Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(147)

Not even his treasured valise.

He strolled pass Max Mara, remembering with regret when it was once the fine old Libreria Seeber. He stopped in at Pineider, bought some stationery, purchased luggage at Beltrami, and picked up a raincoat and umbrella at Allegri—all of which he had sent over to his hotel, keeping only the raincoat and umbrella, for which he had paid cash. He stopped at Procacci, settled himself at a tiny table in the crowded shop, and ordered a truffle sandwich with a glass of vernaccia. He sipped his drink thoughtfully, watching passersby through the window.





Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves

Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant

The sky was threatening rain, the city dark and narrow. Perhaps that was why he had always liked Florence in winter—it was monochromatic, the buildings pale, the surrounding hills gray humps spiked with cypress trees, the river a sluggish ripple of dull iron, its bridges almost black.

He dropped a bill on the table and left the café, continuing his stroll down the street. He paused to examine the display window at Valentino, using the reflection of the glass to observe the other side of the street. He went inside and purchased two suits, one in silk and the other a black double-breasted completo with a broad pinstripe, which he favored because of its faint thirties gangsterish flavor—and had them, as well, sent to his hotel.

Back on the street, he turned his footsteps toward the grim medieval facade of the Palazzo Ferroni, an imposing castle of dressed stone with towers and crenellated battlements, now the world headquarters of Ferragamo. He crossed the small piazza in front of the castle, past the Roman column of gray marble. Just before he entered the castle proper, a swift, sidelong glance identified the dowdy woman with brown hair—her—just at that moment entering the church of Santa Trinità.

Satisfied, he entered Ferragamo and spent a good deal of time looking over shoes, buying two pairs, and then completing his wardrobe with purchases of underwear, socks, nightshirt, undershirts, and bathing suit. As before, he sent his purchases over to his hotel and exited the store, encumbered with nothing more than the furled umbrella and the raincoat.

He walked toward the river and paused along the lungarno, contemplating the perfect curve of the arches of the Ponte Santa Trinità, designed by Ammanati: curves that had confounded the mathematicians. His yellowed eye examined the statues of the four seasons that crowned both ends.

None of it gave him pleasure anymore. It was all useless, futile.

The Arno below, swollen by winter rains, shuddered along like the back of a snake, and he could hear the roar of water going over the pescaia a few hundred yards downriver. He felt a faint raindrop on his cheek, then another. Black umbrellas immediately began appearing among the bustling crowds, and they bobbed over the bridge like so many black lanterns…





e dietro le venìa'sì lunga tratta

di gente, ch’i’ non averei creduto

che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.





He put on his own raincoat, belted it tightly, unfurled the umbrella, and experienced a certain nihilistic frisson as he joined the crowds crossing the bridge. On the far side, he paused at the embankment, looking back over the river. He could hear the tick-tick of raindrops on the fabric of the umbrella. He could not see her, but he knew she was there, somewhere under that moving sea of umbrellas, following him.

He turned and strolled across the small piazza at the far end of the bridge, then took a right on Via Santo Spirito and an immediate left onto Borgo Tegolaio. There he paused to look in the rear display window of one of the fine antique shops that fronted on Via Maggio, stuffed with gilt candlesticks, old silver saltcellars, and dark still lifes.

He waited until he was sure that she had observed him—he caught just a glimpse of her through a double reflection in the shop window. She was carrying a Max Mara bag, and for all the world looked like one of the swinish American tourists who visited Florence in mindless shopping herds.

Constance Greene, just where he wanted her.

The rain slackened. He furled his umbrella but remained at the shop window, examining the objects with apparent interest. He watched her distant, almost unreadable reflection, waiting for her to move forward into the sea of umbrellas and thus lose sight of him for a moment.

As soon as she did so, he burst into a run, sprinting silently up Borgo Tegolaio, his raincoat flying behind him. He ducked across the street and darted into a narrow alley, Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti; tore along its length; then took another left, racing down Via Toscanella. Then he ran across a small piazza and continued down Via dello Sprone until he had made a complete circuit and come back around to Via Santo Spirito, some fifty yards below the antique shop where he had dallied moments earlier.