Pietro slowly closed the door to the Martinis’ flat and instinctively turned to where the lawyer had surprised him the last time. Saw the giant window above the landing wide open, a stream of light dazzling the cream walls. Picked the cactus up off the doormat and took two steps toward Fernando’s door. Froze. The door was ajar and through the gap poked a loafer.
‘You stole.’ Fernando was there. The door of the flat opened completely. Now there were two loafers. They came forward, below pyjama bottoms with elasticated bands stretched around fleshy calves. ‘You stole.’
‘I was bringing back your plant, Fernando. It’s better now.’ Pietro called him over but the strange boy took no heed.
Fernando moved slowly in the thick pyjamas. ‘How do you know it’s better?’
‘It made flowers. Come and see how pretty they are.’
He shook his head.
It was the first time Pietro had ever seen him without the beret. His hair was short, thinning in the middle and speckled with grey. ‘Come and see, we won’t say anything to your mother.’ He pointed out the bud of a reddish flower.
Fernando hesitated, then took a quick look. ‘Mama says you heal the plants with prayers.’ He cleaned the toe of one shoe with a thumb.
The concierge put the cactus back down on the mat. ‘When all the flowers bloom you can give it to Alice at the cafe. She’ll be happy.’
The strange boy thought about it. ‘Happy.’ He smiled and seized the concierge’s hand, crushing the fingers with his oxlike strength.
Pietro tried to break away but Fernando refused to let him. The boy drew him into the dimly lit entryway, dragged him into a living room that also contained a kitchen. The shutters were rolled down and the only light came from a small table with five cemetery candles placed in a circle. In the middle lay his felt beret.
The boy took a folded blanket from the couch and placed it at the foot of the table beside another blanket. He knelt down and made a sign for the concierge to do the same.
‘Say a prayer for Papa.’
Pietro stayed on his feet. He watched the strange boy’s broad back collapse toward the altar, return upright, collapse again. Abruptly he ceased to move, a graceless statue.
‘Lie down on the couch, you’re tired,’ said the concierge.
He did not obey.
‘Lie down.’
He remained motionless.
So Pietro picked up the blanket, opened and laid it across the boy’s shoulders. Backed away without taking his eyes off this son at prayer.
The witch crouched in the corner of the confessional, I killed my son, crushed her face up against the grille.
‘My baby never saw the light of day. An old nurse and I, we snuffed him out.’
‘He has seen the eternal light.’ The young priest moved closer.
She pulled back. ‘You priests always say the same thing.’
‘It’s called faith.’
‘Faith … Tell it to someone who’s given birth to a sin.’ She moved away as far as possible.
‘Why did you kill him?’
‘Give me this faith as well.’ The witch ran out.
The young priest called after her, called her again, watched her leave the church. Then he exited the confessional and knelt down on the wood where she had knelt. And instead of praying he gathered up the single long hair left behind in the grille, held it in his left hand.
Directly he returned home Pietro poured himself half a glass of red wine from the bottle he had brought from Rimini. It had gone sour. He drank it quickly, held it against his palate until it sweetened, closed his eyes and that was his prayer for Fernando.
He swallowed when he heard knocking at the lodge window. The shiny head of the lawyer emerged out of a cloud of smoke. Poppi had a cigar in his mouth and a dressing gown cinched at his waspish waist. Pietro slid open the lodge window.
‘Pietro,’ he said, ‘have you seen one of the Martinis come in?’
The acidic wine rose from his stomach.
‘Then there’s something funny going on. This morning when I got to the pool, I didn’t even have time to change before my bowels started sounding the alarm – I imagine it’s retribution for having taken the mick out of Fernando at the cafe. I went straight back home and in the bathroom Theo Morbidelli and I heard suspicious sounds. Do you like Theo Morbidelli as a cat’s name?’
Pietro nodded.
‘Anyway, at a certain point Theo Morbidelli and I heard a sound coming from the doctor’s office. Where were you, kibitzer?’
‘I took Fernando the cactus. We talked for a while outside his door.’
‘Ah. Maybe it was you …’ The lawyer bit his lips. ‘It’s just that I’m always on the lookout.’
‘You’re a good administrator.’
Poppi put out the cigar and pushed his way into the lodge.
‘Ever since his mother kicked the bucket the doctor has lost his head. A good administrator … A nurse is more like it.’
The concierge sat down.
The lawyer’s voice softened. ‘He got his bearings in life from his mother.’ He settled down next to Pietro and for the first time Pietro got a good look at him. Poppi was a tired man with tiny watery eyes who refused to surrender to old age. He gestured with his hands, let them fall to his lap and continued: ‘And now that the bearings are lost, the ship has no direction.’ He opened the dressing gown slightly, revealing his scrawny chest. ‘In the evenings he’s out of the house a lot, and I’ve heard Viola crying more than once since the kid was born. I’ve heard him crying too. He sounds like a crow when he cries.’
‘Maybe the crows don’t want to be listened to.’
‘We should have thicker walls.’
‘Or more discreet tongues.’
The lawyer turned his back on the concierge. ‘Maybe you, Pietro, still have God to keep you company and don’t need anyone else’ – he crossed his legs – ‘but let me tell you a story, my friend. When my mother found out that I was a poof, she said that I would be condemned to die alone like one other category of people: priests.’ His eyes now were dry and growing in size. ‘My mother was right, except in one point, if I may: we homos are buried without any desires left, you priests with your mouths still spouting sermons.’ He chewed on the extinguished cigar.
Pietro was silent.
Poppi feigned blowing smoke. ‘Did you know you’ve got no sense of humour?’ Then he laid a hand on the concierge’s knee and squeezed. ‘Pardon me.’ He bowed his bony head. He once again appeared tired, his arms like twigs and his face fearful. He looked through the lodge window. ‘I promised the doctor’s mother that I would look out for him. Seeing him like this upsets me.’
Pietro looked through the lodge window as well, saw the geometric designs that decorated the ceiling of the entrance hall. Then a half-flowering cactus came lumbering its way past the lodge, with drooping arms and a trunk inclined to one side. The lawyer jumped to his feet and stared. They heard a buzz and a click.
‘Jesus. Come and see this, Pietro.’
The half-flowering cactus swayed in the arms of Fernando as he tried unsuccessfully to open the door. He had on his beret and a corduroy shirt.
The lawyer closed his dressing gown and ran out of the lodge.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He kept the door closed with his foot.
‘Alice is happy with pretty flowers.’
‘What?’
‘Alice is happy.’
Pietro helped steady the cactus in the boy’s arms. ‘It’s not completely flowered yet. We have to wait because like this it’s not a nice gift.’
Poppi put an arm around Fernando.
‘Let’s go home, son.’
‘Alice wants pretty flowers.’
‘And we’ll bring them to her. At the right moment, that is. With women it takes patience. Listen to someone who knows about these things.’
Poppi led Fernando and his cactus upstairs. Before disappearing he looked towards Pietro for an instant.
The concierge looked towards him as well. Then he slipped into the lodge and into the flat. Went into the bedroom, turned on the light and drew from his suitcase a rectangular box containing a plastic bag. It looked empty. He held it up to the light and saw what remained of a long hair, an invisible filament. Inside he also put the paper with the writing copied from the doctor’s office, How will you condemn me, God?
Then he said to himself: ‘Tonight at seven o’clock.’