The Italian Wife (18 page)

‘Surely not every day.’

‘He is a very busy man.’

Today she didn’t even get as far as Signor Marchini’s desk. She tried to step around the Blackshirt but he moved with her like a black wall. The vast hall echoed with the footsteps of others who were allowed to approach the inner sanctum, as she was edged back towards the entrance.

‘At least give him this letter,’ she said quickly before she found herself outside on the steps once more. She thrust an envelope under the black wall’s nose. ‘For Chairman Grassi.’

His fist swallowed the letter and he opened the glass door for her in a way that in anyone else would have seemed polite, but in this man it just seemed threatening.

‘Leave now, Signora Berotti.’

He knew her name. Isabella swallowed a hard knot of anger, smiled politely and walked outside into the sunshine. He closed the door after her and stood behind it, arms folded across his chest, watching her every move. She was certain the letter would be tossed straight into the bin. She descended the steps, picking out a path along the edge to avoid stepping on the spot where Allegra Bianchi must have lain.

She ran a hand across her forehead as though it could alleviate the ache. It was time to find another way in.

‘Where is Signor Francolini, Maria?’ Isabella asked.

‘He’s out on inspection. Why?’

The older woman paused her varnished fingernails above the typewriter keys. She was always more than ready to stop for a chat, at the same time possessing bat-like ears for the first sound of her boss’s footstep. Maria was Dottore Martino’s secretary, one of the few other women working in the architect’s building and prone to mothering Isabella, given half a chance.

‘I need to speak to him.’

‘Trouble?’

‘No. I just need to query something with him.’

‘You always were a bad liar,’ Maria chuckled and let her gaze drift over her colleague’s slim-waisted emerald dress with flared skirt and at her long dark curls that hung loose around her shoulders. ‘You’re looking extra pretty today. For someone special?’

‘Maria, behave yourself! Of course not. Just tell me where he has gone.’

‘To check on the Via Corelli apartment block.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Don’t worry though. He seemed quite happy. It’s his job to make sure construction is going smoothly.’

But Isabella did worry. The Via Corelli apartment block was the one she was working on herself. ‘
Grazie
, Maria,’ she muttered and hurried towards the door.

The building vibrated with noise as Isabella entered. Workmen in grubby vests were hammering and sawing, a plumber was slicing through a metal pipe while whistling the Toreador song at full throttle. And the odour of wet cement caught at the back of Isabella’s throat. But the moment she entered, her pulse started to pound. It was always the same. Her response was strong and physical to the smell and sound of one of her designs going through the process of being transformed into the reality of bricks and mortar. This would soon be a building where people would live and dream, give birth and die, generations of them, unaware that her breath and her fingerprints were woven into the fabric of each wall and each door frame. She wondered if at night in years to come the occupants would hear her heartbeat as they lay safe in their beds.

‘Is Signor Francolini here, Nico?’ she called to a workman with a drill in one hand and a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

He gestured upstairs and blew her a smoky kiss. Not how he would treat a male architect. But she smiled, because that’s what you did, and she took the stairs faster than usual to work off her irritation. She found Davide Francolini on the third floor. In one of the rear apartments his slender frame was crouched on the floor in a corner, examining a long crack in the wall. It sent a stab of dismay through Isabella.

‘Something is wrong there,’ she said with concern.

Francolini turned, caught by surprise, but smiled up at her, his cool caramel eyes warming when he realised who it was. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, marred by a streak of cement dust that snaked up one sleeve. She hadn’t spoken to him since the day she’d declined his offer of lunch, though she had seen him now and again flit through the office. He struck her as a man not easy to get to know, with an air of privacy that clung to him as stylishly as his clothes. Isabella stepped forward and offered her hand.

‘Good afternoon, Signor Francolini.’

He rose to his feet and returned the handshake with a firm grip, brisk and efficient. ‘Don’t worry about the crack,’ he said easily, ‘I’ll have it taken care of.’

‘I’m glad I’ve run into you.’

‘Why’s that?’

She noticed his eyes take in her dress and her hair. ‘I wanted to congratulate you on how fast the apartments have gone up. Your men must be working around the clock.’

‘They are. We use floodlights at night.’ He nodded, as though to reassure her. ‘They are good men.’

‘I’m sure they are. I’ve just come to check on the positioning of the pipes. We don’t want them in the wrong place, so that they have to be torn out. It has happened before. Not all plumbers study the plans correctly.’

‘Are you criticising our workmen, Signora Berotti?’

‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘But in haste sometimes mistakes are made.’

For a moment he regarded her coolly and she wondered if she’d gone too far, but what lay heavy in her mind were the deaths that her father had mentioned among the workforce. But Davide Francolini was clearly a man who put the success of his construction first. He ran a hand through his springy brown hair, the first unplanned gesture she’d seen from him, and his expression shifted to one of respect.

‘I am pleased,’ he said, ‘to see you are so thorough in your work, signora.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘So let us go and inspect these pipes of yours.’

It took longer than she expected, but Isabella didn’t risk hurrying or skimping on the inspection in each of the six apartments, not in front of Davide Francolini. She had to request some adjustments from the plumber and one of the door architraves didn’t sit squarely, so it all took time. Their voices trailed behind them, echoing in the empty building, but she enjoyed talking it all through with Davide.

So she was smiling when she emerged and it was the easiest thing in the world to turn to him and say, ‘I have a favour to ask.’

He raised a dusty eyebrow in surprise. ‘What is it? You want me to take the plasterers off another project to bring them in on yours?’

‘No. It’s more personal than that.’

She saw his eyes brighten with interest and the topmost layer of his reserve fell away like an unwanted snake’s skin.

‘In which case,’ he said as he started towards a bar, ‘you can tell me over a drink.’

This time she didn’t refuse.

‘What is
she
doing here?’

They were standing in Chairman Grassi’s grandiose office, elaborate in its combination of pale marbles and black ebony in modern geometric designs. The hard lines and strong angles left visitors in no doubt as to the power and dynamism of the owner of such an office. It was intended to impress, and it succeeded. Isabella was careful to do as Davide Francolini had told her and kept her mouth shut.

‘She’s been working alongside me today,’ he informed Grassi casually, ‘learning my end of the business. Take no notice of her, she’s just observing.’

He took the chair in front of the desk as if it was his by right, leaving Isabella stranded in the middle of the gleaming floor. She moved over to stand by the door, hands behind her back like a dumb sentinel. She let her limp show. Let Grassi think she was no threat.

‘I don’t want her here,’ the chairman stated, puffing out his overfed chest but not bothering to rise from his black chair that looked more stylish than comfortable. ‘She’s been troublesome.’

‘Her?’

Francolini glanced over at Isabella dismissively and shrugged, as though she were far too insignificant to cause trouble. Isabella did not care for the gesture but she had to admit it seemed to work because Grassi focused his attention on Francolini with a grimace.

‘Be quick,’ the chairman ordered curtly, ‘I have other meetings to attend.’

But he opened a cedar box on his desk and both men reached for the cigars inside as if it were their custom. They didn’t hurry through the ritual of lighting them from the chrome desk-lighter and exhaled with satisfaction as the skeins of smoke twisted together, binding them to each other for that moment. Isabella stood silent and unmoving. She listened carefully to their talk of delivery of greater numbers of roof pantiles from Naples, of progress on the construction of the sports stadium and the need to widen the approach road to it.

Davide Francolini delivered his report clearly and concisely, explaining the problems and being specific as to where the chairman could use his influence to unblock any logjams. It was an impressive performance. It gave her an insight into his complicated world. Yet it told her nothing about him, about the man behind the efficient well-groomed façade, except that he was good at handling people. He blunted the chairman’s darts of anger, just as he had blunted her own fears.

‘You have regular meetings with Chairman Grassi, don’t you?’ she’d said to him over a shot of limoncello at the back of the bar he’d chosen. ‘To keep him up to date. That’s what they say in the office.’

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘I need to see him urgently, but I can’t get an appointment.’

‘What is it you want to speak to our respected chairman about?’

‘It’s a private matter.’ She shook her head apologetically, not wanting to offend him. ‘It’s nothing to do with architecture or buildings. Something personal.’

He didn’t seem to react, yet she sensed a heightened awareness in him on the other side of the table, a brightness at the back of his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

‘I see.’

She liked his quick mind and the fact she didn’t have to say more. He had made a telephone call. It was as simple as that. Now she was here in Grassi’s office, impatient for their meeting to end. Francolini was only halfway through his cigar when he stood up and shook Grassi’s hand across the wide ebony desk.

‘Thank you, chairman, for your time. We have clarified a number of problems and I can push ahead. I’ll keep you informed.’

Grassi prowled forward from behind his desk and clapped a fleshy hand on the narrow bones of Francolini’s shoulder with such vigour that Isabella realised he enjoyed working with this man. Davide Francolini had the knack of keeping things clear and simple. She must do the same. When Francolini headed for the door and opened it, she moved for the first time, her skirt rustling, an incongruously female murmur in the hard-edged male office. But instead of following Francolini out of the office, Isabella stepped smartly in front of Grassi.

‘One moment of your time,
per favore
.’

The chairman’s shoulders pulled back but his head jutted forward. ‘Get out of my office, signora.’

‘I don’t intend to disturb your work. Just a couple of quick questions.’

There was a darkness to his heavy features as thick as the smoke that he breathed in her face. At this time of day his jaw glinted with the beginnings of a silvery stubble, but his hair was the dense black of paint.

‘Leave now!’

‘In the name of my husband, Luigi Berotti, who died for your Fascist Party, listen to me for two minutes. Please.’

Her voice was quiet. Reasonable. Not a trace of the anger that burned in her throat. She had disconnected herself from it and softened the muscles of her face. ‘It won’t take long. Then I will leave you in peace.’

Whether it was something in her voice or the mention of Luigi’s name, she didn’t know, but Grassi pulled back his head and drew on his cigar till its tip glowed like a warning. She saw something more of the man as he disguised his arrogance behind a long shrewd stare.

‘Luigi Berotti was a loyal member of the Fascist Party. Back in the days before Mussolini came to power and needed every supporter he could get.’

Isabella hid her surprise. She trod warily. ‘Did you know him?’

‘No.’

‘But you heard of his death?’

‘Yes.’

‘No one was ever charged with his murder.’

‘So I believe.’

‘That’s why I’m here. Ten years ago I was told by the police that my husband’s killer escaped and no one knew who it was. Presumably an insurgent in a random attack.’

‘Unfortunate. But it happens sometimes.’

Unfortunate
? What kind of word was ‘
unfortunate
’ to describe the escape of a killer?

‘He shot me in the back,’ she stated.

‘That too is unfortunate.’

If she pushed his cigar down his throat, would that be unfortunate too?

‘I have reason to believe the Party knows more about the gun attack that day than it’s telling me.’

He rolled his eyes impatiently and looked at the door. ‘Young woman, the Party knows nothing about the incident, I assure you. The death of your husband was a sad loss. But it’s over.’

‘No. It’s not over. Death is never over.’

He started to pace back and forth across his office, his gleaming black shoes marking out a line that she knew better than to cross.

‘Who has been filling your head with this nonsense?’ he demanded. ‘Not the blasted priest.’

‘The priest? No, not him.’ She paused. ‘Allegra Bianchi mentioned it to me.’

It brought him up short. He drew in a quick breath, expanding his broad chest, snorting out smoke, taking up more of the space in the office.

‘That woman was mentally deranged,’ he declared. ‘Don’t waste my time with her unhinged ideas. She was a woman hell-bent on creating trouble and she is now where she belongs.’

Yet he crossed himself. Old habits die hard.

‘What about her daughter? Is Rosa Bianchi where she belongs?’ Isabella asked quietly.

He blinked at the change of direction and his heavy features became leaden. ‘She has gone,’ he announced.

‘Gone?’

‘Yes, the girl is being looked after elsewhere.’