AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Tori
‘Ma non ha nessuno a Firenze?’ Federica, the landlady, shoots me a sideways look. She is dressed head to foot in black, with bobbed iron-grey hair, red lipstick and even sparklier designer trainers, and she’s been talking to Chiara for about twenty minutes while I lurk at the window with Marco, pretending not to earwig. What was meant to be a simple contract signing seems to have turned into an entire negotiation. ‘Niente fidanzato, niente parenti, niente amici?’
‘She’s asking Chiara if you really don’t have anyone in Florence,’ Marco says. ‘No partner, no family, no friends…’
‘I heard,’ I say. Chiara is talking to Federica in a low, rapid murmur. ‘Is it a problem?’
‘No, no,’ Marco says. ‘She’s just worried about you. I think.’
‘Ma non parla neanche italiano, lei,’ Federica says.
I can’t let that stand – I bloody well do speak Italian – so I clear my throat and say: ‘Il mio italiano è un po’ arrugginito, ma sto reimparando.’ My Italian’s a bit rusty but I’m learning again. Everyone smiles at me, though Federica looks a little put out.
‘Tori è brava,’ Chiara says, very brightly, for my benefit. ‘Fa la scrittrice.’
The temperature in the room seems to drop. ‘Scrittrice?’ Federica says in a tone of quiet horror, and she eyes the folder on the kitchen counter – the one containing several years of invoices, a bank statement and my last tax return – as if it might vanish into smoke.
‘Giornalista,’ Marco puts in, but Federica and Chiara are already deep in conference. The folder is opened again, the papers spread out. I look at Marco in alarm.
‘What’s wrong with being a writer?’ I hiss at him.
‘Nothing. We love writers in Florence.’
‘Then why the reaction?’
‘Because we know what writers get paid. And it’s incredibly hard to evict a tenant under Italian law.’ He raises an eyebrow. I can’t quite tell whether he’s joking.
I glance over to the two women. They’re talking animatedly now, apparently bickering over something. I start to feel real panic. Marco puts a hand on my arm.
‘It’s a dance,’ he says. ‘Sometimes signing a contract is completely undramatic, and sometimes it’s like this. It really isn’t personal.’
‘I’ve checked out of the hotel,’ I say. ‘I’ve brought my suitcases.’
‘It’s going to be fine. Trust me.’
And then, somehow, it is. The deposit is counted and counted again. Federica and I sign three copies of the contract, a signature on each page, and I’m given my folder back and another one on top, with copies of all the utility bills so I can change them into my name (‘I’ll take those,’ Chiara says), the Wi-Fi password, a wad of electronics manuals and a long list of where, how and when to dispose of every kind of rubbish. I’m shown the slight ding on the bedroom window frame and the spot in a corner of the bathroom where the tiles have cracked and been resealed. I’m given two sets of keys and shown how to operate the deadbolt; the thermostat is explained to me, though I don’t understand it, and then Federica kisses me on each cheek, welcomes me to Florence, issues a stream of instructions to Chiara and sweeps out with a cry ofArrivederci.
‘Oh my God,’ Chiara cries, ‘the time! I have to run. Tori, I’ll register the contract and then I just need you to come in and sign a few things, for the utilities. I’ll call you, okay? And if there’s anything, anything at all, you call me.Ciao, Tori;ciao, Marco;ciao!’ And then she too is off, hurrying down the stairs, and it’s just me and Marco and this strange new flat that is, somehow, now mine.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘What’s next? What do we have to do?’
‘For now? Nothing.’
I look helplessly at Marco. ‘But there’s so much left to sort out. Residency, healthcare…’
He spreads his hands. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. I called the Anagrafe this morning – that’s the civil registry office, for your residency application – and they don’t have any free appointments before next month. And you can’t do the rest until you’re officially resident.’
‘But you made an appointment, right?’
‘Yes. I emailed you the details.’
Of course – my phone’s on silent. Between Charlie calling to hector me and my jumping out of my skin every time an email comes in, in case it’s Richenda with some news about the book, I thought it was best to give myself a little peace. I fish it out of my bag.
12 missed calls
36 messages
7 emails
