‘Well, I can try,’ Sandro had said with extreme wariness.
He had been right about at least one of his assumptions about Anna Niescu. She was indeed looking for the father of her child. She referred to him as her fidanzato: her fiance. Husband, Sandro had thought, would be the appropriate word under the circumstances, but then he was old-fashioned.
‘I know four days isn’t very long,’ she’d said apologetically. ‘But he’s not answering his phone. I called round at the apartment, on Sunday, then yesterday, and there was no answer.’
She’d given him the address, on a scrap of paper: an apartment block out towards Firenze Sud, a decent neighbourhood, if not exactly picturesque, a place of Holiday Inns and comfortable modern housing and perhaps anonymity. Sandro had contemplated the image of this girl, this child, heavily pregnant, standing in the street in the heat and pressing despairingly on a doorbell. There was something biblical in the scene that Sandro resisted: she was no virgin. Only innocent.
He’d imagined the guy, lying low, waiting for her to go away. Home would not be the place to catch him, would it?
‘So when did you last see him?’ he’d asked resignedly, overwhelmed by a sense, not unfamiliar to him, of his own uselessness in the face of fate, and women.
‘I saw him on Friday, about seven, after he finished work,’ she’d replied with bright obedience. ‘He came to see me after work as often as he could, with something. A cake, or something, to keep up my strength. He brought me flowers once.’
Today was Tuesday. ‘On his way home?’ Sandro had asked gently. He had not pointed out to her that it was usual for a couple expecting their first child to be cohabiting, at least.
Anna had smiled, still trusting, and Sandro had felt his gloom grow. ‘Yes,’ she’d said. ‘It’s not quite ready yet, you see. The apartment: he’s getting everything ready for the baby. And I live in, at the hotel. Since I was eighteen: it’s like home to me.’
She was chambermaid and breakfast cook at the Loggiata Hotel. Sandro didn’t know it, though it was in San Frediano, not far from the office; he had wondered how much they could be paying her, to shuffle between the tables with brioche and coffee, to take hours over making beds, in her condition. He had returned the girl’s open gaze and thought, with a spark of fury: as little as they can get away with. And will she be out on the street, when the baby comes?
A shabby, old-fashioned place, Giuli had said afterwards. ‘She might call it home, but you couldn’t have a baby there.’
Anna Niescu had been gone an hour by then but the room still seemed to harbour her scent: sweet and spicy, soap and talcum powder and the heat of her skin.
‘Will they do anything for her, at the Centre?’ Giuli had just shrugged. Meaning, who knows? Meaning, they’ll do what they can, but it won’t be enough.
‘I’ve got a picture,’ Anna Niescu had said, almost the first word she’d spoken, scrabbling in her cheap bag and offering him not a photograph but a mobile phone. As she presented it to him with shy pride, Sandro had identified the phone immediately as a fake — a clone of an expensive make, the numbers beginning to erode, the metal trim peeling away in one corner. ‘Josef gave it to me.’
‘Josef?’ Not an Italian name: that would be Giuseppe.
‘Claudio Josef Brunello, but he called himself Josef.’ So part-Italian. ‘His grandmother was from — somewhere else. He did tell me, I just can’t remember it right now-’ And she had broken off. Abruptly her eyes had filled with tears and Sandro could imagine her, at eight or nine in school, unable to answer a question.
‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ he’d lied, patting her arm uselessly, trying to suppress the gloom settling over him at her scant knowledge of this man or the world, at her utter guilelessness. He had squinted at the small, indistinct image on the mobile. Almost hopeless: the two faces, hers and his, were pressed together on the tiny screen, the picture of extremely poor quality. All he had been able to tell was that the man had dark hair and eyes and was under fifty years old. He would also have said, from the angle of his head and body, from his slight, uneasy grimace, that, whilst beside him, her cheek against his, Anna was beaming, her fiance wasn’t too happy about being photographed at all.
Then she had looked from the picture to Sandro uncertainly, as if she had only just realized how little she had to go on. ‘He’s a good man,’ she’d said. ‘He’s educated, he’s got a proper job.’ Defensive. ‘He’s high up, in a bank, actually. And expecting a big pay rise, any day now.’
‘Really?’
Trying to keep the scepticism out of his voice, Sandro had held the small screen up in front of him. Could this man be — respectable? Could he be for real? He’d tried to persuade himself he could — short-haired, the suit didn’t look too cheap — but no. He’d pulled himself up: it was a pipe dream — now these two women had got him at it. Hoping against hope.
He’d handed the mobile back to her. ‘Have you got anything more — detailed?’ He had spoken as casually as he could manage.
‘No,’ she’d said, her face falling. ‘He um — ah, he didn’t like — well.’ Then recovering, the smile back: ‘I’m sure he would have given me a photo if I’d asked.’
‘I’m sure he would.’
They’d looked at each other in silence a moment then; she’d shifted in her chair in some passing discomfort and despite himself Sandro had looked down, at the great round of her belly under the thin cotton. It was too much for her, he’d felt briefly: too big, too portentous, it immobilized her.
And then he’d seen it move under the fabric: like the quick shadow of something, like a shoal of fish under water. It broke the perfect round of stretched flesh with a limb, the knotted curve of a spine; and, with hands suddenly gripping the chair’s seat on either side of her, Anna Niescu had looked down too and then up at him, half shy, half delighted.
Now, in the shadow of the brooding statue of Dante outside Santa Croce, Sandro scanned the wide piazza for his old friend. The poet gazed with eyes so darkened now by time and pollution so that they became hooded and sinister, and the statue, the chronicler of the afterlife, more than ever a figure of death. A memory came back to him: of being a boy in the city in the days when this piazza — all the city’s piazzas — had been emptier, the occasional car innocently traversing them, when cars were a marvel and not a curse, and tourists had moved through the streets, awestruck and respectful, carefully consulting their red guide books. A memory of running in a gang of boys wheeling like a flock of birds around the city’s monuments, trying to dodge the great poet’s stern gaze as they headed past him for the market of San Ambrogio.
Anna Niescu, alone, would bring that child not into the world of his childhood but into this new world, where the hawkers and pimps and drug dealers — he could see them even now — stood back in the shadows of palace buttresses around the lovely piazza. She would love the child, that at least was certain, but would it be enough?
‘Sandro!’
The hand clapped his shoulder, and the face into which he turned to look was beaming from ear to ear. Sandro was surprised by the gratitude he felt at the sight of his old friend’s face, and the happiness he saw there. Pietro Cavallaro, his old friend, his former partner.
It had been too long: they both agreed on that.
‘Not here,’ Sandro said, taking a look around the big bleached piazza, the gaudy frontages of the cheap leather shops and the souvenir sellers stupefied by the heat.