Lost in Pisa

Monday morning: five past nine. I sat in the office with my head in hands and a cup of black coffee on the desk. How much longer, I wondered, could I put it off telling Holly about Fisher?

The minute I broke the bad news it would break her poor heart as well. But I had to tell her sometime, didn’t I? Gritting my teeth, I stretched out a hand towards the phone – and it rang. I picked up the receiver nervously.

‘Good morning. Universal Detective Agency. Matt Allen speaking. May I help you?’

‘Hello, Mr Allen.’ I was spared! The voice was that of Mrs Bristow and she sounded excited. ‘I’m just calling to tell you that you don’t need to look for Marmalade any more. He’s come home!’

‘That’s wonderful! Is he alright?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s thinner, of course, and smaller – and his ginger fur coat has turned grey – but, apart from that, he’s fine.’

Hesitantly, I asked her the obvious question. ‘Are you quite sure that it’s Marmalade and not another cat?’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Allen. I’d know my old rascal anywhere.’

Thanking me for all my help, Mrs Bristow rang off. Five minutes later, the telephone rang again.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Universal Detective Agency. Matt Allen speaking. May I help you?’

‘Hi, Matt.’ This time it was that familiar warm and gentle voice which I’d been dreading to hear. ‘It’s nice to have you back. What happened in Margate?’

‘Oh, this and that, Holly. I’d rather tell you in person, if you don’t mind. It’s not very secure over the phone. Can we meet up for lunch in the Happy Dragon?’

‘Alright, Matt.’

By one-thirty, we were alone in the restaurant’s back room. Toying with the beef chow mein, I wondered how best to give the bad news. Holly watched me attentively, completely ignoring her roast duck and pineapple.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

I sighed.

‘He’s gone to Italy – to Pisa, in fact – where the Perfectionists have their international headquarters.’

‘No, Matt! Why?’

‘I don’t know. He has a rather possessive tutor. It looks like the guy’s trying to get Richard away from us – away from anyone, in fact, who might ask him to reconsider his membership of the Perfectionists.’

Holly’s face hardened.

‘Then you’ll have to go to Pisa and bring him back.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, Matt. He’s been brainwashed. I explained that to you, didn’t I? He can’t help himself, so it’s up to us to do it for him. Go to Italy, get Richard, bring him back here, and we’ll deprogram him.’

‘What do you mean: deprogram him?’

‘It’s the opposite of brainwashing. We’ve got to undo all the damage that’s been done to his mind.’

‘I’m still not sure that Richard has been brainwashed, Holly.’

She gritted her teeth.

‘Oh, he has, Matt. I’ve heard about these things.’

I chewed my fingernails.

‘I’ve never been to Italy before – not even for a holiday.’

She put her hand on my arm.

‘That doesn’t matter. I know you’ll manage. I trust you, Matt. ‘

Embarrassed and worried in equal measure, I tried to think of other objections.

‘What about the expense? There’ll be fares and hotels. We don’t know how long I’ll have to spend out there.’

She looked me in the eye.

‘Some things are more important than money, Matt. I thought you knew that.’

Did I? I wasn’t sure about that. I tried to think of a clever reply, but she smiled at me with her big, blue eyes and my mind became a blank.

‘So,’ she said, ‘when can you leave?’

I considered the dreadful prospect for a while.

‘In a couple of days, I suppose.’

Holly frowned her disappointment.

‘Can’t you make it sooner?’

‘There are some things I need to tidy up first.’

‘I know. I’ve seen your desk. Look, could you fly out on Wednesday?’

I hesitated.

‘I’d rather that it was later.’

‘Alright, book the first flight to Pisa that’s available on Thursday. Matt. I’ll pick you up in the morning and drive you to Heathrow.’

With considerable reluctance, I agreed.

The flight was uneventful and the plane landed at Galileo Galilei Airport at eleven forty-three, exactly as scheduled. The Italians have never made a secret of their weather, yet, somehow, the heat reflected by the tarmac took me by surprise and the brightness of the light gave me a headache. I beat a path through the milling throng and bought a pair of sunglasses.

Coming out of the shop, I saw a train in the distance. It was standing at the north-bound platform, waiting to leave for Pisa Centrale. I ran to the information office, bought a ticket, and jumped on the train just before it pulled out of the station. In less than ten minutes, we were in the middle of the city.

I emerged, with the rest of the herd in a broad piazza. Taxis were all round the square, waiting to pounce upon their natural prey – the unwary tourist. One driver in particular caught my eye. Seeing the lost look on my face, he beckoned me to approach. I did so, holding up the piece of paper on which the travel agent had written the name of my hotel.

‘L’albergo Sonnino,’ he grunted. ‘Va bene.’

He heaved both my rucksack and me into the taxi and set off through the streets like a madman. Scenes I wanted to stop and admire passed by in a blur. And then a river appeared ahead of us. The driver slammed on his brakes moments before we plunged into it. He turned to face me.

‘Ecco il Sonnino,’ he grinned, helped himself to a wad of euros, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Relieved to have arrived at all, I was even more pleased when I left the baking street and entered the cool marble foyer of the hotel. A dark-eyed girl checked me in. I smiled. With a brand new credit card and Holly’s disregard for economy, I looked forward to a highly enjoyable assignment.

An ancient porter, wrinkled and bowed, picked up my rucksack. Fearful for his health, I snatched it back. He didn’t mind. We took a lift to the third floor and the old man led me to an empty room.

It was nice enough, but lay at the back of the hotel and overlooked dark alleys instead of the river view I’d expected. I got rid of the porter by filling his hands with cash, showered, unpacked and returned to the dark-eyed girl at reception.

‘Excuse me,’ I said pointing at the address on Venturi’s leaflet, ‘can you tell me where to find this place?’

She took the brochure out of my hand and studied it closely.

‘This is not a place,’ she said. ‘It is a casella postale.’

For a moment, I was shocked and confused.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘It is – how you say in English? – a post office box. Is not a building, is a postal facility.’ She gave back the leaflet.

‘But have you ever heard of La Chiesa della Perfezione?’

She shrugged.

‘No.’

I thought for a minute while she watched me in silence.

‘Have you got a telephone directory I can borrow, please?’ I asked.

‘Sì.’ She fumbled beneath the counter and came up with a massive volume. ‘You can have this, signore.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Prego,’ she said, to my mystification.

This not being the time to learn Italian, I carried the phone book to a table at a spot in the foyer where light from a window lit up the gloom. I pulled up a chair and prepared myself for some serious study. It took nearly half an hour of searching to find what I wanted, but there it was:

LA CHIESA DELLA PERFEZIONE
PALAZZO MARINELLI
PIAZZA SAN FELICE 4
56100 PISA

I wrote the address in my notebook and returned the directory to the girl.

‘You have found what you wanted?’ she asked.

I showed her the address.

‘Yes. Do you know where this is?’

She thought for a moment.

‘Is hard to say. You must have map.’ She ducked beneath the counter again, emerging with a guide to Pisa. ‘This very good. It costs two euros. You would like?’

‘Yes, I would like very much.’ I handed over a couple of notes.

The receptionist unfolded the map across the desk and picked up a pen.

‘You are here in Hotel Sonnino.’ She drew a cross on the map. ‘Piazza San Felice ….’ She marked my map with another cross. ‘That is here, on the other side of the Arno.’

‘The what?’

‘The Arno – it is big river. You will see when you go out hotel.’

‘Well,’ I said, folding up the guide and handing her what I considered to be a more than generous tip, ‘thanks very much for your help’.

She looked down at her hand and frowned. Sadly for the receptionist, euros make all tips appear more than generous.

~ by Christopher Jealous on October 22, 2008.