Read Online Converging Parallels by Timothy Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Timothy Williams
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had begun to heave beneath the T-shirt. Two tears, one after the other, fell onto the grass.
“She’s safe, isn’t she?”
“Of course,” Trotti said, “of course,” trying to convince the little boy.
And himself.
9
L EAVING THE GARDENS , Trotti looked up. Open blinds, like eyes, peered down from the high wall opposite. The plaster surface had been recently painted a dark brown and the woodwork of the windows was newly restored. As he came out of the gates, Trotti was surprised to see that the lower parts of the wall had not yet been defaced with the habitual slogans in scrawling paint. Clearly this was a quiet part of the town.
The sky had darkened again and the old man who pedaled past held an opened umbrella in one hand while he steered his bicycle carefully over the irregular cobbles. A pessimist, Trotti thought, until a cold drop of rain fell onto his neck.
At some of the windows above, lace curtains billowed in the breeze.
A heavy marble stone freshly engraved and polished had been embedded into the wall at eye-level.
Collegio Sant’Antonio di Padova
in flowing italic letters and a coat of arms. In smaller letters: SEZIONE LAUREATI .
Trotti was standing before a large wooden gateway; the dark varnish looked so new and its smell was so fresh that Trotti was afraid to smear his fingers. The doorbell was to one side, a row of individual buttons and neat iron slats hiding a mouthpiece. He rang one of the bells at random; a scratching voice called angrily through the mouthpiece, a click and a door—part ofthe larger doorway and cut into it—swung open. Trotti had to bend to step through.
He found himself in a large hall. The floor was of gleaming marble with deep veins running through it like gorgonzola. The surface reflected the grey afternoon light. The far wall was a series of parallel jute blinds partially hiding a vast floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond the window, Trotti could make out an enclosed courtyard.
“A nice place.”
“Can I help you?” A woman approached him. She was short and large and as she waddled across the brilliant floor, her legs seemed to be pulled by her flat cloth slippers.
“Dottor Trotti.”
He held out his hand. The woman hesitated, glancing distrustfully at his face. She put her hand to the back of her squat neck and then rubbed the same hand on the floral pattern of her apron. Then they shook hands—hers was hot and damp—and she nodded, her eyes not leaving his. She had a large face, rather pale. Two parallel lines, old white scars, ran down either side of her chin; the bulging skin graft gave her the appearance of an ageing ventriloquist’s dummy. Her hair formed an unkempt halo about her head.
“You are looking for someone, Dottore?”
“Perhaps. I have never been here before.”
“It used to be a convent.” She had a rasping voice. “But it has been converted—to the tune of three hundred million lire.” She pointed upwards and Trotti looked at the ceiling. Ancient wooden rafters, newly conditioned and varnished, held up the criss-crossing timbers. “This is the annex to the Sant’Antonio.” Her eyes returned to his. “Nothing but the best for the young gentlemen.”
“Which young gentlemen?”
“The doctors and the lawyers—the young graduates.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nowadays everybody is in a hurry.” She crossed her arms. “Give me time to explain.”
Trotti smiled. “Please explain, signora.”
“This is where they come, the young men. After they havefinished their studies at the university and they are embarking upon their new careers. Young doctors doing their internship—or lawyers looking for their first job. For the most part they are old students of Sant’Antonio—the main college is across the fields,” and with a wave of her hand, she indicated vaguely beyond the quiet courtyard.
“It’s a Catholic college, isn’t it? With scholarships for gifted boys?”
“That’s right.”
“There was an
“She’s safe, isn’t she?”
“Of course,” Trotti said, “of course,” trying to convince the little boy.
And himself.
9
L EAVING THE GARDENS , Trotti looked up. Open blinds, like eyes, peered down from the high wall opposite. The plaster surface had been recently painted a dark brown and the woodwork of the windows was newly restored. As he came out of the gates, Trotti was surprised to see that the lower parts of the wall had not yet been defaced with the habitual slogans in scrawling paint. Clearly this was a quiet part of the town.
The sky had darkened again and the old man who pedaled past held an opened umbrella in one hand while he steered his bicycle carefully over the irregular cobbles. A pessimist, Trotti thought, until a cold drop of rain fell onto his neck.
At some of the windows above, lace curtains billowed in the breeze.
A heavy marble stone freshly engraved and polished had been embedded into the wall at eye-level.
Collegio Sant’Antonio di Padova
in flowing italic letters and a coat of arms. In smaller letters: SEZIONE LAUREATI .
Trotti was standing before a large wooden gateway; the dark varnish looked so new and its smell was so fresh that Trotti was afraid to smear his fingers. The doorbell was to one side, a row of individual buttons and neat iron slats hiding a mouthpiece. He rang one of the bells at random; a scratching voice called angrily through the mouthpiece, a click and a door—part ofthe larger doorway and cut into it—swung open. Trotti had to bend to step through.
He found himself in a large hall. The floor was of gleaming marble with deep veins running through it like gorgonzola. The surface reflected the grey afternoon light. The far wall was a series of parallel jute blinds partially hiding a vast floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond the window, Trotti could make out an enclosed courtyard.
“A nice place.”
“Can I help you?” A woman approached him. She was short and large and as she waddled across the brilliant floor, her legs seemed to be pulled by her flat cloth slippers.
“Dottor Trotti.”
He held out his hand. The woman hesitated, glancing distrustfully at his face. She put her hand to the back of her squat neck and then rubbed the same hand on the floral pattern of her apron. Then they shook hands—hers was hot and damp—and she nodded, her eyes not leaving his. She had a large face, rather pale. Two parallel lines, old white scars, ran down either side of her chin; the bulging skin graft gave her the appearance of an ageing ventriloquist’s dummy. Her hair formed an unkempt halo about her head.
“You are looking for someone, Dottore?”
“Perhaps. I have never been here before.”
“It used to be a convent.” She had a rasping voice. “But it has been converted—to the tune of three hundred million lire.” She pointed upwards and Trotti looked at the ceiling. Ancient wooden rafters, newly conditioned and varnished, held up the criss-crossing timbers. “This is the annex to the Sant’Antonio.” Her eyes returned to his. “Nothing but the best for the young gentlemen.”
“Which young gentlemen?”
“The doctors and the lawyers—the young graduates.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nowadays everybody is in a hurry.” She crossed her arms. “Give me time to explain.”
Trotti smiled. “Please explain, signora.”
“This is where they come, the young men. After they havefinished their studies at the university and they are embarking upon their new careers. Young doctors doing their internship—or lawyers looking for their first job. For the most part they are old students of Sant’Antonio—the main college is across the fields,” and with a wave of her hand, she indicated vaguely beyond the quiet courtyard.
“It’s a Catholic college, isn’t it? With scholarships for gifted boys?”
“That’s right.”
“There was an
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