pick him up tomorrow morning along with anyone else who hasn’t shown up tonight. We’ve got them all listed.’
‘That’s right! Like we were criminals! Listen, I’ve never had the slightest brush with the law—’
‘Me neither. And what we do’s not against the law, is it? Well, is it? Some of my best clients are lawyers—and some of them are cops, too!’
For they now had two passengers filling the small car with two conflicting perfumes and two intermingled streams of abuse. They didn’t get back to Borgo Ognissanti too soon for the Marshal. The other two cars on the job had got in before theirs and deposited their haul in one of the larger offices. Ferrini added their two. The noise was deafening. The Marshal hung around near the door feeling useless and deeply embarrassed. It was his habit, when not doing anything in particular, to stand stock still, with his bulging expressionless eyes fixed on some undefined point in the middle distance. It wouldn’t do here. No matter where his gaze rested it was bound to be met by some of that bare ambiguous flesh, its femininity so brusquely contradicted by quarrelsome male voices, one of which suddenly addressed him.
‘Is looking enough or you want to touch?’
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ warned his nearest neighbour. ‘What’s the use of getting yourself into trouble for no reason?’
‘I’ll say what I feel like! Just because we’ve been dragged in here like a bunch of crooks doesn’t mean I’ve no right to speak. Hey! Ferrini! If a nun gets murdered I suppose you break into the convent at three in the morning and drag the other nuns round here for a going-over, right?’
Ferrini looked up from his desk where he was going through the papers of a huge, silent blond.
‘Shut up, or you’ll wait till the last if not longer.’ He lit a cigarette and carried on quietly, showing no sign of ill humour, only rubbing occasionally at his weary eyes.
‘Name.’
‘Giulietta.’
‘Your real name.’
‘Fabiano, Giulio.’
‘Haven’t seen you before. How long have you been in Florence?’
‘Since the summer.’
‘Before that?’
‘Milan.’
‘Address—what the devil’s the matter now?’
A quarrel had broken out in one corner of the room and it was turning into a hair-tearing fight.
‘Marshal, do you mind?’
By this time all the others were joining in, shouting at the tops of their voices. They all seemed to have it in for a rather undersized creature sporting a pile of upswept chestnut curls. As the Marshal stepped forward slowly, mortified at the thought of having to touch any of them, somebody snatched at the topknot of curls, which came away leaving behind a head of straggling black locks. All the others roared with derisive laughter and the one who had recently made an attack on the Marshal turned on him again now to protest.
‘Look at him! A dirty little transvestite! Look at the beard under all that make-up! I refuse to be in the same room as a nasty little pervert like that! Well? Look at him!’
Baffled, the Marshal turned uncertainly to Ferrini who suggested: ‘Take him next door, will you, or we’ll have no peace.’
The straggly-haired boy was snivelling. The Marshal led him away pursued by hoots of derision.
‘You want to lock him up! There ought to be a law against men who go about dressed as women!’
‘Trying to pass himself off as one of us!’
‘Must be some sort of nut!’
The Marshal shut the door on the racket, relieved to have an excuse to escape. The office next door was dark and empty. He took the boy in there and switched the light on.
‘Sit down.’
He sat down himself and regarded the snivelling boy. He was a pathetic sight enough denuded of his curls; his beard was visible as his catty accuser had pointed out. His lips were smudgily painted and mascara was running down his cheeks mixed with tears.
‘Bitches,’ he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
The Marshal, who had understood
‘That’s right! Like we were criminals! Listen, I’ve never had the slightest brush with the law—’
‘Me neither. And what we do’s not against the law, is it? Well, is it? Some of my best clients are lawyers—and some of them are cops, too!’
For they now had two passengers filling the small car with two conflicting perfumes and two intermingled streams of abuse. They didn’t get back to Borgo Ognissanti too soon for the Marshal. The other two cars on the job had got in before theirs and deposited their haul in one of the larger offices. Ferrini added their two. The noise was deafening. The Marshal hung around near the door feeling useless and deeply embarrassed. It was his habit, when not doing anything in particular, to stand stock still, with his bulging expressionless eyes fixed on some undefined point in the middle distance. It wouldn’t do here. No matter where his gaze rested it was bound to be met by some of that bare ambiguous flesh, its femininity so brusquely contradicted by quarrelsome male voices, one of which suddenly addressed him.
‘Is looking enough or you want to touch?’
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ warned his nearest neighbour. ‘What’s the use of getting yourself into trouble for no reason?’
‘I’ll say what I feel like! Just because we’ve been dragged in here like a bunch of crooks doesn’t mean I’ve no right to speak. Hey! Ferrini! If a nun gets murdered I suppose you break into the convent at three in the morning and drag the other nuns round here for a going-over, right?’
Ferrini looked up from his desk where he was going through the papers of a huge, silent blond.
‘Shut up, or you’ll wait till the last if not longer.’ He lit a cigarette and carried on quietly, showing no sign of ill humour, only rubbing occasionally at his weary eyes.
‘Name.’
‘Giulietta.’
‘Your real name.’
‘Fabiano, Giulio.’
‘Haven’t seen you before. How long have you been in Florence?’
‘Since the summer.’
‘Before that?’
‘Milan.’
‘Address—what the devil’s the matter now?’
A quarrel had broken out in one corner of the room and it was turning into a hair-tearing fight.
‘Marshal, do you mind?’
By this time all the others were joining in, shouting at the tops of their voices. They all seemed to have it in for a rather undersized creature sporting a pile of upswept chestnut curls. As the Marshal stepped forward slowly, mortified at the thought of having to touch any of them, somebody snatched at the topknot of curls, which came away leaving behind a head of straggling black locks. All the others roared with derisive laughter and the one who had recently made an attack on the Marshal turned on him again now to protest.
‘Look at him! A dirty little transvestite! Look at the beard under all that make-up! I refuse to be in the same room as a nasty little pervert like that! Well? Look at him!’
Baffled, the Marshal turned uncertainly to Ferrini who suggested: ‘Take him next door, will you, or we’ll have no peace.’
The straggly-haired boy was snivelling. The Marshal led him away pursued by hoots of derision.
‘You want to lock him up! There ought to be a law against men who go about dressed as women!’
‘Trying to pass himself off as one of us!’
‘Must be some sort of nut!’
The Marshal shut the door on the racket, relieved to have an excuse to escape. The office next door was dark and empty. He took the boy in there and switched the light on.
‘Sit down.’
He sat down himself and regarded the snivelling boy. He was a pathetic sight enough denuded of his curls; his beard was visible as his catty accuser had pointed out. His lips were smudgily painted and mascara was running down his cheeks mixed with tears.
‘Bitches,’ he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
The Marshal, who had understood
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