Pietro slept poorly owing to the hard floor and the odour of mothballs that stung his nose. He woke at first light.
The floor was frigid. He placed his feet on top of the socks there and reread the only crossword clue that he had been unable to solve, five across, three letters: ruminant with palmate antlers. He wrote elk and went into the bathroom to undress. Over the years his torso had shrunk. The hair remained dark on his slight paunch. He caressed it softly, the skin that of a newborn. Unscrewed the cap on the body wash for sensitive skin and turned on the shower, a square of floor separated by a plastic curtain. As soon as it became lukewarm he started on his legs. They were a runner’s legs. Disfiguring scars ran over his thighs and shins. He traced them with two fingers, down to his small feet, which he scrubbed. He had prominent veins and scars on his ankles as well. Poured out more body wash, soaped his face and felt the bubbles bursting on his nose. They didn’t smell like anything. He inhaled and his nostrils burned. Held one hand to his wrinkly member, grasped it and fingered the tip. Stopped and stared at that strip of flesh. Rinsed it with cold water and rinsed the cuts that crossed his chest from one side to another. His bones slid under the tortured skin that still hurt at times. He opened the plastic curtain and before stepping out looked at himself in the mirror behind the door. He was a man reddened by the hot water and by memory.
He did the rest in a hurry. Chose a shirt and trousers and an argyle jumper that he threw over his shoulders. He had bought them in Anita’s shop the day before starting the job. He had chosen the colour, grey, she the style, and she had also made him buy an uncomfortable pair of brogues and two cardigans to alternate, because a proper concierge almost never dresses the same two days in a row. Anita had also added a tie and a bottle of cologne, which he had yet to open. Pietro pulled on the jumper, adjusted his shirt collar and went into the kitchen without stopping to look in the mirror. A colour other than black was enough to embarrass him.
Pietro had always eaten breakfast on his feet. He set up on top of the refrigerator, with exactly two pieces of Melba toast and three squares of dark chocolate. Ate slowly, eyes on the plants awaiting the morning light. ‘You tricked me,’ he said to a recovering ficus that he had given up for lost. Placed it more squarely in the sun’s path and went into the lodge. Checked the notebook with the list of things to remember. Dr Martini’s daughter’s birthday was just a week away. Nicolini the magician would be stopping by in the next few days to work out where to do the show. The concierge would first have to clean out the gutters and prune the hedge. He stood to open the lodge window’s curtains, instead returned to the bedroom and took the keys to the Martinis’.
Pietro carried the keys in his pocket and occasionally felt to be sure they were still there. He had to wait until the building emptied. The first to leave was the lawyer. On pool days he was always an early riser. Shortly after it was Paola’s turn. She came up to the lodge.
‘My Fernando is ill and won’t be going to work today.’ The smell of hairspray struck him full in the face. ‘Would you mind looking in on him every so often?’
Pietro nodded. ‘I’ll also drop off this cactus. It’s better.’
‘I’ll pay you back with dinner.’ Paola put on her hat and went out as the voice of the doctor’s daughter floated down the stairwell. Sara whimpered, cuddled up against her mother’s chest, an invisible bundle with one eye open wide, the other closed. Waved the magic wand and stared at him.
Viola put her down. ‘She doesn’t want to go to nursery school. What am I to do?’ She buttoned up the girl’s hooded top. ‘Have a good day, Pietro.’ Smiled and went out with her daughter.
The postman came early. Pietro sped up operations by telling him he would distribute the post to the boxes himself. The postman handed over the lot and the concierge set to work. For Paola there was a fashion magazine with the newest collections and a current-affairs weekly that was mostly gossip. He had come across the previous issue in the wastepaper bin and read it during quiet times. He flipped through this one briefly then continued to pick through the pile. There were also three envelopes for Fernando’s mother, two of them still addressed to her husband. He put them in her box. For the lawyer there was a newsletter from the Rotary club and a child sponsorship update. Remaining on the table was the post for the Martinis. Viola had received an invitation to an art opening. He placed it in their box and turned to the doctor’s post. There was an envelope from a medical conference and the Corriere della Sera, which he came to the lodge every morning to pick up. Pietro removed the plastic wrapper and refolded the newspaper carefully so that the corners were perfectly matched. He spied a front-page article about a Mafioso on the run being arrested, had begun to read it when the doctor came down. With a gym bag over his shoulder and a phone to his ear, the doctor signed to him that he would pick up the paper later. Pietro waited until he left, then checked the time.
He entered the courtyard. Viola’s gardenia was still in low spirits, Paola’s cactus revived and beginning to flower. He picked up the latter and carried it into the entrance hall. The stairs were silent as a tomb. He began to climb, staggering with the weight of the cactus until the first floor, where he had to pause before continuing up. No sound came from the doors on the second floor. He moved closer to Poppi’s door and heard the low murmur of the television that the lawyer left on every time he went out, put down the cactus on the Martinis’ doormat and rang the bell. Rang again. Drew out the keys, inserted them into the locks and opened the door.
The photograph of the doctor on the Vespa was as he had left it. He lifted it up and noticed that the child was clutching something in his less visible hand, perhaps a slingshot, perhaps just a piece of rope. Beside the picture frame the basket of knick-knacks appeared piled high even without the bell. He went over to the hall stand and brought his nose to a black trench coat. It smelled of vanilla. He stopped sniffing and lifted his head.
In the middle of the room were two red couches set at right angles. Bookshelves covered the long wall and surrounded the door to the kitchen. More books strewed the floor. As he stepped over them he read The Razor’s Edge on one cover. He walked around. The little girl’s toys crowded the carpet. Some dolls sat up on a chaise longue beneath the window.
Through the glass he could see the courtyard, a bit of the Madonna and an arc of his porthole window. He continued to wander, the parquet floor squeaked, he slowed his steps and arrived at a pair of men’s slippers beside a couch. Sat down, took off his shoes and put on the slippers. Wiggled his toes, working them all the way in. They fitted him perfectly. As his feet warmed up Pietro approached the one wall painted crimson. On the right hung a photograph of a lavender field. Among the flowers appeared the doctor and Viola in an embrace, perhaps from when they were at university. He ran a finger along the outline of the pale young man with a patchy beard and a lavender flower over one ear. Viola was looking at the camera and he was looking at her. They were beautiful. On the mantel he spotted their wedding picture: she full of soft curves in her white gown, he a mannequin in morning dress. Another photograph was of the doctor arm in arm with Riccardo, the radiographer, their faces deformed with laughter. A final one showed a man in sunglasses holding a fishing rod, a fish hanging from two fingers. He knew it was the doctor’s father, who had died a few years back.
The voice of Fernando came through the wall, ‘Papa and Jesus, I will offend you no more.’ Then silence.
Pietro went into the kitchen. A bouquet of sunflowers hung down from the wall above the table, a card pinned to the paper: To Viola, who passes beneath the windows. He read the doctor’s signature. The a in Luca had a long, curly tail. A shelf held an aquarium with striped tropical fish. Beside it a long, narrow loaf of bread poked out of its bag. He pressed a finger against a crumb and put it in his mouth. The bread was fresh. Then he stood in front of the refrigerator. On the door were a magnet shaped like the Eiffel Tower and a black-and-white Polaroid, the ultrasound of Sara in her mama’s belly. He ran his finger slowly over it, recognizing the upturned nose and little round head, caressed it and noticed a handwritten date in the lower right corner: 14-9-2008. The same as the bracelet found in the courtyard. He pressed the corners down and heard another voice, of the lawyer this time: ‘Theo Morbidelli, where are you? No swimming today because your owner doesn’t feel so good. I’m going into the bathroom, so kindly get out of the way, c’mon now …’
Pietro checked his watch, went back into the sitting room, and slid open a door leading to the bedrooms. He passed the little girl’s room: the walls were plastered with drawings; a pink quilt covered the bed; a stuffed Winnie the Pooh sat atop the pillow. He continued down the corridor to the last room, the one sharing a wall with Fernando’s sitting room, the doctor’s study. A laptop peeked out beneath piles of papers and books on the desk. The leather armchair was buried in old newspapers. A stringless guitar rested on a stand. On the wall he saw the doctor’s diploma. He walked around the desk and touched the frame, read with the highest distinction and pressed his fingers against the glass. Held them there, then stooped over the desk. Some doodled sheets of paper and a bowl of grape stems. He crouched down in front of the three drawers below the work surface.
He undid a button of his shirt and felt his throat pulsing. Pulled open the first drawer. Inside were a packet of liquorice gum, a mobile-phone charger, a pile of cotton handkerchiefs, a leather-bound diary. He closed the drawer. A cascade of water roared in the pipes in the wall and muddied the lawyer’s voice: ‘Here I am, Theo, I’m fine now. Come here and give me some love.’
He reopened the drawer and paged through the diary. On the first page there was nothing. On the others he read last names, account numbers, payment due dates, more doodles. He went to 8 February, the day of the death of the doctor’s mother. The page was blank. On the next, scrawled diagonally across the page: No frame, Mama, just the memory.
He paged ahead and noticed that some dates were circled in pen, 9 January several times. Underneath, a line: How will you condemn me, God? He paused. Read again: How will you condemn me, God? Continued to flip through. The third of May was circled as well and bore the same message. He searched the surface of the desk, found a blank piece of paper and a pen, traced the doctor’s handwriting. Folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket. Checked the coming days, pages full of reminders about Sara’s birthday party. The order placed with the pastry shop Madame La Cuisine, the magician Massimo Nicolini’s expenses.
He opened to today’s date. It was circled. The doctor had noted, 7:00, call first, and lower down, Don’t have the courage. Pietro stared at the writing.
The second drawer was locked. He shook it and something moved inside. The third was unlocked. He slid it open and a jumble of photographs appeared, on top one of a woman holding a newborn in her arms, her face pressed against the sleeping child, her smile that of someone in her twenties.
He closed the drawer quickly and left the study. When he came to the Martinis’ bedroom he leaned against the door jamb, then shuffled slowly to the wicker bed and bent down over the two orange pillows. He sank his face into the pillow-case with the smell of Luca.
This time he breathed.