Pietro returned from the birthday party with a kiss from Sara on his cheek and a tray of petits fours wrapped in crinkled paper. Through a gap he saw the top of a meringue. He slipped a finger into the package, found the whipped cream. Plunged in and brought the finger to his mouth as he looked at the ficus next to the refrigerator, entirely revived by the rain of the previous night. Took a pair of scissors from the table and knelt down. He pruned one green leaf after another, every leaf except the one with the shell. The snail had left a trail of slime across the veins.
The concierge rested the tray of petits fours on the Bianchi’s handlebars, pocketed the photograph of the woman and newborn and went out into the courtyard with the bicycle. On the stage were three long balloons trampled flat. And Riccardo.
He blended in with the evening, until his cigarette glowed. The concierge turned to leave.
‘Teach me how to make the shadows.’ The man sat on the edge of the stage, dangling his legs. ‘Teach me the parrot too.’
Pietro leaned on the top bar of the Bianchi. ‘I can’t do the parrot well any more.’
‘Or whatever shadow you want …’ He tossed the cigarette to the ground and hopped down from the stage. ‘As long as it’s different from my own.’ The lamplight in the courtyard projected him on the ground in sharply angled silhouette.
‘I can’t do any of the shadows well any more.’
The radiographer came closer to him, stopping directly below the lamp. Pietro saw him clearly then. And recognized himself. Riccardo was an orphan. In the graceful gestures that smoothed the edges of an eternal awkwardness, in the cowed, anxious eyes from which he now brushed away curls. ‘I trip over my own shadow.’ He sniggered without smiling.
‘So do I.’ Pietro nodded as he had the first time they met. He knew that the awkwardness of this kind man was his own awkwardness. To be always alone. He laid a hand on his arm, just for a moment, and squeezed. Then he turned the Bianchi round and when he faced the street door he noticed a drawing stuck to the lodge window. Looking closer he made out a man sailing through the air on a red bicycle. Above the figure soared two lopsided birds with spikes on their heads. He pulled it down and read at the bottom, Fernando and Sara. Turned around and spied Fernando and Sara half hidden behind the stairs.
‘For me?’ the concierge asked.
The little girl ran to Pietro and tugged at the edge of his jacket, laughing, gap-toothed. Fernando stepped forward. ‘It’s a jewel,’ he said, pointing to the drawing.
‘Thank you very much.’ The concierge ran a hand through the boy’s hair. ‘I’ll hang it over my bed.’
Riccardo came over to them. ‘They didn’t know how to thank you, so they set to drawing as soon as the guests left.’ He picked up the little girl.
Pietro stared at them, searching in the one, then in the other. Sara had her mother’s nose and eyes, her hands and way of laughing.
‘I’m sleepy,’ she murmured.
The concierge searched again. The child laid her head on Riccardo’s shoulder and Pietro found the telltale sign. The pointed ear. A piece of cartilage sharpened her ear as it sharpened his. In the same curve, in the same way. Riccardo kissed her. ‘Everyone to bed.’
Pietro caressed Sara’s back, climbed his hand up to her shoulder, to her face. Brushed the ear there, said goodnight.
They went upstairs and he glanced at the Madonna in the alcove.
He asked now. That you might protect my son.
The entire ride, Pietro steered with one hand. The other steadied the tray of petits fours on the handlebars until he arrived at Anita’s front gate, which had been left ajar. He buzzed. No one responded but he entered anyway, left the Bianchi in the rack and went up to the first floor. Rang at her door. The young woman came out of the flat next door. ‘Anita will be here soon.’
‘Thanks.’ Pietro waited on a chair on the landing of the communal balcony. The young woman remained in the doorway of her flat, fiddling with her mobile phone, applying and reapplying lip gloss like the first time he’d met her. She wore a fringe nearly down to her eyes and two silver hoops in her ears. Pietro rested the tray on his knees, glimpsed the small cakes through the gap in the paper: they had all overturned. He uncovered the tray and began to right them. When he arrived at the strawberry petit four he looked up. The woman was smiling.
‘Do you like the ones with fruit?’ Pietro held out the tray to her and she chose the cake with the smallest strawberry. She nibbled at the edges and kept the fruit for last. ‘Have you known Anita for a long time?’
‘A lifetime.’
Her mobile rang and without answering the woman went to the intercom, pushed the button while she finished the petit four, looked down. Into the courtyard came a man in his fifties with his coat collar turned up. The man climbed to the second floor and hurried directly into the woman’s flat. She followed him and before closing the door said, ‘My name’s Silvia.’
‘Pietro.’
‘Very pleased to meet you.’ She locked the door and drew the curtain of her one window facing the communal balcony. The curtain was made of voile and through it he discerned her helping the man remove his coat and tie. Pietro stopped watching and stood up.
Anita smiled from the stairs. ‘You were nice to Silvia.’
‘Where were you?’
She showed him a bottle opener. ‘I’d loaned it to my upstairs neighbour. I enjoyed your gallantry.’ Anita lowered her voice: ‘That’s her third client today. Poor girl. Just think that I’ve seen her become like that in a year. Before she just studied and that was it.’
Pietro finished rewrapping the tray and gave it to her.
Anita kissed him on the cheek. ‘What is it?’
The concierge waited until she opened her door, then as soon as they entered, embraced her. Dug his nose into her hair. Anita smelled of goodness.
‘Something happened with your son, didn’t it?’
The concierge pulled out the photograph of the woman with the newborn. He put it on the table.
Anita brought it up to the light. ‘It’s her. She’s really beautiful.’ She went over to Pietro and enunciated each word: ‘Give the letter to your son. Tell him the truth.’
Anita took his hand. Led him into the bedroom, took off his jumper and trousers, unbuttoned his shirt. Went into the bathroom and when she returned he was as she had left him. Together they lay down on the bed, resting their heads on a single pillow. She pressed her breasts against him and he felt the tired flesh. They looked at each other. Pietro allowed himself to be kissed. Anita’s lips tasted of goodness, too. Slowly he undressed her. Pushed her against the pillow. Anita said, ‘Leave it to me,’ but he held her still and himself above her. His hands roamed and fumbled. He sat up and they returned to his sides. She took his member in her hand, closed her fingers around it and gently shook the soft, yielding form. Pietro leaned forward to caress her neck. Began to squeeze it. ‘Gently,’ she said. Pietro squeezed and released, lowered himself onto her and took her broad face between his palms. Kissed her on the eyes.
Anita kissed him on the eyes as well. ‘You deserve your son.’
Pietro pulled back. ‘He deserves his daughter.’