The Flight of the Falcon

by Daphne Du Maurier

  Recognition dawned. I could read the thought passing through her mind. Ah, yes, the assistant librarian.

  “Excuse me, of course,” she said. “Forgive me. Good morning, Signor Fabbio.”

  “You were in front of me at Mass,” I said. “At least, I thought it was you. I was not sure.”

  She walked down the steps at my side. She looked up at the sky and saw that the umbrella she carried was not necessary.

  “I like to go to San Cipriano,” she said. “It has more atmosphere than the Duomo. Is it going to be fine?”

  Absently, she looked about her, and I felt a momentary hurt that she should feel so little interest in the man who stood by her side. A beautiful woman is usually aware of admiration, whatever the source. Effort is made. There is implicit understanding that homage is being paid. Signora Butali seemed unaware of these things.

  “You have a car?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “They’re working on it at the garage over the weekend. I had trouble with it coming back from Rome.”

  “Would you object, then, if I walked with you up the hill? That is, if you are going home?”

  “Not at all. Please do.”

  We crossed the piazza della Vita and began walking up the via Rossini as far as the prefettura, when she turned left and took the steps leading up to the via dei Sogni. Here we paused for breath, and for the first time she looked at me and smiled.

  “The Ruffano hills,” she said. “It takes time to get accustomed to them. Especially if, like me, you are a Florentine.”

  It made all the difference when she smiled. The mouth that seemed taut, disapproving, the mouth of the gentlewoman in the portrait my father loved, relaxed to femininity. There was even humor behind the eyes.

  “Are you homesick?” I asked.

  “Sometimes,” she replied, “but what’s the use? I knew what I was in for when I came here. My husband warned me.”

  She turned abruptly, and we set ourselves to climb the steps.

  “It’s not an easy life then, signora,” I said, “to be wife of the Rector of a university?”

  “Far from easy,” she answered. “There are so many jealousies, factions, to which I have to shut my eyes. I am less patient than my husband. He has given his life, literally, to his work here. If it were not so he would not be in hospital now.”

  She bowed and wished good morning to a couple descending the steps, and from the gracious inclination of her head, without a smile, I understood why Carla Raspa had spoken in feminine spite. Signora Butali, consciously or not, exuded breeding. I wondered what effect she had upon the professors’ wives.

  “Last night,” I said, “I was lucky enough to get a pass to the ducal palace for a session given by the Director of the Arts Council.”

  “Indeed?” she replied in sudden animation. “Do tell me about it. Did it impress you?”

  “It impressed me very much,” I answered, aware that she had turned now to look at me. “Not only the setting, lit with flares and torches for the occasion, but the dueling display that followed, and above all Professor Donati’s address to the students.”

  A spot of color had come into her cheeks, due, I felt, not so much to her exertion in climbing the steps as to the turn in the conversation.

  “I must go to one of the sessions,” she said, “I really must. Something always seems to prevent me.”

  “Last year,” I said, “they were telling me you performed at the Festival. Are you going to do the same this year?”

  “No, impossible,” she answered, “with my husband in hospital in Rome. In any event, I doubt if there would be a part for me.”

  “You know the subject?”

  “Poor Duke Claudio, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’m a little vague. I just know there was an insurrection, and he was murdered.”

  We had reached the via dei Sogni, and in the distance I could see the garden wall. Imperceptibly I slackened my steps.

  “Professor Donati seems to be a very remarkable man,” I said. “They told me at the pensione where I am lodging that he is himself a Ruffanese.”

  “Very much so,” she said. “His father was Superintendent at the ducal palace, and in fact he was born and spent all his boyhood at the house we live in now. It’s one of his ambitions to have it back from us. That is not very likely, unless my husband’s health forces us to retire. Professor Donati loves every room in the house, as you can imagine. I gather he was immensely proud of his father, and his father of him. The family history is quite a tragedy.”

  “Yes,” I said, “yes, so I heard.”

  “He used to speak about it,” she said, “but not any longer. I hope he’s beginning to forget. After all, twenty years is a long time.”

  “What became of his mother?” I asked.

  “He never discovered. She disappeared with the German forces which occupied Ruffano in ’44, and since there was fighting in the north shortly afterwards it is almost certain that she must have been killed in the bombing, she and the little brother.”

  “There was a brother?”

  “Yes, a small boy of ten or eleven. They were very devoted. I sometimes think that it is because of him that Professor Donati gives so much thought to the students.”

  We had reached the garden wall. I glanced furtively at my watch. It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven.

  “Thank you, signora,” I said, “it was very good of you to let me walk home with you.”

  “No,” she said, “it is for me to thank you.” She paused, with her hand on the garden door. “Would you like to meet Professor Donati personally?” she said. “If so, I should be delighted to introduce you.”

  Panic seized me. “Thank you, signora,” I said, “but I wouldn’t in any way wish…”

  The smile returned. “No trouble.” She cut me short. “It’s a custom of the Rector’s to ask a few of his colleagues to the house on Sunday mornings, and in his absence I do the same. Two or three people may call this morning, and Professor Donati is sure to be one of them.”

  I had not planned it thus. I had planned to go alone to his house in the via dei Sogni. Signora Butali took my panic for embarrassment, an assistant librarian at the palace library feeling himself out of place.

  “Don’t be shy,” she said, smiling. “It will be something to tell the other assistants about tomorrow!”

  I followed her into the garden and to the house door, still thinking of an excuse to get away.

  “Anna will be busy preparing lunch,” she said. “You can help me set out the glasses.”

  She opened the door. We entered the hall, and passed through to the dining room on the left. It was no longer a dining room. It was lined with books from floor to ceiling, and there was a large desk near the window.

  “This is my husband’s library,” she said. “When he is at home he likes to entertain here, and when we are many we fling open the double doors to the small dining room beyond.”

  The small dining room beyond had been my playroom. She opened the double doors and I saw, astonished, how the table was set there in the center, stiff and formal, laid for one. I thought of the mess I had left the room in, with my fleet of small cars scattered over the floor and two tins, upturned, for the garage.

  “The vermouth is on the sideboard,” said Signora Butali, “and the Campari. The glasses are on the trolley. Wheel the trolley into the library, will you?”

  She had arranged things to her satisfaction and put out the cigarettes when the bell rang.

  “Probably the Rizzios,” she said. “I’m glad to have you here, she’s so very formal. Professor Rizzio is Head of the Department of Education, and his sister is in charge of the hostel where the women students live.”

  She looked suddenly vulnerable, and younger than her age. Perhaps when her husband was at home he shouldered the burden of social responsibility.

  I slipped into my courier guise and waited by the trolley, ready to pour vermouth at her command. She went to the door to gree
t the callers, and I heard the murmur of the usual compliments. Then she ushered her guests into the room. They were middle-aged, gray-haired and angular. He had the worn and harassed appearance of one perpetually up to the eyes in work, with intrays piled upon a desk that never cleared. I could picture him baying ineffectual commands to streams of tired subordinates. His sister had more authority, holding herself like a matron of old Rome. I pitied the luckless students who lived under her rule. I was introduced as Signor Fabbio, temporary assistant at the library. The signorina bowed, turning immediately to her hostess to inquire after the Rector.

  Professor Rizzio peered at me with a puzzled air. “Forgive me,” he asked, “but I don’t recollect your name. How long have you been working at the library?”

  “Since Friday,” I told him. “I was engaged by Signor Fossi.”

  “Then your appointment went through him?” he said.

  “Yes, professor,” I answered. “I applied to Signor Fossi and he spoke to the Registrar.”

  “Really!” he commented. “I am surprised he did not consult me.”

  “I imagine he did not want to burden you with such a small matter,” I murmured.

  “Any appointment, however small, is of interest to the Deputy Rector,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  “I have been working in Genoa, professor,” I replied, “but my home is in Turin. I graduated at the university there. I hold a degree in modern languages.”

  “That, at least, is fortunate,” he said. “It is more than the other temporary assistants possess.”

  I asked him what he would have to drink, and he said a small glass of vermouth. I poured it for him and he moved away. His sister said she would take nothing, but when Signora Butali protested Signorina Rizzio was pleased to accept a glass of mineral water.

  “So you are working at the library?” she said, dwarfing me with her presence.

  Tall women bring out the worst in me, as they do, in most men of less than average height. “I pass the time there, signorina,” I said. “I am taking a vacation, and the job happens to suit me.”

  “You are fortunate,” she replied, staring. “Many students in their third or fourth year would be glad to avail themselves of such an opportunity.”

  “Possibly, signorina,” I said in smoothly courteous tones, “but I am not a student. I am a courier who speaks several languages, and I am accustomed to conducting parties of international repute through the more important cities of our country—Florence, Rome, Naples…”

  Dislike of my impertinence formed upon her features. She sipped at the mineral water, and her throat quivered as the liquid passed. Another ring at the front door spared her from further distress. My hostess, ears only for the bell, turned towards me, a telltale spot of color in her cheeks.

  “Answer it for me, will you?” she said. “It’s probably Professor Donati.”

  She continued her rapid conversation with Professor Rizzio, her unwonted animation covering inward stress. A courier seldom drinks. He dares not. Now, however, I quickly swallowed a glass of vermouth under the disapproving eyes of Signorina Rizzio and, excusing myself, made for the front door. Aldo had opened it already, being, no doubt, persona grata in the house, and was frowning at the sight of Professor Rizzio’s raincoat thrown down upon a chair. Then his eyes fell upon me. Without recognition. Without even a flicker of interest.

  “Signora Butali is expecting you,” I stammered.

  “So I believe,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Fabbio,” I said. “I had the honor of meeting you last night at the ducal palace. I was with Signorina Raspa.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “yes, I remember. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  He did not remember. It mattered not at all what I thought of the evening. He moved forward into the dining room, or rather the library, and at once the room became alive. Signora Butali called “Hullo,” and he retorted with “Good morning,” the morning a little emphasized. He bent over her hand and kissed it, then turned immediately to Signorina Rizzio. Signora Butali, without asking him what he wanted, filled a glass half-full of Campari and gave it to him.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking it from her, not looking at her.

  The front-door bell rang once more, and questioning my hostess with a glance I went to open it. These menial duties kept me occupied, and served to steady the threatening tremor of my hands. Signor Fossi stood before me on the doorstep, accompanied by a lady. He looked taken aback at the sight of me, and immediately presented the lady as his wife. Somehow I had not thought of him as married.

  “Signor Fabbio is helping us temporarily in the library,” he explained to her, and, on my asking how he did, told me quickly that he had quite recovered.

  I took up my stance once more behind the trolley, and poured them drinks. The conversation turned to health, our hostess touching upon her distress at the reason for Signor Fossi’s absence from the library the day before.

  “Luckily,” she said, “Signor Fabbio was able to oblige me with the books I asked for.”

  The librarian, anxious to turn discussion away from his own past indisposition, did not dwell upon the loan of books, but immediately inquired after the Rector. Talk about Professor Butali became general, everyone hoping that he would be able to leave hospital in time for the Festival.

  Behind me I could hear Signorina Rizzio complaining to Aldo about the rowdy behavior of the C and E students, who had taken to circling the city in the evenings on their vespas.

  “They even have the insolence to roar their machines beneath the women students’ hostel,” she said, “as late sometimes as ten o’clock at night. I have asked my brother to speak to Professor Elia, and he assures me he has done so, but the Professor takes no action. If it continues I shall bring the matter up before the university Council.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Aldo, “your young women encourage the vespa enthusiasts from their windows?”

  “I assure you they do not,” retorted Signorina Rizzio. “My young women, as you call them, are either engaged in reading up their notes for the next lecture or they are safely tucked up in bed with the shutters closed.”

  I poured myself out another glass of vermouth. Then, looking up, I perceived Aldo’s eye upon me, puzzled. I moved away from the trolley and stood by the window, staring down into the garden. The voices hummed. The bell rang. Somebody else went to answer it. This time I did not bother to come forward to be introduced, and I think my hostess had forgotten me.

  Presently, while I was still staring into the garden. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You’re an odd fellow,” said Aldo. “I keep asking myself what you are doing here. Have I seen you before somewhere?”

  “It’s possible,” I said, “that if I disguised myself in a winding-sheet and hid in the linen closet upstairs you might recognize me. My name is Lazarus.”

  I turned and looked at him. His smile vanished. His features dissolved. I was aware of nothing but two enormous eyes blazing from a pale face. It was my supreme moment. For the one and only time in his life the disciple had shocked his master.

  “Beo…” he said. “Oh, my God… Beo.”

  He did not move. The grip on my shoulder tightened. It seemed to me that his eyes engulfed his whole person. Then, with a terrible effort, he controlled himself. His hand fell away.

  “Make some excuse and go,” he said. “Wait for me outside. I’ll follow you. There’s a car there, an Alfa-Romeo; get into it.”

  Like a sleepwalker I crossed the room and, murmuring an apology to my hostess, thanked her for her kindness and said good-bye. I bowed to the rest of the company who might have noticed me. I left the house, and passed through the garden to the street outside. There were three cars parked by the garden wall. I got into the Alfa-Romeo as he had bidden me. I sat there, smoking a cigarette, and later watched the Rizzios depart, then the Fossis, and others that I had not met. Aldo came last. He got into the car without saying a word and slammed the do
or. We drove away. Not to his own house, but downhill and so out of the city by the Porta Malebranche. Still he said nothing, and it was not until Ruffano lay behind us, and he had driven the car into the hills, that he pulled up suddenly, switched off the engine, and turned and looked at me.

  10

  His eyes never left my face. It was the old inspection I remembered. He used to do this when he took me out, to see if my hair was brushed, my shoes were clean. Sometimes he sent me back to change my shirt.

  “I always said you wouldn’t grow,” he said.

  “I’m five foot five,” I told him.

  “As much as that? I don’t believe it.”

  He gave me a cigarette and lit it for me. His hands were steady, mine were not.

  “Your curls have gone. I’d have known you otherwise,” he said.

  He tugged at my hair, a savage gesture that invariably hurt me in old days. It hurt me still. I shook my head.

  “It was the Frankfurt barber,” I said. “He started the rot, and it grew straight ever after. I wanted to look like the brigadier, and succeeded for a time.”

  “The brigadier?”

  “A Yankee. We lived with him two years.”

  “I thought it was a German.”

  “The German came first. He only lasted six months after we left Ruffano.”

  I unwound the car window and looked out at the blue hump of the mountain that lay ahead. It was Monte Cappello. We could see it from the house at home.

  “Is she alive?” he asked.

  “No. She died three years ago of cancer.”

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  A bird, a hawk of some sort, came into my line of vision and poised, hovering, against the skyline. I thought he was going to dive but he soared higher, in a widening circle, and hovered once again.

  “What set it off?” said Aldo.

  He might have meant, how did the disease take her, but knowing my brother I understood him to be referring back to ’44.

  “I’ve often wondered,” I said. “I don’t think it was father’s death or the news of yours. She accepted both as fate like anyone else. Perhaps she was lonely. Perhaps she just liked men.”