Later on, at four in the morning, Orsina called him back. She had no time to listen to his decipherment but, in a voice so low he could hardly hear, said: “I’m happy to hear of it, but please don’t call me again. Nigel doesn’t understand these things, and it’d worry him. In fact, he knows very little about the forbidden book, doesn’t have a clue. When Uncle gave it to me at our wedding, he thought it was just another family quirk. Anyway, I promise I’ll call you regularly, at about this time. Goodnight.”
“Oh well, that settles it,” Leo said to himself, deeply embarassed, after he had hung up. “I’ll just have to wait.”
On the day of the party, a crew came to hang Chinese lanterns on the branches of the great plane tree in the garden, and from the cornices of the ballroom. The guests started to arrive at sundown: the language school contingent by vaporetto; the imported males, many of whom had brought their own partners, by water taxi or in their private gondolas. Angela had talked Orsina into hiring a band well known to the villa-hopping set, three unwashed and half-starved kids from Vermont. They had come on a no-budget tour of Europe, and somehow lucked out with the private summer parties in the north of Italy. The band was already playing from its station in the stairwell. “We can hear them quite well from there,” said Nigel. “It’s quite enough without having to look at them as well.”
Rupert MacPherson had come by train. He had visited the palace only once before, for his father’s wedding. The fifteen-year-old Angela had made a deep impression on him when he was seventeen, and he looked forward to seeing what two years had done to her.
Nigel and Orsina greeted him. “Great to see you!” said his father affectionately. “How was the journey? Good. Get yourself a drink. Angela’s around somewhere.” Rupert felt isolated in a crowd of total strangers. It seemed that everyone was evaluating his Swiss haircut, his glasses, and his conventional tuxedo.
“God, they’re a decadent-looking lot,” he thought as he passed the long sofas of the portego. “They dress like the models in fashion magazines, and every single one is smoking.” The American and Japanese students, ignored by the Italians, formed separate clusters. He comforted himself with the thought, “I bet they wouldn’t survive half an hour in Business School Lausanne.”
Rupert found Angela in the private salone. She was slouched on a sofa, dressed—barely—in a short strapless dress with a vivid cubist print, chunky modernist jewelry at ears, neck, and wrists. On her left was a young man sporting designer stubble on his macho jaws; on her right, a lanky aesthete in a black silk shirt. She was turning first to one, then to the other, giving them long and passionate kisses. Rupert was appalled. He would have sneaked away, but she noticed him and cried out: “Rupert! Is that you? Wow, you’ve grown! Come over here and join the party!”
He crossed the room, hesitantly.
“Augusto,” she said, turning to the aesthete. “This is Rupert, my sister’s husband’s son. Gherardo,” turning to the other, “Rupert.” The young men exchanged an uninterested glance, then lit cigarettes. Rupert noticed how fashionable and sleek they were in their nonchalant way. His outstretched hand lingered for a while, untouched. Every small incident so far had contributed to embarrass him a little more. Angela must have noticed, because she said: “What now? Why are you blushing? Rupert: are you still a virgin?”
Not even at his cruel English boarding school had Rupert been so humiliated. “No, of course I’m not!” he blustered.
Angela burst into laughter, and so did Gherardo and Augusto, while Rupert’s face grew as red as a ripe tomato.
“Perhaps he prefers the English vice,” said Gherardo in Italian. She ignored the sneer and said: “Come with me, Rupert. Let’s see what we can do about that. We may find just the right girl for you. Ciao, you two. Have fun.” Without a further glance at her two beaux, she jumped up and led Rupert from the room.
She remembered him as a good-looking older boy, well-mannered but awkward; now his frame had broadened to match his height. She had led him away on a whim, but there was something disarming about his innocence. She felt no urge to mock him as they walked around the great palace, exchanging comments on Venice, the guests, his father and her sister.
After a while, Angela suggested that they find something to eat. Rupert was so flattered that she had decided to latch onto him, so entranced by her looks, her poise, her perfume, that he mentally forgave her. They filled their plates and went to sit in a quiet corner.
“I hear you’re going to Bristol.”
“Yes. Some kids have gone there from the English School in Padua—that’s where I’ve been. But I don’t know what to expect.”
“It’s better than Oxford or Cambridge socially, and just as good academically. I went straight from school to the Business School Lausanne, but I know a lot of chaps who went to Bristol. You do speak awfully good English. What are you going to read?”
“Philosophy, Politics and Economics.” She spoke, astonishingly, like a schoolgirl rather than the frivolous young socialite he knew. “Three pretty boring subjects. But my teachers say I’ll do all right.”
“Of course you will,” said Rupert, adding mentally, The men will be all over you. “I suppose you’ll come back to Italy for the holidays?”
“Yes, this is my home. Not so much this place as the Villa Riviera.”
“Dad’s told me that’s a beautiful place. I hope he’ll invite me there some time, though I gather it belongs to your uncle.”
“What has your dad told you about Uncle Emanuele?”
Rupert hesitated, then said weakly: “That he’s a true aristocrat.”
“I bet he said more than that. But I won’t ask. Emanuele doesn’t care whether people like him or not. I like your father, but they don’t have much in common.”
“That’s for sure.”
“We’ve both got odd situations, haven’t we? I’m an orphan, and your parents are divorced. Where’s your real home?”
“At the moment, it’s Lausanne, and when I graduate it’ll be wherever I get a job. Probably in the States. My mother’s moved to Scotland and remarried. Dad lives in three places at once, as you know.”
Angela was silent for a moment. “I wish you were going to be in England. We could see each other.”
“Bristol’s not far from London. You can come up on weekends and stay at Dad’s flat in Kensington. I could fly over for some weekends and meet you there.”
“Yes, I’d like that. And maybe I’ll stay in England. I’m sick of … this life.” She paused, then jumped up. “Let me show you the palace. We still need to find you an alcove, you know, for your first experience.” She smiled mischievously. “And there’s rooms I’ve never been in.”
By now Rupert would have followed her to the ends of the earth. She led him down the service stair to the androne. With a nod to Bhaskar, still on sentry duty, she took a flashlight from a shelf and opened one of the doors. “At high water, this whole place is flooded,” she explained, “so the rooms are almost useless. They’ve mostly been sealed off, but you can go in some of them. This used to be the kitchen.”
They entered a vaulted chamber with enormous fireplaces at either end. One of them still held an array of rusty spits, wheels, and complicated ironmongery. A massive oak table stood to one side, its surface deeply concave from centuries of chopping. “They used to roast whole oxen here.”
Angela unbolted another door, which led to a complex of storage rooms filled with empty tubs, bins, and barrels. When they reached the last one, Angela pointed the light at the corner, where an enormous barrel stood. “Look at this! A servant once showed me: it’s a fake barrel. You can swing these—whatever they’re called—open and get inside. The servant wouldn’t let me go any further. He said the ceiling might collapse on top of me, or something like that. But there’s supposed to be a passage leading to the garden at the back, and a whole lot of rooms.”
“I’m game to try it,” said Rupert, coming off a bit pompous. “If only he cracked som
e jokes,” Angela thought as he swung the staves outwards, courteously held them open for her, then joined her in the narrow space. They could see that it led to a passage in the thickness of the outside wall. After several yards it turned abruptly to the left and passed a massive iron door, then the brick floor turned to dirt. Angela stopped. “Look,” she said, “someone else has been here. There are footprints.”
After another turn, she stopped again. “We must be under the garden by now.” The passage opened into a broad cellar, vaulted in stone. Broken barrels and other debris cluttered the floor, but that was not what caught their eyes. As Rupert swept the light around, it revealed something horrifying.
Angela squealed, and turned to him clutching his arms. For a few seconds he felt acute terror, till his brain circuits clicked, and he saw not the tentacles of a giant octopus, but the roots of a tremendous tree. They entered from the ceiling, spread in all directions, and plunged down through the floor like the columns of a grotesque cathedral crypt.
“The roots must come from the big tree behind the palace.” said Rupert with awe. “Dad told me it’s the oldest tree in Venice.” He walked up to it, trying to see what lay beyond.
“Enough!” said Angela, still frightened. “I want to go back.” She took Rupert’s hand again as he turned back to reenter the passage, but when he reached the studded door, he stopped.
“Look,” he said, “it’s got a modern Yale lock! That should be no problem so long as it opens inwards. I always get into my flat this way when I forget my keys.” He got out a credit card and wiggled it into the crack beside the lock.
“Rupert, I don’t want to go any further,” said Angela, her voice now urgent.
“O.K.,” said Rupert, but curiosity overwhelmed him, as well as the feeling that, in a sense, this was now his palace too. He pushed the door a few inches open and peered in, scanning the room with the flashlight.
The room was much neater and more used-looking than the other underground chambers. Perhaps sixteen feet along each side, it had whitewashed walls hung with dim portraits. In the center was a square stone table. Or was it an altar? At its four corners, long-handled axes protruded from bundles of rods. On it were some glass and silver objects which Rupert could not recognize.
“This is creepy,” he thought. “What has Dad got himself into?” Angela was pulling on his arm. As he still did not move, she reached past and snatched the flashlight from his other hand, leading him willy-nilly back through the passage, through the barrel, and back to the androne.
Without a word they returned to the main floor. Angela was sulking, to the exasperation of Rupert. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, hoping for her playful mood to return. He could have added that it hadn’t been his idea to go and explore the palace’s bowels, but he didn’t. Angela slowed down and stopped by a window, open onto the Grand Canal. It was an absurdly romantic view, but the look on her face was a worried one.
“What is it, Angela? What’s wrong?”
“It’s got nothing to do with you, Rupert. You’re a sweet guy, but leave me alone now. Good night.”
Rupert did not move; he stayed put, but not as a challenge to her wishes. He looked concerned, and felt bad for her. She must have perceived this, because she said, in a whisper:
“I don’t know why I’m like this, Rupert, I really don’t. I tire of everything and everyone pretty fast, but then I realize that maybe I’m really tired of myself, and so I sulk. Yes, I know you’re thinking I’m a spoiled brat, with nothing to complain about.”
Rupert wanted to say that he was not judging her, but she didn’t let him. With a tremble in her voice, she went on:
“Sometimes I feel as if I’m losing it all, as if I’m spinning out of control.” She paused, then smiled, and added: “But then I figure that I’m just afraid of going away from home. I’m very attached to my family, especially since I’ve lost my parents.”
She paused, and looked away, in the distance. Rupert sensed that she was not finished, but did not rush her. Eventually, she turned back her head, her hair wafting in the nighttime breeze, and looked at him. “It’s a very deep bond,” she added, “nothing that an outsider could understand.” She smiled again, sweetly oblivious of any offense she might have given. “But I do like you,” she concluded. “I must go now.” Without another word she made straight for her own room.
Rupert lingered by the window, absorbed in thought. He did not know what to make of Angela. At the same time, he felt for her. She was certainly very attractive, and perhaps she wasn’t just whining. He reflected on his very small experience of the female universe, and how he must change that. But it was too late for that night. He took a last look at the Grand Canal and went to bed in the little third-floor room assigned to him.
Two hours later, a few guests watched from the gothic windows and balconies as the pearl colors of dawn spread over the sky. Then almost everyone went to sleep. It was midday before the last of the guests surfaced for coffee. Later still, Orsina surveyed the aftermath and wondered what Emanuele would have thought of the night’s revelry. Fortunately music leaves no traces—unlike black rubber soles on a polished wooden floor, thought Orsina as she crossed the ballroom. The workmen had already unstrung the Chinese lanterns, but “How stupid: they’ve left their ladder behind! Bhaskar, please put it away somewhere.”
Rupert had to catch the overnight train in order to be back in Lausanne on Monday morning. After Nigel had seen him off at the station, he realized that his son had never mentioned Angela, though they had been together at the party. He was not sorry, because charming as she was, Nigel did not want Rupert drawn into her milieu. Those young people, too rich too soon, would never make anything of themselves for want of a challenge. At best, they might end up like Orsina’s eccentric uncle. As these thoughts passed through his mind, Nigel also reflected on his own tendencies. “But I’ve earned the right to enjoy life’s pleasures!” he said to himself; “there’s a difference.”
Angela had left with the villa-hopping crowd. Soon afterwards, Nigel and Orsina loaded up the Ferrari and her Alfa. They were to stay at her uncle’s for two more weeks, come back to Venice for the Historic Regatta, then resume their normal life of leisurely commuting between Provence and London.
Nigel was back to the same occupations: driving his Ferrari deep into the vineyards in search of the perfect Amarone, and lately other wines too. Angela often accompanied him, saying that she wanted to speak English like him, not like her teachers. They would return with cases of increasingly rarer vintages. And then, for no apparent reason, Angela would sulk, and speak hardly at all at dinner.
The Baron did not seem to notice. The villa was swarming with his sympathizers. Some were actually camping on the grounds, in a meadow half a mile to the east of the villa. “Out of sight, mercifully,” Orsina had thought. This had been a gracious gesture on her uncle’s side. He had begun a new cycle of lectures “About the simple statistical truth,” as he explained to her when she enquired, “that history does not repeat itself. I touch upon the Holy League and the Battle of Lepanto, inter alia. Young minds, I’ve noticed, always need a bit of color, not so much to substantiate facts, but to fire their imagination.”
“Uncle can’t help preaching,” thought Orsina. But even he, lately, had been quieter. Perhaps he was realizing that being a teacher is hard work; perhaps this would lead him to change his opinion of Leo. But then, Orsina wondered, what did it matter? As far as her uncle knew, he had merely been a fleeting guest, not the man she had loved and with whom she had hoped to slough off the obligations she had been born to. Even now, married, settled down, and the heir apparent to an ancient dynasty, she was always delighted to hear his voice. Still, to her uncle, Leo was a nonentity.
A few days elapsed, and Angela continued to be listless, joyless, and incapable of sustaining a conversation. Nigel said that when they went wine-hunting together she was her normal self. But afterwards she ate little, complained of headaches
, and went to bed early. Orsina had never seen her sister in this state, and after dinner went up to Angela’s room to try to find out what was wrong with her.
Angela wasn’t there. Orsina walked downstairs, and chanced into Marianna. Had she seen her sister? Yes, in the garden.
“In the garden?” wondered Orsina; and then added to herself, “Alone? And where’s Nigel?” She hastened toward the garden, saying hello to a number of young strangers, all dressed in black: Uncle’s students.
There she was, alone, under the tulip tree. Orsina sat down beside her.
“Angela,” she said, delicately, “I’ve been worried about you lately. Are you sick?”
“No. I just have a headache.”
“Is that all?”
No reply.
“Is something bothering you?”
“No.”
“Is it Gherardo, or Augusto?”
“Neither.”
“How about Rupert? You haven’t mentioned him at all since the party. Did something happen?”
“No, other than we had a good time together. I took him down into the cellars, just for fun. I’ve never dared to go there alone; have you?” Orsina shook her head. “But I got scared and I think it upset Rupert, because he didn’t talk to me after that. He just went off to bed.”
“Did that upset you?”
“Me? No, good riddance! I don’t care for him. He may become interesting twenty-five years from now; he’s got a lot of growing to do.” Angela turned her face to the side, evidently uncomfortable in her sister’s company.
Orsina took a deep breath, and asked the question that had been on her mind for a few weeks: “Is it something about Nigel?”
“Nigel? No!” The vehemence of the reply did not reassure Orsina.
“Are you sure? You can tell me, Angela. Please trust me.”
“I told you already: no.”
“If it’s not that,” Orsina continued, relieved, “please tell me what’s wrong. Are you anxious about Bristol?”
“Anxious? I can’t wait. I may find my own Leo—just as good-looking, maybe a little more … manly?” She looked at her sister wickedly. Orsina ignored the comment, and pressed on.
The Forbidden Book: A Novel Page 10