‘I’m fine,’ says Esmond. ‘How’s Harold?’
‘He’ll live, lucky fellow. Here they are.’
Two men in blue uniforms come through the door, golden crosses embroidered on their backs. They lift Goad’s arms to their shoulders and carry him to the door.
‘I’ll go along,’ says Bailey. ‘Perhaps, Esmond, you could wire Gerald in the morning. Tell him his father’s had a spot of trouble. He’ll want to know. Gesuina will give you his details.’
12
He and Fiamma are in the kitchen drinking tea. She has changed into green silk pyjamas and looks, Esmond thinks, like a princess from the Arabian Nights. They’d cleared up the entrance hall together, sweeping glass and mopping the sticky floor. It had grown dark and they worked in the light between standard lamps, under the dull gaze of Victor Emmanuel. Now San Gaetano chimes ten o’clock. The pain in his groin has finally lifted. Fiamma fishes a slice of lemon out of her tea with a spoon, sucks it, drops it back into her cup.
‘Where have they taken him, do you think?’
‘Santa Maria Nuova. It’s not far.’ She blows on her tea. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Rum,’ says Esmond. ‘Worried about Harold.’
‘Me too. He looked so unwell on the floor. Bastardi.’ She places her cup in the sink with a crash. ‘You were a good man tonight,’ she says, stepping towards him and walking her fingers across his head. ‘You were brave. Now I must go to bed.’ Esmond’s scalp tingles as he finishes his tea and makes his way along the corridor to his room.
*
The next morning he breakfasts alone and then wires Gerald from Cook’s. He pictures Gerald as a younger version of his father: thinning, hesitant, hands a patchwork of scabs and raw skin. Afterwards he climbs the stairs and knocks on the door to Fiamma’s room.
‘Sì, entra!’ she says. A gramophone plays ‘Summertime’. The Decameron is face down on the dressing table, dresses and jackets on the bed and the doors of her wardrobe. ‘It’s such a mess,’ she says, smiling, picking up her handbag and placing a navy shawl around her shoulders. ‘Let’s go.’
Goad is in a ward with elderly people, all of whom appear to be more or less dead. There is an occasional groan from one of the beds, otherwise silence. Goad’s head is heavily bandaged, his face grey and drawn under the white turban. Bailey sits in a chair beside him, Gesuina in another.
‘How is he?’ Esmond asks. Fiamma takes Goad’s hand, running her thumbs over the skin. Goad opens his eyes narrowly and attempts a smile.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he says.
‘He’ll be fine if he gets some rest,’ says Bailey, firmly. ‘The head seems to be in reasonable condition, nothing broken. But the blood pressure’s terribly high, his heart is not in good shape at all. The doctors have insisted on at least a month of rest.’
‘The shock?’
‘They don’t know, I’m afraid. One suggested—’
‘I’ve told you, Frederick, I simply can’t take the time off. My students rely upon me. And Radio Firenze—’
‘You don’t have the option.’ The priest’s voice is tired and Esmond realises he has been here all night. Gesuina has a basket of food by her feet, a steaming flask of coffee in her hands. Her eyes are red.
‘What about the people who did this, what about Carità?’ Esmond asks.
Goad sighs and shakes his head. ‘Anything we do will just drive a deeper wedge between us. It’s my fault. I should have known, brandishing the picture of the King through the open door. Idiotic. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.’
‘But Mussolini should know about this. We should write to him.’
‘We need to work with Carità, not against him. This is something you must understand, Esmond. We live according to different rules here. Violence is the blood of this new Fascism. I don’t hold it against Carità for a moment, what he did. We were in the wrong and were punished. It’s him I ought to write to — a note of apology.’
A nurse comes in, gently removes Goad’s hand from Fiamma’s and takes his pulse.
‘Signor Goad dovrette dormire,’ she says.
Fiamma kisses Goad on the cheek and squeezes his hand again.
‘Will you let my students know when they arrive this evening? Tell them in person. I don’t think a sign—’
‘Of course,’ Esmond says. ‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘As for the station, it’s down to you now. Prepare, Esmond. Go and see Carità. Square things up with him. Make sure the studio’s ready for when I’m back on my feet.’
Bailey walks with them to the corridor. ‘He’s really very sick,’ the priest says. ‘They were talking about operating, but he’s not well enough for that. He’ll be here for at least another week. I’d like him to take the waters at Bagni di Lucca. I think I’ll be able to persuade Gesuina to go with him, but he’s in no state to travel yet. You’ll hold the fort at the palazzo, you two?’
‘Of course,’ Esmond nods.
‘We’ll manage,’ Fiamma says.
*
At the Institute, Esmond stands at the door and meets the clerks and university students, shop workers and salesmen arriving for Goad’s English lesson. ‘I’m afraid the lessons will have to be postponed. Signor Goad has had an accident. He’s in hospital. I’m terribly sorry.’ He repeats it to each of them. They ask after Goad, if they might visit him, offer their condolences, pressing Esmond’s hands with theirs. When the last has left, Esmond walks into the courtyard, looks up and feels the old building breathing around him. He sees a light flickering against the pale roof of the loggia. He climbs the stairs to the top floor and, instead of turning left towards the bedrooms and the kitchen, he turns right.
He tries the door at the end of the passage. It opens with a creak. There on the loggia, again in green pyjamas, this time with a woollen shawl around her shoulders, sits Fiamma, reading by candlelight, making notes in a pad on her knee. She has found a rusty garden chair to sit on. Esmond steps out onto the pathway between railings and she looks up at him.
‘It’s better to read outside,’ she says. ‘You can hear the city, see the sky, the mountains.’
‘The Decameron?’ he asks.
She holds up the cover and then goes back to her reading.
He looks around. The hills that circle Florence are purpled by the night. Thin feathers of noctilucent cloud sit in the air to the west. To the east, the hills are dark, marked here and there by the lights of villages, the solitary glow of villas.
‘Could I join you?’ he asks.
‘Of course. Do you have any food? My mother’s still at the hospital.’
He crosses to the apartment, finds a loaf of bread and some salami in the pantry, a bottle of red wine and two glasses from the kitchen cupboard. He pulls on a jumper, puts his own copy of The Decameron under his arm and heads back out onto the loggia. Fiamma has unfolded another green chair. They sit, each reading the same book in different languages, each sipping, munching, smiling, sighing as they follow the stories of ten young people, six hundred years earlier, in the very hills which tend them now. When San Gaetano has tolled twelve and the wine is finished, the candle almost down to its holder, Fiamma draws in a sharp breath, shivers and reaches out for Esmond’s hand.
‘My uncle was one of them,’ Fiamma says.
‘One of what?’
‘The men, last night. He passed Carità the portrait of Vittorio Emanuele.’
He can feel her pulse in her palm. Her hands are cold and he seizes them both between his. She looks at him with wide, frank eyes.
‘I can’t believe he could do this to Mr Goad. They have lunch, they are friends even. Something has happened to the people in this city. They are turning against themselves.’ She takes her hands from his and stands up. ‘I must go to bed. I have classes tomorrow.’ He can barely see her eyes in the candlelight. ‘It is good to have you here.’