Page 75 of Six Days in Bombay

I folded the letters and stuffed them back in the envelope. The bells of the Duomo began ringing, reminding me that if I were to make it to the Caffè Doney to meet Paolo by four o’clock, I had to hurry. Crossing the Ponte Santa Trinita, I walked past an impressive brick building with a crenellated top. A small bronze plate beside the entrance readOfficina di Salvatore Ferragamo. Ah, the shoe designer mentioned in Baedeker’s. A small square in front of the building led to Via de’ Tornabuoni.

The buildings on both sides of the street were a far cry from Paolo’s humble—slightly run-down—studio. Standing solidly side by side were the palaces of the wealthy, palaces built five hundred years ago during the European Renaissance, according to the guidebook. On the ground floor were boutiques (there were men standing just inside the entrances to hold the doors open for clients) and cafés. The upper floors, with their long drapery, appeared to be residences. I passed a couturier where an elegant woman was pointing to a photo in a magazine. A few of my mother’s clients—Englishwomen—had sometimes asked her to copy a dress featured inMarie-ClaireorVogue. As I passed the shoe store, I heard a customer say in English, “Oh, what Mr. Ferragamo could do if he weren’t confined to those ugly Italian materials!” In the shop across the street, a saleswoman wasshowing fine lace to two women. Straight ahead was an enormous poster for an exhibition of Giotto, the painter whom Mira had drawn inspiration from.

Finally, I arrived at the Gran Caffè Doney, which Baedeker’s touted as a favorite of expats, many of whom owned residences along this street. The café was so crowded that it was impossible to move around the tables and chairs without dislodging a lady’s hat.

Inside, I looked for Paolo. He wasn’t at any of the tables. While I waited next to the counter, I considered the pastries in the glass case, which lacked the hot oranges, pistachio greens and marigold yellows of Indianmittai. Here, there were jellies, petit fours, biscuits, all manner of biscotti and something labeled tiramisu, a word I tried out loud—quietly, of course. A generous coating of chocolate powder atop several layers of custard and wafer-thin pastry. My mouth watered.

I pried my eyes from the pastry bar and looked around again. A couple was leaving, and I made my way to the empty table with a view to the street. To my left was an old gentleman in a lightweight suit reading a paper.Osservatore Romano. There was a tiny coffee cup on his table. The waiter, in his black-and-white uniform, approached him, bent toward his ear and spoke in a low voice. The man looked up at the waiter. I could catch the gist of what he said.I will read what I want… I’m not scared…don’t need Fascists.The waiter cleared his throat and went to stand behind the pastry counter.

I waited an hour for Paolo, nursing a cappuccino, which I decided I liked better than the other coffees I’d tried in Europe.

“Signorina?”

I looked up. If I hadn’t been sitting, I might have swayed. Up close, Paolo was even more beautiful. A few errant curls from his dark hair fell across his forehead. And those sculpted lips! The bottom lip was a plump pillow with an indentation down the middle. His mouth was framed by a mustache and goatee.On another man, it might have looked gauche, but he looked like a modern day Ali Baba. A straight nose, perfectly symmetrical. Eyes that made him seem at once sleepy and alert. Had he looked the same ten years ago, when Mira first met him?

“You have something for me?” He held a lit cigarette between his thumb and index finger.

I tried to stand up, but the area was too crowded, and I ended up in mid-bow, feeling foolish. “I’m…Sona Falstaff.”

He nodded and sat down. He signaled to the waiter for two coffees.

“I nursed Miss Novak.”

“Mira?” His voice went up an octave. “Is she alright? We haven’t heard from her in weeks and we’ve been worried.” He grasped my hands and leaned forward until our heads were almost touching. “Tell me she and the baby are okay.”

He knew Mira had been pregnant?He suddenly seemed so overwrought that I felt the café was the wrong place to be having this discussion. Paolo must have seen the shock on my face. He ground his cigarette in the ashtray. “You’d better come up.” He left a few coins on the table.

We walked less than twenty paces before arriving at the entry to a circular courtyard. Two cars were parked in front of the palazzo’s doors, an Alfa Romeo and a Mercedes-Benz. Framing those doors were frescos of maidens watering flowers. Around us, ivy climbed the walls. There were four wooden mailboxes. Four apartments then.

Paolo held the lift door open and gestured for me to enter before him. We took an elevator up four flights.

“My wife will not appreciate your being here.”

After all the stories of his womanizing, I was surprised to learn he had a wife. I frowned, wondering what I’d done to offend a woman I’d never met.

“Oh, it’s not you. It has to do with any woman I look at. But she is at the cinema, so…”

The lift opened onto a grand apartment. He gestured to the white velvet sofa where I took a seat. There were two pale blue armchairs opposite. The coffee table was framed in tubular chrome, defying the old-world character of the room: tall ceilings and windows, plastered walls, elaborate moldings. I wondered who played the grand piano in the corner. Hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room was a crystal chandelier.

Paolo was still standing. “Now tell me about Mira.”

I thought I should get to it, like ripping off a bandage, quickly. “I’m sorry to bring you such sad news, Mr. Puccini. Miss Novak passed away several weeks ago.”

Paolo stared at me. A crease formed between his brows. “What? How?”

“She was admitted to the hospital for a miscarriage.”

He put a hand over his mouth. His eyes were wet. He made a sign of the cross. “The baby… How did it happen? How does a woman die of a miscarriage in 1937?”

The door to the lift opened. The woman who entered the apartment was in a simple black dress that hugged her curves. This must be Paolo’s wife. She must have been a good ten years older than him. I’d seen it the other way around, with men decades older than their wives, but never with the man so much younger. If Paolo was in his forties, his wife must be in her fifties. Although she had kept her figure, her jawline was starting to soften and her ankles had thickened. She kept her eyebrows thin and her lips painted red.

Paolo was still standing in the middle of the living room, mute.

The woman took off her black slouch hat and considered her appearance in the baroque mirror above the sideboard. “Well, that was hideous. The film was nothing but propaganda.” Her flat nasal tones, which I recognized as American from patients I’d met in India, was a stark contrast to Paolo’s more melodic speech.

She removed her gloves one finger at a time and laid them onthe sideboard. “This one was about food if you can believe it!” She mimicked an Italian voiceover. “Mussolini thinks that using poetry and music to awaken the flavors of food is the ticket.” She laughed and slipped out of her high heels. “I was sure that Florence Foster Jenkins was going to invite us all back to her place to listen to her awful singing. I was lucky to get away!”

Finally, she turned toward the living room and noticed me. “Oh,” she said, with a questioning glance at Paolo. Her voice was tight. “Who is this?” Her eyes darted from me to her husband.

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