There was nothing. She was shaking like a leaf. The man with the stall, cheap jewellery and souvenirs, looked at her and asked, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she whispered without thinking, fighting for control of herself, perplexed by this extreme reaction to nothing more than an itinerant lunatic, the kind of down-and-out she met in London all the time.
Why did she run away like that? Why was she so hesitant, so weak sometimes? Pino Fratelli didn’t fear a thing and he was dying. Waiting for her in the little bar across the river now. It was six thirty already. She’d lost track of the time.
A taxi tottered across the hump of the Ponte Vecchio towards her. She waved it down and told him to take her to the bar in San Niccolò.
The man turned to her and looked impressed.
‘Negroni,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘They do the best in Florence, Signora,’ he said. ‘You should try one.’
Then they bumped along the Lungarno, past the arches of the Uffizi. She couldn’t help but look back towards the piazza, though there was nothing there to see.
‘The cock’s comb,’ Fratelli declared with obvious pride. ‘I should have guessed.’ He raised his tumbler of Negroni and toasted her. ‘I never would have spotted this without your prompting. Salute!’
The little bar was empty except for the two of them. Fratelli had bagged a table at the back. It was now laden with food; among the dishes a platter of vegetables with olive-oil dressing which he called ‘pinzimonio’ and said was especially for her. Raw fennel, carrot, celery, peppers… an odd thing to eat on a wet and chilly November night. But with some cheese and the strong cocktail, which she was starting to appreciate, she was beginning to feel happier after the odd encounter by Cellini’s Perseus with the Head of Medusa.
‘You seem shaken,’ Fratelli noted. ‘Are you OK?’
She wished he could be a little less observant at times.
‘I met a beggar. Outside the Palazzo Vecchio. He was hiding in the loggia. I think I disturbed him.’
‘We have too many barboni,’ he said. ‘Though honestly it’s not their fault. If you fall through the cracks in Italy there are few people to drag you back.’
‘Barboni?’
‘The ones with beards. It’s what we call tramps.’ He shrugged and picked at some finocchiona. ‘I always feel guilty when I see them, for some reason. Going home to a warm bed. Some food. A little peace and privacy. They mean no harm, usually, though the druggies in Santo Spirito are best avoided, as I warned you.’
‘I can deal with tramps,’ she told him. ‘What about your cock’s comb?’
He was quiet for a moment, gazing at her, then he picked up one more piece of the fatty pink sausage and held it for a moment.
‘Food,’ Fratelli said. ‘We’ve always been obsessed with our stomachs. There are things we eat today that the Medici would have regarded as commonplace. You might have seen them in Sant’Ambrogio. Stuffed chicken necks, the head still on. Tripe. Intestines. Lampredotto itself.’
She found herself laughing. ‘Who on earth would eat a cockerel’s crest?’
‘And his balls too,’ he added. ‘Don’t forget that. I told you there were some curious cuts on the poor bird’s body. He must have wanted them and couldn’t be bothered to split the thing open to take anything else. Or else the meat was too tough to be used. It was an old cockerel. I’m no cook. I don’t know. But he was.’
She folded her arms and stared at him.
‘It’s a very old recipe,’ Fratelli said. ‘One they used to serve at some of the dining clubs that the aristocratic… ahem, gentlemen… patronized in the old days.’
Julia immediately recalled Soderini’s invitation and felt a little cold.
‘Dining clubs?’ she whispered.
The man with the bright white hair opposite her waved his hand dismissively.
‘The rich aren’t like us. It was the same when Dante walked these streets. They would take themselves to private places, drink and gorge and whore themselves stupid. Then, when that venal side of their nature had been exercised, return to governing the gracious republic of Florence before popping into the Duomo to confess their sins to a priest who might have been at the very same table.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘At least we’ve come on a little since then…’
‘You think?’
‘I do,’ he said emphatically. ‘But that doesn’t stop a few aficionados trying to recreate the glory days of the past, does it? And here’s the dish, made a few days in advance usually.’
He retrieved his notebook. It still had the logo of the Carabinieri on it.
‘Cibreo,’ Fratelli announced. ‘My butcher friend from Sant’Ambrogio is an amateur cook of some skill. He has these ancient recipe books. He’s never tried it himself, principally because he’s never found anyone willing to share the dish with him. There are several versions. One demands…’ He scanned the page. ‘Chicken combs and testicles cooked in butter with sage, then mixed with broth from a calf’s head, some unborn eggs, candied fruits, chopped biscuits, celery, cabbage, saffron, cloves, all thickened with beaten egg and lemon juice…’
‘Stop! Stop!’ she cried, pushing the plate of vegetables away from her.
‘I said it wasn’t popular. I’ve never heard of anyone eating anything like that. Why would you? Most of Florence lives on pizza and pasta, finocchiona and lampredotto, which seems a well-balanced diet to me. Particularly…’ He pushed the food back towards her. ‘With some pinzimonio.’
She couldn’t get Soderini’s face out of her head. That sly grin when he invited her to dine with the Brigata Spendereccia, the Spendthrift Brigade. And his words… We behave as if we are the most irresponsible, the richest, the most privileged men on earth — for one evening, anyway. And the next morning we trudge back to the office with aching heads.
‘Even I wouldn’t eat that muck,’ Fratelli said, and shook his head.
To pass an evening with La Brigata Spendereccia… That is something quite different. It’s also a secret society of a kind, so you must mention it to no one. That is an absolute condition. Agreed?
‘Definitely,’ she murmured.
‘Pardon?’
‘What does this mean, Pino?’
He reached up and tugged at his long white hair. She so wanted to reach out and stop that particular habit.
‘It means we have one more way to narrow down the possible identity of our intruder in the Brancacci Chapel. We may surmise he has some connection with the Carmine. As a worker, perhaps; even a parishioner close enough to see behind those thick sheets that hide the chapel from the nave. Maybe a supplier of food or something. Those fig leaves he plastered on to Adam and Eve… they were from a restaurant or a catering company. I’m sure of it.’
‘And how many of those are there in Florence?’
‘Hundreds,’ he said with a frown. ‘Perhaps thousands. I don’t know. But one that makes cibreo…’ Fratelli shook his head. ‘That’s unusual. Unique, I’d guess. I’ve never heard of such an establishment. Everyone wants fancy food these days. We’re too rich for the old muck. We want steak and guinea fowl and lobster. Not five-hundred-year-old offal. Nor has my butcher friend a clue who might cook cibreo any more, though anyone can buy a cockerel, of course. Or pick up the rest very easily. I can’t see this going on a restaurant menu.’