One Step to You (The Rome Novels #1)(42)

He opened the window. “Are you done listening to that music?”

For a second, Step thought he saw a curtain move in one of those windows. Then he decided that he’d been seeing things. “Hey! Would you turn it off!”

Slowly, the volume of the music was lowered. “Those idiots.” Step went back down and focused on those rumpled sheets of notes from his notebook.

A few minutes later, the telephone rang. He looked at the clock. It was almost four. That must have been Pollo. He went to the telephone to answer it. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?” On the other end of the line, silence. “Hello?” Still more silence, then a simple click. Someone had just hung up. They hadn’t liked his voice. Stupid crank calls. He slammed the telephone receiver down.

“Stefano…”

Step turned around. His mother was there, right in front of him. She was wearing a dark brown fur coat with stunning highlights, light and golden. Her legs peeked out from under a burgundy skirt. They were sheathed in fine stockings that vanished into a pair of elegant, dark brown high-heeled shoes.

“I’m going out, do you need anything?”

“No thanks, Mamma.”

“Well, we’ll see you this evening then. If Papà calls, tell him that I had to go out to take the papers he knows about to the accountant.”

“All right.”

His mother came over to him and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. From the curls of her black hair, slightly long and twisted, came a caress of perfume. Step decided that she’d put on a little too much. He also decided not to tell her so. Then, watching her as she left, he realized he’d made the right decision.

She was perfect. His mother basically couldn’t make mistakes. Not even when it came to putting on perfume.

Under her arm, she carried the purse that he and his brother had given her. Paolo had contributed nearly all the money, but it was Step who had selected it, in that shop on Via Cola di Rienzo where he’d watched his mother stop, undecided, far too many times.

“You’re quite the connoisseur,” she’d whispered into his ear after unwrapping it. Then she’d put it under her arm and, swiveling her hips in an exaggerated, funny fashion, she’d done a sort of runway presentation. “Well, how does it look?”

Everyone had replied, laughing. But actually, she only wanted to hear the verdict of the connoisseur. “You look beautiful, Mamma.”

Step heard the kitchen door shut. When was it they’d given her that purse? Had it been for Christmas or for her birthday? He decided that, for the moment, the best thing he could do was focus on trying to remember the chemistry formulas.

Later, his decision proved to have been the right one. It was almost seven, and he was three pages short of finishing his planned course of study. He was on edge. He wanted to go to the gym—he’d already made plans to do so with Pollo—but he wasn’t going to be able to make it.

Then it happened. Battisti started singing from the half-open window of the top floor of the apartment building across the way. Louder than before. Insistently. Provocatively. Showing no sign of respect for anyone or anything. No respect for Step, who was studying and who wouldn’t be able to go to the gym. This was too much.

Step grabbed the house keys and went running out the door, slamming it behind him. He crossed the street and went into the lobby of the building. The elevator was occupied so he galloped up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Enough’s enough, I just can’t take it anymore. They’d hear from him now.

He had nothing against Lucio Battisti, in fact. He loved him. But to treat him like that.

Step reached the top floor. Just then, the elevator door opened. Out came a delivery boy with a gift-wrapped package in one hand. He beat Step to it. He checked the surname on the little plaque on the door. Then he rang the bell.

Step stood beside him, catching his breath. The delivery boy looked at him with some curiosity. Step exchanged the glance with a smile and then focused on the package the delivery boy was holding. Written on the package was Antonini. This must be a box of the famous pastries from Caffè Antonini. His family ordered from them, too, every Sunday. His mother was crazy about their canapés. They had every flavor imaginable. With salmon, caviar, assorted seafood. At last, a voice came from behind the door: “Who is it?”

“Antonini. It’s the pastries you ordered, sir.”

Step smiled to himself. He’d guessed right, and maybe the guy who’d ordered them would offer him one, just to make up for the noise.

The door swung open, and a young man appeared in the doorway, about thirty years old. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, and below it he wore only a pair of boxer shorts.

“Giovanni Ambrosini?” The delivery boy started to hand him the package, but when the young man spotted Step, he threw himself against the door, desperately trying to push it shut.

Step didn’t understand, but he instinctively lunged forward in response. He wedged his foot against the doorjamb, blocking it before the guy could get it shut. The delivery boy reeled backward, doing his best to keep the cardboard tray of pastries upright and level.

Step started shoving back against the door. As he was pushing, with his face pressed against the cold, dark wood, through the opening between door and jamb, he saw it. The purse sat on an armchair, next to a fur coat.

Suddenly it all came back to him. He and his brother had given their mother that purse for Christmas.