by Joan Smith
Bert regaled us with a story of some disgruntled tourist who had threatened to kill him with a meat cleaver in Venice because the man's wife wouldn't leave Bert alone. I translated this to mean Bert had been putting the make on the man's wife.
“Where the guy got hold of a meat cleaver in Venice I don't know. Go figure. It was brand new, he bought it especially to split my head open. The dope attacked me right on the edge of the Grand Canal. One shove and he was in the sewer, up to his eyeballs in—” Nancy halted him with a gimlet look. “Still holding on to his cleaver. Most people in Venice used to buy glass. They specialize in it there. I knew a guy that'd sell me glass bead necklaces for two bits. The tourists paid a couple of bucks for them, and thought they were getting a bargain. One lady told me she paid fifteen bucks for an identical necklace in the States. I could've got it for her for two bits and made fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents profit."
Nancy helped remove the plates and Nick brought in dessert. “I had zabaione made, especially for you,” he told me, setting a dish in front of me.
“You shouldn't have, Nick,” I said, smiling glacially. “It separates if you leave it standing.” It had split into layers, which the crystal dishes made obvious.
“Would you like some fruit instead?” he asked, becoming a little stiff about the lips himself. “Figs, nectarines—lemons?"
“I'm not really very hungry, thank you."
“An espresso? You wouldn't want to fall asleep at the Contessa's party."
“Oh, espresso! Include me out,” Bert said. “That grog keeps me awake for a week.”
“Espresso will be fine,” I said, as I wanted to disagree with Bert. Unfortunately I hate espresso.
We finished the meal with bitter espresso, made potable in my case with plenty of cream and sugar. Nick said I was ruining it, so I added more cream. Bert had another glass of wine, then we went to make our final preparations for the party. My blisters were killing me.
CHAPTER 8
The bacchanal at the Contessa's villa was in full swing by the time we got there, and we weren't very late. I don't know whether to describe the sumptuous villa first, or the guests. The entrance hallway had a black and white marble floor, not in simple squares, but mostly white with black squares set in a pattern. A dark wood staircase with red carpeting snaked its way up on the right. As Bert said, even the doorways were marble. There were some expensive antique commodes in the hall, loaded with old Chinese vases, probably authentic Ming or something. Oh, and there was a Picasso cubist painting, blue and red and black, over one of the tables. It looked genuine. Maybe that's why she kept the pit bull terriers.
A quick peek into the room on the left showed Persian rugs and walls of cabinets, all lined with blue and white pottery. “Japanese Imari,” Nancy whispered in my ear. “Gooooorgeous.” There was also a gorgeous Van Gogh on the wall, of sunflowers but not the famous one that sold for millions awhile ago. Still, the dogs became more reasonable at every glance.
The ballroom was another wonder, full of chandeliers, and hung with wheat-colored damask, both walls and drapes. I didn't see any famous paintings in that room. It was probably too public. The Contessa, radiant in a shimmering wisp of silver, came swanning regally into the room. The golden bangles had been replaced by a sapphire bracelet with matching necklace. I assumed the stumpy, gray-haired little gentleman with her was the Conte. As soon as she spotted us, she came forward to make us welcome. With the nose of an aristocrat, she went straight for Nick, the only one of us with any claim to distinction in appearance. I felt like a frump, and Nancy and Bert looked as if they belonged at a Rotary banquet in Troy.
“Signor Hansen,” she smiled, latching her arm through his. A volley of Italian flowed from her lips. Whatever she said set him grinning like a schoolboy. Eventually she nodded at Bert, and Nick introduced Nancy and me. The Contessa introduced her conte, who smiled graciously, and left. Then she disappeared with my escort and I trailed around the room with Bert and Nancy, ogling the guests. Nick had misled me by saying there'd be T-shirts present. A blazer was the most informal attire seen. What there were a lot of were black ties and ribbons and medals. The women mostly wore long gowns, but some had on fancy short dresses. All of them seemed to be heavily decked in glittering jewelry. They looked fussier than American women, with more elaborate hairdos and stronger perfume. Their voices were very loud.
Soon a midget with black hair and a moustache approached and had the lack of discrimination to ask me to dance. He was about up to my chin, but since he had a blue ribbon over his black jacket, I thought he must be important. Besides, Nick stuck like glue to Lingini, so I danced with the Italian munchkin. He let fly some Italian.
“Sorry, I don't speak Italian,” I said. He laughed in delight, and his left hand descended to my hip.
“Now, now. None of that,” I scolded merrily, yanking his hand up.
He gargled some more words and the fingers gave me a good pinch. I yelped like a stuck pig. He laughed, and danced and tried to ease me out the doorway. “You go. There are some nice doggies out there that would like to play with you,” I. said, and escaped back to Bert.
“I think I was dancing with a count, or minister or something,” I said, pointing out my opponent.
Bert looked and shook his head. “That guy's a clerk in one of the shadier galleries,” he told me.
“The creep! What was he doing with a ribbon across his chest?"
“It's got something to do with the church. Like Knights of Columbus back home. Maybe he's a Grand Knight."
“He was gift wrapped, especially for you,” Nancy said and smiled.
When I was approached by another gentleman, innocent of black jacket and ribbon, I agreed to dance, but meant to keep him in line.
“I don't mambo Italiano,” I warned him.
He smiled and held me a little closer, murmuring passionate phrases in my ear. When the hand began slipping hipwards, I got a half nelson on it and said through gritted teeth, “If I feel you reaching for my buns again, chum, you're going to wish you'd worn your football equipment."
He looked surprised. He understood the tone, if not the words. E'er long, the moving hand moved again and began an insidious stroking, followed by a loving pinch. I reached down and gave him a good pinch on the buttocks—which incidentally were as hard as a rock.
“Let's see how you like it, Mario,” I said, and strode to the side of the room.
Bert came rushing at me. I was sure he was going to tell me I'd been dancing with a Mafioso. “Wow, that was the Foreign Minister, Lana. What'd he say?"
I was beyond caring. “How would I know? He doesn't speak English."
“Are you kidding? The guy was visiting Margaret Thatcher last week. He speaks perfect English."
“In that case, he was probably telling me he was going to have me deported. How come clerks wear ribbons on their chests, and ministers wear baggy jackets and unpressed trousers?"
“You don't have to dress up when you're rich,” Bert explained, in the most perceptive comment I ever heard from him.
After we had had our fill of admiring the Contessa's material possessions, we decided it was time to start looking for Frenchmen. A few tours of the floor told us French was not being spoken at the Villa Lingini that evening. Italian and English were the languages, mostly Italian. An Italian gentleman asked Nancy to dance, and as she thought she had seen him in a foreign film two years ago, she accepted. I was left with Bert, and was grateful for his company.
“Let's take a look at some of the house,” I suggested.
We went into the hallway, but when we got a few yards along a servant appeared and asked if we required something. Bert knew enough Italian that he got the message—we were not expected to do any looking around. “You'd think we planned to steal the cutlery,” he grouched.
There were enough priceless bibelots of pocket size around that the servant seemed a reasonable precaution to me. Just as we were returning to the ballroom, a door i
n the depths of the corridor opened and the Contessa slipped out, accompanied by Nick. I directed an icicle glare along the hall and pulled Bert rather quickly back to the ballroom. The music had stopped, and waiters were carrying around silver trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres.
The eats had taken a serious downturn from the days of Lucullus. What was on the bread and crackers was mostly sardines and cheese. The wine was good, but it wasn't champagne. In a few minutes, Nick joined us.
“I see you and the Contessa hit it off pretty good,” Bert said to him.
“She was showing me her art collection,” Nick replied.
“Etchings, I assume?” I asked.
He ignored it. “She has half a dozen marvelous Impressionists. Mostly Monet, but one Renoir I've never seen before. She said it's been in the family for decades, and never shown.” He snagged a glass of wine from a passing waiter and looked around the room. “Is our friend, Greenwood, here?” I guess he didn't want to say Boisvert in public, so translated it to English.
“No sign,” I told him. “We haven't detected any French being spoken at all. Maybe if you put on your glasses you could help us look."
“You can't wear sunglasses at an evening party. I lost my clear ones."
I thought Bert had fainted. I was aware, from the corner of my eye, that he was sinking below my field of vision. “Bert, what's the matter? Are you sick? It's those sardines! They tasted awful."
“Must be Conan,” Nick said in alarm, and looked all around.
Conan would have been easy to spot in a room of normal-sized people, even without glasses, though I was wearing mine. He wasn't there, but Bert had slunk to the ground and was duck-walking out of the room. Of course we followed him from behind, to conceal his ungainly exit.
“Maria,” he gasped, and pulled himself upright when we reached the hall. “I've got to get out of here. I don't think she saw me.
“What would be she doing here?” I asked suspiciously.
“She works in a gallery. The Contessa'd know her,” Bert said. “One of you guys find Nancy and let's split."
“I'll get her,” I volunteered. I wanted to see Maria. I was curious to learn what kind of woman would appeal to a man like Conan. I pictured a voluptuous siren. “What's Maria wearing?"
“She had on a black dress, strapless."
I went back into the ballroom. There was only one young woman in a black strapless dress—it fit like wallpaper. She was only more or less in it, with a generous overflow at the top. An elderly man, sans ribbons, was patting her here and there and smiling lasciviously. Well he might. Maria had more curves than the Guggenheim Museum. Beside her, Nancy would look like a coat rack.
When I recovered from her extraordinary physique, I took a look at her face. My first thought was of a Raphael Madonna. That was the immediate, overall impression. She looked sweet and gentle. Then she turned and looked straight at me, and I saw the Madonna had brimstone in her eyes and a steely set of lips. She must have seen me with Bert. For a minute she looked me up and down. Her satisfied little smirk told me her opinion of me as possible competition. She walked away from her escort without a word, straight to me.
“Scusi,” she said, “but you are American?"
“Yes."
“I think you are with Signor Garr?” Flames leapt in her dark eyes. Her voice was strident, like a fishwife in heat. Conan was the proper match for this woman. She looked capable of demolishing me—or him—with one hand. “Where is he?"
“I—he was—just around somewhere,” I said vaguely.
She sneered and strode away, out the proper door to catch Bert. When I began looking around for Nancy, I happened to see the Contessa, standing on the sidelines. She was watching Maria with fixed interest. She glanced at me, and looked away quickly when she saw me staring at her. I searched till I found Nancy and beckoned her. She came right away.
“What's up?"
“Maria's here. She's gone after Bert."
“Maria, which one was she? No, don't tell me. She was the tart in the black dress—right?"
“That's her."
“She'll have a moustache by the time she's forty."
“I don't think anyone will notice."
We hurried out into the hallway. Maria was thrusting herself against Bert, and talking a mile a minute, in Italian, of course. Her white hands clutched his arms. Nick stood listening with an air of amused detachment, and began translating for us. “She says she's afraid of Luigi. She wants Bert to take her home."
“If she sets a foot in your car, I walk,” Nancy announced.
“Bert's explaining that he came with a lady."
Maria flashed a dangerous eye at Nancy. I don't know about Nancy, but I trembled. She had the eye of an assassin.
“He's saying he'll call her tomorrow,” Nick told us.
We watched as Bert tried to free himself from the prehensile young lady. I thought he might enjoy showing us how much Maria liked him, but he only looked trapped, and rather frightened. Of course he was thinking of Conan. At last he pulled free and ran, literally, to the front door. Maria cast a calculating look at Nick. I grabbed his arm and we followed Bert out.
Bert was at Nick's car, panting. “Wow! These signorinas!” He laughed nervously. “I thought she was going to wrestle me to the floor, right in the villa.” He glanced around at the shadows, fearful that Conan was lurking nearby. “Unlock the car, Nick."
“It isn't locked."
“I can't get the door open."
Nick got in and punched it open from the inside. Bert was nearly inside before the door was open. “Let's blow this joint,” he gasped.
The car coughed and spluttered for a minute, but finally moved.
CHAPTER 9
There was an air of constraint in the Alfa-Romeo as Nick flew us home. It started as soon as he grazed a Bentley trying to wiggle out of the parking area. Its origin was older. As far as I was concerned, it had started when Bert said, “He must have pulled the old ‘he'd love to paint you’ stunt.” Nick's rendezvous with the Pasta Contessa didn't help, of course. Nancy and Bert were having words in the backseat as well.
“How was I supposed to know she'd be there?” I heard him say. Nancy's answer was a chilly silence.
In the front seat the conversation was, “If you'd buy some glasses you wouldn't hit so many cars."
“I didn't hit it. Our tires rubbed."
“Tires don't stick out. When cars sideswipe each other, it is not the tires that take the impact."
“My wheels were turned at a sharp angle. My tire grazed his."
“My God, and you men call women vain!” I said loftily, adjusting my glasses.
“It's not vanity!” he growled. “I've bought dozens of pairs of glasses. I just lose them. That's all. Anyway, I can see perfectly without them."
In the backseat, Nancy's silence had given way to strident snipes. “Oh sure, Bert. Luigi's chasing you all over Rome, beating the hell out of you because you held Maria's hand at a movie."
“Dates are taken seriously here. The girls are practically kept cloistered."
“Whereas in Troy, of course, we're all harlots! The bitch was laminated to that old man like wallpaper on a wall. Don't try to tell me she's fresh out of a convent."
“What did that sign say?” Nick shouted to the occupants in general.
“I thought you could see perfectly,” I reminded him.
“It's dark, and we're going fast."
“Then slow down."
He stepped harder on the gas, till we were all being shaken like cocktails in a mixer. We turned a corner, with a quick thump-thump as he went up over the curb, then down again. A lamp stand missed us by millimeters, and not many millimeters either. “Oh jeez, you're lost again, Nick. This isn't the way home!” Bert called.
“We're not going home,” Nick told him. “We're going to your apartment to get your car. One fight at a time is all I can handle when I'm driving. You drive Nancy home."
“I'd rather
not be in a car alone with Mr. Garr, if you don't mind, Nick,” Nancy said.
“She no fly,” Bert said. “Rad's busted."
“I thought you were getting it fixed,” Nick grouched. “You've had it parked for weeks."
“Damned rad. The guy was supposed to come and fix it up today. He promised it'll be ready by tomorrow. You can have Lana all to yourself after we get home, if that's what's bugging you."
“Yes, for as long as it takes a taxi to get to the house and take us to a hotel,” I added.
“That's too long to suit me,” Nick muttered under his breath. He leapt another curb. In the interest of getting home alive, we all stopped arguing. We proceeded in stony silence to Nick's driveway, where I opened my own door and we all went, Indian file, to the house. Nick unlocked the front door in silence. In silence we entered, one by one.
“A night cap, anyone?” Nick inquired in the cool accents of a host determined to be civil while his guests behaved like yahoos. He looked more like a nobleman than anyone at the Contessa's party. I admired his style, even while hating him.
“What did you have in mind, Campari or cyanide?” I asked.
“Name your own poison."
“We'll be getting up very early to start phoning for buses and trains,” I said loftily. “It's straight to bed for me. And in case you're not up yet when we leave in the morning, Nick, I want to thank you now for your hospitality.” Neither of us mentioned calling a taxi, or removing immediately to a hotel.
“It was my pleasure.” His black eyes skewered me. A muscle in his jaw quivered, but his nostrils didn't dilate. Nancy jumped in with her thanks. For a few minutes, it seemed rational intercourse (of the conversational type) might be re-established. Nancy talked to Nick; I talked to Bert, but after a moment both conversations fell to the ground, and Nancy and I went up to bed. Bert and Nick stayed below. Nick said something about finishing his Frageau, and Bert was going to make himself a sandwich.
In our room, Nancy threw her purse on the bed so hard it knocked a pillow on the floor. While I sat down and eased my aching toes out of the confines of tight sandals, she began pacing, throwing her arms around and enjoying a tantrum.