Free Vita Nuova by Magdalen Nabb Page B

answer right away but lifted the cup to her lips very carefully, as though it were brimming over, but it wasn’t. The problem was that her hands were trembling. Her forehead was beaded with sweat and her head must have been throbbing. Frowning with the effort, she said, ‘It might be Frida. I’m sorry, I should be dressed at this hour.’
    She looked frightened, and her glance shifted to the staircase. She wasn’t apologising to the marshal. It must be Paoletti she was afraid of, even in his absence.
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m not well.’
    ‘I understand. Your daughter, Silvana, explained— and of course, now, after such a shock. Two shocks. Your husband and then your daughter.’
    Again she lifted the cup and sipped.
    ‘It’s milk,’ she said, as though he’d asked, ‘with just a drop of coffee. Coffee on its own upsets me.’
    ‘Well, yes, it’s heavy on the stomach if it’s strong.’
    Should he even have come here? Yes. He couldn’t imagine the prosecutor getting anything out of her. Hadn’t he already tried? She’d surely have taken something for her hangover, and the milk and toast might settle her stomach sufficiently to enable her to talk. Even though he was thinking this, he was taken aback when she put down the cup and said without expression, ‘Is my daughter dead?’
    ‘Yes, Signora, she’s dead. In fact, I came here today to tell you that, now that the autopsy is done, the prosecutor will soon give his permission for you to bury her. You’ll want to be making arrangements.’
    ‘I can’t do that. It will have to be when my husband comes home.’
    ‘Yes, of course. I understand.’
    ‘Where is Piero?’
    ‘I’m not sure . . . I expect his aunt is looking after him.’
    ‘By herself? Silvana musn’t be left to look after him by herself.’
    ‘No, you’re right. She’s still very upset—but now she has someone staying here who can help.’
    ‘You have to excuse me. I’m ill.’
    The marshal got to his feet and out of range. He knocked on the door, closed now, through which the girl had gone. ‘I think the signora needs your help.’
    The girl came out. She said nothing to him but went over to the woman. ‘Do you want to get dressed now?’
    ‘Bathroom. I feel sick. . . .’
    The marshal judged that she had forgotten his presence. The girl was helping her to her feet. In the doorway she had come through, he saw buckets and mops, and from there came that faint, now recognizable smell, masked by disinfectant.
    ‘I’ll see myself out.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Is there a time of day when the signora might feel up to talking, do you think?’
    She shrugged her shoulders with a slight grimace that said more than her words. ‘You could try just before supper, about sevenish. Signora! Don’t hold on to the table. Lean on me—no, on me! That’s better.’
    The marshal climbed up to the fresh air out of doors and heard water splashing. He walked to the rear of the carriage drive and turned left towards the tower. In the blue pool, water running off her brown limbs and long hair, Silvana held a plump, blond cherub of a boy above her head. The cherub, with his curls all wet, was crying, but she laughed up at him until he stopped and laughed with her. The marshal stood a moment, watching, remembering Giovanni at that age, plump and brown, soft dark hair and huge brown eyes, amazed by the sea, not knowing whether to laugh or cry when the waves splashed over him. So little time they’d had before he’d had to leave. Even less with Totò. Nobody could give him back those years. A thin, fair girl was carrying a tray of sandwiches and drinks to the table under the umbrella. Must he barge in on this scene, a uniformed stranger come to talk about a funeral? It wasn’t that urgent if nothing was to be done until Paoletti came home and he was going to have to come back, anyway, to try again with the mother. He retreated.
    ‘Lorenzini! Thank God for that!’
    Lorenzini was a bit taken