The Moon Tunnel

Autumnal Tuscan sunshine falls on the city walls of Lucca, and the last tourists of the season linger under the shade of the olive tree perched improbably at the summit of the great tower of the Palazzo dei Guinigi. When they leave, the songbirds will peck at the crumbs of their sandwiches. Below, the shadow of the tower reaches out across the tiled roofs of the city, until it touches the church of St Michele.

Inside, the woman with the grey bunched hair crosses herself, collects her mop, pail and bag, and leaves by the leather-padded northern door into the Via Del Moro. The day has been long and arduous and, although she has struggled to find some joy in it, as the priests said she should, it has been dreary. There was only the little blonde girl who played on the steps, to whom she had given a postcard of the saint. That would be what she would remember of the day, even as she walked to her last job in the cool breeze of the evening.

A child’s smile. It was all she had.

She crossed the Piazza Del Carmine towards the university, trying not to smell the pasta dishes the tourists ate in the shade of the almond trees. They ate so early, these foreigners, while the sun still shone. Her own stomach ached, but it would be another two hours before she was home, and could eat alone.

She followed the steps of a street cat up to the familiar door, punched in the security code and expertly wheeled her pail, mops, and work basket through the door before the alarm was triggered. She punched in the code, thought about her work, and decided instead on a cigarette.

A weekend, the university was empty. But here, it was almost always quiet, although the archaeologists were like their artefacts: always in need of a light dusting. She dragged her things up the stairs to the first office where the nameplate shone: Prof. Azeglio Valgimigli. He was in England, she knew, and here she could have privacy for the small ceremony of the cigarette, the little sin she allowed herself. She opened the window, careful not to lean too far forward in case she might be seen by one of the university officials. Below, by a fountain, two teenagers kissed. She thought of the cemetery, and drew deeply on the cigarette. She would visit tonight, and tell him about her day.

Alone, she thought, with a child’s smile.

On Valgimigli’ss desk stood a gilt-framed picture of the professore with his English wife. She’d often wondered why they were together. She could see that he loved her, held on to her, and in the picture an overprotective hand ran along her shoulder. But she was a disappointed woman, she could see that as well: her eyes avoiding his, her smile simply an arrangement of beautifully white teeth and carefully painted lips.

She liked Valgimigli, liked him for the kind words he gave her each day they met, liked him for the kind words he’d struggled to find when her husband had died. And there’d been the party, to celebrate his professorship. The Valgimiglis’ flat had been coolly opulent, and she’d stood alone in the kitchen wanting to help the people they’d hired to serve the drinks and canapés. But she’d noticed things which seemed to tell a story: the study with baby-blue walls, a line of teddy bears above the skirting board, the two bedrooms, and the ornaments and mementoes arranged like the artefacts in the departmental museum.

A phone rang on the desk, making her jump. There were two: one which the professor used when he was in the office for everyday calls, and another, which she’d never heard ring. They all had two along this corridor, the professors, a perk of the job.

This time it was the phone that never rang.

She listened to the ringing tone and thought of the lonely evening ahead. Perhaps she would go back to St Michele’s to pray, for the little girl with the smile. Then the ringing stopped and the call switched to the answerphone.

But that was odd. Most of the phones had the same message, or a variant, recorded by the woman who was the receptionist for the department. She’d heard it many times, knew it by heart. But this voice she did not recognise.

‘This is the telephone of Jerome Roma. He is unavailable to take your call at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone and he will ring you back when he is free. Thank you.’

There was a gap full of static and then the tone.

‘Hi,’ said a voice in English, overloud. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I work for a newspaper in England and I need to talk to you urgently – it’s about Azeglio. I’m sorry if this is a bad time, or a painful time, but it would only take a minute. My mobile is 0796; 4545445 – it can take calls direct from Italy. Thank you. My name is Philip. Philip Dryden.’