"Thank you." She smiled. "I don't get to use it much here."
Neil found her very attractive. Marisa's skin was milky white, with a faint rosy glow, and she had long cascading waves of very fine black hair that was not glossy but had a rich, subdued luster, like polished natural jet. She was about 5'6" tall and her body was sleek but gloriously voluptuous. Neil wondered what color her eyes were- even through the sunglasses, he could see flashes of light in them.
"Are you still studying?" he asked.
"No, I finished last year. The University of Parma."
"Really? Parma is one of the cities I plan to visit while I'm here." It was true. He loved The Charterhouse of Parma, and Stendhal had, in a way, been an inspiration and a small factor in Neil's recent success.
"I can tell you a couple of good places to stay, clean, not expensive," Marisa said. "And some excellent family restaurants."
"Great. Thank you."
"Are you traveling alone or with-?"
"Yes, I'm on my own."
"Let's see to your car. Then we can have some refreshments."
As they walked briskly toward the Fiat, Marisa clapped her hands sharply three or four times and called out a couple of words that Neil could not recognize. He saw a man emerge from one of the low worksheds on the nearest rise. Marisa shouted something else to him, and the man went back into the shed, reappearing a few moments later with a large plastic container and a funnel in his hands.
"What language were you speaking to him?"
"I'm not sure what you would call it," Marisa replied with a laugh. "These people have been with my family for a long time. It's some kind of local dialect from Dalmatia, I believe."
"Is your family Italian?"
"On my mother's side, like you. My father's family, well, they say if you go back far enough, they were the original Illyrians. I don't know any of that ancient history, but my grandfather and his family came here at the end of World War II, fleeing the Communists on the other side of the Adriatic. They bought this old farm, which had gone to ruin during the war."
They had arrived at Neil's car. The man came hurrying along a few seconds later. He had the rough, ruddy features and large leathery hands of somebody who had worked outdoors for decades, and he might have have been anywhere from forty to sixty years of age. His clothes were stained and torn, he had the same gnarly, raggedy appearance of the dwarf, but he was of average height and build. He ignored Neil and glanced subserviently toward Marisa as he set the plastic container and funnel down on the ground. He used a rag to remove the radiator cap, which was still hot to touch. Neil stepped closer to take a look. No liquid visible, as he feared.
Neil sat inside and turned the engine over, then got out again to hold the funnel while the man angled the bulky jug and carefully poured a small but steady stream of water into the radiator. Neil watched it swirl down through the funnel. A minute later, he could see it accumulating and moving inside as the pump circulated the liquid. The system took a lot of water, but finally the radiator was full.
"All right, now let's see," Neil said.
As soon as he put the cap on and snugged it tight, the pressure inside increased and tiny jets of water appeared in several places on the body of the radiator. Soon it was hissing audibly and the rising steam was visible in the air. The man pointed theatrically. Neil frowned.
"How far is it to the nearest town?"
"Four miles back to the road," Marisa said, "and about another eight miles from there. Your car wouldn't make that, would it?"
"I doubt it. Can I use your phone to call for a tow?"
"I'm afraid there's no telephone here," she answered with a look of apology. "My brother has a cell phone, but he's away on business until the end of the week."
"Could I trouble you to drive me to the town, and then I could make arrangements to have my car picked up?"
"My brother has the car too," Marisa replied with another look of sincere regret. "It's the only workable vehicle we have."
Neil's car was boiling out clouds of steam now. As he went to switch it off, Marisa started speaking quickly to the workman. It sounded like she was asking him something. He nodded and answered her at some length. She turned to Neil and smiled.
"He thinks the radiator is ruined."
Neil gave a short laugh. "I think he's right."
"But he thinks they can patch it up enough tomorrow so that you'll at least be able to get to town and replace it."
"Oh, that'd be great," Neil exclaimed, his spirits lifting. "Thank him for me, I'm really very grateful."
"Of course you'll stay here tonight."
"That's very kind of you. I'm sorry to impose on you like this. I hope it won't be too much of an inconvenience."
"Not at all," Marisa said, smiling brightly. "We have plenty of room, and I'm so glad to have some company for a change. Come on, get your bag, whatever you need, and we'll go inside."
The Box Room
"You mentioned something about working in Rome. What business are you in-banking, finance, technology?"
"No, nothing like that," Neil said with a smile. "I have a one-year fellowship at the American Academy. I'm doing some research for a book I'm working on. And also writing it, of course."
Marisa had slipped her arm through his as they walked. It was a common practice in many European countries, so Neil knew better than to read too much into her simple gesture. But he enjoyed the closeness and the physical contact with her.
"Ah, you're a writer."
"An author, yes."
"That's marvelous." Marisa gave his arm a little squeeze. "What kind of books do you write?"
"Historical fiction, sort of." Neil always felt a little awkward trying to explain his work. "Anyhow, I've only written three so far."
"But that's wonderful. They must be very good for you to be chosen for the Academy. It's very prestigious."
"The first two disappeared almost without a trace," Neil told her with a rueful smile. "But the last one did much better."
"What is it about, what period of history?"
"The 1590s, in Italy. It's called La Petrella and it's a retelling of the story of Beatrice Cenci and her family."
"Oh, of course. I remember that," Marisa said excitedly. "Beatrice conspired with her mother to murder her father, and she was then tortured and beheaded in public for it, even though her father had raped her. She was only about, what-fifteen years old?"
"That's right."
"It's a famous story."
"Yes, but not in America. I discovered that there hadn't been a full-length fictional treatment of it in many years, so I decided to try it. I found Beatrice by way of Nathaniel Hawthorne, who saw Guido's portrait of her in the Barberini Gallery and fell in love with her. I read Stendhal's account of the case, and many others. But my version is quite different."
"You changed the story?" Marisa asked.
"Not the facts or the incidents," Neil said. He felt that he was talking too much about something that could not really interest her. "But the feelings and motivations of the people. Beatrice is usually idealized, portrayed as an innocent, still virtually a child."
"Wasn't she?"
"I tried to make her both innocent and knowing," Neil said. "When I did more research and read some passages from the actual court documents of the case, I found it all much more uncertain and open to interpretation in different ways. There's a moral ambiguity to Beatrice, which is probably why she fascinates me."
"I see. But her father-he really was an evil man?"
"Oh yes, he was a monster."
That seemed to please Marisa, who smiled broadly. "I'd love to read your book."
"I'm sorry I don't have a copy with me, but I'll be happy to send you one when I get back to Rome."
"Thank you. Signed, please?"
"Of course."
Marisa squeezed his arm again and Neil smiled at her. She was so attractive, pleasant to talk to and be with, and his encounters with women had been di
sappointingly few since he'd come to Italy.
They reached the front door, but before she opened it Marisa turned and looked around as if she were checking the weather. Then she led him into a dimly lit entrance hall. As soon as the door clicked shut, Neil noticed how quiet the house was. There were two large armoires and a couple of free-standing coat racks, along with a pair of heavy upholstered chairs made of very dark wood, and a long ornate wooden bench. All of this furniture was old, chipped and dusty. A gloomy corridor led straight into the house from the entrance area. Off to the right was a wide flight of stairs that led to a landing and then angled up toward the center again.
"I hope you won't mind waiting for a moment while I go and make arrangements for your room and bed? We so seldom have visitors, I want to make sure they open the window and change the linens."
"Don't go to any trouble for me," Neil insisted politely. "I'd be fine on a couch with a blanket."
"Oh no, we can certainly do better than that." Marisa led him into a small sitting room and turned on a floor lamp that had a battered shade with a fringe. "You can sit here. I'll be right back."
"Thank you."
As soon as he was alone, Neil noticed that it was an interior room. It had no windows, no other doors. There were two plain wooden chairs, both so dusty that he decided not to sit down. Boxes of old books were stacked up against the back wall of the narrow room. He went closer and looked at them but the titles were in a language he didn't recognize.
Neil began to feel uncomfortable in his breathing. He was asthmatic, though he had such a mild case of it that he rarely experienced difficulties. A single Benadryl capsule was usually enough to quell a reaction. But now he could taste powdery alkaline fungus in his mouth-even before he spotted the patches of it on the lower side walls of the room. Neil's lungs tightened, he could feel himself losing the ability to breathe in and out.
He turned toward the door, forcing himself to move slowly and carefully, as he had learned long ago- sudden exertions only made matters worse. Now he felt a little dizzy, lightheaded, as if he'd just been hit by a very powerful nicotine jag. This was something Neil didn't associate with asthma. His thoughts were foggy and vague, but he wondered if it was an effect of the particular fungus in that room-not mildew, it was something else, something new and deeply unpleasant to him-and he could imagine invisible toxic clouds of it being sucked in as he breathed, quickly absorbed into his blood, and then sluicing chaos into his brain.
Neil reached for the doorknob but his hand seemed to wave and flap listlessly in the air. Wow-the word formed in his mind with absurd calm and detachment- he couldn't remember the last time he had a reaction this strong and swift. He might even fall down.
But then Marisa opened the door and smiled at him.
"You look pale," she said, taking his arm in hers again.
"I think I'm just a little tired, that's all," Neil said. "I did a lot of walking and driving today before I got here."
"Dinner is later, but we'll have some wine and snacks now."
"That sounds very good."
She led him down the long corridor toward the rear of the house. There were any number of doors on either side, but all of them were closed. They passed three more staircases, one that went down on the left side, then farther on another that went down to the right, and at the back, one more that led to the upper floors.
"Too many rooms," Marisa said, almost to herself. "It's impossible to take care of all these rooms anymore. Most of them are closed and never used. There's no need for them."
Neil nodded sympathetically. "Do you have any brothers or sisters? I mean, aside from the brother you mentioned."
"No, only Hugo. That's part of the problem. He's away on business often and has no interest in running things here. Neither do I," she added in a lower, almost conspiratorial tone.
A familiar story, Neil thought. He couldn't imagine someone like her remaining here for very long, even if it was her family home. A bright young woman who had recently finished her university degree-work and life and love were all to be found elsewhere now, out in the world.
He felt better as they stepped outside, his breathing was almost back to normal. They walked to a stone patio with a weathered wooden table and several chairs. It was located a short distance from the house, at an angle that allowed them a very attractive view of the sharp ridges and deep vales that unfolded in the distance.
He also saw, directly beyond the yard around the house, a gradually rising series of terraces and still more outbuildings. Men were working the plots, kids were playing, and Neil occasionally caught a glimpse of a woman in a woolly jacket and long skirt peering out of one hut or another.
He and Marisa sat at the table. A bottle of red wine and two crystal goblets had already been placed there, and two older women soon appeared to set down platters of food. Neil knew immediately from their features that they were not related to Marisa.
There were slices of cold sausage, black olives, cuts of three or four different kinds of cheese, something that looked like pate or a meat pudding, a couple of loaves of bread, butter, a bowl of dark olive oil and a few jars and dishes that contained unknown sauces and spreads. The wine, which Marisa said they made from their own grapes, was a dark ruby-maroon in color and had a little too much of a tannic edge, but it was drinkable.
"Robusto," Neil managed to say.
Marisa was no longer wearing sunglasses. Her eyes were deep blue, frank, open, curious-perhaps he was reading too much into them this soon, but they were so easy to gaze at. The breeze played in her silky black hair. She had such striking features-strong cheekbones, a wide mouth, rosy full lips, a proud nose, clear smooth skin with a pearly luster-altogether, they grabbed your attention and held it.
Neil and Marisa nibbled at the food, drank the wine and talked for an hour or more about books, history, Italy, America, and their lives. He felt very comfortable and relaxed with her. He was usually not one to volunteer much information about himself, but he soon found that he wanted to tell her things, that he enjoyed her questions and interest.
When La Petrella was published and Neil had to give quite a few interviews, he quickly developed a brief biographical sketch that satisfied most questioners. How he had stayed on in Worcester after graduating from Assumption College. The six years of substitute teaching by day, bartending nights and weekends at the Templewood Golf Course or at Olivia's. All of the reading and writing he had done in odd hours, slowly accumulating the first novel, and then the second. How both of those books were indifferently reviewed in only a few places, and barely sold. How Neil had decided to give fiction one more chance, and-bingo. The glowing reviews of La Petrella, the solid sales, the trade paperback that sold even better, and the film option. It was a happy American story, neat and edifying.
But with Marisa, Neil wanted to say more. He told her about the death of his mother, which was followed only a few months later by the breakup with his longtime girlfriend, Jamie, and how those two events had forever changed him, diminishing his expectations of life and instilling in him a certain resignation to melancholy that even now, almost four years later, showed no sign of going away.
"Ha, it serves her right," Marisa said of Jamie. "She left you just before your book came out and did so well. I'm sure she has kicked herself many times since then. Better you found out sooner than later. You should be glad she left when she did."
He wasn't, but Neil laughed at Marisa's words and part of him hoped that she was right about Jamie kicking herself. Still, even after the book was published, she had never called or written, never made any attempt to revive the relationship, and he'd long ago accepted the fact that it was dead.
Marisa spoke softly but quickly, her voice fluid and pleasing to the ear. She had a way of filling any brief moments of silence that arose. Neil gradually learned more about her, and it was pretty much as he had already guessed. She had returned home after college, intending to stay for a month or two, the summer at most.
Her degree was in history, which meant that she could only teach or go back to college for a postgraduate degree, neither of which appealed to her. She had been thinking of moving to Florence. She could always find a job like waitressing to earn money while she looked for an opening in a more interesting line of work-perhaps fashion, magazines, the arts. Florence was a lively creative city, there were always opportunities for bright young people who looked for them.
But she soon was caught up in "keeping things going" at home. Her parents and two surviving grandparents were all in varying stages of illness or frailty. It was impossible just to walk away. Her family and the tenants needed her. Marisa's brother Hugo was often away on business-he was a rep for a medical supply company- and his financial contributions were very helpful to the household.
Father Panic's Opera Macabre Page 2