‘A private detective now,’ said Luisa quietly, but Serafina Capponi waved her away impatiently.
Luisa saw that her fondness — if you could call it that — for Anna would be something like her feelings for her ruined and beautiful palazzo: an asset that needed protecting, that threatened to get away from her.
Capponi leaned forwards and whispered, ‘And while your husband is about it, he can make sure everyone knows that Margherita Martelli’s money comes from that dirty cinema. She thinks she can just pocket the cash and come out of it clean?’
So that was why the old woman was here: the need to claw back the only thing that represented a future, Anna and her child, and the need to exact revenge on an old enemy at the same time, for the crime of realizing her assets while Capponi sat and watched hers crumble.
‘She could keep it quiet, she could hide her dirty business, but we know. Those of us who’ve known her since she was a grasping little kid.’ She drew herself up. ‘She can’t even see they are cheating her, all of them, she will never see the real money. Too senile, too soft. The estate agent. Cheating her.’ She pronounced it with contempt. ‘And that boy.’
What boy? Anna’s fiance?
‘She sold it,’ said Luisa. ‘It’s been sold, hasn’t it? The cinema?’
Serafina Capponi’s eyes filmed over, and for an instant Luisa wondered whether she wasn’t gaga after all, if this wasn’t just addled, toxic ramblings, until she saw that crafty glint. All an act.
‘I don’t know,’ said the woman carefully, undoing the top button of her gabardine.
‘You do,’ said Luisa, feeling the ache in her knees and ignoring it.
‘She’s got connections,’ said Serafina Capponi. ‘Old Margerita Martelli has family, you see.’
And glimpsing triumph in the old woman’s eyes, Luisa wondered at the decades of hatred, wondered what ancient feud — a childhood game? A husband led astray? — had provoked this unburdening. She’d waited all this time.
‘Family where?’
The hands were in the lap, the narrow shoulders raised defiantly in an attitude of moral superiority.
‘She needs him, you see. She’s not all there any more, not since that heart attack last year. He deals with everything for her. In the bank.’
‘In the bank.’
‘We know, you see. The young ones, they think they can be invisible, they think there are ways of keeping things from us, with their mobile phones and their computers. But we know.’
‘She has family in the bank?’
And Serafina Capponi’s head turned, her monkey eyes fixing on Luisa.
‘Claudio Brunello was related to her? Margherita Martelli owned the Carnevale and Claudio Brunello managed it for her?’
The woman clicked her tongue in disgust. ‘Not him,’ she said impatiently, ‘not him. The other one, of course. That boy.’
*
Ma, thought Roxana as she felt his arm close around her shoulder. Ma, I think I’ve done something stupid.
She’d had that same thought submitting to her first kiss. Was that why she’d never had a proper boyfriend, not one she’d trusted?
In the alley he was fumbling with the lock now, turning his face to smile at her, one hand still holding tight to hers. Roxana felt only anxiety. Was it that there was something wrong with her? Physical contact a problem?
But there were so many things wrong. This alley, to begin with.
Ma, I think I’ve done something stupid.
In the bank, Roxana had looked up from the computer screen to Val’s face as he appeared in the door, then back at the screen, trying to make sense of it. He’d beamed at her, his face alive with excitement, and bemused, she’d smiled back.
‘How did I know you’d be here?’ he’d said, smiling, and she was confused. Holding out his hand to her. He hadn’t been wearing the bike helmet, or the leathers, but grown-up clothes. A fine striped shirt, a sports jacket, loafers. Maybe he really had sold the bike, then, just as Marisa said.
Now he turned to her in triumph as the door opened in the alley and a cavernous, cool gust of air billowed from the dark interior of the cinema. ‘After you,’ he said, and manoeuvred her in front of him. She could feel his arm, his arm strong from rowing, skiing with his wealthy friends, brooking no resistance. The door closed behind them.
How did he know she’d be there? He couldn’t have known.
He’d come to where she sat at Claudio’s desk, from the little kitchen. Had he known she’d left her phone behind? Impossible. So what had he been looking for in there?
‘Listen,’ she’d said urgently, ‘there’s something wrong here. Did you know old Mrs Martelli owned that place? The Carnevale. She must have been Josef’s employer.’
Something had flickered across his face. ‘Know?’ he’d said. ‘Of course I knew. She’s my mother’s cousin. Second cousin, actually.’ He had tapped the side of his nose. ‘Of course,’ he’d gone on, ‘it’s not something they talk about. Not a particularly pretty business.’
Roxana had glanced down at the screen, aware of his hand still held out to her. ‘They borrowed money,’ she’d said. ‘She borrowed money against the Carnevale last year. The letter — this letter says it was discharged on Friday. It was paid back on Friday.’ She had looked up.
Valentino’s eyes had still been bright, trusting, wide. ‘Come on,’ he’d said, almost laughing now. ‘I’ve found out all about it. I’ll show you.’ Like a boy, like the friend she hadn’t had since Maria Grazia left, actually not really since scuola superiore. And she’d got to her feet and taken his hand.
‘Hold on,’ she’d said, almost laughing herself, ‘I came here for my phone. Let me get my bag.’ He’d bowed, a little impatiently. She’d got the bag.
Ma.
On the street they’d passed a woman going the other way. A pale, sharp-chinned and skinny girl-woman with spiky reddish hair who gave them a fierce look. Did Roxana know her? From the neighbourhood, for sure. There’d been something about that blazing look she’d given them, like, how dare they? And she had pushed past, hurrying somewhere. Looking for someone. That had been when she’d started to get anxious herself, that was when the weight of Val’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her in against him, had started to get uncomfortable.
‘So, what have you found out?’ she’d said as they locked up the bank behind them, Val giving the Guardia’s pasted sign a contemptuous glance. ‘Can’t you tell me?’
‘Surprise,’ he’d replied, with that unwavering smile.
But now, as he closed the door behind them in the cinema and they were in the clammy dark, she didn’t feel surprised. She felt a kind of awful certainty. He turned to face her, her back to the door. She could smell his aftershave, and knew it was expensive.
‘Val,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You know.’ His voice was soft: Roxana wanted to put her hands to her ears. She struggled to stay steady, feeling herself unbalanced by his proximity.
‘Where are we?’ she said, trying to sound normal. ‘Where have we come in?’
And then abruptly he moved back from her, pushing his back to the door. ‘You want to see?’ he said. ‘We’re round the back: this passage leads to the private rooms. Not much use for them these days, business hasn’t been any good at all, really. Josef wasn’t even covering what she paid him, showing old stock to five old men a day.’
Instinctively Roxana put a hand to her abdomen, feeling it clench. It was so hot in here suddenly, as though the air had been shut off somewhere.
‘And there’s Josef’s palatial apartments, obviously. Could give you the guided tour.’
‘He’s got a fidanzata,’ she heard herself saying. ‘They’re having a baby.’
Valentino made a soft, disgusted sound. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘That bloody fidanzata of his was the cause of all the trouble, really, getting pregnant. Without her he’d have kept his nose out, done what he was told, I could have kept him quiet.’