Page 17 of Daughter of Genoa
‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘Caltanissetta will do very well.’
Vittorio nodded. ‘When you’re done, fetch me your old card and we’ll transfer over the photograph. Then you’ll be all set up.’
‘Except for the stamps and the imprimatur,’ I said.
‘Quite so. But Mr X will take care of that once we’ve done our part.’
When I’d filled in my details, I hurried to my room and dug out my false identity card once again. When I returned, Vittorio had set out a scalpel and a tiny pot of clear, thin glue, and my new Caltanissetta papers lay before him. I handed him my card – it now looked very shabby indeed, to my eyes – and he carefully prised off the photograph, sliding the scalpel underneath it with a surgeon’s precision and shaving off the remnants of the glue. Then he opened the new card, added a small drop of fresh glue to the back of the photograph and positioned it in the right spot, pressing it firmly down and holding it there with the tips of his fingers.
‘Shouldn’t you use gloves for that?’ Silvia asked.
Vittorio shook his head. ‘Makes you clumsy. And you only glue your fingers together once before you learn to be careful.’ He considered for a moment. ‘Maybe twice.’
We sat in silence while he waited for the adhesive to dry. Then, once he judged it was time, he picked up the card and passed it over.
‘Here you are. But keep it flat for a little while, with a book to weigh it down.’
‘Marta has plenty of those,’ Silvia said.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Vittorio stood and packed away the glue and scalpel in his black bag. Silvia got up, too, tipping Tiberio gently out of her lap.
‘I’ll burn this in the stove,’ she said, picking up the list. ‘Shall I parcel the cards up for you, Father? We have some old orders of service – from our church, not yours, but they should do as cover.’
‘Not this time, thank you. Mr X will come past for them later today.’
‘Any idea when?’ she asked. ‘Just so we can be prepared.’
‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. Most likely around dinnertime.’
‘All right, then,’ Silvia said. ‘Won’t you have something else before you go? More tea, a cigarette? Or stay for lunch?’
‘That’s very kind, but I can’t stay.’ Vittorio put on his round hat and his cloak and turned to me. ‘Thank you for your hard work today, Marta. I think we make a very good team.’
‘I think so, too,’ I said, and he smiled, just a little.
‘Good day, then. I shall see you again soon.’
Once he’d left, my broken night started to creep up on me. I had my lunchtime soup with Silvia and Bernardo, and then they went back to work and I went to my room. I lay on my bed with Tiberio curled up on my legs and tried to readA Study in Scarlet, comparing the Italian translation with my memory of the English original, which I’d read so many times before. It was the kind of mental exercise I liked very much, as mental exercises go. But my eyes were heavy and I was dizzyingly tired. I only managed a few lines before sleep claimed me.
11
I woke up what felt like hours later, my eyes dry and my mouth foul with sleep. Tiberio had moved up the bed to stretch out on my pillow – his fur tickled my ear and made my nose itch – andThe Adventures of Sherlock Holmeslay open on the floor where I’d let it fall. Somehow, I felt worse than I had when I lay down. I pushed myself up and went to the window: pulling the curtain aside, I saw bright sunshine over the roofs of Genoa. I couldn’t have been asleep for all that long, but I felt as groggy and bewildered as if I’d been shaken awake in the small hours. I understood now, better than ever, why my mother had been so strongly against afternoon naps.
It should be a crime to waste daylight, her voice rang in my ear.Go to sleep now and you’ll only lie awake all night!
Well, I would listen to her, even if she wasn’t here to nag me. I would wash my face and brush my teeth, and I’d takeSherlock Holmesand read it sitting upright, in the parlour, like a respectable citizen.
But when I opened the door, I found Teglio sitting on the sofa. Stacks of identity cards were set out on the table before him, and he was absorbed in applying a small rubber stamp to each one.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, and he looked up at me. He’d taken off his jacket, rolled up his cuffs and loosened his tie – his horn-rimmed spectacles were discarded on the arm of the sofa. It was strange to see him so informal, and I had to suppress the urge to turn and bolt back to my bedroom.
‘Marta! Am I clogging up your reading room? I do apologise.’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ I was clutchingSherlock Holmesto my chest like a shameful secret. ‘Unless I can help, of course. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, no, this is all very boring. But this is your home. If you want to sit in here and read, then that is what you must do.’
I still wanted to bolt. But the idea of getting to see him work, of understanding a little more of the whole forgery business, was tremendously compelling. ‘If you’re sure…’
