Gone, But Not Forgotten
Leaving the receptionist floundering in my wake, I rushed straight to Fisher’s room. Several thumps on his door and an angry shout annoyance through his keyhole got no reply. I hadn’t really expected one, but it’s always important to check.
Then, deserting the corridor, I ran up the stairs to Rossi’s flat and gave a hard knock at his door. It was opened by Vittoria and the bambini.
‘Buongiorno,’ she said.
‘Oh, hello, Vittoria. Can I see Marco, please?’
‘Che cosa vol’ dire?’
It looked like it was going to be a long day.
‘Ex … cuse … me. Can … I … see … Mar … co?’
‘Marco? Marco, non cé.’
‘Can … you … speak … Eng … lish … please?’
‘Sì, but I not speak English good.’
‘Where … is … Mar … co? Your hus … band … where … is … he?’
‘Marco no here.’
‘I know that, Vittoria, but … where … is … he?’
‘Marco go away.’
‘Where … to? Where?’
‘He no here. He go away.’
‘Nev … er … mind.’ With a sigh, I gave up and trudged back despondently to the reception desk.
The girl was waiting for me there – and she couldn’t conceal her fury.
‘You shouldn’t have gone in there by yourself.’
‘It was an emergency. I need to see Richard Fisher as a matter of urgency. I know he’s not in his room, so could you kindly tell me where he is, please?’
She unhooked the clip board from behind her.
‘It’s Kevin Hughes, isn’t it?’
‘It’s Matt Allen, actually.’
The girl recoiled with horror.
‘You told me you were Kevin Hughes.’
‘Did I? I must have got confused. Sorry, I’m definitely Matt Allen.’
The girl ground her teeth some more and picked up a pen from the desk.
‘What is your reason for wishing to see Richard Fisher, Mr Allen?’
I rested my elbows on her desk.
‘How,’ I asked, politely, ‘does that affect where he may be?’
She chewed her lip.
‘It doesn’t, but there’s a space on this form where I have to state the purpose of your visit.’
‘Say it’s because he’s my friend.’
She scribbled a note on the sheet, laid down the clip board, picked up the phone and dialled a number.
‘Good evening, Signor Venturi. It’s Terri, at reception. I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a man here called Mr Allen who’s asking see Richard Fisher. He says he’s Richard’s friend. What shall I tell him …? Alright, I’ll do that.’
The girl who called herself Terri replaced the receiver.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but Mr Fisher is not available.’
‘Where is he?’
The girl licked her lips and looked around the hall for help. There was, sadly for her, no-one else present to assist her.
‘I can’t tell you, Mr Allen. It’s the rules.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me whether or not he’s actually in the building?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
‘In that case, tell me where Marco Rossi is.’
I don’t know.’ The girl was now shaking, but whether it was with fear or anger, I couldn’t tell.
‘If I can’t see Marco,’ I said, ‘get me Signor Venturi.’
She blanched.
‘But I can’t. He’s not-’
I banged my fist down onto her blasted desk.
‘Of course you can! I know he’s here – because you’ve just spoken to him – so kindly fetch him for me.’
‘But I -’
I took a very deep breath.
‘Let me explain just how important this is, Terri. If you don’t get him at once, you’ll have a problem on your hands which you won’t like very much – so you’ll still have to call Venturi in the end. Either way, I shall see him.’ I hopped onto her desk, folded my arms and showed her that I meant business.
‘Get off! Please get off!’ she screamed.
‘Not till I’ve seen Venturi.’
With her most ferocious glare, she picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Hello, Signor Venturi. It’s me again, I’m afraid. I told Mr Allen what you said, but he won’t accept it. In fact, he’s causing a lot of trouble here in reception. He’s sitting on the desk saying he won’t leave until he sees you. What do you want me do …? Yes. Yes, alright. Thank you.’ She put down the receiver fiercely. ‘You’ve got what you want, Mr Allen. Follow me.’
She led me up several flights of stairs, and along a corridor with a thick red carpet and real paintings on the walls. At the end of the corridor was a door. As we approached, it opened and Venturi came out. He held out his hand in welcome.
‘Ciao, Matteo. Is nice to see you again. Please, come in.’
I did so.
‘Go now,’ he whispered to Terri. ‘All will be buono.’
She gave a frown of concern, then, without a word, turned on her heel and left. Venturi followed me into the flat and closed the door carefully.
‘Sit down, Matteo,’ he said.
I took a seat on his white leather sofa. Venturi sat on a chair opposite me, folded his arms and crossed his eyes.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is wrong?’
Richard Fisher is missing and Terri couldn’t – or wouldn’t – say where he is.’
Venturi sat up straight.
‘You surprise me, Matteo. Is not a secret. Marco think that Riccardo need more experience, so they have both gone to Pisa, our international headquarters.’
‘You mean Pisa in Italy?’
Venturi smiled.
‘There is only one Pisa, Matteo.’ He leaned towards me. ‘I tell you, I want very much to go with them.’
‘It was a bit sudden, wasn’t it?’
‘No. A week ago Marco tell me he might do this. Often he go to Pisa. He see his mother at the same time. She live in Viareggio. That is only twenty kilometres away.’
I thought for a moment.
‘Richard didn’t tell me that he would be leaving the country.’
Venturi pulled a face.
‘Perhaps he forget the plan of Marco.’
‘Maybe.’ I took a pencil and a scrap of paper out of my pocket. ‘There was an important message which I had to give to Richard personally. Now he’s gone, I’ll have to write to him. Can you tell me his address, please?’
‘Sì, Matteo. Is here.’ He rose carefully, crossed the room to a bureau, opened a drawer and took out a bundle of leaflets. He removed one of the leaflets from the bundle and handed it to me. ‘Take this and use it to teach yourself Italian. The address of our headquarters is on the back.’
I turned it over. It said:
LA CHIESA DELLA PERFEZIONE
C.P. 148
56100 PISA
‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
‘Is nothing, Matteo.’
I tucked the leaflet into my coat pocket.
‘I must go now. Goodbye, Signor Venturi.’
He smiled sadly.
‘Addio, Matteo.’
From the safety of her desk, I saw Terri watch me descend the stairs.
‘Happy now?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’
I returned to Buttercup Guest House and, the following morning, booked out.
‘Have you visited all the jeweller’s shops?’ asked Mrs Tate.
‘I’ve seen enough of them.’
‘I’m sorry, dear. I shall miss you.’
I looked down at her pinched little face.
‘I shall miss you too, Mrs Tate.’
I drove to Canterbury, returned the Mondeo to Marlowe Motors, and collected the Corsa from the council estate. Then it was time to head home. Even with a stop for an unhurried lunch at Clacket Lane Services I still arrived in Kitchener Gardens before mid-afternoon.
I showered, changed, and wondered what to do next. By rights, I should ring Holly immediately and tell her the news: ‘Hi, Holly. Your boyfriend’s run off to Italy with a bunch of nutters and never wants to see you again.’ But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. In fact, it seemed best – for me, if not for Holly – to avoid telling her as long as possible.
In an effort to put the whole muddled affair out of my mind, I dug a racquet out of the cupboard and went down to the badminton club in Wembley Hill. It was good to be back amongst normal human beings once again.
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