In conversation he was at first formal. “I thank you for your kind note. I have been looking forward to seeing you.”
She turned toward the palazzo. “My people are out. They have gone to a wedding on another island. May I show you something of the palace?”
He was at this news both pleased and disappointed. He did not at the moment feel like meeting her family. Yet if she had presented him, it would have been a good sign.
They walked for a while in the garden, then Isabella took Freeman’s hand and led him through a heavy door into the large rococo palazzo.
“What would you care to see?”
Though he had superficially been through two floors of the building, wanting to be led by her, this close to him, Freeman replied, “Whatever you want me to.”
She took him first to the chamber where Napoleon had slept. “It wasn’t Napoleon himself who slept here,” Isabella explained. “He slept on Isola Bella. His brother Joseph may have been here, or perhaps Pauline, with one of her lovers. No one is sure.”
“Oh ho, a trick,” said Freeman.
“We often pretend,” she remarked. “This is a poor country.”
They entered the main picture gallery. Isabella pointed out the Titians, Tintorettos, Bellinis, making Freeman breathless; then at the door of the room she turned with an embarrassed smile and said that most of the paintings in the gallery were copies.
“Copies?” Freeman was shocked.
“Yes, although there are some fair originals from the Lombard school.”
“All the Titians are copies?”
“All.”
This slightly depressed him. “What about the statuary—also copies?”
“For the most part.”
His face fell.
“Is something the matter?”
“Only that I couldn’t tell the fake from the real.”
“Oh, but many of the copies are exceedingly beautiful,” Isabella said. “It would take an expert to tell they weren’t originals.”
“I guess I’ve got a lot to learn,” Freeman said.
At this she squeezed his hand and he felt better.
But the tapestries, she remarked as they traversed the long hall hung with them, which darkened as the sun set, were genuine and valuable. They meant little to Freeman: long floor-to-ceiling, bluish-green fabrics of woodland scenes: stags, unicorns, and tigers disporting themselves, though in one picture, the tiger killed the unicorn. Isabella hurried past this and led Freeman into a room he had not been in before, hung with tapestries of somber scenes from the Inferno. One before which they stopped was of a writhing leper, spotted from head to foot with pustulating sores which he tore at with his nails, but the itch went on forever.
“What did he do to deserve his fate?” Freeman inquired.
“He falsely said he could fly.”
“For that you go to hell?”
She did not reply. The hall had become gloomily dark, so they left.
From the garden close by the beach where the raft was anchored, they watched the water turn all colors. Isabella had little to say about herself—she seemed to be quite often pensive—and Freeman, concerned with the complexities of the future, though his heart contained multitudes, found himself comparatively silent. When the night was complete, as the moon was rising, Isabella said she would be gone for a moment, and stepped behind a shrub. When she came forth, Freeman had this utterly amazing vision of her, naked, but before he could even focus his eyes on her flowerlike behind, she was already in the water, swimming for the raft. After an anguished consideration of could he swim that far or would he drown, Freeman, eager to see her from up close (she was sitting on the raft, showing her breasts to the moon), shed his clothes behind the shrub where her delicate things lay, and walked down the stone steps into the warm water. He swam awkwardly, hating the picture he must make in her eyes, Apollo Belvedere slightly maimed; and still suffered visions of drowning in twelve feet of water. Or suppose she had to jump in to rescue him? However, nothing risked, nothing gained, so he splashed on and made the raft with breath to spare, his worries always greater than their cause.
But when he had pulled himself up on the raft, to his dismay, Isabella was no longer there. He caught a glimpse of her on the shore, darting behind the shrub. Nursing gloomy thoughts, Freeman rested awhile, then, when he had sneezed twice and presupposed a nasty cold, jumped into the water and splashed his way back to the island. Isabella, already clothed, was waiting with a towel. She threw it to Freeman as he came up the steps, and withdrew while he dried himself and dressed. When he came forth in his seersucker, she offered salami, prosciutto, cheese, bread, and red wine, from a large platter delivered from the kitchen. Freeman, for a while angered at the runaround on the raft, relaxed with the wine and feeling of freshness after a bath. The mosquitoes behaved long enough for him to say he loved her. Isabella kissed him tenderly, then Ernesto and Giacobbe appeared and rowed him back to Stresa.
Monday morning Freeman didn’t know what to do with himself. He awoke with restless memories, enormously potent, many satisfying, some burdensome; they ate him, he ate them. He felt he should somehow have made every minute with her better, hadn’t begun to say half of what he had wanted—the kind of man he was, what they could get out of life together. And he regretted that he hadn’t gotten quickly to the raft, still excited by what might have happened if he had reached it before she had left. But a memory was only a memory—you could forget, not change it. On the other hand, he was pleased, surprised by what he had accomplished: the evening alone with her, the trusting, intimate sight of her beautiful body, her kiss, the unspoken promise of love. His desire for her was so splendid it hurt. He wandered through the afternoon, dreaming of her, staring often at the glittering islands in the opaque lake. By nightfall he was exhausted and went to sleep oppressed by all he had lived through.
It was strange, he thought, as he lay in bed waiting to sleep, that of all his buzzing worries he was worried most about one. If Isabella loved him, as he now felt she did or would before very long; with the strength of this love they could conquer their problems as they arose. He anticipated a good handful, stirred up, in all probability, by her family; but life in the U.S.A. was considered by many Italians, including aristocrats (else why had Ernesto been sent to sniff out conditions there?), a fine thing for their marriageable daughters. Given this additional advantage, things would somehow get worked out, especially if Isabella, an independent girl, gazed a little eagerly at the star-spangled shore. Her family would give before flight in her eyes. No, the worry that troubled him most was the lie he had told her, that he wasn’t a Jew. He could, of course, confess, say she knew Levin, not Freeman, man of adventure, but that might ruin all, since it was quite clear she wanted nothing to do with a Jew, or why, at first sight, had she asked so searching a question? Or he might admit nothing and let her, more or less, find out after she had lived awhile in the States and seen it was no crime to be Jewish; that a man’s past was, it could safely be said, expendable. Yet this treatment, if the surprise was upsetting, might cause recriminations later on. Another solution might be one he had thought of often: to change his name (he had considered Le Vin but preferred Freeman) and forget he had ever been born Jewish. There was no question of hurting family, or being embarrassed by them, he the only son of both parents dead. Cousins lived in Toledo, Ohio, where they would always live and never bother. And when he brought Isabella to America they could skip N.Y.C. and go to live in a place like San Francisco, where nobody knew him and nobody “would know.” To arrange such details and prepare other minor changes was why he figured on a trip or two home before they were married; he was prepared for that. As for the wedding itself, since he would have to marry her here to get her out of Italy, it would probably have to be in a church, but he would go along with that to hasten things. It was done every day. Thus he decided, although it did not entirely satisfy him; not so much the denial of being Jewish—what had it brought him but headach
es, inferiorities, unhappy memories?—as the lie to the beloved. At first sight love and a lie; it lay on his heart like a sore. Yet, if that was the way it had to be, it was the way.
He awoke the next morning, beset by a swarm of doubts concerning his plans and possibilities. When would he see Isabella again, let alone marry her? (“When?” he had whispered before getting into the boat, and she had vaguely promised, “Soon.”) Soon was brutally endless. The mail brought nothing and Freeman grew dismayed. Had he, he asked himself, been constructing a hopeless fantasy, wish seducing probability? Was he inventing a situation that didn’t exist, namely, her feeling for him, the possibility of a future with her? He was desperately casting about for something to keep his mood from turning dark blue, when a knock sounded on his door. The padrona, he thought, because she often came up for one unimportant thing or another, but to his unspeakable joy it was Cupid in short pants—Giacobbe holding forth the familiar envelope. She would meet him, Isabella wrote, at two o’clock in the piazza where the electric tram took off for Mt. Mottarone, from whose summit one saw the beautiful panorama of lakes and mountains in the region. Would he share this with her?
Although he had quashed the morning’s anxiety, Freeman was there at 1 p.m., smoking impatiently. His sun rose as she appeared, but as she came toward him he noticed she was not quite looking at him (in the distance he could see Giacobbe rowing away), her face neutral, inexpressive. He was at first concerned, but she had, after all, written the letter to him, so he wondered what hot nails she had had to walk on to get off the island. He must sometime during the day drop the word “elope” to see if she savored it. But whatever was bothering her, Isabella immediately shook off. She smiled as she greeted him; he hoped for her lips but got instead her polite fingers. These he kissed in broad daylight (let the spies tell Papa) and she shyly withdrew her hand. She was wearing—it surprised him, though he gave her credit for resisting foolish pressures—exactly the same blouse and skirt she had worn on Sunday. They boarded the tram with a dozen tourists and sat alone on the open seat in front; as a reward for managing this she permitted Freeman to hold her hand. He sighed. The tram, drawn by an old electric locomotive, moved slowly through the town and more slowly up the slope of the mountain. They rode for close to two hours, watching the lake fall as the mountains rose. Isabella, apart from pointing to something now and then, was again silent, withdrawn, but Freeman, allowing her her own rate at flowering, for the moment without plans, was practically contented. A long vote for an endless journey; but the tram at last came to a stop and they walked through a field thick with wildflowers, up the slope to the summit of the mountain. Though the tourists followed in a crowd, the mountaintop was broad and they stood near its edge, to all intents and purposes alone. Below them, on the green undulating plains of Piedmont and Lombardy, seven lakes were scattered, each a mirror reflecting whose fate? And high in the distance rose a ring of astonishing snow-clad Alps. Ah, he murmured, and fell silent.
“We say here,” Isabella said, “‘un pezzo di paradiso caduto dal cielo.’”
“You can say it again.” Freeman was deeply moved by the sublimity of the distant Alps. She named the white peaks from Mt. Rosa to the Jungfrau. Gazing at them, he felt he had grown a head taller and was inspired to accomplish a feat men would wonder at.
“Isabella—” Freeman turned to ask her to marry him; but she was standing apart from him, her face pale.
Pointing to the snowy mountains, her hand moving in a gentle arc, she asked, “Don’t those peaks—those seven—look like a menorah?”
“Like a what?” Freeman politely inquired. He had a sudden frightening remembrance of her seeing him naked as he came out of the lake and felt constrained to tell her that circumcision was de rigueur in stateside hospitals; but he didn’t dare. She may not have noticed.
“Like a seven-branched candelabrum holding white candles in the sky?” Isabella asked.
“Something like that.”
“Or do you see the Virgin’s crown adorned with jewels?”
“Maybe the crown,” he faltered. “It all depends how you look at it.”
They left the mountain and went down to the water. The tram ride was faster going down. At the lakefront, as they were waiting for Giacobbe to come with the rowboat, Isabella, her eyes troubled, told Freeman she had a confession to make. He, still eager to propose, hoped she would finally say she loved him. Instead, she said, “My name is not del Dongo. It is Isabella della Seta. The del Dongos have not been on the island in years. We are the caretakers of the palace, my father, brother, and I. We are poor people.”
“Caretakers?” Freeman was astonished.
“Yes.”
“Ernesto is your father?” His voice rose.
She nodded.
“Was it his idea for you to say you were somebody else?”
“No, mine. He did what I asked him to. He has wanted me to go to America, but under the right circumstances.”
“So you had to pretend,” he said bitterly. He was more greatly disturbed than he could account for, as if he had been expecting just this to happen.
She blushed and turned away. “I was not sure of the circumstances. I wanted you to stay until I knew you better.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Perhaps I wasn’t serious in the beginning. I said what I thought you wanted to hear. At the same time I wished you to stay. I thought you would be clearer to me after a while.”
“Clearer how?”
“I don’t really know.” Her eyes searched his, then she dropped her glance.
“I’m not hiding anything,” he said. He wanted to say more but warned himself not to.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Giacobbe had come with the boat and steadied it for his sister. They were alike as the proverbial peas—two dark Italian faces, the Middle Ages looking out of their eyes. Isabella got into the boat and Giacobbe pushed off with one oar. She waved from afar.
Freeman went back to his pensione in a turmoil, hurt where it hurts—in his dreams, thinking he should have noticed before how worn her blouse and skirt were, should have seen more than he had. It was this that irked. He called himself a damn fool for making up fairy tales—Freeman in love with the Italian aristocracy. He thought of taking off for Venice or Florence, but his heart ached for love of her, and he could not forget that he had originally come in the simple hope of finding a girl worth marrying. If the desire had developed complications, the fault was mostly his own. After an hour in his room, burdened by an overpowering loneliness, Freeman felt he must have her. She mustn’t get away from him. So what if the countess had become a caretaker? She was a natural-born queen, whether by del Dongo or any other name. So she had lied to him, but so had he to her; they were quits on that score and his conscience was calm. He felt things would be easier all around now that the air had been cleared.
Freeman ran down to the dock; the sun had set and the boatmen were home, swallowing spaghetti. He was considering untying one of the rowboats and paying tomorrow, when he caught sight of someone sitting on a bench—Ernesto, in his hot winter hat, smoking a cheroot. He was resting his wrists on the handle of his cane, his chin on them.
“You weesh a boat?” the guide asked in a not unkindly tone.
“With all my heart. Did Isabella send you?”
“No.”
He came because she was unhappy, Freeman guessed—maybe crying. There’s a father for you, a real magician despite his appearance. He waves his stick and up pops Freeman for his little girl.
“Get een,” said Ernesto.
“I’ll row,” said Freeman. He had almost added “Father,” but had caught himself. As if guessing the jest, Ernesto smiled, a little sadly. But he sat at the stern of the boat, enjoying the ride.
In the middle of the lake, seeing the mountains surrounding it lit in the last glow of daylight, Freeman thought of the “menorah” in the Alps. Where had she got the word, he wondered, and decided anywh
ere, a book or picture. But wherever she had, he must settle this subject once and for all tonight.
When the boat touched the dock, the pale moon rose. Ernesto tied up, and handed Freeman a flashlight.
“Een the jarden,” he said tiredly, pointing with his cane.
“Don’t wait up.” Freeman hastened to the garden at the lake’s edge, where the roots of trees hung like hoary beards above the water; the flashlight didn’t work, but the moon and his memory were enough. Isabella, God bless her, was standing at the low wall among the moonlit statuary: stags, tigers, and unicorns, poets and painters, shepherds with pipes, and playful shepherdesses, gazing at the light shimmering on the water.
She was wearing white, the figure of a future bride; perhaps it was an altered wedding dress—he would not be surprised if a hand-medown, the way they saved clothes in this poor country. He had pleasant thoughts of buying her some nifty outfits.
She was motionless, her back toward him—though he could picture her bosom breathing. When he said good evening, lifting his light straw, she turned to him with a sweet smile. He tenderly kissed her lips; this she let him do, softly returning the same.
“Goodbye,” Isabella whispered.
“To whom goodbye?” Freeman affectionately mocked. “I have come to marry you.”
She gazed at him with eyes moistly bright, then came the soft, inevitable thunder: “Are you a Jew?”
Why should I lie? he thought; she’s mine for the asking. But then he trembled with the fear of at the last moment losing her, so Freeman answered, though his scalp prickled, “How many no’s make never? Why do you persist with such foolish questions?”
The Complete Stories Page 29