by Rhys Bowen
“You come for meeting?” he asked. “Grand Hotel?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “I come to see a friend.”
“Ah.” He nodded.
“What meeting is this?” I asked.
“Big meeting.” He waved his arms expansively. “Important conference for Italy, England, France. Many important peoples coming to Stresa. Hotels full. That is good, eh?”
It appeared the taxis were all busy running around the important peoples. At last an ancient vehicle was found, with an equally ancient cabdriver. I showed him the address. He nodded and we set off, down to the lake and past several splendid hotels and villas. It seemed that Stresa was not the little out-of-the-way town I had pictured, but a sophisticated resort and the home of rich people. Belinda’s village was a mile or so out of town. At first we drove with the lake to our left. On the other side of us was a high stone wall and then we came to imposing ironwork gates. “Villa Fiori.” The taxi driver waved his hand, pointing at it. They were the only words he had spoken.
I tried to peer up the raked gravel drive as we drove past and got a brief glimpse of a lemon yellow palacelike structure. So this was Villa Fiori, where Miss Cami-Knickers was now the Countess of Martini. She hadn’t done badly for herself, I thought. Immediately after the villa the road left the lakeshore and wound up the mountainside. We came to a small village, not much more than a row of houses, clinging to the hillside, and in the middle a square built around a church. “San Fidele,” said the taxi driver. Quite close to Villa Fiori, I thought. I wondered whether Belinda had run into her former nemesis. What a shock that would have been! The taxicab now turned off and bumped down a narrow cobbled lane, coming to a halt outside a small pink house that overlooked the lake. I got out and paid him what seemed like a ridiculously large sum, until I remembered that I was dealing with lire. When I converted, it turned out to be quite modest.
“Va bene? Is good?” he asked me. I nodded and he backed up the alleyway while I went up to the front door. It was by now nine thirty. Belinda had always liked to sleep in. I hoped she wouldn’t be too angry at being awoken as I rapped on the front door. I waited. Nothing happened. I rapped again and called, “Belinda, it’s me. Georgie.”
Again nothing. The shutters were closed, there was a high hedge on either side and I had no way of getting around to the back of the house to see if she was enjoying that terrace with the orange tree.
“Belinda. Yoo-hoo!” I resorted to shouting, which would definitely have been frowned upon at home. I stood there in the street, not knowing what to do next. Either she was sleeping very soundly or she wasn’t home. This was most annoying. After not sleeping all night my eyes were prickly and I wanted to sit and rest and eat a good breakfast. Where could she be, I wondered. I realized now my folly at not writing to let her know I was coming. What if she had gone to visit friends for a week or even longer? The baby surely wasn’t due until the end of April at the earliest. Then I remembered Francesca, the local woman who took such good care of her. Francesca would know where she was. I tucked my luggage behind one of the potted shrubs that stood on each side of the front door and set off into the center of the village.
I walked back into the tiny square outside the church and saw a group of women standing together outside the baker’s shop. I went up to them and asked if they knew Francesca. Well, to be more accurate I think I said, “Do you speak English? I’m looking for Francesca, Francesca who works for the English lady.”
They frowned and looked puzzled. “Francesca?” I said again. “Signorina inglese?” And I pointed down the street toward Belinda’s house. Recognition dawned.
“Ah. Francesca.” Smiles now, but they were shaking their heads and saying lots of nos.
In the way of people who don’t speak each other’s language they were shouting, speaking slowly and waving their arms a lot, but I still couldn’t understand why they couldn’t tell me where Francesca was. Finally, one of them raised a finger to show a brilliant thought. “Giovanna!” she said.
“Ah, sì. Giovanna,” the others echoed.
One of them took off, hurrying across the square. The others looked at me, nodding and smiling as if I’d be pleased with whatever or whoever Giovanna was. It seemed as if we waited a long time. The morning sun shone down on my too-thick overcoat and I wished I’d taken it off before I went searching. Pigeons flapped around and cooed from tiled rooftops. From down below came the sound of a bell tolling on a distant church. The delicious scent of baking bread wafted out from the bakery, reminding me how little I had eaten today. Then we heard running feet and the woman returned, this time with a small girl.
“Giovanna,” said the woman, looking like a conjurer who has produced a rabbit from a hat.
The girl smiled shyly. “Buongiorno,” she said.
“Nipotina di Francesca,” the women said in chorus. “Parla inglese.”
“I learn Ingleesh in scuola,” Giovanna said.
“Oh, wonderful,” I said. “And you are Francesca’s daughter?”
“She my grandmozzer,” said the girl. “She not here. She go to my . . .” She frowned while she tried to come up with the word. “Sister of my mozzer. She have bambino. Capisce?”
I tried to put together what she was saying. The other women joined in, pantomiming a large pregnant belly and then rocking a baby. “Francesca has gone to see her daughter who is having a baby?”
The girl beamed at me. “Sì,” she said.
“But what happened to the English lady? Where has she gone?”
Again the little girl frowned. “Ingleesh lady go clinica.” She paused. “Clinica. Svizzera.”
Neither word meant anything to me. She repeated them. Light began to dawn. “She went to a clinic?”
Everyone nodded now, all of them quite aware of what had happened to the village’s celebrity resident.
“Svizzera,” they said in unison, pointing out across the lake.
“In Switzerland?” I asked.
The little girl nodded.
“Do you have the address of the clinic?” I asked. “Does anyone have the address?”
She shook her head. They all shook their heads.
“Did Francesca have the address? Could we telephone Francesca?” I was still gesturing and waving my arms a lot.
More head shaking.
I stood there while they stared at me, trying to decide what to do next. From what I understood Belinda had gone to a clinic in Switzerland. Francesca was away taking care of her daughter who was having a baby in another part of Italy and nobody knew the address where Belinda had gone.
“Does anyone have the key to the English lady’s house?” I asked, miming entering a house with a key. I was sure Belinda wouldn’t mind my staying there. But again I was met with blank looks. So what on earth did I do now? I didn’t know how long post from England would take to reach Italy, where I was sure the system was not as efficient as ours. So it was possible the letter from the queen would not have reached Villa Fiori yet, even if she had written immediately. I simply couldn’t present myself at the doorstep there, days before a house party. It simply wasn’t done!
I could go back into Stresa and try to find a room, but I had just been told the hotels were full because of the big conference. And through these concerns for myself came the worry for Belinda. Her baby wasn’t due for several weeks yet. So why had she gone into a clinic so early? Had there been some awful complication? If so she’d be alone and scared and I should try to find her first.
I looked around the women, who were still waiting expectantly. “Is there a hotel in the village?” I asked Giovanna. She shook her head.
“A room where I could stay for a few days until I find the English lady?”
She relayed this information to the crowd. There was much discussion, then they grabbed my arms and propelled me across the square, down a narrow al
ley street and in through the door of what looked and smelled like a rather disreputable bar. A loud conversation ensued with the bar owner, an old man with wisps of white hair and stubble who looked as disreputable as his establishment. I noticed the child was no longer with us and Italian was shouted at me with much gesturing. Then I was propelled again up a steep flight of stairs to a dismal little room over the front entrance. Okay, so if this was the only room in town I was definitely going back to Stresa. Surely there must be a small pension with rooms available there.
“Va bene?” they asked, waving arms at me.
I gave a weak smile. In truth I felt close to tears. As they descended the stairs, pleased at having accomplished this miracle, the old man sat on the bed and patted it with what looked a lot like a leer to me. “Bene,” he said. Oh golly. I had no way of communicating to them that I’d like someone to fetch my luggage. Not for the first time did I regret traveling without a maid. It had all seemed so simple in London. One took a train. One arrived. Journey complete. I hadn’t bargained on complications like this. I decided to leave my bags where they were for now and get myself back into Stresa. There must be a better room than this available in the town.
I asked about a taxi. No taxi. Stresa? A bus? Domani, they said. Tomorrow. How did one get into Stresa? They looked astonished. It was only two kilometers, they told me, as if this walk was nothing at all. It would be nothing, but not with a heavy suitcase. So I trusted my bags to providence, hidden behind the shrub, took off my overcoat and set off down the hill, then along the road that skirted the lake. In truth it was a perfect day for walking. Ferry boats sailed across blue waters. Swallows darted, birds sang, jasmine and bougainvillea spilled over walls. I would have enjoyed it had I not been so tired, so warm and so frustrated.
As I passed the gates to Villa Fiori I peered up the driveway, but there was no sign of life. My feet began to lag and I realized I had only had a coffee and roll to sustain me after a sleepless night. I could not have been more relieved when the first houses came into sight and I walked into the town center. There were several small hotels in the streets behind the ferry terminal and I asked about a room. It appeared they were all full for the next couple of days, but then the conference would be over and they would have room for me. I gave up and collapsed at an outdoor café in the small town square. It was a pleasant little area, shaded by ancient sycamore trees, now just coming into full leaf. It wasn’t yet time for lunch so I ordered a coffee and a rather sinful-looking pastry. As I was trying not to eat too greedily I heard a laugh that I recognized and I looked up to see the last person I expected to meet. A small dainty person with platinum blond curls poking out from beneath a scarlet pill-box hat. She was wearing scarlet linen trousers and a royal blue jacket. Nobody could have gotten away with this attire but my mother.
• • •
NORMALLY I WOULDN’T have been overjoyed to see her. She was the most self-centered person in the world and had paid no attention to her only daughter since she abandoned me at the age of two. But today she looked to me like an angel descending from heaven.
“Mummy!” I exclaimed, standing up so quickly that my chair almost fell over.
She stopped. Those famous large eyes opened in amazement. “Georgie! What on earth are you doing here?”
I remembered then my mother knew about Belinda’s predicament. In fact, I had asked her if Belinda could stay at her villa, but received no reply. Luckily Belinda had inherited money and didn’t need my mother’s help after all. “I came to be with Belinda in her hour of need,” I said.
“Oh, she came to this area after all, did she?” Mummy asked, pulling up a chair beside me.
“She came into some money,” I said. “Which was lucky when you didn’t reply to my letter. You did get it, didn’t you?”
“Of course, darling, and I would have said yes in a heartbeat, but it was Max, you know. He didn’t want to be associated with scandal and rumors. People might have whispered that the child was his.”
I nodded. “Oh yes, of course. I see that now.”
“But all is well if she’s come into money and found her own place here, isn’t it?” She snapped her fingers. A waiter appeared at a run. “Cappuccino e biscotti,” she said, turning back to me. “And you came to be with her. How sweet of you.”
“That was the idea,” I said, “but it seems she has already gone off to a clinic in Switzerland.”
“Oh dear. The baby’s not due yet, is it? Complications, I suppose.”
“The problem is that I’ve no idea which clinic or where in Switzerland.”
“It will probably be at the top of the lake, the Swiss end, around Locarno or Ascona,” she said. “There are several good clinics there.”
Locarno. That rang a bell.
“Is that where your villa is?” I asked.
“No, darling. We’re on Lake Lugano. Not Locarno. Thirty miles away.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Max is attending a meeting and then we’re going to stay with friends for a few days,” she said. “We’ve been in Berlin for most of the winter and it’s been so cold and dreary that I jumped at the chance of coming south and warming up. One does so miss the sunshine.”
I realized she sounded just like Fig.
“Oh, I heard there was a big international meeting going on here,” I said. “Is Max part of that?”
She looked amused. “Oh gosh, no. The international meeting is a high-level conference between England, France and Italy to discuss the Nazi threat. Max would certainly not be welcome.” And she laughed.
“He’s not a Nazi, is he?” I asked.
“Of course not, darling, but he knows how to play his cards right. One has to pretend to agree with these people if one wants to get lucrative arms contracts. Between you and me, Max is raking in the money these days.”
“And you, how do you feel about living in a Germany run by that awful Hitler?”
“Darling, I stay well away from politics. And I have to tell you it’s a very good life in Berlin. The best of everything and such jolly parties.”
Her coffee and biscotti arrived. She dunked one and nibbled on it.
“This is rather nice, isn’t it?” she said. “So go up the lake to Locarno and they’ll find out which clinic for you. They are so civilized in Switzerland, which is why we have a villa there and not here. And of course, for the Swiss bank account.” She grinned over her cappuccino.
I was trying to find a way to tell her about my current predicament without sounding pathetic when she looked up and put down her cup so forcefully that the coffee slopped onto the table. “What’s he doing here?” she asked in a shocked voice.
I turned to follow her gaze. A group of tourists had just come into the square—a coach party, maybe, or from a ferry that had just arrived. Suddenly there was noise and activity all around us.
“Who?” I asked, peering through the crowd.
She got to her feet, clearly agitated. “The last person in the world I wanted to see.”
She darted between the umbrellas and tables, then vanished down the nearest alleyway.
Chapter 8
TUESDAY, APRIL 16
All alone and nowhere to go. Not sure what to do next. And now my mother has run off before I could ask if I could stay with her. Chin up, Georgie. You can handle this.
I finished my coffee and pastry, and waited for her return, but she didn’t come back. The waiter presented the bill.
“The signora is gone?” he asked, looking at the hardly touched coffee.
“It appears so,” I replied. I drank her coffee and ate her biscotti since I would now be paying for them. I was intrigued to know who might have upset her like that. A reporter, maybe? But usually she craved publicity and adored being followed by reporters. Perhaps all that had changed since she became engaged to Max. Perhaps he was the pos
sessive type and didn’t approve of her picture appearing in newspapers and magazines. A detective, then? But again, she had been the model of propriety recently. The newly arrived travelers had now all gone and the square was quiet again. And as usual my mother had vanished before she could be of any help to her daughter. So typical of her! I supposed I could find out quite easily which hotel in Stresa she was staying at. It would be one of those grand palaces on the lakeshore, obviously, but I could hardly ask to stay in her suite. And at least I now had some idea how to find Belinda. I paid my bill and asked a couple of English ladies, sitting at a nearby table, how one traveled to the Swiss part of the lake. Was it better to take a train or a boat?
“Oh, goodness me,” one of them said. “One can reach Locarno by train but it’s most inconvenient and quite alarming. One has to change in Domodossola and then take the little train through the mountains. We did it once, didn’t we, Dolly? And we swore never again.”
The other woman nodded agreement. “No, the ferry is the only way to travel. So much more pleasant, even if it does take a long time.”
“How long is it?”
They looked at each other, conferring. “About three hours, wouldn’t you say, Dolly?”
I had no idea the lake was so big. But then I reminded myself it was called Lago Maggiore (the major lake). So I walked across to the ferry terminal and found a boat would sail at eleven. It was indeed a lovely trip all the way up the lake, calling at small towns nestled beneath green mountain slopes. Occasionally one caught glimpses of high snow-clad peaks beyond. I would almost allow myself to relax and enjoy the view, until the worry crept in again. What if I didn’t find her? I certainly couldn’t go back to that awful room above the bar. I supposed as a very last resort I could locate Mummy and appeal to her, but I hated to do that.