sudden determination to put the situation right, he set about his work, recognising a growing inward conviction, one he had noticed but never acknowledged before: his time as a Roman street thief was coming to an end. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, he would be back walking round the bakeries, looking to return to the world of early-morning heat and dust, and the fragrant smell of rising bread.
After a minute he looked at what he’d collected; there was no alternative in the circumstances. The woman’s wallet contained just under four hundred euros in cash and a few coins, several membership tickets for cinema and arts clubs, three credit cards, a passport size photo of a handsome, though unsmiling, dark-haired young man with a closecropped beard, and, to Caviglia’s shock, a single condom in a shiny silver sheath. Her driving licence gave her name as Véronique Gillet and an address in the 3ème arrondissement in Paris. The same name was also on an identity card for the Louvre Museum. She was, it said, a senior curatorial assistant in the Départment des Peintures. The photograph was many years older than that on the driving licence, which showed a lovely young woman, perhaps in her student days, with shoulder-length lighter hair and a fuller, more contented face. She had an almost palpable air of happiness about her. It made his heart ache.
And you’re sick,
Caviglia thought immediately, feeling a stiff, cold weight of self-loathing begin to form in his stomach.
Something else had fallen out of the wallet, too, a small pink plastic box, one that had puzzled him at first, and now, to his despair and mortification, was beginning to make sense.
He reached beneath the foot pedal for the water tap on the basin and retrieved it. The front had the universal emblem for medicine, a symbol Caviglia had come to know and recognise during his wife’s illness. The caduceus, a kindly doctor had called it. Two serpents writhing round a winged staff. With a deepening sense of foreboding, he opened the lid. Inside was a collection of transparent foils containing tiny red pills, almost the colour of her hair. A date and a time were written beneath each tablet. He peered at them. The next was to be taken at eleven-thirty, just forty minutes away. And the next after that at three o’clock, then again four hours later. Whatever ailment the woman suffered from required, it seemed from the medication, six doses a day, at very exact intervals.
A small card sat next to the foils. He took it out and read there, in a very precise female hand, written in French, English, German, and simple Italian,
This medication is very important to me. If you find it, please call me on the number below, at any time. Even if I am unable to collect it, I will at least know I need to find some more. I will, naturally, be grateful.
Aldo Caviglia leaned back on the flimsy plastic toilet seat and felt stinging tears—of rage and shame and pity—begin to burn in his eyes. The woman’s face hung suspended in his memory, pale and damaged and in need. All because an idle old man would rather steal wallets on the 64 bus than go out and earn an honest living.
He scooped up what he could of her belongings, gathered them into his pockets, and stormed out of the cafe without pausing to utter a customary farewell. He had no phone but he knew where she was. Caviglia strode across Vittorio Emanuele without stopping, holding his arms outstretched, like a cross, like a figure in one of those church paintings he admired so much, utterly oblivious to the discordant chorus of angry horns and the stares of the astonished locals watching from the pavement.
Three
N
O MORE THAN SEVEN MINUTES LATER—HE CHECKED ON
his watch—he was in the Vicolo del Divino Amore, wondering how he could track her down. It was like many a city
vicolo:
narrow, dark, hostile to the outside world. Behind some of these plain doors and stone façades might lie entire mansions, busy offices,
After a minute he looked at what he’d collected; there was no alternative in the circumstances. The woman’s wallet contained just under four hundred euros in cash and a few coins, several membership tickets for cinema and arts clubs, three credit cards, a passport size photo of a handsome, though unsmiling, dark-haired young man with a closecropped beard, and, to Caviglia’s shock, a single condom in a shiny silver sheath. Her driving licence gave her name as Véronique Gillet and an address in the 3ème arrondissement in Paris. The same name was also on an identity card for the Louvre Museum. She was, it said, a senior curatorial assistant in the Départment des Peintures. The photograph was many years older than that on the driving licence, which showed a lovely young woman, perhaps in her student days, with shoulder-length lighter hair and a fuller, more contented face. She had an almost palpable air of happiness about her. It made his heart ache.
And you’re sick,
Caviglia thought immediately, feeling a stiff, cold weight of self-loathing begin to form in his stomach.
Something else had fallen out of the wallet, too, a small pink plastic box, one that had puzzled him at first, and now, to his despair and mortification, was beginning to make sense.
He reached beneath the foot pedal for the water tap on the basin and retrieved it. The front had the universal emblem for medicine, a symbol Caviglia had come to know and recognise during his wife’s illness. The caduceus, a kindly doctor had called it. Two serpents writhing round a winged staff. With a deepening sense of foreboding, he opened the lid. Inside was a collection of transparent foils containing tiny red pills, almost the colour of her hair. A date and a time were written beneath each tablet. He peered at them. The next was to be taken at eleven-thirty, just forty minutes away. And the next after that at three o’clock, then again four hours later. Whatever ailment the woman suffered from required, it seemed from the medication, six doses a day, at very exact intervals.
A small card sat next to the foils. He took it out and read there, in a very precise female hand, written in French, English, German, and simple Italian,
This medication is very important to me. If you find it, please call me on the number below, at any time. Even if I am unable to collect it, I will at least know I need to find some more. I will, naturally, be grateful.
Aldo Caviglia leaned back on the flimsy plastic toilet seat and felt stinging tears—of rage and shame and pity—begin to burn in his eyes. The woman’s face hung suspended in his memory, pale and damaged and in need. All because an idle old man would rather steal wallets on the 64 bus than go out and earn an honest living.
He scooped up what he could of her belongings, gathered them into his pockets, and stormed out of the cafe without pausing to utter a customary farewell. He had no phone but he knew where she was. Caviglia strode across Vittorio Emanuele without stopping, holding his arms outstretched, like a cross, like a figure in one of those church paintings he admired so much, utterly oblivious to the discordant chorus of angry horns and the stares of the astonished locals watching from the pavement.
Three
N
O MORE THAN SEVEN MINUTES LATER—HE CHECKED ON
his watch—he was in the Vicolo del Divino Amore, wondering how he could track her down. It was like many a city
vicolo:
narrow, dark, hostile to the outside world. Behind some of these plain doors and stone façades might lie entire mansions, busy offices,
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