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
‘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
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