His eyes fixed on the antique sink in front of him, Rinaldi sat there impassively as his shorn locks fell on to the wrap that covered his upper torso. The police would be watching the hotel, the railway and bus stations, and the airport, as well as monitoring both his and Delia’s mobile phones. He had instructed the barber to shave his scalp bald, remove his eyebrows and trim his beard down to a very thin moustache. That should prevent any casual recognition on the street. His plan was to find a small, seedy hotel of the kind used by young backpackers on a tight budget, pass himself off as a foreigner and tell the proprietor that his passport had been stolen but he had informed the consulate and a replacement would arrive within the week. That and a hefty deposit should do the trick in the short term. After that it would be a matter of keeping an eye on the news and seeing how the affair played out.
The barber finished his job, scowling his disapproval, and whisked away the hair-covered wrap.
‘Fifty euros.’
Getting to his feet, Rinaldi stared speechlessly at his reflection in the mirror while the barber brushed him down like a horse. Even Delia wouldn’t recognise him like this, he thought. He reached for his wallet, but encountered only an alien object, smooth, cool and heavy. Pulling it out impatiently, he found to his amazement that he was holding what looked like an automatic pistol.
It took him only a moment to work out that the little rat at the Irish bar had ripped him off after all. He’d faked that collapse to give him the chance to grab hold of Rinaldi, then lifted his wallet and substituted this cheap replica gun to simulate its bulk and weight. A wave of sheer panic swept over him as the implications sunk in. All his cash and credit cards were gone, and since he was wanted by the police he could not report the incident and get replacements in the usual way.
He turned to the barber, flashing his radiant Lo Chef smile.
‘Look, I seem to have left my wallet at home.’
The man did not reply. He stood very still, gazing down at the pistol in his client’s hand. Rinaldi hastily replaced it.
‘I’ll leave my watch as surety while I go and fetch my wallet,’ he went on. ‘It’s a vintage Rolex, platinum band, worth at least a thousand. I’ll be back in about half an hour.’
‘I close in ten minutes,’ the barber stated in a voice like an automated recording.
‘Then tomorrow.’
He thrust the watch at him and walked out. As soon as he reached the corner, he turned left and ran until he was out of breath. The night air felt cruelly cold in his newly shorn state, but at least there was no one about. A few metres further on, lost in the overarching shadows cast by the portici, stood a municipal rubbish bin. Rinaldi rooted about in it until he found an empty plastic bag, and then stuffed his pigskin gloves, cashmere scarf and camelhair overcoat into it. Then he roughed up his blazer, pullover and trousers against the rough plaster on one of the pillars of the arcade, scuffed his immaculately polished brogues repeatedly against a neighbouring doorstep, and set off again looking rather more like a common vagrant, battered bag of belongings in hand.
But where to? The loss of his wallet changed everything. He was not only homeless and wanted by the police, but down to four euros and sixty-three centesimi in small change, most of which he promptly spent in the first bar he came to, just to warm up. He was staring at the drying stain in his coffee cup, as though hoping to read his fortune in the grounds, when a memory of something he had seen earlier that evening came back to him. He cringed with humiliation at the very idea. What a comedown! Talk about riches to rags. But there was no obvious alternative, and it might just prove to be what he needed to see him through the next few days, until things sorted themselves out. It was certainly worth a try.
32
Flavia looked up from her battered paperback at the clock above the alcove where the proprietor was busily crafting raw pizzas beside the maw of the oven. One of the two waiters reappeared, the skinny Stan Laurel lookalike. He regarded her quizzically.
‘Ready to order?’ he asked, when Flavia did not react.
‘I’m waiting for someone.’
And he was more than twenty minutes late, she thought, as the waiter sidled off. It had been absurdly naive to imagine that he would come at all. Her relationship with Rodolfo had been intense, diverting and instructive, but she had never allowed herself any illusions about the ultimate outcome, even before he started acting in this strange, angry, icily controlled way. But with his university career in ruins, there was no longer any reason for him to remain in Bologna, or with her. That was what he had been hinting at last night, taunting her with lying about her origins and then refusing to sleep with her. As for this evening, he simply wouldn’t show up, leaving her to get the message. But she already had.
She glanced up hopefully as the door opened, but it was a stranger, as tall and austere in appearance as her own dead father. Flavia finished the chapter she had been reading and then consulted the clock again. The thirty minutes grace she had allowed Rodolfo had passed. She put on her coat and headed for the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the fat waiter, who was serving two pasta dishes to a nearby table. ‘My boyfriend just phoned to say he can’t make it.’
Ollie inclined his head sideways in a way that could have meant anything or nothing.
In the street just outside, she literally ran into Rodolfo. He dropped the duffle bag he was carrying and kissed her on the mouth.
‘Everything’s all right!’
They returned together to the table that Flavia had vacated, the only one free now that half of the rest had been pushed together to form a large rectangular area seating about a dozen, presumably for a group that would arrive later. Rodolfo stowed the nylon bag in the corner and then, in a breathless rush, told Flavia that he had been to see Professor Ugo in hospital, had been readmitted to the course, and could finish his thesis and graduate.
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Flavia coolly. ‘Then what?’
Rodolfo shrugged.
‘Come the summer, I’ll want to go back to Puglia, at least for a while. My father says he needs me, although who knows how long that will last. Anyway, I’m sick of this damned place. Afterwards we’ll see.’
Flavia nodded vaguely.
‘What’s the weather like in Puglia?’
‘Ah, much warmer than here! The people too.’
She pointedly did not respond.
‘And in Ruritania?’ he asked with a self-deprecating smile.
‘The weather in Ruritania? It doesn’t exist.’
Rodolfo took her hand.
‘I’m sorry, Flavia. I was so angry about what had happened, almost insane, and I took it out on you. I apologise.’
There was a silence.
‘What’s in the bag?’ Flavia asked at length.
‘Oh, just some clothes Vincenzo asked me to bring him. Apparently he’s going to be away for a while and couldn’t get back to the apartment. The reason that I was so late getting here is I had to go back and pick that up after visiting Ugo.’
He smiled at her.
‘Anyway, enough about all that. Let’s talk about us.’
‘Us?’
‘Will you come with me to Puglia?’
She gazed at him for at least a minute, levelly and without the slightest expression.
‘As what?’
Rodolfo mimed exaggerated shock and horror, silent film style.
‘As my fidanzata, of course! They’d stone us both to death otherwise.’
Stanlio manifested himself at the table.
