The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  At last she came to the River Arno. The reflections of the buildings fidgeted in the broad and rippling ribbon of water; earthy colours of ochre, rust and green. She walked over the bridge towards the building of peaches and cream. Alonzo’s place was here on Lungarno Antonio Pacinotti – a charming part of Pisa that most tourists didn’t see since it was a good twenty minutes’ walk from Piazza dei Miracoli. The grand villas of the streets around the River Arno lacked the wow factor of the Piazza dei Miracoli and they couldn’t match the charm of Florence. Nevertheless, they were quite something.

  Chiara turned left and made her way along the busy pavement towards Alonzo’s apartment. She glanced across the silky river to the chalky-blue villa with grey shutters. Beyond this stood pretty buildings in cream, mint and yellow, leading to the tiny Gothic church of Santa Maria della Spina and the Solferino Bridge just beyond. It was a lovely view, but it was Alonzo’s view, and she had never stayed the night here, not once. She could say she always had The Lemon Tree Hotel to return to, she could talk about duty and how busy she had always been. True enough. But the deeper truth was that she had never stayed here because she had never wanted to. And she didn’t want to be here now.

  Because evicting a frail old lady from the apartment she’d lived in for twenty years, was another thing entirely. The ruthlessness of it made her shiver inside. And what else was there? Prostitution? Drugs? It was hard to believe. Chiara arrived at the terracotta building at the top of which was Alonzo’s penthouse apartment. It was very grand, and a far cry from the apartments she’d just visited. She looked up. She had to find out if it was true. Her finger hovered over the brass bell. And there was only one meaning to be inferred by Signora Conti’s comment about ‘ways of paying rent . . .’ Chiara swallowed. She pressed the bell, quickly, before she could change her mind. Signora Conti must mean that Alonzo was taking advantage of those women too. And this was too much, too awful to contemplate.

  Alonzo answered the buzzer in a weary voice. ‘Sì?’ No problem with the intercom here then.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Chiara?’ His voice changed. ‘What are you doing here? Has something happened? Is it Elene?’

  ‘No.’ She put his mind at rest immediately. She had married him for her parents, and she had stayed with him for Elene. But she didn’t hate him that much – at least, not yet.

  ‘Then . . .’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ The buzzer went and she pushed open the door. Chiara went up in the lift – taking a deep breath for courage, as it swept her noiselessly up to the top floor. That too was working. Things were certainly very different here.

  The penthouse apartment door was open and she stepped inside. It was light and airy with floor-to-ceiling bi-folding doors leading out on to a balcony.

  ‘Chiara.’ Alonzo was dressed in his usual dark trousers and shirt. He moved forwards to kiss her on both cheeks. She submitted graciously, though the touch of his lips seemed to sting her inside.

  ‘Hello, Alonzo.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  She didn’t answer. How could she, when nothing was all right and probably never would be again?

  He cocked his head to one side, clearly curious. ‘You are here to do some shopping, is that it? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

  Chiara glanced around the apartment. It demonstrated Alonzo’s taste. It was minimal, almost austere. There was a glass coffee table next to a black leather couch and on the other side of the room, a deep reclining armchair. In the corner stood Alonzo’s desk – on this was his laptop, open, and the neatest pile of paperwork she had ever seen. Chiara almost smiled. Very different from the desk in the office she shared with Isabella. A newspaper lay on the arm of the chair; Il Giornale, the tabloid paper he preferred, was the only item of character in the room, the only object that could tell her anything about her husband. Which actually told her a lot.

  ‘No, I’m not here to shop.’ Chiara slipped off her jacket and put it on the back of the chair. She sat down. At once the room looked more lived in. ‘I came to visit someone.’

  ‘Ah – Delfina?’ Alonzo was affable. He took her jacket and hung it carefully on a peg by the front door. ‘And, how is she? Have you seen her yet? Lunch, is it?’ He glanced at his watch.

  How could it be only lunchtime after everything that had happened today? ‘Not Delfina, no.’ Chiara wasn’t sure how to begin. At any rate she would have to be ready to dodge the explosion. She pushed back the fear, the uncertainty. She must do this. ‘I went to see Signora Beatrice Gavino.’

  He frowned. Chiara could see him trying to place the name – which was appalling in itself. ‘Signora Gavino? Who is she? Do I know her?’

  ‘She lives in Apartment 5 – in your block in Via Giacomo Puccini.’ She waited for his reaction.

  Disbelief was followed by comprehension slowly spreading over her husband’s face. Chiara watched, fascinated. And then came a flash of anger. ‘Why the fuck did you go there?’ He still spoke quietly. And he didn’t come closer, not yet.

  Chiara remained seated on the chair, though she was tense and ready to make her escape. ‘Because her daughter, Signora Conti came to The Lemon Tree Hotel yesterday.’

  ‘Her daughter?’ He thrust a hand through his greying hair and shot Chiara a look of incredulity. He paced over to the window. ‘That witch? I wouldn’t believe a word she said.’

  Chiara steadied her breath. ‘I believed her. She was worried about her mother.’

  ‘She had no right to go to you.’ His fists clenched.

  ‘But she had every right to try to get in touch with you,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘You are her mother’s landlord, after all.’

  He turned to face her. ‘Yes, I am.’ His eyes were hooded and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He had never been a violent man, until the night he had found her having dinner with Dante. But at that moment she had seen it in him, felt his hatred, known how she had hurt him. And she knew that Dante was right – Alonzo was certainly capable of being violent again.

  ‘She tried to contact you here,’ she pointed out. ‘She found out your other address. She came to The Lemon Tree Hotel to see you, not me.’

  Alonzo’s eyes narrowed. ‘But you spoke with her.’

  ‘I did.’ Chiara recalled her initial annoyance with her husband when Signora Conti had arrived – that he had permitted such an intrusion into her peaceful hotel. How naïve she had been. How arrogant. Who did she think she was, really? Did she imagine herself to be some superior being who led some other-worldly existence, lived in a special and privileged place, one that should not be sullied by real life? Well, more fool her. No wonder that poor woman had looked as she had when she walked into The Lemon Tree Hotel. Chiara really couldn’t blame her.

  ‘And then, instead of contacting me and telling me what had happened so that I could deal with it, you took it on yourself to come here to Pisa.’ He paced to the other side of the room, still looking out towards the river. ‘That’s interesting, Chiara.’

  He was now between her and the front door. ‘I was shocked at what she told me,’ she said. ‘I thought there must be some mistake. I wanted to see for myself.’

  ‘See for yourself?’ He still had his back to her. But she could see from the set of his shoulders that the anger was building.

  ‘If it was true. If you would evict an old lady like that. If you were capable of doing such a thing.’

  He spun around. His mouth was a thin line of fury and his expression was one of contempt. ‘And so, Chiara, if a guest of your hotel should come to me with a complaint, I should not tell you? Is that it? I should simply investigate the matter myself? Behind your back, eh?’

  Chiara bent her head. It was a fair point. ‘I felt sorry for her,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see if I could help her mother. I promised her I would come.’

  He let out a sharp bark of laughter that made her flinch. ‘So, you promised some low-life tha
t you would poke your nose into your husband’s business affairs? After we have agreed – have we not? – that the hotel is your concern and that the apartments are mine?’

  ‘Signora Conti has had a hard life, Alonzo.’ Chiara decided to appeal to his better nature. ‘But that doesn’t make her low-life.’ Although she realised that she too was guilty of having made certain assumptions when the woman first walked into the hotel.

  He took a step towards her, and Chiara flinched. But instead of grabbing hold of her, or – heaven forbid – slapping her, as he had done before, he strode once again to the door. He plucked her jacket from the hook and threw it towards her. It fell in a bright red puddle on the floor. ‘The little you know,’ he snapped.

  Chiara did not pick up the jacket. She’d come here to say her piece and she’d leave when she was ready. ‘Beatrice Gavino is elderly, frail, and vulnerable,’ she said. ‘She can’t face moving. That tiny and grotty apartment of hers may be falling apart, but it’s all she has.’

  ‘You went there? You went inside?’ His voice was a low growl.

  ‘I told you I did.’

  ‘To hell with that, Chiara.’ Once again, he tore his fingers through his hair. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘Please reconsider, Alonzo.’ If it would make any difference, she would get down on her hands and knees. ‘I’m begging you. Let that poor woman stay in her apartment. Don’t throw her out of her home.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that your final word on the subject?’ She wrung her hands together.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Very well.’ Chiara got to her feet – albeit rather shakily – picked up her jacket from the floor and slipped it on. She walked to the door, opened it, and turned back to him. She had an escape route now. ‘What sort of place is it you run there, Alonzo?’

  ‘What are you talking about now, woman?’ But she could see he was flustered.

  ‘Drugs? Prostitutes? Is it true what they tell me?’ She paused. Did she dare to say it? ‘And what about women of a certain profession paying you rent in kind?’

  His jaw dropped and she saw it in his eyes – a flicker of fear, a hint of shame. Hesitation. Panic. This told her all she wanted to know. ‘Please don’t come back to the hotel tomorrow, Alonzo,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to see you there.’

  ‘Chiara . . .’

  She shut the door behind her. It was true then. It was all true. She knew for certain now – she had heard it in his hesitation and seen it in his eyes. She didn’t wait to call the lift. She half ran down the stairs and from the building, swinging the door shut behind her. She just wanted to be out of there.

  She rushed back past the deli, the bike shop, the pharmacy, and the Royal Victoria Hotel to Piazza Garibaldi, and only then did she stop to catch her breath. A brandy. She staggered to a café table and sat down. A brandy would help restore some sense of calm. The statue stood in the centre of the piazza, hand on hip, sending her a pitying glance. A musician was playing on the far side of the square and people strolled past, eating gelato, chatting, laughing, discussing where to stop for a late lunch. The brandy came, and she took rapid restorative sips, the potent liquid catching at her throat.

  When she felt marginally better she paid the bill, left the café, and hailed a cab to take her to the station. She wanted to get home as quickly as possible now. She wanted to be in her own bed, and she wanted to sleep. She wanted to see her family. What she didn’t want to do – was think.

  CHAPTER 30

  Elene

  Elene was in the kitchen after dinner. The clearing up had all been done and the others had gone home, but she lingered, unwilling to go back to the rooms she shared with Silvio empty-handed. She couldn’t believe that she had lost them before she’d even had a chance to study the sketches Ferdinand Bauer had prepared for her. And she could hardly ask him to do them again . . .

  She took out all her recipe books one by one and laid them to one side on the marble counter. She took a cloth and cleaned the surface, though oddly it seemed clean already, as if someone had been here very recently. Which made her think . . .

  She hadn’t managed to locate the young architect until after Isabella had returned from her morning walk and her mother had disappeared off on her mystery visit to Pisa.

  ‘I could do a few sketches for you today,’ he had said warily. ‘But look, I don’t want to go behind anyone’s back, Signora.’

  Elene knew he was thinking of Isabella. ‘Don’t worry,’ she’d told him. ‘They will all be delighted.’ And she almost began to believe it herself.

  This evening he had asked to see her after dinner, handed her a large brown envelope. ‘Just a few ideas along the lines we discussed.’ And he had looked around them, seeming ill at ease, perhaps worrying that the walls of The Lemon Tree Hotel had ears.

  ‘That was quick work.’ Elene had beamed. ‘Grazie mille. Thank you so much. I’ll take a look later.’ She could hardly wait. ‘And how much do I owe you, Signore?’

  ‘Oh, no no.’ Signor Bauer seemed most embarrassed. ‘I couldn’t possibly take anything from you.’

  ‘But why ever not?’ Elene held the envelope closer to her breast. ‘I must pay you for your time.’

  Ferdinand Bauer brushed this off with a shake of his fair head. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘It was nothing. It was my pleasure.’

  Elene regarded him quizzically. A strange way to run a business indeed. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Thank you again, Signore.’

  He made his excuses and disappeared. Elene returned to the kitchen. She took a quick peek inside – there were several sketches; this looked most promising – and then tucked the envelope next to her recipe books. There were things she must see to, and too many people around. She would take a proper look later.

  But later, when she went to retrieve it, the envelope had simply disappeared.

  Elene smoothed the surfaces of her grandmother’s old recipe book with her fingers. Her grandmother had died when Elene was very young – she could barely remember her, only perhaps the faint fragrance of her lavender perfume. She looked inside. From this book she had taken her grandmother’s recipe for Ligurian lemon cake – one of her favourites – and not changed a thing. The pages were brittle with age and the ink had faded, but her grandmother’s voice was still there in her neat upright handwriting and the organised nature of the columns of ingredients and clear instructions. Take the zest of a fresh lemon . . . The recipe was made with olive oil and was moist and fresh as the fruit of the lemon tree itself. Elene sighed.

  Slowly, she replaced each book on the shelf. There were her own recipes here, and books from Marcello, the chef who had first introduced her to the kitchen. From time to time friends and family had given her presents of recipe books from famous Italian chefs, but truth to tell, she barely glanced at them. The traditions she had grown up with had always been good enough for Elene.

  She surveyed the books now back in line on the marble counter. The envelope was still nowhere to be seen.

  ‘But who would have taken it?’ Silvio demanded later. They were in bed, and she was trying to pretend that she was not worried. It was, of course, simply that she wanted to tell the others in her own time, to prepare the ground as it were. If someone were to find the envelope, if someone were to show her mother or Isabella the sketches . . . things could be taken the wrong way, that was all. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Her mother didn’t even know about the sketches – no one did. And besides, Elene couldn’t even remember her mother coming into the kitchen that evening. She’d been very quiet since she got back from Pisa. When Elene had asked her if she wanted dinner she had said she’d eaten earlier, that she was tired, that she would just go on up to bed if Elene didn’t mind. Elene had felt it again – that unexpected surge of protectiveness. ‘Are you all right, Mamma?’ she’d asked her. ‘Yes, cara. I’m fine.’ But Elene didn’t believe it – not for one moment.

  ‘Who then?’
<
br />   ‘I don’t know.’ But Elene felt like crying at the injustice of it. She had gone to all this trouble – and for what? ‘Perhaps someone was tidying up?’ Emanuele, Febe, or Raphael? They had all been around. It was possible . . . ‘I’ll have to ask them tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, my love, you should.’ And Silvio had given her a most serious look. He didn’t have to tell her how important it was that she find it, he didn’t have to remind her that they wouldn’t understand her motives or why she had done this without telling anyone.

  Elene knew. It was imperative. She must find the envelope before anyone else did.

  CHAPTER 31

  Isabella

  It was the following morning. Isabella’s favourite sandals had come apart at the heel strap and her grandmother had suggested she take them to the cobbler in Monterosso al Mare. Their family had always taken their shoes to Passano’s. These days, not so often, she supposed – more likely they’d buy a new pair, that was the way of the world. But she loved these sandals.

  ‘I’m supposed to be on reception in half an hour,’ she reminded her grandmother, who was still very far from being her old self. Perhaps she was just tired. Perhaps a visit to the doctor was in order, for Nonna was not as young as she had once been and she worked very hard. Perhaps Isabella should suggest they bring in more staff, so that Nonna could take a bit more time off?

  ‘You were working all day yesterday, Bella.’ Nonna shot her a sharp look. Maybe not so tired then . . . ‘I have some correspondence to deal with, emails to send – that’s all. I’ll do it at the desk. You go to Monterosso for an hour or two.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go.’ Nonna shooed her away. ‘We’re quiet today. We can manage perfectly well.’