Turn to Stone Page 2

  Eager to get on with his business, Peruzzi wanted to be done with the presentations, but Sannino had other ideas. Resisting all attempts by the inspector to break in, he prattled on and explained in heavily accented English that he’d read every word my father ever wrote.

  “I am the assistente of Professor Bondinelli,” he said. “That’s the same as assistant professor in America. I am helping to organize the simposio.I study the poetry of the Medioevo. The Middle Ages. Like your father.”

  Franco Sannino wasn’t quite charming. Nor was he self-conscious, despite speaking English—as the French would say—like a Spanish cow. Switching to Italian, he described his field of study, which seemed so utterly arcane and tedious that I wanted to stick a knife in my ear, just to see if bleeding would make the droning stop.

  “That sounds fascinating,” I said.

  I found him almost handsome. But his brow jutted a fraction of an inch too far over his hungry eyes, and his chin looked to have been fashioned with a chisel tap or two too few. The result went beyond virile, crossing the line into coarse. A touch too hulking to approach the suavity of, say, a Marcello Mastroianni. I kind of had a thing for him, by the way.

  Peruzzi had heard enough. He finally managed to interrupt.

  “What did you say your name was?” he asked.

  “Sannino,” said the man. “Professor Franco Sannino. I’m a colleague of Alberto Bondinelli’s at the university.”

  “Dottor Sannino. Yes, you’re on my list. Please sit down.”

  “And who are you?” asked Sannino, still standing and, by all appearances, miffed at having been called “dottore.”

  The inspector indicated the uniformed policemen with a subtle nod. Franco got the message.

  “Ispettore Peruzzi,” said the cop almost as an afterthought.

  “What’s this about? Where’s Alberto? I was supposed to meet him here this morning with Signorina Stone.”

  The inspector repeated the story of poor Bondinelli’s last swim in the Arno. Sannino’s smile vanished, and his jaw dangled on its hinges like the sprung trapdoor of a gallows. He stammered a barely comprehensible question asking what had happened, and once Peruzzi had given the abbreviated version, he took the seat he’d been offered.

  “Morto? I can’t believe it,” he said, staring blankly at the policeman, clearly unwilling to accept the reality of the news. “I spoke to him just Monday afternoon on the telephone.”

  “Did he seem normal to you? Under any stress?”

  “Of course not. He was the same as always. Busy, excited about the symposium. He was working on his opening remarks. Everything was normal.”

  Maurizio returned with Peruzzi’s coffee, set it down on the table gingerly, and withdrew as though certain he’d be arrested if he lingered.

  “I can’t believe it,” Sannino said again, then he fell silent.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “Can I get you some water?”

  He muttered to himself, shaking his head, still reeling from the news. At length he found his wits and said, “Grazie, no.” Then he fumbled for a cigarette, slipped it absently between his lips, and lit up.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you?”

  He took a deep drag and blew out the smoke. Then he asked if I’d be kind enough to fetch him some orange juice.

  “Of course.”

  “And one of those prune brioches I saw at the buffet. Grazie.”

  Having tended to Franco Sannino and his breakfast, I turned my attention back to the inspector. Notwithstanding his insistence that the police weren’t sure how Bondinelli had ended up in the river, I pressed him again for an opinion. Did he think it had been an accident? Something more nefarious? A robbery gone wrong on one of Florence’s bridges? Suicide?

  “Suicide? Never,” interrupted Sannino, chewing his brioche. “Alberto is a devout Catholic. He would never consider such an act, I assure you. Never.”

  Peruzzi frowned and said that, if there were no objections from the good dottore, the police would consider all possible theories just the same.

  “But he has a young daughter,” continued Sannino, reasoning with the inspector. “How could he kill himself and leave her an orphan? No,” he concluded, shaking his head. “Suicide is impossible. And, please, if you don’t mind, call me professore.”

  Italians were quite particular about their titles. And while Sannino might not have held officially the position of “professor,” I knew it was customary for academics in his situation to insist on being addressed as such.

  Peruzzi drained his coffee in one go, leaned back in his chair, then addressed me. “We haven’t ruled out anything. And that includes suicide, no matter what the illustrious professore says.”

  The police inspector excused himself to speak with the clerk at the reception desk, leaving me alone with Sannino. With the shock of the news tempered by a hearty breakfast, he reluctantly turned to more practical matters, namely, the symposium scheduled for the following day. I asked him if it would be canceled under the circumstances.

  “This was Alberto’s project, of course,” he said. “But so many people are involved. So many participants have traveled to be here.”

  “Still, it seems wrong to go on without him.”

  Sannino lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then, mugging a fatalistic moue, he said the symposium was Bondinelli’s last labor. “We must see it to its end. He would have wanted that.”

  “What about the weekend in the country? Surely that will be canceled.”

  Franco’s eyes narrowed. “Alberto was eager to give his students and you a pleasant finale to the symposium. Everything is planned. We should honor his wishes.”

  “It was very generous of him to welcome us into his home.”

  “Oh, no. It’s not his place. It belongs to a friend of his. A man named Locanda.”

  It was noon by the time Inspector Peruzzi had finished making his inquiries. I’d spent most of the morning in the hotel lobby chatting with Sannino, who I learned was one of Bondinelli’s protégés, in line for an associate professor position in modern philology at the university. As he droned on about the promotion process and other inner workings of the Italian university system, a young woman approached us. She stared at me as an owl might scrutinize an unsuspecting field mouse on her nocturnal perambulations.

  Sannino introduced her as another symposium participant. Introduced might be overstating the case. He recognized her as a student of Bondinelli’s all right, but he couldn’t produce her name for love or money when the appropriate moment arrived. She provided the information. Veronica Leonetti.

  The young woman looked to be in her early twenties. Her thick brunette hair, held in place by a pink plastic band, framed a pasty face and heavy eyebrows. Lips turned down in a half-frown, she watched the action unfold around her as she raked her chewed-down fingernails across a red patch on her neck. More an observer than a voyeur, she appeared to derive no pleasure at all from the exercise. Envy, perhaps. Or a repressed desire to participate. To be invited to participate.

  “Did you know Professor Bondinelli well?” I asked her.

  She blew her nose, rubbed raw to match her pink eyes, into a hand-kerchief in her left hand while her right fiddled with the cross hanging from her neck. “He was my mentor,” she said in Italian. “A good man.”

  I told her I was sorry, sure that my words were inadequate under the circumstances. Should I have offered condolences instead? Or perhaps a hug?

  “Did he appear upset or troubled the last time you saw him?”

  She frowned. “No, why?”

  I was thinking of suicide, but I didn’t share my suspicions with her. She caught on anyway.

  “The professor was not upset at all. In fact, he was excited and looking forward to the symposium. So, please, don’t suggest that a good Christian like him would have committed the cardinal sin of taking his own life.”

  “I’m truly sorry,” I said as she glared
at me. “I never met him, you see. I was speculating.” Hoping to defuse the tension, I asked her if she’d known him long.

  “Two years. He rented me a room in his home in Via Bolognese. That is he gave me room and board in exchange for help around the house. I’m from Prato. Not far from here. He was very kind.”

  That was news. “You were living with him? I mean in the same house?”

  I wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it straight off. She averted her gaze and nodded.

  “Then you must know his daughter.”

  She nodded. “She’s in London but spends her school holidays here. I take her to church when she’s in Florence. I can’t say we’re close.” She cracked a sad, apologetic smile. “You know how young girls are. Interested in frivolous things. Popular music.”

  “Did you see him yesterday? The day he died?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, wiping away some fresh tears. “I spoke to him at breakfast. He said he had some errands to run in preparation for the symposium. Then he planned to meet some people at his church to solicit donations for the mensa dei poveri, the soup kitchen.”

  “Is the church anywhere near the river?”

  “No. Near the Fortezza da Basso,” she said. “Chiesa della Madonna della Tosse. It’s his parish church.”

  “The Madonna of . . . the cough?” I asked, wondering if my Italian was betraying me.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said in English as if there was nothing odd about the name.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I was, understandably, loath to traipse around Florence in light of the fact that Professor Bondinelli had just been fished out of the Arno the night before. Even though I’d never met him, I felt conflicted. Was it proper to enjoy such pleasant diversions while the man who’d gone to all the trouble of organizing a conference to honor my father lay so fresh on a slab in the morgue? While his fourteen-year-old daughter was packing her bags to return home an orphan? No, it wasn’t right. But at the same time, I couldn’t say it was entirely wrong either.

  So with mixed feelings, I slipped into some flats, pulled a wide-brimmed sun hat onto my head, and hid myself behind a pair of Ray-Ban Meteor sunglasses. And, unlike my first visit years before, I set out to tour Florence, ready to appreciate the city for all its romance, art, and history.

  Florence in September. There were still plenty of tourists, outfitted in breathable leisurewear, comfortable shoes, and embarrassing hats, aiming then clicking their cameras, all the while babbling in their foreign tongues. They bought trinkets and souvenirs, and even posed for caricatures in front of the Uffizi. They waited on line at the post office to buy stamps for their letters. Or to place phone calls back home, perhaps to ask for money. The foreigners, including me, were often surprised to be charged for full-letter postage if they scribbled anything more than “ciao”or “saluti da Firenze” on their postcards.

  Commonplace items and local customs charmed or vexed the visitor, depending on his mood. The stubborn refusal of shopkeepers to place change in your proffered hand took some getting used to. They dropped it instead into a small dish on the counter; it was your job to retrieve it from there. And Americans weren’t in the habit of drinking water from a bottle, never mind having to pay for it. My native New York City boasted the best-tasting water available anywhere—perfect for making bagels, too—and it ran from the tap free of charge. Nor did we appreciate the scarcity of ice cubes, which could be had for the price of a “please” at home. And what American visiting Europe didn’t feel claustrophobic in the Matchbox cars? Barely a third as long as an average Chrysler sedan. Even the homely, imported Volkswagens back in the U.S. dwarfed the tiny Fiats, which the Italians parked in a random, jumbled fashion on the streets— and sidewalks—of Florence, wherever they might fit. These differences and countless others leapt out at the tourist. I giggled at some, cursed others, but soaked them all in with a joyous curiosity.

  First on my itinerary was a second crossing of the Ponte Vecchio. It was only steps from my hotel, and reasonably free of tourists at lunch hour on a Wednesday in late September. Nose pressed against the bridge’s shop windows, I coveted the gold treasures on display. Rings, some filigreed with latticework, others brightly enameled, more still sparkling with diamonds, beckoned to me as if crooking a finger. Too rich for my budget, I thought, even as I calculated in my head how much I might afford. No, I told myself, pushing away from the showcase. The price of one bauble in particular dwarfed the sum of the Travelers Cheques in my purse by a factor of ten. I strolled up the slow incline toward the center of the bridge.

  “Signorina,” called a man from the doorway of the shop. “Come back. I show you beautiful jewels. I make you good price.”

  I flashed him a sad smile and shook my head. He shrugged and disappeared back inside.

  “Excusi mi,” said a middle-aged lady standing in front of me in a bright sundress. American. A sunburned, Baby Huey of a man stood behind her, smile at the ready. “Tu fare foto noi per piacere?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’d be glad to take a picture of you.”

  She seemed thrilled that I spoke English, introduced herself as Millie Stueben and her husband, Big Bob, from Lebanon, Kansas. Under crossexamination, I gave my name and city of origin.

  “We saw you this morning in the breakfast room at the hotel,” she explained. “Are you staying at Albergo Bardi too? We’re in room twenty-five. How about you?”

  “Forty-one,” I said.

  Big Bob stepped forward, grabbed my hand with both mitts, and commenced to pumping vigorously. He pronounced himself happy to meet another American, even if I was from New York. Ha ha. I took the AGFA Optima 1 camera from Millie, corrected the disastrous F-stop settings she’d dialed in, and focused on the couple. Not much that I could do beyond that; it wasn’t a magic camera. Millie and Bob were satisfied all the same, and invited me and my husband—surely I was married—to visit them in Kansas if ever we were in the neighborhood.

  “Or stop by our room anytime if you’re missing some American company. Number twenty-five.”

  The Stuebens left me at the crest of the bridge, exactly where I’d been propositioned and pinched by the creepy man the previous evening. I watched them go, then loitered at the Cellini bust to admire the view. I retrieved my camera from my bag and snapped a roll of Kodachrome, half in each direction. To the east a couple of sculls were rowing on the river alongside the quays below the Uffizi Gallery. On the other side, to the west, the Lungarno stretched along the river with the Ponte Santa Trinita directly before me. That reminded me of poor Bondinelli. It was, of course, there that his body had been spotted the night before. I screwed my new Elmar lens onto the camera and focused on the bridge to the west. What exactly I hoped to see, I couldn’t say.

  Lowering my camera, I paused to pay a small silent token of respect to my late host. He’d been a religious man, I was told. Still, a prayer would only have confirmed I was a hypocrite. I wondered what the appropriate gesture should be, given that I didn’t believe he’d been borne away to heaven on angel wings. Should I say “rest in peace”? Perhaps just “farewell.” That suited me. And since I was standing in the middle of the Ponte Vecchio, I said it softly, under my breath, in Italian.

  “Addio.”

  Blinking away a couple of unexpected tears, I unfolded the map from my guidebook and puzzled over it. I have a strong memory, and something about the Santa Trinita bridge bothered me. I was sure it hadn’t been there when I’d visited Florence in 1946. Maybe there’d been a wooden bridge? Or wood and steel? I couldn’t quite remember. Considering the span in the distance, I had to admit that it indeed looked to be hundreds of years old. I shrugged and decided that perhaps my powers of recall weren’t as sharp as I’d thought after all.

  The sun was bright in the clear blue sky, which contrasted and complemented the greenish brown river, making for what I hoped would be some delightful souvenir photos. Again, the Arno conjured images in my mind of povero Bondinelli a
nd his watery end. Pushing those thoughts aside, I fiddled with the camera’s aperture settings and focused on the Vasari Corridor above the shops on the eastern side of the bridge. My father had taken me on a tour of the passage after the war. He explained it had been built as a secure conduit for Cosimo de’ Medici to avoid the dangers and inconveniences of marching through the streets shoulder to shoulder with the hoi polloi. Now, standing there snapping photographs, I felt like a cliché of a tourist, but so what? That was what I was, after all. At least this day there was no greasy handprint on my bottom to ruin the moment.

  I crossed the bridge and, a short distance farther along, found myself in the Mercato Nuovo, face to face with a bronze statue of a boar sejant. Forgetting for a moment Bondinelli and even the creepy man who’d propositioned me the night before, I nearly squealed with delight. Or, I suppose, like a stuck pig. This was the very spot where George Hamilton had bought flowers for Yvette Mimieux in The Light in the Piazza. I’d seen the movie a year and a half earlier with a date who paled in comparison to the bronzed, handsome Hamilton. I wouldn’t say I measured up to Yvette Mimieux’s standard of beauty either. But we’re not talking about my date’s disappointment with me, just mine with him. While perfectly nice-looking when the evening had begun, my escort paid the price for not being George Hamilton once the lights came up at the end of the last reel. I didn’t invite him up for a nightcap after the show.

  Now, having waited my turn, I reached out and rubbed the Porcellino’s snout for good luck as all visitors to Florence do. In fact, for my photo souvenirs, I snapped a couple of frames of other tourists doing exactly that. In fairness to my forgettable date, none of them measured up to George Hamilton’s beauty either.

  From the mercato, I made my way to the nearby Piazza della Signoria, where the Palazzo Vecchio soared impossibly high into the blue Tuscan sky. A couple of memories of my first Florentine sojourn surfaced unexpectedly. As I shamelessly captured the David with my camera in all his Kodachrome glory, a murmur of Portuguese nuns loitered in front of the statue, averting their eyes from his . . . pisello. That was the word my father had used to describe the appendage, adding that the Florentines sometimes said pimpero instead. Pisello or pimpero, the sisters found the little thing objectionable. Or perhaps fascinating.