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‘What happened to the… well, stuff?’ I ask. ‘The cars, the equipment, whatever else?’
‘All sold. Papà didn’t care about scraping back his costs. He just sent it all to auction, even Achille’s beautiful custom-built Formula One car. I think that ended up overseas somewhere. The garage was leased, so that was easy. But there were plans to build a proper installation, track and everything, not far from Romituzzo. I believe they were in the middle of applying for planning permission – and that’s no minor process in Italy, with no minor outlay – but the whole thing was dropped. He just didn’t want anything to do with the project, ever again.’
‘I don’t suppose…’ I begin, but Rosa seems to have read my mind. She’s already shaking her head.
‘There’s nothing I can show you, I’m afraid. My father was active in radical politics until the day he died. His papers are subject to the utmost secrecy. There are simply too many people to protect.’
Damn. ‘I understand. Thank you very much for these, anyway,’ I say, waving the envelope with the guest list and menu.
‘I wish I could help more,’ Rosa says. ‘As it is, I’m afraid I shall have to wind this up. Frida will be along any minute to shepherd me into another meeting. Do you have any more questions before I go?’
‘Yes, actually, if that’s all right. Did my grandmother keep in touch with your family after Achille died?’
‘To some extent.’ Rosa smiles. ‘She was rather like Achille, you know. Self-contained. She and Papà kept in touch, and I know they used to have coffee together whenever she was in town. But that was here at the office, not at home. I don’t think she ever came to the house, though I’m sure he invited her. Perhaps it was too painful. She must have had other friends in Florence, though. Or maybe you’ve found some of them already?’
‘Well, sort of,’ I say.
‘What do you mean, sort of?’
I sigh. ‘Granny used to bring me here all the time, but I was so young and, like you say, she was quite… self-contained. I know she had friends here – good friends, even – but there was only one place I really saw her let her guard down, and now I can’t find it.’ And I explain about Giuseppe and Maria and the case of the vanishing bar.
Suddenly, Rosa doesn’t seem so friendly. ‘But that just sounds like a normal Italian bar,’ she says, and there’s a distinct chill in her voice. ‘Why should it strike you as so unusual?’
‘It doesn’t, of course.’ I’m aware I sound defensive. Sitting opposite Rosa with her eyes boring into me, it’s all starting to feel like one of my less comfortable college tutorials. ‘Not in itself. But it wasn’t Granny’s kind of place, and I suppose that’s why it stood out.’
Rosa raises an eyebrow. ‘Not her kind of place. I see. I suppose you think it’s demeaning for a woman of your social class to go to an ordinary bar?’
‘Of course not, but—’
‘Your grandmother was an anti-Fascist,’ Rosa cuts across me. ‘And that is not some shallow ideological position, but a fundamental orientation. Everything she did, every connection she forged was founded on a basic commitment to social equality. Had she been any less than a committed anti-Fascist, had she divided the world as you do into rich and poor, acceptable and unacceptable, then my father could never have respected her as he did. And Achille could never have loved her.’
I open my mouth to protest, but Rosa’s already pulling herself to her feet. She goes to the door and almost flings it open. I get the message. I switch off my phone and make my way out under her censorious gaze.
‘Thanks for your time,’ I say meekly.
‘Good luck with your work.’Now fuck off, she doesn’t say – but I definitely hear it.
27
‘Rosa Legni told you to fuck off?’ Marco sounds amazed. He’s folding shirts, creasing them with military precision before placing them in his expensive-looking black suitcase. I’m sitting at the head of the bed, watching him. It’s quite hypnotic.
‘She didn’t say it, not in words. But she definitely indicated I should.’
‘You got some good material, though?’
‘Yeah, I did. She was very generous right up to the point where she accused me of being a class snob. Again, by implication,’ I add before he can ask. ‘It was really startling.’
He fastens the elastic straps across the neatly folded clothing and then zips the suitcase shut. ‘I suppose these old-school Marxist intellectuals can be a bit…’
‘Arsey?’
‘I was going to say doctrinaire, but that works, too.’ He comes and sits next to me on the bed, puts his arm around me and pulls me in. ‘It’s not too late to come along if you want. I’m sure we can get you a ticket.’
The idea’s so appealing that I almost say yes. But I need some time alone, I tell myself. No matter how understanding Marco is, I should take this chance to pull myself together. I owe him that. ‘That’s lovely of you. But who would look after Nuvolari?’ I point to the spiky little succulent plant sitting on the dresser.
‘Ha,’ Marco says, and gives me a squeeze. ‘Well, if you change your mind you’ll call me, right?’
‘Right.’
