She was so distracted by weightier matters that she
was lapsing into English and didn’t seem to realize it. He did not complain. When she finished with the festival, she began pointing to the interesting elements in the cathedral—the architecture and construction of the dome, the painting of the frescoes. Marco was fighting desperately to pay attention. The domes and faded frescoes and marble crypts and dead saints were all running together now in Bologna, and he caught himself thinking of warmer weather. Then they could stay outdoors and talk. They could visit the city’s lovely parks and if she so much as mentioned a cathedral he would revolt.
She wasn’t thinking of warmer weather. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
“You’ve already done that one,” he interrupted when she pointed at a painting above the baptistery.
“I’m sorry. Am I boring you?”
He started to blurt out the truth, but instead said, “No, but I’ve seen enough.”
They left the sanctuary and sneaked around behind the church, to her secret pathway that led down a few steps to the best view of the city. The last snow was melting quickly on the red tiled roofs. It was the eighteenth of March.
She lit a cigarette and seemed content to loiter in silence and admire Bologna. “Do you like my city?” she asked, finally.
“Yes, very much.”
“What do you like about it?”
After six years in prison, any city would do. He thought for a moment, then said, “It’s a real city, with people living where they work. It’s safe and clean, timeless. Things haven’t changed much over the centuries. The
people enjoy their history and they’re proud of their accomplishments.”
She nodded slightly, approving of his analysis. “I’m baffled by Americans,” she said. “When I guide them through Bologna they’re always in a hurry, always anxious to see one sight so they can cross it off the list and move on to the next. They’re always asking about tomorrow, and the next day. Why is this?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask.”
“Why?”
“I’m Canadian, remember?”
“You’re not Canadian.”
“No, I’m not. I’m from Washington.”
“I’ve been there. I’ve never seen so many people racing around, going nowhere. I don’t understand the desire for such a hectic life. Everything has to be so fast—work, food, sex.”
“I haven’t had sex in six years.”
She gave him a look that conveyed many questions. “I really don’t want to talk about that.”
“You brought it up.”
She puffed on the cigarette as the air cleared. “Why haven’t you had sex in six years?”
“Because I was in prison, in solitary confinement.”
She flinched slightly and her spine seemed to straighten. “Did you kill someone?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m pretty harmless.”
Another pause, another puff. “Why are you here?”
“I really don’t know.”
“How long will you stay?”
“Maybe Luigi can answer that.”
“Luigi,” she said as if she wanted to spit. She turned
and began walking. He followed along because he was supposed to. “What are you hiding from?” she asked.
“It’s a very, very long story, and you really don’t want to know.”
“Are you in danger?”
“I think so. I’m not sure how much, but let’s just say that I’m afraid to use my real name and I’m afraid to go home.”
“Sounds like danger to me. Where does Luigi fit in?”
“He’s protecting me, I think.”
“For how long?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Why don’t you simply disappear?”
“That’s what I’m doing now. I’m in the middle of my disappearance. And from here, where would I go? I have no money, no passport, no identification. I don’t officially exist.”
“This is very confusing.”
“Yes. Why don’t we drop it.”
He glanced away for a second and did not see her fall. She was wearing black leather boots with low heels, and the left one twisted violently on a rock in the narrow pathway. She gasped and fell hard onto the walkway, bracing herself at the last second with both hands. Her purse flew forward. She shrieked something in Italian. Marco quickly knelt down to grab her.
“It’s my ankle,” she said, grimacing. Her eyes were already moist, her pretty face twisted in pain.
He gently lifted her from the wet pathway and carried her to a nearby bench, then retrieved her purse. “I must’ve tripped,” she kept saying. “I’m sorry.” She fought the tears but soon gave up.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Marco said, kneeling in front of her. “Can I touch it?”
She slowly lifted her left leg, but the pain was too great.
“Let’s leave the boot on,” Marco said, touching it with great care.
“I think it’s broken,” she said. She pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. She was breathing heavy and gritting her teeth. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Marco looked around; they were very much alone. The bus up to San Luca had been virtually empty, and they had seen no one in the past ten minutes. “I’ll, uh, go inside and find help.”
“Yes, please.”
“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He patted her knee and she managed a smile. Then he hustled away, almost falling himself. He ran to the rear of the church and saw no one. Where, exactly, does one find an office in a cathedral? Where is the curator, administrator, head priest? Who’s in charge of this place? Outside, he circled San Luca twice before he saw a custodian emerge from a partially hidden door by the gardens.
“Mi può aiutare?” he called out. Can you help me?
The custodian stared and said nothing. Marco was certain he had spoken clearly. He walked closer and said, “La mia amica si é fatta male.” My lady friend is hurt.
“Dov’è?” the man grunted. Where?
Marco pointed and said, “Lì, dietro alla chiesa.” Over there, behind the church.
“Aspetti.” Wait. He turned and walked back to the door and opened it.
“Si sbrighi, per favore.” Please hurry.
A minute or two dragged by, with Marco waiting nervously, wanting to dash back and check on Francesca. If she’d broken a bone, then shock might set in quickly. A larger door below the baptistery opened, and a gentleman in a suit came rushing out with the custodian behind him.
“La mia amica è caduta,” Marco said. My friend fell.
“Where is she?” asked the gentleman in excellent English. They were cutting across a small brick patio, dodging unmelted snow.
“Around back, by the lower ledge. It’s her ankle; she thinks she broke it. We might need an ambulance.”
Over his shoulder the gentleman snapped something at the custodian, who disappeared.
Francesca was sitting on the edge of the bench with as much dignity as possible. She held the tissue at her mouth; the crying had stopped. The gentleman didn’t know her name, but he had obviously seen her before at San Luca. They chatted in Italian, and Marco missed most of it.
Her left boot was still on, and it was agreed that it should remain so, to prevent swelling. The gentleman, Mr. Coletta, seemed to know his first aid. He examined her knees and hands. They were scratched and sore, but there was no bleeding. “It’s just a bad sprain,” she said. “I really don’t think it’s broken.”
“An ambulance will take forever,” the gentleman said. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
A horn honked nearby. The custodian had fetched a car and pulled up as close as possible.
“I think I can walk,” Francesca said gamely, trying to stand.
“No, we’ll help you,” Marco said. Each grabbed an
elbow and slowly raised her to her feet. She grimaced when she put pressure on the foot, but said, “It’s not broken. Just a sprain.” She insisted on walking. They half carried her toward the car.
Mr. Coletta took charge and arranged them in the backseat so that her feet were in Marco’s lap, elevated, and her back was resting against the left rear door. When his passengers were properly in place, he jumped behind the wheel and shifted gears. They crawled in reverse along a shrub-lined alley, then onto a narrow paved road. Soon, they were moving down the hill, headed for Bologna.
Francesca put on her sunglasses to cover her eyes. Marco noticed a trickle of blood on her left knee. He took the tissue from her hand and began to dab it. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve ruined your day.”
“Please stop that,” he said with a smile.
It was actually the best day with Francesca. The fall was humbling her and making her seem human. It was evoking, however unwilling, honest emotions. It was allowing sincere physical contact, one person genuinely trying to help another. It was shoving him into her life. Whatever happened next, whether at the hospital or at her home, he would at least be there for a moment. In the emergency, she was needing him, though she certainly didn’t want that.
As he held her feet and stared blankly out the window, Marco realized how desperately he craved a relationship of any kind, with any person.
Any friend would do.
At the foot of the hill, she said to Mr. Coletta, “I would like to go to my apartment.”
He looked in the rearview mirror and said, “But I think you should see a doctor.”
“Maybe later. I’ll rest for a bit and see how it feels.” The decision was made; arguing would’ve been useless.
Marco had some advice too, but he held it. He wanted to see where she lived.
“Very well,” said Mr. Coletta.
“It’s Via Minzoni, near the train station.”
Marco smiled to himself, quite proud that he knew the street. He could picture it on a map, at the northern edge of the old city, a nice section but not the high-rent district. He had walked it at least once. In fact, he’d found an early-hours coffee bar at a spot where the street ended at the Piazza dei Martiri. As they zipped along the perimeter, in the mid-afternoon traffic, Marco glanced at every street sign, took in every intersection, and knew exactly where he was at all times.
Not another word was spoken. He held her feet, her stylish but well-used black boots slightly soiling his wool slacks. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less. When they turned onto Via Minzoni, she said, “Down about two blocks, on the right.” A moment later she said, “Just ahead. There’s a spot behind that green BMW.”
They gently extracted her from the rear seat and got her to the sidewalk, where she shook free for a second and tried to walk. The ankle gave way; they caught her. “I’m on the second floor,” she said, gritting her teeth. There were eight apartments. Marco watched carefully as she pushed the button next to the name of Giovanni Ferro. A female voice answered.
“Francesca,” she said, and the door clicked. They stepped into a foyer that was dark and shabby. To the right
was an elevator with its door open, waiting. The three of them filled it tightly. “I’m really fine now,” she said, obviously trying to lose both Marco and Mr. Coletta.
“We need to get some ice on it,” Marco said as they began a very slow ride up.
The elevator made a noisy stop, its door finally opened, and they shuffled out, both men still holding Francesca by the elbows. Her apartment was only a few steps away, and when they arrived at the door Mr. Coletta had gone far enough.
“I’m very sorry about this,” he said. “If there are medical bills, would you please call me?”
“No, you’re very kind. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you,” Marco said, still attached to her. He pushed the doorbell and waited as Mr. Coletta ducked back in the elevator and left them. She pulled away and said, “This is fine, Marco. I can manage from here. My mother is house-sitting today.”
He was hoping for an invitation inside, but he was in no position to push on. The episode had run its course as far as he was concerned, and he had learned much more than he could have expected. He smiled, released her arm, and was about to say goodbye when a lock clicked loudly from inside. She turned toward the door, and in doing so put pressure on her wounded ankle. It buckled again, causing her to gasp and reach for him.
The door opened just as Francesca fainted.
______
HER
mother was Signora Altonelli, a seventyish lady who spoke no English and for the first few hectic minutes thought Marco had somehow harmed her daughter. His
bumbling Italian proved inadequate, especially under the pressure of the moment. He carried Francesca to the sofa, raised her feet, and conveyed the concept of “Ghiaccio, ghiaccio.” Ice, get some ice. She reluctantly backed away, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Francesca was stirring by the time her mother returned with a wet washcloth and a small plastic bag of ice.
“You fainted,” Marco said, hovering over her. She clutched his hand and looked about wildly.
“Chi è?” her mother said suspiciously. Who’s he?
“Un amico.” A friend. He patted her face with the washcloth and she rallied quickly. In some of the fastest Italian he had yet to experience, she explained to her mother what had happened. The machine-gun bursts back and forth made him dizzy as he tried to pick off an occasional word, then he simply gave up. Suddenly, Signora Altonelli smiled and patted him on the shoulder with great approval. Good boy.
When she disappeared, Francesca said, “She’s gone to make coffee.”
“Great.” He had pulled a stool next to the sofa, and he sat close by, waiting. “We need to get some ice on this thing,” he said.
“Yes, we should.”
They both looked at her boots. “Will you take them off?” she asked.
“Sure.” He unzipped the right boot and removed it as though that foot had been injured too. He went even slower with the left one. Every little movement caused pain, and at one point he said, “Would you prefer to do it?”
“No, please, go ahead.” The zipper stopped almost
exactly at the ankle. The swelling made it difficult to ease the boot off. After a few long minutes of delicate wiggling, while the patient suffered with clenched teeth, the boot was off.
She was wearing black stockings. Marco studied them, then announced, “These have to come off.”
“Yes, they do.” Her mother returned and fired off something in Italian. “Why don’t you wait in the kitchen?” Francesca said to Marco.
The kitchen was small but impeccably put together, very modern with chrome and glass and not a square inch of wasted space. A high-tech coffeepot gurgled on a counter. The walls above a small breakfast nook were covered in bright abstract art. He waited and listened to both of them chatter at once.