The cafe was located on a corner opposite the condominium, across a cobbled street furrowed with the rails of two tram lines. There was little room inside, a few 1930s tables surrounded by assorted chairs and a whiff of cream, the walls covered with old film posters. Velvet lamps hung from the ceiling. The lawyer was seated in a blue armchair and reading a newspaper. He raised his eyes and saw the concierge. On the wall behind him was a black-and-white Anita Ekberg in the Trevi Fountain. Across the table sat Fernando and his mother, a petite woman smelling of hairspray. Her slim legs sprouted from a puff skirt. When Pietro entered she spun round in her seat.
‘What a pleasant surprise!’ She came forward to meet him, her wrinkled face framed by a perm. ‘Please have a seat.’ She pointed to the chair next to her.
The lawyer folded his newspaper and cleared his throat.
‘So then, Pietro, in the end I convinced you! Welcome. In my capacity as condominium administrator, please allow me to introduce you to our Fernando and his mother, the charming Paola. Second floor, cherrywood door, next to the Martinis.’
Fernando kept his back turned, a felt beret pulled low on his head, his elbows planted either side of an empty cup. Stared at the black-haired barista behind the counter. Pietro greeted the boy, who grunted in reply. The first time he ever saw him, the day of his arrival at the condominium, he had been clinging to his mother’s skirts as he repeated, ‘I don’t want to go to work, I want to stay with you.’ He wore small round spectacles. He was twenty years old but also eighty.
‘Fernando, say hello to Pietro.’ His mother shook his shoulder and he brushed her hand away.
‘He’s in love and can’t make up his mind to come out with it,’ said the lawyer Poppi, rubbing his hands together. ‘Dear Pietro, can I offer you a cappuccino with a sprinkle of cinnamon?’
‘I’ll have an espresso, thank you.’
‘The specialty here is cappuccino with cinnamon. Alice makes them like no one else. Please try one.’
‘That will be enough, Mr Poppi.’ Fernando’s mother fingered the string of pearls at her neck. ‘How are you finding it with us, Pietro? Have you settled in?’
The concierge nodded.
The barista came toward them. She wore a fringe and the top two buttons of her shirt undone. She smiled at Pietro. ‘Can I get you something?’
The lawyer elbowed him.
‘A cappuccino,’ said Pietro.
Fernando raised his head. His face was broad, his smooth cheeks inflamed.
‘One cappuccino. Anything else, sir?’
‘Yes,’ the lawyer replied for him. ‘On top of the cappuccino for my friend Pietro, could you draw’ – he raised his voice – ‘a cinnamon heart as only you, Alice, can?’
Paola turned toward her son. Fernando had straightened up and sat poised on his seat. Then mumbled something incomprehensible and sank down limply on the table.
His mother stroked his face. ‘Do you want to go home, Fernandello?’ Stroked his face again. ‘I’m taking you home.’
The lawyer smothered a laugh behind a handkerchief. ‘He thinks she makes the heart in the cappuccino foam just for him.’
Paola turned back to them. ‘You’ll pay for this, Poppi, you cruel, cruel man.’
The lawyer winked and stood. He left two notes under the plate, kissed Fernando on the neck and walked out.
‘He does things like that, but he’s a good person,’ said Paola, fussing with her wedding ring. ‘It’s only thanks to him that we received …’ she whispered, ‘the compensation.’
Pietro frowned.
‘It’s been five years now since my Gianfranco died. Seems like an eternity. He worked with asbestos for decades. If it hadn’t been for Poppi, we wouldn’t have seen a single cent.’ She sighed. ‘We are widow and widower, the two of us.’
Pietro looked at her.
‘I’m sure you’ve seen the two names on the lawyer’s letterbox. Daniele, that was his name. They spent a lifetime together.’ She nodded to herself. ‘I was left with my son. He was left with the condominium. That’s why he worries about everyone, especially now …’ She paused. ‘I don’t want to seem like a gossip.’
‘You don’t seem like a gossip.’
Alice served the cappuccino, a cinnamon heart at the centre of the foam, a butter biscuit on the plate. Pietro placed the cup on Fernando’s table.
The boy immediately began to drink, and Paola said, ‘You know hot milk is bad for you, stop it now!’ Then lowered her voice, ‘I watch television in the kitchen, it was a habit my husband and I had. Unfortunately, our room shares a wall with Dr Martini’s study, and walls talk. Things with them are not at all well.’
‘I know that he lost his mother recently.’
Paola touched his hand lightly. ‘Things with them are not at all well.’ She shook her head, stopped, sniffed and sniffed again. ‘Do you smell something too?’
The putrid odour came and went, overpowering when it did the whiff of cream. She leaned closer to her son. ‘Fernando, stand up.’
Fernando was resting his chin on the palm of one hand and eyeing the barista as she cleaned the espresso machine. He said no and gulped down the last of the cappuccino.
‘Fernando, stand up.’ She bent over him. ‘Hot milk is bad for you, not that you ever listen to me.’ Tugged at him, helping him to his feet. ‘Come on, honey, let’s go home.’
Fernando pulled off his glasses. They swung from their cord and bounced on his chest. He looked down and shuffled like a penguin, Alice said bye, then he passed and only then did Pietro notice the dark halo staining his trousers. The stink had become unbearable. Paola tied her herringbone coat around her son’s waist.
*
The witch was saying, Where did the cat’s soul go, Father, tell me where it went. She hunched her shoulders and her voice could barely be heard.
‘Come,’ said the young priest, leading her through the crowd and into the church. Then he hurried to find the hydrogen peroxide and when he returned he disinfected the scratch. She flinched at the sting. She was beautiful like the year before and the year before that, with one ring more on her finger, something less in her eyes.
‘Your cat is dead and I’m a witch because I killed it.’ Her fleshy mouth trembled. She pressed a hand to her stomach.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘I’ll go to hell.’
He continued to press the cotton to her knee, longer than necessary. Lifted his eyes to her chest swelling her dress.
‘Your name’s Celeste, isn’t it?’
‘I want to purge myself of this sin, Father.’
‘You didn’t see the cat.’
‘I want to confess. In the confessional, right?’ The witch stood and headed for the booth, did an about-turn and plucked some chewing gum from her mouth. ‘If I talk with this in my mouth, will the Lord be offended?’