Free The Sense of an Elephant by Marco Missiroli Page A

bell.’ She held her purse against her stomach and picked at the clasp with a fingernail. Her face was troubled, her mouth darkened by traces of lipstick. ‘Just a little spin now, a dress rehearsal for your favourite resident?’
    Pietro stayed put. She hesitated, twisted the purse in her hands one last time, dropped them to her sides and said goodnight. Started up the stairs, the clicking of her heels slow and laboured, entered her flat. Once the concierge could no longer hear her he followed. When he reached the second floor the lights were already out. He approached the Martinis’ door, failed to hear a thing. Remained there another moment thenmade to go down. Poppi’s door opened. ‘Are you looking for me, Pietro?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜My peephole is worth a thousand of those South American concierges they hire on the outskirts of the city. Thefts have gone up thirteen per cent, and then you know what day it is today?’
    â€˜Friday.’
    â€˜Even the walls know that on Fridays Fernando goes with his mother to sleep at his grandparents’. And until just recently the Martinis weren’t home. This lawyer is watchful.’ He had on a silk dressing gown and his usual slippers. He smoked from a cigarette holder and with one foot attempted to block the cat in. ‘I note with pleasure that we’re dressed up tonight as well.’ He looked him up and down. ‘Classy scarf. For the same bird, or have we increased the flock?’
    â€˜The same.’
    â€˜You put up with my nosiness. It’s just to know what you’re making of this new life.’ He came forward. ‘Satisfy my curiosity on one serious point, though. Do you still pray?’
    â€˜And you?’
    â€˜I never have. But sometimes I try to cover all the bases: a paternoster with a gin and tonic.’ The cat escaped and bounded toward the concierge, who huddled in the corner.
    â€˜I didn’t know they bothered you.’
    â€˜I’m allergic.’
    â€˜On a Friday night a pussycat’s not enough. Come have a nip at my place.’ He was careful not to lose the ash from the end of his cigarette. ‘I’ll shut Theo Morbidelli and all mycuriosity up in another room.’ The ash fell anyway. ‘I entreat you.’
    A burst of laughter came from the Martinis’ flat. It was the doctor. The lawyer perked up an ear. ‘Now playing: evidence of conjugal bliss. Is it really our Martinis?’ He gestured for him to enter. ‘Just a nip and I’ll leave you to your carnal education.’
    Pietro waited at the entry. The lawyer retrieved Theo Morbidelli and put him in a room, the cigarette holder on the edge of a wooden chest. ‘Please come in.’
    The flat was cosy, welcoming, and poorly ventilated, with a fuggy stench that took your breath away. Poppi grabbed a small bottle of perfume off a shelf and pumped. Piles of books inundated the two couches and a zebra skin served as a rug. The table was glazed, the chairs were glazed, and on the wall hung an abstract painting with a glazed frame. Bouquets of fake flowers sprang from several vases. A thick layer of dust covered everything. Below the window stood a rickety contraption with a gramophone on it. The lawyer ran a finger over the apparatus and went into the kitchen, a small room divided from the sitting room by an exposed-brick arch. He picked up glasses and the bottle of Scotch and told Pietro to choose one of the two armchairs beneath a giant poster of Maria Callas that hung on the wall shared with the Martinis’ flat. Surrounding Callas, Poppi had nailed up tribal masks.
    The voice of Viola came through the wall as if she were there.
But the shirt looks good on you, you know? This red really knows its business
.
    The lawyer clasped Pietro’s wrist with all ten of his fingers,which were ice-cold. ‘Sit down, my friend.’ He sat down first himself and pointed to a yellowed arc on