as I had feared it would.
‘I’m glad you’re here, actually.’ Bassetti leaned back in his chair. ‘I had a visitor the other day – from Sicily. Naturally enough, your name came up. He told me all kinds of stories …’
In that moment, for the first time ever, I thought I saw through Apollonio Bassetti. I was convinced that this ‘visitor’ of his was a fabrication. It allowed him to be in possession of certain inside information without appearing to have collected it himself. The effect was to render him neutral, blameless.
‘Apparently your mother had a child by your father’s employer, a man called –’ Bassetti consulted the documents in front of him – ‘Gargallo. Does that name mean anything to you?’
I felt my face flush.
‘Your father kept quiet about it, in return for which Gargallo gave you all a decent place to live. People say your father died of shame.’ He looked up from his papers. ‘I’m sorry. Didn’t you know?’ He sat back again. ‘It’s probably just idle chatter. People will say anything.’
I had to clear my throat. ‘Who told you this?’
‘There were other stories,’ he went on. ‘One of them was really quite damaging.’ The room seemed to darken, as often happens in the summer when a cloud blocks the sun; it was November, though, and the weather was overcast and grey. ‘It’s so lurid that I’m sure there can’t be any truth in it. All the same, “no smoke without roast meat”. Do you have that phrase in Sicily?’
‘We have lots of phrases.’
‘Since the Grand Duke’s reputation must be protected at all costs, I’m afraid I have no choice but to investigate the rumours. It would be negligent not to. Luckily, I have men like Stufa at my disposal –’
‘Stufa,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
‘He’s something of an expert in the field.’
‘I’m not sure how impartial he’s going to be.’
Bassetti’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Quite apart from his close connection with the Grand Duke’s family, Stufa’s a highly respected public servant. I’ve no reason to doubt him.’
The meeting had gone worse than I ever could have imagined. I stood up, thinking I should leave.
‘One more thing before you go,’ Bassetti said, all softness now. ‘There’s the small matter of the woman you’ve been seeing …’
My heart clenched like a fist.
‘I said “woman”,’ Bassetti went on, ‘but I suppose I should really have said “whore”.’
I reached up and touched my ear. It was important that I appeared calm. Pensive. Mildly intrigued.
‘The apothecary’s daughter.’ Bassetti’s voice was languid, almost bored. ‘I’ve seen her, actually. Quite good-looking, if you like that kind of thing.’
‘I’m not sure who you’ve been listening to,’ I said, ‘but they seem to have got their facts muddled up.’
‘Have they?’
‘Yes. You’ve been misinformed.’
‘So what did they get wrong? Not the fact that she’s a whore, surely?’
Bassetti waited to see if I would react, then he reached for the small bell on his desk. I remembered Faustina’s fortune-teller, and how he had used a bell to signal that he had guessed the truth about her – namely, that she was loved. Had Bassetti guessed the truth about me? The door opened behind me. ‘Show this gentleman out,’ Bassetti said, ‘would you?’
When I was halfway across the room, near the fresco that symbolized his rise to power, he spoke again. ‘As a foreigner, Zummo, you may not be aware of this, but there’s a law that applies to women like her. They’re required to wear a yellow band or ribbon, either in their hair, or round one of their sleeves.’ He lifted his eyes from the document he had been studying. He had a look I had seen on his face before, benign and drowsy, like someone who has eaten a heavy meal and is ready for a nap. ‘The penalties for not doing so,’ he said, ‘are quite severe.’
‘I came as soon as I could,’ Faustina said. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘About an hour,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry.’
We were in the overgrown garden, beyond the fig arbour. Only a few yards away was the place where we had first made love.
She took a step towards me, and then stopped. ‘Is something wrong?’
The sun had dropped behind the trees. The bottom of the sky looked charred. I felt the air approach, then push past, as tangible as a current of cold water in the sea. A shiver went through me, lasting longer than a shiver should.
‘They think you’re a prostitute,’ I said.
The spaces between her features seemed to widen. ‘What? Who does?’
‘Bassetti.’
‘Why