In the notebook where he set down things not to forget, he wrote, Dr Martini, at around seven tomorrow, then the hospital: risky. He quickly closed it and went to the telephone on the shelf in the lodge, dialled the only number he knew by heart.
‘Anita, I’m running late.’
He hung up and returned to the flat. One of the bags was on the kitchen table. He dumped out what had been left inside. At the bottom were crosswords and balled-up vests. He threw everything into the wardrobe, empty at the bottom except for two woollen jumpers and some worn shoes, and removed from a hanger the only outfit hanging there, a black suit and white shirt. The jacket had mother-of-pearl buttons and the trousers were cuffless. He kept his good shoes under the bed in a plastic bag. Pulled them out now and rummaged through a dresser drawer. The skinny tie was stuffed against the box of earplugs. He smoothed it between his palms. Dressed hurriedly and wheeled out the Bianchi. As he emerged from the condominium he found a petrol-blue SUV parked up on the pavement.
‘Oh, good evening, Pietro.’ Poppi the lawyer was leaning against the vehicle door. A thin man stood beside him. ‘May I introduce you to Dr Riccardo Lisi? Radiographer and a good friend of the Martinis.’
The two men moved away from the SUV and Pietro noticed that the door had a scratch and two large dents.
‘We’ve already met.’ The radiographer wore an open raincoat. Extended his hand toward the concierge. ‘We ran into each other on the day you first arrived. Three bags and that Bianchi, wasn’t it?’ Pointed at it and brushed the hair away from his face. His eyes were grey.
‘That’s right, Dr Lisi.’
‘Riccardo. Dr Lisi makes me feel old. Do you have a lock for it?’
‘It’s broken.’
‘They pinch Bianchis in Milan. May I?’ He grabbed the bicycle, climbed on and leaned over the handlebars as if he were hurtling down a hill. ‘They don’t make ’em like this any more. I’ve got one myself, but it’s made of tissue paper.’
‘Do you ride it?’
‘I used to, with that wimp Martini. Then he defected and I get bored riding on my own.’
‘You two could go riding together.’ The lawyer opened his arms wide.
‘Resolved.’ Riccardo gave the bicycle back to Pietro. ‘You’ve got to be patient, though. I don’t have the legs I once did.’ He started up the stairs.
He had left behind the scent of aftershave, sickly sweet, which mixed with the smog.
‘I’ve seen him around a lot lately,’ said Pietro.
‘You see him around a lot lately, right.’ Poppi raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s say that he’s one of the family. He was at university with Dr Martini and now they work in the same hospital. The little girl calls him “Uncle”.’ He looked Pietro up and down. ‘I admit the white shirt does wonders for you, Pietro.’ He adjusted the concierge’s tie and opened the door to the building. ‘Who’s the lucky woman tonight?’
Pietro started off.
‘Don’t be coy. What’s her name?’
‘Anita.’
‘I was thinking Mary Magdalene. Good for you, kibitzer. God will be jealous tonight.’
The concierge stood stiffly on the threshold of the flat. Anita said, ‘You have the same face as when you first arrived in Milan.’ She pulled him inside. ‘C’mon, tell me. Are you worried about something?’
Pietro leaned against the new refrigerator. Its door was already covered with recipes. She caressed the two creases around his mouth. ‘If these wrinkles …’ Moved on to the furrows on his forehead. ‘And these …’ Finished with the groove in his chin. ‘And this as well … have shown up, something has happened.’ Helped him out of his jacket, then checked on a pot heating on the stove. ‘Knowing you this long has got to mean something.’
Pietro turned to the window. It looked over a communal balcony into the tenement’s courtyard. A string of petunias hung down from the balustrade. He managed to make out the Bianchi. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ He sat down, and only now did he notice that Anita was different.
‘You’re worried,’ she said.
Her lips were shiny and she wore pearls at her earlobes. Her hair was freshly dyed a shade approaching auburn. Her dress hugged wide hips partially concealed by a hanging scarf.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Pietro replied. And he gazed at the old photograph on the wall of her on the Rimini breakwater. She held her hat to keep it from blowing away and she was happy.
She lowered her eyes. ‘I went by your building this morning.’ Used a wooden spoon to scoop up a bit of ragù from the pot. The sauce was simmering over a low flame. She cooled it down with a long breath before placing it in her mouth. ‘The condominium is very distinguished, but I didn’t see the doctor.’
‘He had already left at that hour.’
‘I saw a blonde woman and a little girl.’
‘His wife and daughter.’
‘If they’re any guide, the doctor is one handsome man.’ She caressed his ringless fingers. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
Pietro sprang to his feet. On the sideboard stood a glass amphora. Anita had filled it with coloured buttons and decks of cards. He pulled out the briscola cards. They were worn at the edges, the images faded. He began to shuffle them. ‘Today I used my set of keys to go into his flat.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’
She pushed aside plate and silverware. ‘Goodness, and then?’
‘I saw a photograph.’ Pietro shuffled the cards and spoke softly. ‘He liked Vespas when he was little. After that I had to leave.’
Anita slipped the cards out of his hand and had him cut the deck. Then turned them over two by two: the three of cups and the six of coins, the king and the ace of cups. ‘The cards say you’ll go back. Back to his flat. Because he’ll need you.’
Pietro looked over her shoulder. The ace of cups had been the first card dealt. He put an arm around Anita like he had done after climbing down from the Rimini–Milan train, the day when they first saw each other again after ten years. She’d brought him home with her, to a comfortable two-room flat in a big ugly building north of the city. And he had slept there ever since: the four nights before becoming a concierge and virtually every night following.
Anita blew gently in his ear, loosened his tie.
He turned his head, buried his nose in her hair.