Part 13 (2/2)

His breakfast was still sitting in the liquidiser, a brown crust forming on its surface.

'We thought you'd gone back to sleep.'

He was leaning on a cane. His other arm was outstretched, the white suit flapping across it like a ghost. 'Something must have woken me. Morning, Father.'

'Good morning, Felix.'

'G.o.d, I'm sorry about this.' Gina waved at the shards of gla.s.s scattered on the floor. 'I'll sweep them up.'

'Oh,' he said, without much interest. 'The Twombly. You really should control your temper, darling. That could be your nest egg.'

'Yes, I know.' Carefully she rescued the precious drawing and stored it inside the trunk for safety.

Father Leone said, 'I came to bring you some music, Felix, and to give you my blessing. I have to leave now, but I wish you both well for today.' Turning to Gina, he said with a faint smile, 'It's not a question of good deeds or bad deeds. It's about forgiveness. Absolution. This is the problem for you non-Catholics. You have to learn to forgive yourselves.'

15.

Two Years Earlier: 2003

Large black ants were scurrying through the cracks in the paving. Lanterns swinging between the potted shrubs caught their movements as they transported tiny morsels of food with a rhythm and dedication that was awe-inspiring. Felix had been watching them for some time, surprised to see them so active at night. They put him in mind of the myeloma cells twitching and dividing inside his bone marrow. Treatable, but incurable, he'd been told. Like the ants. They could be kept at bay with powder or insecticide, but they'd always come back.

He was waiting for Gina. They'd planned to arrive together, but she was working late at the studio and had urged him to go on ahead. She had been wearing him down at first in regard to the flat, pointing out repeatedly that his second bedroom was unoccupied, that he was in need of TLC, that they could be good for each other. And then she'd insisted he set up this meeting with David Farnon. It was David who suggested they got together for a drink in the Club Salamander, which had sprung up in a converted warehouse in Ostiense.

Felix sat in the courtyard looking out for her; the ants at his feet, a canopy of starlight above his head, the ice melting in his drink. Below, in the belly of the club, the cellar vaults churned with music and sleek, barely dressed bodies. The upper levels the lounge, the c.o.c.ktail bar, the silvery circular tables in the courtyard accommodated those who couldn't keep up with the frenetic pace of the dance floor.

A few years ago he would have sweltered with the rest of them. Now he felt distaste for the salty slick of sweat collecting between shoulder blades, the reek of crotch and underarm. His energy, his appet.i.tes, were reduced. His love of collecting had been a driving force but there was no magic in it any more. He could no longer go to a new exhibition and pick out the most likely success story. He could no longer find those rare and precious items that multiplied in value simply by sitting on his chiffonier. He'd lost his touch.

When he'd first come out to Rome as a young man he'd been full of enthusiasm, undeterred by having to start from scratch. An interest in metaphysical poetry and beautiful boys, a doctorate in the work of John Donne were his credentials. He'd begun by teaching English privately, then in inst.i.tutions, until he finally acquired tenure at the university. Expatriate life agreed with him, enhanced his standing and gave allure to what could have seemed mere drudgery in England. And when both his parents had died, leaving him a small legacy, he'd been able to indulge his pa.s.sions, now evaporated.

A man dressed in a collarless s.h.i.+rt and combat trousers brushed against his table. Pausing to steady himself, he smiled and raised his brows in query. Felix shook his head and turned away. He moved his chair further back into the shadows. Behind him came the rustle of glossy green leaves, the scent of blossom lightly disturbed. He took his phone out of his pocket and cradled it in his palm warily as if it might erupt. Gadget-loving Italians had more mobiles per head than any other nation, but he struggled to master the functions; he found texting particularly difficult. He scrolled through his contacts and rang Gina. 'Are you still coming?'

'Of course I am! There was just this tiny delay...'

'So why didn't you call me?' He couldn't help sounding petulant.

'Because I thought you'd be downstairs where there's no signal and you probably wouldn't hear anything anyway.'

'Look, I'm not in a club mood. I'm thinking of leaving.'

'But I'm on my way. Isn't David with you?'

People were flowing in and out of the various doorways. Music accompanied them fitfully. 'He's prowling around somewhere.'

'Then do hang on for me. Please.'

She gave him no chance to argue. Felix stared at his silent phone. Really, he was a dinosaur. One might think that part of the charm of Rome was being surrounded by ruins and relics far more ancient than oneself, but the locals the real, living inhabitants embraced modernity. In the English department, they were addicted to their computers. They admired Felix's fine calligraphy but they laughed at his adherence to books and print.

He tried not to think about the department, about the office, the desk and chair that were no longer his. The chair had started it all suffering from lower back pain, he'd hoped to persuade Administration to provide one that was more ergonomic. Such a simple request, leading to blood tests and then diagnosis. His ability to teach wasn't impaired, but his need to take time off was deemed unfair on the students. Plenty of other aspects of university tuition were unfair on the students, who were fodder for an inst.i.tution obliged to maintain its intake at all costs: insufficient resources and reading materials; over-crowded lecture theatres; ingrained nepotism, but these were troublesome to address. Easing out a foreign employee in poor health, whose original mentor had retired, was altogether simpler. When September came he found his name omitted from the timetable and staff lists, his cla.s.ses taken over. The shape of his days once he might have enjoyed the freedom to do nothing imploded. In private he clung to the idea that one day he might go back. In public he didn't mention it.

Some twenty minutes later Gina materialised. 'Why, darling, you're all alone! What happened to David?'

'Pickling himself at the bar.'

'What? Is that a good idea?'

'Somewhat inevitable, as you're over an hour late. I would have thought, if you ask me for a favour, the least you could do is turn up on time.'

'Don't be so priggish. I've arrived, haven't I? And I could really do with a drink.'

'Right then. Let's move.' He rose slowly, coughing a little, feeling the ache in his bones. Gina reached out to pat his back, her hand suspended. He straightened up and she slipped her arm through his in a fluid movement as if that was what she had planned all along.

On a stool at the far corner of the bar sat a man with startling white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. From a distance he appeared youthful and languid; on closer view he was not as young as he looked. He was accompanied by a tall gla.s.s of bourbon on the rocks and a boy with a fuzz of hair as dark and velvety as moleskin. 'A recent acquisition,' murmured Felix. 'I'm not sure, to be honest, whether these are the best conditions for you to meet him.'

'Let's just see how it goes.'

David raised his gla.s.s as soon as he saw Felix approaching. 'I thought we'd laaaast you,' he proclaimed, the drink drawing out his vowels.

'I was waiting for my guest. And here she is.'

'Sooo, this is your new roommate?'

Felix winced a little. 'We've come to an arrangement,' he said. 'Of mutual convenience.'

'Absolutely,' agreed Gina.

David lifted her hand and affected to kiss it. 'Good evening, Empress.'

Felix noticed that she looked irritated. 'I think he means it as a compliment,' he said. 'Because the Empress Eugenie was famous for her dress sense; she was a fas.h.i.+on icon really.'

She withdrew her hand. 'Actually I hate the name Eugenie. Beaten only by Phoebe in the sick-making stakes. I think my mother was out for revenge. Please call me Gina.'

'Well then, Gina, what would you like to drink?'

'White wine, please.'

'Felix?'

'I'll have another whisky sour.'

David relayed the order to the bartender and squeezed his companion's slender thigh. He'd introduced him so perfunctorily neither Felix nor Gina caught his name. When the drinks were poured he didn't suggest moving to another table, so Gina perched on a stool and Felix leaned against the marble counter. He preferred to stand. Bra.s.s fans like propellers stirred the air above their heads; the walls were painted in the deep moody colours of Rothko abstracts: aubergine, mulberry and plum. Their reflections were distorted in the mirror behind the banks of bottles. The light was dim.

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