reply, and started looking at them slowly, one by one.

It seemed to Father Francesco that Don Sergio had been behaving strangely lately. More strangely than usual. Something was bothering him, some secret that, despite all Father Francesco's discreet attempts, he was reluctant to reveal.

Don Sergio was carefully sorting the mail into categories: bills, final demands, requests for help, a few rare contributions from generous parishioners. He had not yet opened the letter addressed to him personally.

'What about that one?' Father Francesco asked. He knew he was prying, but he considered it justified. He was genuinely worried about the young priest, even though he refrained from showing it openly.

Don Sergio opened the last envelope. When he saw what it contained, a confused look came into his eyes and his face turned pale.

'Bad news?' Father Francesco asked, concerned.

'Personal,' was all Don Sergio said, his voice sounding dry and ghostly.

'Observe particularly the interplay of lines and colours. See how the straight lines of the spears form a harmonious contrast to the deliberately accentuated roundness of the crossbows and the horses. And how the bright yellows and oranges, and the unusual blue of the fallen horses at the bottom here - can you all see them? - emphasise the noise of the battle, almost relegating to second place the fighting itself, which merges with the dark colours of the landscape in the background.'

They were in Room 7 of the Uffizi Gallery. It was six days after their dinner at Buca Lapi, Valentina's first visit to the Uffizi and the second time her American friend and landlord had taken her out.

The guide was explaining Uccello's
Battle of San Romano
to a group of bored, rowdy students.

Mike gestured to her to follow him. 'Let's skip this room, we can come back another day. These kids are unbearable. We must get to the next room before they do!'

Room 8 contained seven paintings by Filippo Lippi, including the wonderful and very modern
Madonna with Child and Two Angels,
with its angel looking out at the spectator and its landscape like a separate painting.

'Brilliant, extraordinary,' Mike Ross said. 'My favourite painter. He's a bit like me.'

'In what way?'

'Well, he was an orphan, too. Abandoned by his widowed mother in front of the Monastery of Santa Maria del Carmine.' 'Were you . . .?'

'I'll tell you one day. When we know each other better.' He gave an ambiguous smile. 'The difference between him and me is that he liked women.'

Valentina was startled. Did that mean he . . .?

'Too much in fact,' he went on. 'He couldn't stop himself. And he was a monk. Not that that means anything. Priests and monks have always got up to all sorts of things. In the fifteenth century, and now, too. Filippo Lippi was so hot-blooded that when he was working for Cosimo de' Medici, Cosimo had to lock him in until he was finished, otherwise he'd have been out chasing skirts. They say he once climbed out the window using the classic ploy of tying the bedsheets together to make a rope!'

'Do you mean . . . you're gay?' Valentina finally blurted out, more interested in Mike than in the exploits of a Renaissance painter who sounded like a character from Boccaccio. She'd had to stop herself from adding the word 'too' to her question.

Of course, if he was, that would explain a lot of things. Why he didn't flirt with her, for a start. Why he had seemed so fascinated by the statues of powerful male nudes outside the Palazzo Vecchio, why every now and again his voice sounded oddly affected.

'Hold on, kid. Don't you think you're getting a bit personal?

That's another thing I'll tell you one day. But not now, and especially not here.'

'You seem to have a lot of things to tell me. And we don't have to stay here. I've already had enough. If I see any more masterpieces my brain will turn to mush. This museum's too big.'

'You're right. Every time we come, we should concentrate on just one or two things that interest us. That's the best way to see a big collection like the Louvre or the Met.'

'Shall we go, then?'

All right, but not to talk about me. I still have something to show you. In fact, it's the reason I invited you out. It's very near here, in San Lorenzo. And there, there's no danger your brain will turn to mush, as you put it. It's a very small collection. But your eyes will pop out of your head.' He smiled enigmatically. 'I can guarantee that.'

They left the gallery.

It was eleven o'clock on a cold, damp day in the last week of January.

They cut across the Piazza della Signoria, where an icy wind was blowing, to the Via dei Calzaiuoli - so called, Mike explained, because the hosiery merchants had their shops here from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries.

Valentina felt uncomfortable. She didn't know whether to be irritated or amused that an American was telling her, an Italian, all about Italian artists and Italian cities. And she didn't know if the fact that her friend might be gay reassured or disappointed her.

It would certainly pacify Cinzia when she told her. But would she tell her? Mike had implied that it was an aspect of his life about which he preferred to be discreet, that he would open up only when he was sure she was worthy of his trust. Could she betray him before he had even talked to her?

Besides, she and Cinzia hadn't been in touch very often.

Four times in all, since she had left Bologna. They had not made peace, but they had agreed to a kind of truce over the phone, promising each other that they would meet again soon, in Bologna or Florence, but 'as friends'.

There were times, though, when she missed Cinzia, when she missed her a lot. Times when she would have liked to make love to her all night. She often woke from her sleep and these thoughts would keep her awake through hours of slow agony, haunted by memories of the past. All she needed was a sign and she would have run downstairs, got in her car, and left that enchanting house in Bellosguardo for ever, without a second thought.

Perhaps at times like those, she thought, she was like Filippo Lippi. But there were no sheets long enough to let her down from her terrace and take her all the way to Cinzia's apartment in Bologna. Or she just wasn't as brave as that old painter.

Not far from the Cathedral and the Baptistry, they came to the Romanesque church of San Lorenzo, with its austere unfinished facade.

'Michelangelo designed a facade,' her 'guide' explained, 'but it was never realised. Let's go in.'

It was a relief. The church was not particularly warm, but compared with the cold outside, it was comfortable.

'This way,' he said.

He led the way to Lippi's
Annunciation.
'Don't you think it's remarkable?' 'The painting?'

'The resemblance,' he said, almost astonished that she had not noticed it right away.

'To the Madonna in the Uffizi, you mean?' Valentina asked, uncomprehending.

'No, no, they're very different. Look closely, doesn't she remind you of anyone?'

She looked at the beautiful Madonna - eyes lowered, hand raised in an eloquent gesture, clothes softly draped in such a way as to suggest her coming pregnancy - and still she did not understand. Who was the Madonna supposed to remind her of? A famous actress? A model?

She gave him a blank look.

He looked back at her, a mixture of surprise and amusement in his eyes. 'Don't you ever look at yourself in the mirror, kid?'

Valentina almost laughed out loud. Her? A Madonna? Was he mad? If only he knew, she thought. Maybe he was gay, maybe he wasn't. But there was nothing pure or holy about her! Yes, that was something she could tell Cinzia: Valentina the Madonna!

'It's you,' he insisted, in all seriousness.

'Stop it now,' she said, starting to get a little annoyed. 'Let's

go-'

The Madonna's distracted gaze now seemed like a silent rebuke.

'Look at the line of the nose, the lips. The oval shape of the face. It's you. Even those wisps of blonde hair emerging from beneath the headcloth, just like yours the day you were wearing the purple bandana, do you remember? When I first saw you I was stunned. I'd just been here for the umpteenth time, because it's my favourite place in all Florence, and I thought history was playing a trick on me. It was as if you'd stepped straight out of the picture, changed your clothes and come to meet me in Greve.'

'Let's go, please,' she said, almost imploring.

On Monday 31 January Don Sergio Rotondi walked past the church of San Salvatore al Vescovo. It was raining so hard, his umbrella barely covered him, and his shoes and the bottoms of his trousers were soaked. When he got to Number 3, Piazza San Giovanni, he went in.

Inside the Curia of the Archbishop of Florence there was a sense of discreet elegance, and a muffled murmur that testified to the constant activity of those priests assigned to the administration of the diocese.

When he had explained the purpose of his visit, Don Sergio was directed to an office on the first floor, the office of Monsignor the Archbishop.

As he climbed the stairs, he turned the letter over nervously in his hands.

He had to wait twenty minutes before being admitted to another, smaller office. Here he was greeted by a prelate of about sixty, with beautifully groomed white hair. His small hands were equally well cared for, and he moved them gracefully as he spoke. 'Please sit down. I am Monsignor Federici. His Eminence has asked me to examine your case. Yours is a very, very unusual request.'

'I realise that.'

'I assume you've given it a lot of thought.' 'I have no choice.'

Monsignor Federici was watching him closely, his chin in his right hand, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed. 'The Church is no longer as inclined as it once was to . . . turn a blind eye, if you know what I mean. If the media get hold of the story

'But the Church can make exceptions.'

'If there are very, very serious reasons why it should. The Church can do anything - with the help of God.'

'Isn't a corrupted soul serious enough?'

The prelate thought this over. 'Have you brought the letter, as I asked?'

Don Sergio held it out to him.

The prelate took it, put on a pair of half-moon glasses and studied it.

'Good,' he said. 'I think His Eminence will receive you. I hope you're just as convincing when you speak to him. The Archbishop of Florence is a holy man, but he hates being bothered unnecessarily. He has many important duties to attend to in the diocese.'

He stood up and walked to the door. 'Wait for me,' he said, and went out.

He soon returned.

'Please follow me.'

5

Busy with the Monster of Florence case as well as the Lupi murder, Ferrara had not yet had time to show the anonymous message to his friend Massimo.

He finally did it on the last Saturday of that cold, harsh January, just before leaving for Sicily. Outside the bookshop, the rain was forcing pedestrians to take shelter in shops and doorways or, if they absolutely had to get on with their business, to hug the walls in order to take advantage of the overhanging roofs.

Massimo examined the letter for a long time, puffing calmly at a black pipe with a silver ring. Tm not that good at riddles,' he said at last. 'Maybe you could ask one of those people who do puzzles for newspapers. They must have an e-mail address and would just love to have people contact them with problems like yours!'

'I don't think it'd be appropriate in this case,' Ferrara grunted. 'This isn't a game.' He hesitated for a moment. 'It's not the first one I've received.'

'Well, that may help us. What did the others say?'

'There was only one. To be honest, I don't even know if they're connected. It was very different, more like a threat. The Latin motto
Memento mori,
do you know it?'