Chapter One

I struggled up the stone steps clutching a plucked chicken to my chest. Squashed under my arm was the carton containing the new wig and the squeakers, my basket was laden with raspberries, red peppers, pancetta and broad beans, and as I fumbled for my key in the string bag containing the library books, it came to my attention that my front door was cordoned off by tape. What could be going on? Was there wet paint? Nobody told me there was to be maintenance. I hesitated and a tall man appeared in my doorway.

‘Signora Lippi?’

I nodded.

‘Please come inside, and try to remain calm’.

He pushed the tape aside to allow me in. There was scarcely room for us both in the narrow passage. I could smell the garlic and the anchovies from his lunch on his breath. Tiny globules of sweat clung to his upper lip. In the dim light he was inhaling me, and his eyes were glued to my chicken. They were a little bloodshot, and filled with hunger. His suit was rumpled. It was clear he was a detective.

‘What is it?’ I asked faintly, ‘Is it Fiamma?’ My sister was scornful of the dangers she faced, but I had long lived in dread of a moment like this one.

‘It’s your husband, Signora’, he breathed, allowing my heart to start beating again. Fiamma was safe.

‘He has been taken’, the Detective continued, ‘and your apartment has been ransacked’.

‘Taken?’ I repeated, not understanding him.

‘He has been seized. Disappeared. You know the way things are Signora; it is unlikely you will ever see him again’.

Alberto seized! It hardly seemed likely. I had heard about such disappearances, of course, but why would anybody want Alberto? It had to be a mistake. If he had been taken, they would soon realize their error, and release him. I had no doubt he would be back in time for his supper, and, this being Saturday, he would be expecting chicken with scorched pepper sauce.

As my brain raced ahead to tonight’s dinner, the detective seemed to expand and fill the passage completely. I became aware, as we faced each other, that his body was now touching mine and his breathing was slow and heavy. The appearance of a second man emerging from the parlor filled the corridor beyond capacity. I was struck by the way the second man’s ear lobes had continued growing down the sides of his neck until they reached almost to his shoulders.

‘I’ve finished, Sir’, he said, and pointed with his head to the clear polythene bag he was carrying, ‘Just some items we’re taking away as evidence, Signora’. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I could detect some items of my underwear in the bag. What could they want with those?

The man in charge grappled for some time with his hand in his pocket. It felt as though he was examining my thighs, but it was only because we were all pressed so closely together. His subordinate was in fear for his wallet, I could tell. After a delay, during which time seemed to warp and stretch, he finally fished out a card and handed it to me. Like his suit, it was crumpled and slightly damp. Although the writing was smudged, I could make out the words, Paolo Balbini, Polizia Municipale, Roma 17, and a number at headquarters.

‘It is unlikely they will try to contact you, Signora’, he said, ‘but if they do, or even if they do not, you have my number’.

Finally they squeezed out past me onto the more spacious landing. The backward glances Signor Balbini threw me showed how much it hurt him to leave. I said nothing, but shut the door behind them.

My brain, and my mouth, seemed both to have dried up. It felt like a dream. Just a few minutes ago everything had been normal. It was Saturday. I had gone into work for a couple of hours – there had been a number of murders during the night, and Signora Dorotea needed my assistance in masking some bullet holes and reconstructing a nose that had been blown off in an explosion. Then I met Fiamma for coffee at Bobrini’s. She had just returned from a fact-finding mission to Bolivia, and was covered in ulcers from poisoned fish served at the official banquet. She couldn’t face any food so I ate all the pasticcini myself and I have to say they were delicious. Then she was driven away by her chauffeur, Pesco, to an emergency summit at the Ministry, and I ran my errands. I returned my library books, and picked out three new ones, collected Alberto’s order from the theatrical trickster’s in the Corso, took my funeral suit into the dry cleaners, and then did my shopping at the market stalls in the Campo dei Fiori.

Every Saturday was the same. Now this.

I walked through the rooms with the feeling I was acting a part in a film. Everything was in such a mess. It was as though a huge and hideous monster had swallowed my contents and regurgitated them, partially digested. It was awful, but worse was to come: when I stumbled into the parlor I found Pierino’s cage overturned and empty. Frantically I searched the ruins but he was gone. I ran to the windows squinting into the sunlight to try and spot him, but there was no sign of him. Opposite, slouching in the doorway of the Belbo Forno, I identified the form of Detective Balbini. He was looking up at me, and hurriedly I slammed the shutters.

I had to find Pierino. I didn’t know how long he had been missing, but there was a chance he could still be nearby. I flew down the stairs and out into the street. I didn’t bother to lock the doors: any thief who could find something of value amongst the chaos was welcome to it.

I raced into the Campo, scattering the flocks of flea-bitten pigeons. The market had closed up by now, for today I had been later than usual, but it’s slimy traces remained: pigs eyes and poultry claws, fish tails and innards, frothing puddles, guts and gore. The stench was terrible after the sun had been on it. I prayed Pierino had not landed near any of the butcher’s stalls: some of them, I knew, would take a cleaver to anything. I looked about me for traces of azure feathers; thankfully there weren’t any.

Over by the fruit stalls a fat man in orange overalls poked with a hairless brush amongst the debris of deformed bananas and dead figs disguised as squashed dormice. Broken watermelons splayed their guts in the gutters and bruised nectarines and punctured pomegranates swam amongst them. The stench of fomenting fruit was thick and heady and I thought I stood a good chance of finding Pierino here.

‘Have you seen a blue parrot?’ I asked the road sweeper.

‘I see nothing’, he replied with a menacing movement of his stumpy brush.

I ran along scanning every window ledge and water spout and fountain, every column, statue, lamppost, railing, parked car and motorino. I called to Pierino softly, coaxingly. I scooped up palmfuls of the fruity goo to tempt him. I became covered in a sticky, stinking mess. I tensed my ears for the sound of his voice. Like this, straining my senses, I examined every street and alleyway in the district. Sometimes, I felt sure I was being watched, but whenever I looked round I couldn’t see a soul. In fact the streets were strangely deserted, and that was a bad sign.

Hours passed and I hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of Pierino. I was exhausted and began to feel hopeless. He could be anywhere by now. Dejected I headed back toward the apartment. It was getting late and in the half-light it was difficult to see anything. I would look again tomorrow, although I prayed Pierino would, by then, have found his own way home.

I did wonder what would be waiting for me this time as I entered my building. My first choice would be that it had all been a dream: that I would find Pierino in his cage, the apartment neat and tidy, and, I suppose, Alberto demanding his pollo.

‘Pierino?’ I called hesitantly from the door. There was no answer. ‘Alberto?’ Again nothing. I prowled through the rooms terrified of what might be lying in wait for me. I knew what went on. Why, every day at work we dealt with the brutality of the city’s gangsters: severed heads, limbs, private parts. Although I’m not squeamish, I shuddered at the thought. Alberto’s parts were unattractive enough while still attached to his body.

Then I noticed something strange. On the pillows of the bed there lay a red rose. It hadn’t been there before I was sure. I fingered its velvet petals and put it to my nose: its perfume was so intense it was overwhelming. It was weird: but it was better than finding a horse’s head, or indeed, Alberto’s.
 

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