Floriana ran down the hill, tears tumbling over her cheeks, a sob caught in her chest. It was only when she reached the beach that she let it out with a loud wail. She sat on the sand and hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. How could it be that she hadn’t been sent an invitation? She thought Signora Bonfanti liked her, but she was just like the countess after all, dismissing her like a stray dog. She took a deep breath and gazed out over the sea. Somewhere, in the mist where the water met the sky, was Heaven. It was there that Jesus lived, in a palace of marble, too far away to hear her prayers.
Suddenly, a cold, wet nose pressed itself under her elbow. It was Good-Night. With a rush of affection she wrapped her arms around him and cried into his fur. He seemed to understand and leaned against her, sniffing her skin with his prickly muzzle. After a while she felt a little better. With Good-Night to give her strength she realized that it didn’t really matter whether or not she went to the party. It was, after all, only one night. Dante would be down for the whole summer. She’d have ample opportunity to see him. And anyway, he’d probably be so busy talking to all his parents’ friends that he wouldn’t have time to talk to her.
“I’m still going to marry him,” she told Good-Night, drying her face on his ear. “Then I’ll officially be your mother.”
The countess ran herself a bath. Graziella had closed the shutters and drawn the curtains. She undressed and slipped into a silk dressing gown. It was old and a little stained on one sleeve, but she didn’t have the money to buy another one. She couldn’t afford that sort of extravagance. But, if she was cunning, Costanza would marry well and she’d be able to afford the very best of everything again.
She looked around her bedroom, at the peeling plaster, the watermark in one corner where the rain had come in through a broken tile, the general shabbiness of the place. If she started to renovate the villa, she’d never stop. It needed so much work. Her husband was making money, but not enough to restore them to their former glory. At least they still had the appearance of grandeur—and their illustrious name.
She walked over to her chest of drawers. It was an antique, bought in Paris in the early days of their marriage, placed in the master bedroom in their palazzo in Rome. She sighed as she remembered the palazzo in Via del Corso. What a prestigious house that had been and how very fitting to live there. It grieved her greatly to recall the week they had packed up and left. Dark, dark days indeed. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a stiff white envelope. The words had been written in the finest calligraphy: “Signorina Floriana.”
She didn’t feel bad. It was the right thing to do. When Signora Bonfanti had given it to her to pass on to Floriana, the countess had seized her opportunity. It was for the best. Why give the girl a taste of a world she was never going to be able to live in? Surely that was crueler? It would only raise her expectations. She replaced the invitation and closed the drawer. It was for the child’s own good.
22.
The day of the party dawned. A perfect June morning to herald the return from America of Beppe’s only son and heir, who had graduated from one of the finest universities in the world, studied for a master’s degree, and then learned the ropes of business with associates of his father’s based in Chicago. The sky dazzled a sapphire blue, and the sun poured her golden light over the magnificent yellow villa, where an efficient army of staff bustled about importantly, putting the finishing touches to the preparations.
A midnight-blue canopy had been constructed at the end of the formal garden behind the villa, where two hundred guests would sit down to eat, listen to speeches, and dance until sunrise. It was designed to light up after dark with a thousand twinkling stars. Inside, the tables were draped in deep blue cloths with antique silver cutlery and crystal glasses brought up from the cellars beneath the house. Extravagant displays of rare blue orchids were placed in the center of each table in case anyone was in any doubt about the wealth and prestige of Beppe Bonfanti.
Outside, gardeners clipped the topiary and combed the borders for weeds that might have been overlooked. The stone steps descending from the villa were swept for the final time and lined with tea lights in midnight-blue tumblers. The effect was ravishing. Signora Bonfanti gave the garden one final touch of magic by placing the peacock beside the fountain, hoping that once guests arrived, he might open his tail and dazzle everyone with his beauty.
Floriana lay in bed, hiding her face beneath the sheet. As much as she had tried to convince herself that she didn’t care whether or not she went to the party, she still wanted it all to be over and her disappointment to be gone. Her father slept on in the room next door, having drunk too much the previous night. She could smell the alcohol through the wall.
He was completely useless now, so crippled by his addiction that even the count had stopped employing him. If it wasn’t for Aunt Zita and the money she reluctantly gave them from time to time, they would be forced to beg for help. Floriana managed to work here and there, helping in the kitchens of the restaurants on Piazza Laconda after school. Everyone knew her situation and was eager to help. Only her father, Elio, seemed not to want to help at all and took her money without a word of thanks, as if it were his due.
But Floriana knew she couldn’t stay in bed all day. That was defeatist, and one thing she wasn’t was defeatist. She washed and dressed, slipping into a simple cotton dress and tying her hair back with a band. Signora Bruno was outside in the courtyard, arguing with one of the other residents about the overwatering of his geraniums. When she saw Floriana’s dejected expression, she waved him away and shuffled over to meet her.
“What’s that face for?”
“It’s the party tonight,” Floriana said, slowly descending the staircase. She didn’t need to say more, Signora Bruno had been there to comfort her after the countess had told her she wasn’t invited.
The old woman put a sturdy hand in the small of her back and gave it a firm rub; everything ached nowadays. “Curse the lot of them,” she scowled. “You’re too good for them.”
“They don’t think so.”
“They don’t know.”
“I wonder if Dante even remembers me.”
“Of course he does, amore. You’re a young lady now, and so pretty he won’t believe his eyes when he sees you.”
“I love him more each day,” she said, and her gloom lifted at the thought of his smile and the tender way he looked at her. “One day, I’m going to marry him and have a big party.” She grinned mischievously. “I’ll invite the countess, though.”
“Now, why would you do that?”
“To see her face and watch her squirm as I walk down that beautiful stone staircase in a flowing white dress.”
“You’d better get on with it, then, for I want to be there at the bottom to watch you.”
“Of course you’ll be there, Signora Bruno. It wouldn’t be a party without you.”
Signora Bruno chuckled. “Don’t leave it too long, I’m wearing thin.”
“Not thin, signora,” Floriana teased.
“Well, not thin, no—but I’m wearing out.”
“I won’t tell Elio, though.”
“Wouldn’t he give you away?”
She looked at Signora Bruno solemnly. “I have to belong to him first for him to give me away.”
“Oh, Floriana.”
“I don’t belong to anyone but Dante.”
“I hope he’s deserving of you.”
“We deserve each other, Signora Bruno.”
“So, what are you going to do today?”
“I’m going to pretend it’s any other day. I’m going to go to Mass and light my candle, just in case Jesus has decided to tune in. Then I’m going to spend the day with Aunt Zita at the laundry.”
“Really, that ludicrous woman. She’s only ever done the minimum for you. She should be ashamed of herself.” Signora Bruno had no patience for Zita.
“The busier I am, the faster the day will go.”
“You’re not going to spy on that wall, then?”
“No.”
“Or go and see the little princess?”
“Costanza? No. I couldn’t bear to watch her in those beautiful diamonds.”
The day passed slowly. Floriana knew that Dante must be home because Good-Night did not come to find her. She missed his eager face and gentle presence, but she was pleased he was with his master and excited at the thought that soon she would be with him, too. She spent the day with Aunt Zita, who knew nothing of the party or her niece’s love for Dante, and twittered on about the hopeless Elio and his lack of responsibility. Then Floriana wandered down to the beach to watch the sunset.
* * *
Costanza dressed alone in her bedroom. Graziella had let out her frock and it now fitted her perfectly. She still looked fat, but her breasts distracted from her convex waist and wide hips. Her mother had lent her a diamond necklace with matching bracelet and earrings worthy of royalty. She felt every inch a princess. However, alone in her room her thrill was dampened by the thought of Floriana. It would have been much more fun dressing together, sharing makeup and jewelry.
It seemed inconceivable that Signora Bonfanti would have forgotten to invite Floriana. But when Costanza thought about it long and hard, she remembered how Signor Beppe had ignored her, treating her with no more courtesy than the stray animals that wandered around the gardens. Perhaps she had been nothing more than a pet for Dante’s mother, too—someone she could use for company and entertainment, but not for public display. Her mother was right: Floriana really wasn’t accepted in their world. Once that thought would have afforded her pleasure, but now she felt only compassion and an unfamiliar sense of guilt.
The countess was thrilled by her daughter’s appearance. The diamonds were impressive, and the dress no longer pulled around the waist and hips. She’d have to supervise her diet in future. She was getting too grown up now to get away with being fat.
The count returned from work. He showered and dressed, then the three of them departed for La Magdalena in a car driven by one of the boys from the office.
They approached the big, black gates of the villa behind a line of other grand cars: Alfa Romeos and Savoy-blue Lancias. Security guards stopped each driver, requesting to see both invitation and identification. One could never be too sure and Beppe Bonfanti was a man of caution when it came to his personal safety. The air was charged with anticipation and Costanza gazed out of the window excitedly. The countess commented on the magnificence of the drive lined with blazing flares, and the splendor of the yellow mansion at the end, and secretly envisaged her daughter residing there as mistress of it all.
They were dropped off at the front and taken through the marble hall and drawing room to the terrace where Beppe and his wife stood side by side greeting each guest. They took their places in the queue, their eyes drawn to the garden below with its flamboyant fountain and beyond, where the canopy stood ready for the banquet. Costanza recognized Michelangelo the peacock, wandering around aimlessly, dragging his tail on the ground, and felt her stomach churn with nerves because she didn’t have Floriana to hide behind.
“Violetta,” gushed the countess at last.
Violetta Bonfanti took her hand and smiled serenely. “It’s so lovely to see you.”
“What a beautiful tent.”
“Yes, it’s like a fairy tale. Costanza, my dear,” and she took the girl’s hand and smiled in the same distracted manner.
Beppe shook the count’s hand vigorously. “No expense spared for my son,” he said, puffing out his chest, keen to show off his wealth to the aristocrat.
“I can see,” replied the count, finding it all highly ostentatious. “It’s magnificent.”
Beppe turned his eyes onto Costanza. “You look radiant, my dear.”
“Thank you, Signor Bonfanti,” she replied timidly.
He chuckled. “I think you know me well enough now to call me Beppe. I’m Beppe to my friends, no?”
The Aldorisios descended the sweeping staircase into the garden. The place was filling up with people, saturating the air with perfume and cigarette smoke. A quartet played classical music, and guests greeted each other and talked, sipping pink Dom Perignon out of tall, crystal flutes.
Costanza was relieved when Giovanna found her, and they fell on each other with excitement. Giovanna was a young woman now, being almost eighteen. Her curvaceous body glittered in a green Dior gown, and her neck sparkled with emeralds.
“I have so much to tell you,” she said, pulling Costanza away by the hand. “Come, let’s go somewhere quiet where we can talk.”
The countess swelled with pride as she watched the two girls weave through the throng, hand in hand. This is what she had always wanted. She sighed happily and surveyed the glamour of her surroundings. This was where she belonged, among people of her own sort. Although the Bonfantis and some of their friends were rather vulgar, their wealth excused any lack of good taste. And there were enough aristocrats present for her to feel she was in the right company. She smiled contentedly and sipped her champagne. It was as if she had come home after a long exile.
“Shall we plunge in?” she asked her husband.
“I think that’s a very good idea,” he agreed, giving her his arm. “Ah, isn’t that Conte Edmondo di Montezzemolo …?”
At last the guests were silenced. Beppe took his position at the top of the stone staircase. He smiled on the garden below like an emperor greeting his people. Then he held out his arms and in a very loud voice announced the arrival of his son. “My friends, it gives me great pleasure to present to you my son, Dante Alberto Massimo Bonfanti, graduated with honors from Harvard, America’s finest university.”
There was a round of applause, and Dante stepped out of the villa to embrace his father. Beppe patted him heartily, then kissed him on both cheeks. “My son!” he bellowed, and the two men stood together, with their arms around each other, waving at their audience.
Floriana wandered down the beach, shoes in hand, feet in the water. She imagined Costanza at the party and gave in to a wave of resentment. How unfair that she was excluded just because she didn’t have rich parents, or a grand title. Why couldn’t a person be judged on what was on the inside? Why did it matter so much where she came from? Weren’t they all God’s children, equal in His eyes? Didn’t she have just as much right to live and love as anyone? She watched the sun melt into the sea and turn it orange. The beauty was overwhelming and she stood in awe, watching the light fade to make way for the first star. Beneath so vast a sky she felt very small, and yet, weren’t they all small when viewed from God’s great height? Titles and wealth seemed so unimportant compared with the natural riches of God’s creation. What mattered was the heart, for surely that was the only thing she’d take with her when she died.
As the day evaporated she felt her determination mount. It was up to her to shape her own destiny, rather than allowing others to decide what shape it should be. With her resolve renewed, she put on her sandals and strode back up the beach.
Dante made his way through the crowd of guests, shaking hands with the men, standing firm as they patted him robustly on the back, and bending down to kiss the women. He enchanted them with his natural charm and wit. He had grown into a strikingly handsome young man. With his shoulders back, his head held high, his pale gaze clear and steady, he looked every inch a crown prince. Yet, there was no trace of arrogance in his expression. A sardonic amusement, perhaps, in the curl of his lips, as if he thought the whole event slightly farcical, but he was too polite and aware of the trouble his mother had taken to let it show.
Five years in America had taught him a great deal about the world, but also about himself. He was smart, quick to learn, and made friends easily. Girls fancied him—but he found to his cost that as simple as it was to get attached, getting unattached was a painful and complex operation. So, he had enjoyed countless flings where there was no danger of commitment. There had been enough wom
en on campus who simply wanted to bed him, so he’d taken his pleasure, then moved on to the next.
He’d hung out with a group of boys who enjoyed sport like he did, learning American football and baseball, as well as excelling on the tennis and squash courts. He’d relished the novelty of living in another country. However, there was a part of him that had always been dissatisfied. An anxiety, like homesickness, that caught him when he was most vulnerable, like on waking in the morning, or sometimes when he was alone and pensive. As much as he tried, he couldn’t identify it. He knew for certain it had nothing to do with his parents, and he didn’t miss his home. But when his mind wandered to La Magdalena, he had suffered an aching sense of loss. Now he was there, he wondered whether that feeling would creep over him again, or whether his soul was finally satisfied.
Dinner was served beneath the canopy of stars. Dante sat beside two young women who flirted and twittered like a pair of pretty budgerigars. The countess noticed that Costanza was at a table at the other end of the room from Dante, with a group of youngsters her own age. She resolved to draw her to his attention after dinner. Her placement, however, pleased her very much, for she was on the next-door table to Beppe, with his cousin on one side and a very close family friend on the other. She sipped her wine and savored the moment, feeling a warm sense of belonging.
After dinner Beppe gave a long and pompous speech, another sign of his lack of respectability, the countess thought smugly. Not that it mattered. The guests laughed at his jokes and clapped loudly when he had finished. Wealth glossed over his flaws as surely as her mother-in-law’s diamonds glossed over the Aldorisios’. Glasses were raised, toasts were given, Dante stood up and gave a witty, self-deprecating speech, which made everyone love him more. The girls secretly hoped to win him, the mothers planned their strategies like colonels.
Costanza thought of Floriana and her impossible dream. If she could see him now, she would realize how ridiculous she was to harbor hopes of capturing his heart. A man like Dante would never notice a local girl like her.
The Mermaid Garden Page 27