have arrived for him to act. For just within the city wall at Porta San Jacopo, the far end of the
mercato
—a musician played. Here Bambina always stopped to listen, with a two-euro coin in her hand to offer the man at some point during his performance. She waited for Papà to join her there. But today that was not going to happen. She would be gone when Papà finally arrived.
The
mercato
was, as always, crowded. He remained unnoticed. Where Papà and Bambina stopped, he stopped, too. They bought fruit and a selection of vegetables. Then, Papà bought fresh pasta while Bambina danced over to the kitchen goods and sang out, “She wanted a potato peeler.” He himself chose a cheese grater and then it was on to the scarves. They were cheap but colourful, and Bambina always tried new ways of tying one round her pretty little neck. On and on it went, with an extended stay at Tutti per 1 Euro, where everything from buckets to hair ornaments was sold. An examination of shoes neatly arranged in rows and available for trying on if one’s feet were clean led to intimate apparel for
le donne
and from that to sunglasses and leather
cinture
. Papà tried on one of these, weaving it into the loops of his faded blue jeans. He shook his head and handed it back. By the time he had done so, Bambina had already gone on ahead.
It was where the severed head of a pig announced the stall of the
macellaio
and his display of meats that Bambina skipped onward towards Porta San Jacopo. At this point, he knew, things would follow an unbreaking pattern, so he removed the five-euro note that he had folded carefully into his pocket.
The musician was where he always stood, some twenty yards from Porta San Jacopo. The man was, as usual, gathering a crowd as he played Italian folksongs on his accordion. He had a dancing poodle as a companion, and he accompanied his music and the dog by singing into a microphone clipped onto the collar of his blue shirt. It was the same shirt he wore every week, tattered along the cuffs.
He waited through two songs. Then he saw his moment. Bambina dodged forward to put her customary two-euro coin in the collection basket, and he moved forward for the moment when she would return to the other listeners.
“
Scusa
,” he said to her once she’d rejoined the crowd and stood in front of him. “
Per favore, glielo puoi dare . . . ?
” He nodded at his hand. The five-euro note was folded neatly in half. It lay across a greeting card that he had removed from his jacket pocket.
She frowned. A tiny part of her lip was sucked into her mouth. She looked up at him.
He indicated the collection basket with a tilt of his head. “
Per favore
,” he repeated with a smile. And then, “
Anche . . .
leggi questo. Non importa ma . . .
” He let the rest hang there, with another smile. The card he handed her had no envelope. It would be easy enough to open and to read the message within, as he’d asked her to do.
And then he added what he knew would convince her. It was a single word and her eyes widened in surprise. At that point he went on in English, the words formed in such a way that their derivation was something she would not fail to recognise:
“I shall be happy to wait on the other side of Porta San Jacopo. You have absolutely nothing to fear.”
17 April
BELGRAVIA
LONDON
T he day had been bloody odd. Barbara Havers was long used to still waters when it came to Lynley, but even she had been surprised that his depths had somehow managed to hide from her the fact that he had been seeing someone.
If
it could actually be called seeing someone. For it appeared his social life post the Isabelle Ardery entanglement consisted of regular attendance at a sporting event she had never heard of.
He’d insisted that she had to see it. An experience she was unlikely to forget, was how he’d put it. She’d avoided the dubious thrill of this attempt to broaden her social sphere for as long as she could. Ultimately, though,
mercato
—a musician played. Here Bambina always stopped to listen, with a two-euro coin in her hand to offer the man at some point during his performance. She waited for Papà to join her there. But today that was not going to happen. She would be gone when Papà finally arrived.
The
mercato
was, as always, crowded. He remained unnoticed. Where Papà and Bambina stopped, he stopped, too. They bought fruit and a selection of vegetables. Then, Papà bought fresh pasta while Bambina danced over to the kitchen goods and sang out, “She wanted a potato peeler.” He himself chose a cheese grater and then it was on to the scarves. They were cheap but colourful, and Bambina always tried new ways of tying one round her pretty little neck. On and on it went, with an extended stay at Tutti per 1 Euro, where everything from buckets to hair ornaments was sold. An examination of shoes neatly arranged in rows and available for trying on if one’s feet were clean led to intimate apparel for
le donne
and from that to sunglasses and leather
cinture
. Papà tried on one of these, weaving it into the loops of his faded blue jeans. He shook his head and handed it back. By the time he had done so, Bambina had already gone on ahead.
It was where the severed head of a pig announced the stall of the
macellaio
and his display of meats that Bambina skipped onward towards Porta San Jacopo. At this point, he knew, things would follow an unbreaking pattern, so he removed the five-euro note that he had folded carefully into his pocket.
The musician was where he always stood, some twenty yards from Porta San Jacopo. The man was, as usual, gathering a crowd as he played Italian folksongs on his accordion. He had a dancing poodle as a companion, and he accompanied his music and the dog by singing into a microphone clipped onto the collar of his blue shirt. It was the same shirt he wore every week, tattered along the cuffs.
He waited through two songs. Then he saw his moment. Bambina dodged forward to put her customary two-euro coin in the collection basket, and he moved forward for the moment when she would return to the other listeners.
“
Scusa
,” he said to her once she’d rejoined the crowd and stood in front of him. “
Per favore, glielo puoi dare . . . ?
” He nodded at his hand. The five-euro note was folded neatly in half. It lay across a greeting card that he had removed from his jacket pocket.
She frowned. A tiny part of her lip was sucked into her mouth. She looked up at him.
He indicated the collection basket with a tilt of his head. “
Per favore
,” he repeated with a smile. And then, “
Anche . . .
leggi questo. Non importa ma . . .
” He let the rest hang there, with another smile. The card he handed her had no envelope. It would be easy enough to open and to read the message within, as he’d asked her to do.
And then he added what he knew would convince her. It was a single word and her eyes widened in surprise. At that point he went on in English, the words formed in such a way that their derivation was something she would not fail to recognise:
“I shall be happy to wait on the other side of Porta San Jacopo. You have absolutely nothing to fear.”
17 April
BELGRAVIA
LONDON
T he day had been bloody odd. Barbara Havers was long used to still waters when it came to Lynley, but even she had been surprised that his depths had somehow managed to hide from her the fact that he had been seeing someone.
If
it could actually be called seeing someone. For it appeared his social life post the Isabelle Ardery entanglement consisted of regular attendance at a sporting event she had never heard of.
He’d insisted that she had to see it. An experience she was unlikely to forget, was how he’d put it. She’d avoided the dubious thrill of this attempt to broaden her social sphere for as long as she could. Ultimately, though,
Similar Books
