Drawn In Page 2

  “And do you use drugs?” He looks at the others as if he finally understands.

  “No. Course not.” Where on earth would I score drugs in a city I barely know? And then I remember the medication. “Apart from the pills from my doctor.”

  “Oh?”

  “Anti-depressants.” This isn’t a conversation I want to have with strangers. “To get me through a difficult time.”

  “Do these pills have any side-effects.”

  “Not really.”

  “And it’s okay to mix them with alcohol?”

  Not according to the list of information that comes inside the box, no. But I say nothing, just shrug, like how would I know?

  “Did your doctor warn you that there might be hallucinations?”

  Now he mentions it, I think she did. Damn it all. The last thing I want is for these guys to think I’m a nutter. I rub my eyes. Smell cigarette smoke on the ends of my fingers. Proof positive that I’m not living in a land of make-believe.

  “You say he was drawing on the pavement.” Green. “Then let’s check out his handiwork. See whether he’s a Michelangelo or a Caravaggio kind of guy.”

  It’s the first good idea any of them have had.

  Marco reaches over and peels off my foil sheet. It crinkles as he takes it away. I push myself up and let my legs take the weight. They stand firm and I’m proud that my nerves don’t show.

  Red and Green leave without looking back. Marco takes his mountainous frame over to the door and holds it open for me. I walk out and thank him. He follows on and we all go over to the fountain.

  The detectives shine their torches at the ground. The circles of light pick up blood stains and fragments of glass sparkling like diamonds, but nothing more.

  It makes no sense. They’re looking in exactly the right place and yet there’s no drawing to be seen. I walk on a few yards. Still nothing.

  “You said the man did his work here?”

  I’m too surprised to speak. I shrug my shoulders and screw up my face as my answer.

  I search for something that will prove my memory isn’t playing tricks. Find it. Flecks of vomit on the fountain wall from where I’d been sick. At least it proves I’m not crazy.

  Something else catches my eye. A rectangle of pink. A small envelope lying on the ground. I lean in to focus on the writing. See ‘Natalie’ scrawled on the front.

  Shivers run down my spine. There can’t be more than ten people in the city who know my name and three of them are with me right now.

  I look around to check that no one has seen. They’re all busy scouring the street. I grab the letter and slip it into my bag.

  “You sure it was over here?” One of the cops.

  “Yes. Exactly where you’re standing.”

  Red rubs his chin and shakes his head. Looks over at Marco. “Next time leave the brandy in the bottle.”

  “I hope it wasn’t the good stuff you wasted.” Green.

  “I don’t suppose you could spare a drink for two brothers looking for drawings in the middle of the road?”

  Marco nods. “You catch the bastard, you can empty the bar.”

  We all head back.

  Inside the restaurant, Marco sets out three glasses on top of the bar.

  “I need the bathroom.” I announce this as if I’m delivering a line in a play. Pick up my bag and go down the stairs. My steps echo as I go. The sound’s unnerving. I run to the cubicle and lock the door. Press the light switch and the timer buzzes into action.

  My hands shake as I pick open the corner of the letter. I see the slip of paper. Fish it out and unfold it.

  Sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye. Meet me tomorrow. Giubbe Rosse, Piazza de la Repubblica at three. Arturo.

  I let out a gasp of joy. The man exists. He’s not just a figment of my imagination. And he wants to meet me for a drink. My heart pounds at the thought of seeing him again. It’s wrong to be so happy when the man upstairs has just lost his son, but I can’t help myself. My insides are doing handsprings.

  I return the letter to my bag and check my phone. Three messages. All Dee. The last one:

  Goodnight Babe xxx

  I send smiley faces, flush the chain in case anyone’s paying attention, then go back upstairs.

  Smoke curls around the men leaning on the bar. The door opens and a woman enters. Her summer dress swishes around her knees and her dark hair bobs in time with her steps.

  The men freeze. I hold my breath.

  The lady looks around. Sees the policemen. A smile forms on her lips and disappears

  “Darling?”

  “Lucia.” Marco’s eyes moisten. He opens his arms and walks over to his wife.

  “You’re scaring me.” Lucia looks at me. I think she wants me to explain. I see the years etched into her skin.

  “I’m so sorry, darling.” The flesh on Marco’s face wobbles as he speaks. Tears roll down his cheeks. “It’s Sergio...” His words trail off and his wife’s face twists until all her beauty is gone. She falls into his stomach and buries her head in his chest. His enormous arms wrap themselves around her and muffle her sobs.

  I can’t bear to look at their pain. Wonder if I should give them the sketch I drew earlier. Decide it might only make things worse.

  Red and Green are no help at all. They turn their backs to the room, pick up a bottle from the bar and fill their glasses to the brim. I wonder if this would be a good time to ask them if they could arrange for someone to drive me home.

  Instead, I collect my belongings, tiptoe over to the door and open it as quietly as I can.

  Episode Two

  Michelangelo’s prisoners line the walls of the corridor. Half-carved from marble chunks, powerful men try and escape their earthly tombs. The beauty is immense. My eyes well up. I pull myself together and send photos to Dee to show her what she’s missing.

  My fingers itch to draw. The sketchbook in my bag is ready for action. If I were alone, I’d stop and work. But I’m not sure Lucy would appreciate me ignoring her.

  After everything that happened last night, I’m so glad I don’t have to be alone right now. And Lucy’s easy company. She’s a pretty lady with short-cropped hair and pale skin and she talks non-stop. I know practically everything about her already. Irish heritage. Psychology major. Doing Europe. Lover of men and hater of dogs. A habitual marathon runner with not a spare ounce of flesh on her body.

  We move in to get a closer look at the Awakening Slave. Pain pours from the stone. The body twists into unnatural shapes. I can’t help but think of poor Sergio, the wreckage of his corpse. I force myself to turn away towards the main event.

  David stands at the end of the room, shining white under his dome of light. I block out the other tourists and the wall of iPads and focus on the statue.

  “He sure is ripped.” Lucy’s eyes are wide open. We broke away from the rest of the group back in the Gothic rooms. I’m glad she’s here. It’s so much nicer than being alone.

  “I can’t believe he’s not made of flesh.” I really can’t. “He looks so real.”

  “I want to hold his hand and take him for a walk.” Lucy’s in Florence for the romance. “We could wander around the city and he’d tell me stories about the old days.”

  I laugh at the idea. A wall of heads turns towards me. Disapproving thoughts come my way in at least ten different languages.

  I ignore them and get back to admiring Michelangelo’s work. Muscles push against the skin and the nipples are tight. The veins in the hands are thick and strong. He’s perfect. Well, almost. His hair is daft. Those curls might have been all the rage five hundred years ago, but they look terrible now.

  My attention drifts downwards to his manhood. I stifle a giggle and realise I haven’t seen a naked man since Rory. God, how I wish he were with me now. A lump forms in my throat. My head fills with bubbles and my bones turn soft. I reach out and grab Lucy’s arm to steady myself.

  “What is it?” There’s concern in her voi
ce. “You’re shaking.”

  I rub my temples and try to pull myself together.

  “I just need a minute.”

  She takes a bottle of water from her bag, unscrews the top and passes it over.

  I sip it and concentrate on the cool sensation in my mouth. My brain settles and my breathing slows everything down.

  “Thanks.” I hand the drink back and she leads me out from the crowd. “I’ll be fine,” I tell her, even though I’m not so sure I will be.

  A guard in a smart black uniform steps forward. Ushers us to the side and opens a door to the courtyard. The heat hits my skin like a physical object. We walk over into the shade and take a seat.

  She holds my hand like she’s my nurse. “What the hell happened back there?”

  I can’t blame her for being curious. “I’ll tell you about it over lunch if you’re still game.”

  “Course I am. I wouldn’t miss out on meeting your dishy Italian. Who knows, he might have a friend who needs female company.”

  “Maybe.” Not that I’d recommend any of Arturo’s friends before I get to know what went on last night.

  *

  Lucy checks her watch. “Are you sure he said three?”

  I put the note down on the table to show her.

  “It’s just that I’m supposed to meet the others. Marcy gets totally stressed out if her plans don’t work like clockwork.” Her face is inches from mine. Now she knows my story, my personal space has disappeared. “I don’t want to risk getting into everyone’s bad books this early on the tour on account of some guy who’s not gentleman enough to be punctual.”

  “I could buy you another coffee.” Much as I’m grateful to her for keeping me company, I hope she says no. The prices here would put a dint in anyone’s budget. “If that would help.”

  She checks her watch again. “No. I’d better go. I enjoyed hanging out.”

  “Sure.”

  “Sorry I can’t stay.” She slips a thin blouse over her milk-white shoulders, opens her bag and takes out her purse.

  “Don’t be silly.” I can’t expect her to pay. “You can get the next one.”

  She smiles at that. The way her eyes sparkle, she should do it more often. “Will you be okay?”

  “What can happen in a bustling square like this?”

  “I hope the guy shows, is all.” She bends over and does the kissing thing on each cheek, only doesn’t actually put her lips on me. Just makes sucky noises with her mouth.

  “I’ll give him half an hour.”

  She walks away. Waves. Trips over a pair of squabbling Chihuahuas and disappears into the crowd.

  There’s still a dash of coffee in my cup. It’s long since gone cold and I can’t finish it. A clock chimes four. He’s an hour late, but I can wait longer. I call the waiter over. Order a cappuccino. Take out my sketchbook and pencils and wonder where to start. Instead of finding something to draw, I realise I’m being watched. A tiny man with a face like Quasimodo stares right at me. He’s dressed all in black and chews gum with his mouth open. Soon as I see him, he pretends to choose a postcard from the rack. He can only reach about halfway up.

  “I thought she’d never leave.” The voice from behind me is smooth and deep. It vibrates right down in the pit of my stomach.

  I turn my head and see Arturo standing at my shoulder. His lateness is immediately forgiven. He drops his bag to the floor, pulls out the chair Lucy vacated and sits opposite me. He’s still wearing the shades, and he’s still absolutely gorgeous.

  I check on Quasimodo, but there’s no sign of the ugly dwarf. I guess he didn’t find me that interesting after all.

  Arturo picks up my pad and opens it.

  “No, don’t.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Mine will seem amateur in comparison. But I don’t tell him that.

  I reach out and try to grab it. He pulls back, takes it beyond my reach and turns through the pages. He rubs his chin and nods.

  “You like ears?”

  It’s true there are a lot of them in the early pages. “I was trying to get them right. Not so much the flesh, but the space they contain. It’s the way objects work within their environment that fascinates me.”

  “And hands?”

  “The same thing.”

  He closes the book and passes it back. “I’m impressed.”

  His approval takes me by surprise. A warm glow passes through me.

  “Really.” He leans in. “Not all artists take the trouble to study the detail.”

  The word artist takes me by surprise. I can’t think of anything to say. Return my pad to the bag and fumble around in my brain for something that might make sense. “You picked a good spot to meet.” Polite conversation. Familiar territory.

  “I thought you’d like it. It’s soaked through with the words of many great people.” He pulls a cigarette from a soft pack and lights up. “If you come here when it’s quiet you can hear them talking.” His smoke curls into the air. “They speak in verse with great enthusiasm about life.”

  “I read that in the guide book.”

  “Then I don’t suppose there’s anything else I can tell you.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty.”

  “There is?”

  “You could start by telling me what happened last night.”

  He flicks ash onto the pavement. I get a glimpse of his eyes over the top of his shades. Dark brown yet bright and alive. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

  “There’ll be a later?”

  “Sure. I have the day planned out.”

  I wonder if he’s not too confident. “And what do I have to look forward to?”

  “First we watch people go by, followed by a walk along the river. After that, martini at L’Incotro, crayfish at Enoteca Pinchiorri and gelato from Grom.” He’s just outlined the perfect day. It’s like it’s my birthday in a parallel universe where nothing is broken. “After that you can choose.”

  Even though my medication has murdered my appetite, I reckon I could go along with that. Force myself to swallow a few scoops of sorbet. “I’m not sure I deserve such a wonderful tour of your city.”

  “It’s the least after I can do after running out on you last night.”

  That’s the reality check, right there, just when I was ready to float away on a carpet of happiness.

  The waiter steps over and interrupts. His timing is perfect. He swings the tray to my level. Places the huge mug and saucer in front of me, switches the old bill for a new one and clears up the dirty cups. “For you sir?”

  Arturo glances at the menu. “A pot of Earl Grey.” The last thing I expected to hear. He looks straight at me. “I have a passion for British things.” I can see from his smile that he’s not just thinking about our range of teas.

  “Lucky me.” I decide not to tell him that there isn’t much in Preston to get his pulse racing. Unless you count the bus station or The Warehouse.

  “The good fortune’s mine.” His lines might be phoney, but I could lap them up all day long.

  My head fills with static. I know what’s coming. “He’s only after one thing.” Rory’s voice is loud and dry. “The Italians are famous for it.”

  “Not now,” I tell him.

  “Sorry?” Arturo looks puzzled.

  I cover my mouth. Pretend to cough. Pat my chest and clear my throat. “I was just...” Just what exactly? “Thinking aloud.” I hope I’ve got away with it. Take a sip of coffee.

  Arturo’s attention shifts elsewhere. He twitches and stands.

  I follow his gaze.

  Christ. A scooter is speeding right for me. My instincts take over. I cover my head and curl into a ball ready to be knocked to the ground at any moment. It doesn’t happen.

  The driver turns off his engine, kicks the stand out and dismounts. He holds out his hand. “Arturo.” They shake.

  “Valentino.” Arturo doesn’t seem happy to see his friend.

  “I’m sorry about tha
t.” The voice comes through the open visor, addressing me. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Valentino takes off his helmet to reveal a young face. His hair falls into place. The fringe is Justin Beiber back in the day. Hard to believe I once thought that guy was cool. I even had a poster of him on my bedroom wall.

  “It’s just I was in a hurry.” Valentino pulls out a large brown envelope from his courier bag and passes it to Arturo. “A rush job. I’d have been here sooner only the traffic’s worse than ever.”

  Arturo opens the envelope and lets the contents slide onto the table.

  I get a glimpse of the top photo. It’s black and white. There’s a body on the floor, a pool of blood forming around its head. The picture beneath I don’t get to see.

  “At the train station in less than half an hour.” Arturo speaks quickly. “Can you get me there?”

  “If the traffic doesn’t stop us, sure.”

  Arturo stands. Picks up his bag and slips the strap over his shoulder. “I must apologise again. I have to leave, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Wait.” I get up without thinking. “I’m coming along.”

  He looks to Valentino.

  Valentino checks me over. I guess he’s figuring out whether his bike will hold my weight as well as theirs. He shrugs his shoulders and nods. “I think we can do it.”

  “Then let’s go.” Arturo takes a roll of notes from his pocket. Pulls out twenty Euros and drops it next to the ashtray.

  The two men pick up helmets and pull them on. While he’s distracted, I check out Arturo’s body. He’s tall and lithe in his leather trousers and white collarless shirt. I want to touch him.

  They get onto the scooter. I sit on what’s left of the cushion at the back of the seat. Valentino turns the key. The engine sings the song of a hundred tiny wasps. As we set off, the momentum pushes me back. I reach around Arturo’s waist and hold on tight. The shirt is soft, his muscles firm.

  Valentino swerves onto the square and accelerates. A crowd of pigeons and two old ladies with bent backs scatter.

  We return to the road. Almost collide with a tiny sightseeing car pulling a chain of carriages. I half-expect the dwarf to be at the wheel, but the driver is an attractive woman of average height with long black frizzy hair. We speed under the arch that dominates the buildings. The writing at the top reads ‘The old city was put out of its misery and brought back to life’. The words catch my heart as I translate. If only the world was that simple.