I was undeniably pleased to see her, a great deal more than she was pleased to see me, because she was already launching into her next number, an anthemic ‘Sweet Child of Mine’. It’s a demanding vocal so I waited patiently until the instrumental, then:
‘Kat, I need to see Albie. Is he with you?’
‘Can’t talk, Mr P.—’
‘No, quite, but I need to know if he’s all right. Maybe later?’
‘Can’t talk, Mr P.—’
‘Oh. Okay. Okay. I’m sorry, you’re playing your solo, but if I could just know where—’
‘He’s not here.’
‘But nearby? Yes? Yes?’ She began the next verse, and it seemed only fair that I should drop my coins into her bowler hat. ‘If you could just point me in the right direction?’ A five, a ten euro note followed, the last of my cash all gone. I began to search my pockets for more coins. ‘Kat, I’ll leave you alone, but I’ve travelled a very long way and …’
The song ended, but she embarked immediately on ‘Riders on the Storm’, and if she started that then she might never stop.
‘Kat, I am actually paying you to stop playing!’ I shouted, and here I put my hand into the bellows of the accordion, which was too much, I concede now. Certainly, Kat’s response was violent, the song abandoned, a finger jabbed in my face.
‘Do NOT touch, Mr P.! If your son wants to hide from you, then it’s none of your business—’
‘Well, it sort of is—’
‘I know all too well what it’s like to live with an oppressive, overbearing father—’
‘Oppressive? I’m not oppressive.’
‘… and even if your son’s not my favourite person at the moment, I would never split on him. Never!’
‘Not your favourite … why, have you argued?’
‘I think that’s a fair assessment.’
‘Have you … have you split up?’
‘Yes, we’ve split up! Try to conceal your glee, Mr P.’
‘When?’
‘Last night, if you must know.’
‘So, so where is he? Where did he go? Kat, please tell me …’ And here I put my hand on her arm, which was also a mistake.
‘Get off me!’ she shouted, and I began to sense the hostility of the small crowd who had so enjoyed ‘Sweet Child of Mine’. ‘I’ve told you, it is none of your business what Albie does and … oh, jeez.’ She looked over my shoulder. ‘Here we go again.’
It seemed our discussion had attracted the attention of two carabinieri, large, handsome men in pale blue short-sleeve shirts heading straight towards us. Kat knelt down and began hurriedly cramming her takings into the tight pockets of her cut-off jeans.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll talk to them.’
‘It’s not you they’re interested in, it’s me.’
And sure enough, the police went straight for Kat, one on each side, speaking rapidly in urgent voices. A crowd was gathering around us now, and I heard mention of permits, of local regulations, Kat talking over them in a weary and impertinent tone — exactly the wrong tone, I thought, to adopt when speaking to armed officers. ‘Yeah, I know, I need a permit … No, I don’t have one, as you well know … Fine, okay, you’ve made your point, I’ll pack up and be gone …’ She bundled her accordion like a child to her chest and attempted to put her head down and slip away, but the larger of the policemen, broad, bullet-headed, placed one hand on her shoulder and reached for a notepad. ‘How can I pay a fine if you won’t let me earn any—? No, I will not empty my pockets! No! Get stuffed, you bastards! Get your hands off me!’ And now the crowd was parting as the policemen marched Kat towards the car that would take her away, and with her all clues to Albie’s whereabouts.
‘No!’ I said. ‘No, no, no, no, you can’t do this!’ and I hurried after them.
I wish I could pretend that gallantry prompted me to intervene, rather than self-interest, but Kat was my last hope, my only link to Albie, and so I found myself squeezing between the policemen, placing my hand on an arm, trying to loosen the grip — not aggressively, I thought, but coaxingly. To an outsider, this might have resembled a scuffle, and it’s true that I was not calm. ‘Stay out of it, Mr P.!’ shouted Kat over her shoulder, but I was attached now. ‘That isn’t necessary!’ I was shouting. ‘You’re overreacting! No necessary, no overreact!’ I was tugging on the larger policeman’s forearm, noticing by the by that, like many bald men, he had extremely hairy arms and also a very elborate watch, four little dials on its face, like scuba divers wear and I wondered, as he spun me around and slipped and tightened one of those plastic ties around my wrists, the kind I use at home to tidy the cables behind the TV, if he went diving at weekends.
As a child I had sometimes wondered how I might fare in the prison environment. It was a concern that followed me into adulthood, and I came to the conclusion: not well. Of course, the situation was unlikely ever to arise. True, I had recently stolen a packet of Soft Mints from the newsagents in Munich airport, but surely this was beyond the jurisdiction of Italy’s legal system, and besides, the evidence was long gone. So I felt reasonably calm as I sat at the desk of Siena’s main police station. What, after all, was my crime?
Nevertheless, I seemed to cause quite a stir. Who was this mystery man? What kind of tourist has no passport or driving licence, no wallet, no money or keys or hotel reservations? Lack of ID, it seemed, marked me down as some sort of desperate character, which was accurate, though not in the way they imagined. I explained that all would be clear if I could just borrow some money and pop back to Firenze, and that I’d then be happy to pay any fine, my own and Kat’s too, but no one seemed willing to offer up the fare and neither was I permitted to leave. A connection had been made between Kat and myself. Despite my protests, they insisted on calling her my girlfriend. I can only imagine how Kat must have felt about that.
Gradually, the desk staff lost interest, directing me to a chair in the waiting room and leaving me there. Kat was somewhere in the offices behind the desk and it seemed my punishment would be to wait for her, to wait and wait for hours on end, on hard plastic chairs, as a parade of tourists — legitimate tourists with even tans and passports — came in to report lost luggage, wallets, cameras, in order that they could claim insurance. Of course I would wait — what choice did I have? At least I was out of the sun.
But it was early evening by the time they finally reunited me with my ‘girlfriend’, demanding that she also take a seat and wait. Kat was unwilling at first to acknowledge my presence, but finally:
‘Nice trainers, Mr P.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What happened to your face?’
‘Hm? Oh, this. I fell asleep in the sun.’
‘Looks sore.’
‘It is. It is.’
‘Did you tell them about me stealing that croissant from the breakfast buffet?’
I held my hands out to the side, palms upwards. ‘Hey, I’m no stoolie,’ I said, quite the comedian.
She smiled. ‘You shouldn’t have got involved back there.’
‘They did overreact a little, I thought.’
‘Occupational hazard. You’re meant to have a permit, but it’s a bureaucratic nightmare. Also, they know me here, I’m a bit of a repeat offender, so …’
‘I was scared they were going to take you away.’
‘Very noble of you, I’m sure.’
‘I was thinking of myself, really.’
‘You mustn’t take this the wrong way, Mr P., but you don’t smell too good.’