I did not hurry back. My spirits were higher than they had been for a long while; the shadows had disappeared with the rain and the sunshine penetrated right into my soul, shooting the odd shaft of light into the corners where darkness had taken up its abode. Perhaps it was the change of weather, perhaps it was the children and this project, the play, which, while not exactly heaving rocks, nevertheless required work and concentration and prevented my thoughts from wandering. I knew that what I had to avoid was inactivity, empty hours—they were like holes in a sheet of already thin ice.
Such were my thoughts as I emerged from the kitchen after giving the staff orders for afternoon tea, and my footsteps became even lighter, for I felt I had solved some puzzle that had been troubling me. Of course I know that nothing was more important than having something to do from morning to night, chores with a clear beginning and foreseeable end, which taxes my powers of organization and resourcefulness, but to a manageable degree. I had often told myself so before, but never as clearly and bluntly as on that day.
I decided not to return directly to the greenhouse but instead to walk down below the villa to the English garden where flower beds alternate with strips of lawn, separated by neatly clipped hedges, some at right angles, others curved or crescent-shaped, because I wanted to savor this weather change in my soul for a few minutes before returning to the children. Pritchett has kept up the garden as far as possible, clipping the hedges himself and making sure that the flower beds do not become overrun with weeds, but it’s naturally not looking its best; it’s a heroic feat to keep it in check. The valley was tranquil; smoke rose from a farm on the lower slopes of Monte Amiata, ascending in a straight column before dispersing into thin air. No aircraft, no roar of engines, although I knew this could change at any moment.
Quickening my pace, I left the garden, heading up the path that leads to the forge and the fattoria, before descending the slope and sweeping around to the greenhouse. The sound of the children’s voices carried to me and I couldn’t help smiling to myself; they were clear and full of infectious enthusiasm now that most of the actors had memorized their lines.
I saw you as I was turning off the path to take a shortcut to the greenhouse. You were standing on the slope above, among the cypresses that concealed the rose garden, your back turned to me, looking toward the main villa, motionless at first, but then you withdrew farther into the shade under the trees. The sun was in my eyes and I raised a hand to my brow to get a better view as I set off at a run toward you. I wanted to call out to you, but my voice failed and so did my legs after a short distance, when in my heedlessness I tripped over a projecting root. I had not taken my eyes off you while I ran and now frantically tried to locate you again as I scrambled to my feet, wiping the sweat from my eyes and the tears that had begun pouring down my face. But you had gone and there was nothing under the trees but the shade that had hidden you—yet I kept going, running as fast as I could, careless of being struck by branches or losing my footing, repeatedly shouting your name, without realizing I was doing so, during the last stretch up the slope.
You were gone. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find you. There’s no path over this slope; above are thick woods, to the west the cemetery and the cluster of buildings. The view of the main villa could not be better—the drive in front of the house, the courtyard between chapel and clinic, the kitchen door from which Pritchett was just this moment emerging. I turned in a circle, peering into the forest thickets but could see nothing but the birds that fluttered from bough to bough, shaking the leaves. I had been prepared to give chase but now felt the strength draining from my body. My arms fell to my sides and my legs stopped working; the air was stifling, the sunlight blinding. What had appeared to be within reach a moment before now seemed impossibly remote; I saw the buildings as if in a mirage, could no longer distinguish Pritchett or the horses that were tethered in the courtyard outside the kitchen door. Yet they were there, I knew it, though I could not see them. There was a ringing in my ears but gradually it faded and I heard the voices of the children, first singly, then all raised in unison in the song that accompanied Snow White’s wedding to the prince.
Just as I was about to start picking my way down the slope, I saw two maids coming along the path to the greenhouse with baskets of food. Not wanting them to see me in such a state, I withdrew into the shadow under the cypresses and hid where you had stood, perhaps in your very footsteps. I dried my eyes, tidied my hair, and brushed the dirt off my skirt. I felt duty-bound to go to the children, feed them, and help Schwester Marie, Kristín, and Signor Grandinetti with the finishing touches, as the premiere was imminent. I was on the point of setting off to join them but, not trusting myself, changed my mind at the last minute. I had to be strong for the children. Turning around, I went home by the shortest route, looking neither right nor left until I reached my room.
“He’s here,” I said to Pritchett when he came to see me.
“Who?”
“Where’s he hiding?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I know how close you two are but I’m shocked you’re prepared to go behind my back like this.”
“Alice,” he said, “what are you talking about? Would you like me to bring you a drink of water?”
He fetched a glass and held it out to me but I didn’t take it.
“He was wearing his green sweater.”
“Alice,” he said, “you should rest.”
“Claudio’s here. Don’t try to deny it. I saw him.”
He stared at me in silence. I had to look away.
“Alice,” he said eventually, “you know how much I care for you both. You know I would never lie to you.”
Was he lying to me or was I losing my mind? I wasn’t sure.
The premiere exceeded all expectations. Schwester Marie persuaded some of the staff to attend so the greenhouse was packed to overflowing. I watched the play in a daze from the doorway. The sun hung low in the sky; in the garden dusk fell, the lower lawns and flower beds lay in blue shadow while above daylight still lingered. Unable to sit still, I got up between the second and third acts and slipped away quietly.
I hadn’t walked more than a few meters from the greenhouse when I spotted you. You were standing where you had stood before, half hidden by the cypresses, holding a pair of binoculars and scanning the valley. This time I was able to call your name, this time I was able to tell my feet to run, this time I was not going to let you get away.
I didn’t see Pritchett following me nor did I pay attention when you dropped the binoculars and turned toward me. Your face was so clear in my mind’s eye, your voice so bright when I heard you say, “Alice, I’m back,” that I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too late.
“What are you doing here, Bruno?” I heard Pritchett say as he gently pulled me away from the troublemaking partisan who looked even more confused than I was.
“One of our men is missing.”
“Where did you get that sweater?”
Bruno looked at me first, then at Pritchett.
“The sweater?”
“Where did you get it?”
“He gave it to me, Marchese Orsini. Last year.”
Pritchett quickly ended the conversation.
“We don’t want any trouble here, Bruno,” he said, pointing to the rifle at the partisan’s feet. “Do you hear me? No trouble here.”
I don’t know if he answered or whether he was still trying to comprehend what was happening. Pritchett led me away, taking me in his arms when we were out of sight. By then I was so deflated that all I could do was close my eyes to prevent the tears from coming and me from making even a bigger fool of myself.
IT’S TOO EASY TO BLAME IT ON SOME DEMONS IN MY head, too convenient to claim that you drove me to it, and wrong to call it love.
I had begun to miss Florence terribly. The parties that began with splendid dinners and lasted till the early hours, the fancy-dress balls on Fridays, the am
ateur dramatics on Saturdays. I missed the lazy mornings after the parties, late lunches, idle afternoons with a book in my hand, sunset over the rooftops. The visits of the woman who gave me manicures and pedicures and anointed me with luxurious creams and potions. The gossip, the dogs Dante, Leonardo, and Michelangelo, and their owners who were each more eccentric than the other but whom I found easy to understand because they were my countrymen. I missed the English tearooms and the shops selling tweed and tennis rackets, and the local English newspapers. We hadn’t been living in the country for long when I started receiving them by post but canceled the subscription when I saw your reaction. I had left a copy of one of the papers on the table in the library and you stopped in your tracks when you saw it, giving the table a quick glance before leaving the room. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to.
I missed the very things I had fled, even my mother, whom I had been determined never to speak to again after she had boycotted our wedding. We began corresponding again and when she broke her leg and asked me to come and visit, I didn’t hesitate. This was in 1936, more than three years after we moved to San Martino. I was careful not to let you sense how much I looked forward to going, saying merely that I couldn’t really refuse my mother’s request given the state she was in; everyone has their cross to bear. I went to great lengths to convince you of my sincerity, putting on a martyred expression and saying I hoped I wouldn’t have to be away too long. You didn’t say much, you seldom did, and I wondered if you actually cared at all. You were more preoccupied with the farm than ever and with the improvements that were progressing slowly at the time.
“I’ve worked out the total distance of the roads we need to build,” you remarked while watching me pack. “Fifty kilometers. We’ve built twenty so far.”
I didn’t know how to answer. Was this some sort of accusation?
“I’ve also worked out how much land we need to cultivate for the farm to become a going concern. Five hundred acres. Maybe more. And for that we need water. Not just from the river. That’s not enough.”
I remember moving slowly, taking a long time to pack a blouse into my suitcase, then saying, “I won’t be away long.”
“We’ll have to see if we can find water up in the hills,” you said. “We’ll have to dig deeper, in more sites.”
Shortly before this, the fattore had told me about a man from Chianciano who knew how to divine for water. I was fairly sure why he had imparted the information to me rather than to you. Now, suddenly, I found myself talking about this man, quoting the fattore. You appeared to be listening, though you were looking not at me but out the window, at the barren, gray wind-blasted hills. When I fell silent, the muscles of your face tautened slightly, then you turned to me and said, “It won’t do the people who rely on us any good if we indulge their superstitious nonsense.”
Of course you were right, but once again I felt completely inadequate and convinced myself that you were doing everything you could to fuel my insecurity.
You went to the door, saying before you left the room, “The car will be here any minute. You’d better hurry if you want to get there before dark.”
What had happened to us? Why had we drifted so far apart? I felt you were more concerned about the goats than about me. You felt I was a spoiled child. And neither of us had the courage to speak our minds.
I had expected to find the house quiet, my mother in bed with her leg in plaster, my stepfather in a fret. I’d said I would be there by six but my departure had been delayed and it was seven before we drove into the city. I opened the window and breathed in the smell of the Arno as we passed the Ponte Vecchio; it was late spring, the dusk was warm, and the sound of the river was restful.
There were lights in all the windows when we drew up at the house. The front door was open and a maid could be seen receiving guests in the hall. Familiar music flooded out, a composition of my stepfather’s. Once this music would have caused me to wince but now I welcomed it.
When the maid caught sight of the car, she started and called into the house. A moment later my mother appeared with arms outstretched in the doorway.
“At last! I was beginning to get worried. What took you so long?”
I looked her up and down. Neither of her legs was in plaster and she wasn’t even limping as she came down the stairs.
“Mother,” I said, “I thought you’d broken your leg?”
“Alice, my darling, let me give you a hug.”
She embraced me and instead of resisting I hugged her tight in return.
“It’s been such an age! You’re not still cross with me, are you?”
We both laughed, wiping our eyes and sniffing a little.
“No, I’m not cross with you,” I said. “But what’s this about your leg?”
“Come inside, darling, they’re waiting for you. My leg got better the moment you said you’d come and see us.”
“Mother!”
“Don’t be angry with me. What else could I do? That awful husband of yours won’t let me see you.”
I didn’t tell her how unfair that was, didn’t bother to defend you who had so often encouraged me to make peace with my family. Instead I just laughed at her outrageousness, encouraging her in the process.
“Just awful,” she repeated. “Beauty and the beast . . .”
The drawing room was full of people and a noisy welcome broke out as I entered. I wasn’t shy—being the center of attention was all of a sudden refreshing. My stepfather had tears in his eyes.
“Now don’t you start blubbing,” my mother said to him.
“This calls for singing!” he declared.
We sang and drank toasts and they filled me in on all the latest gossip. I enjoyed hearing it, even though nothing much had changed since I’d been gone. No one inquired after you and I didn’t really think about you at all until late in the evening when, after a long dinner with numerous courses and uneven speeches, I went out onto the veranda to get some fresh air. There was nothing in the evening’s conversations that should have made me start brooding over the discussion we had had a few weeks earlier about having children, nothing at all. But there I stood, remembering every word, justifying my reluctance and accusing you of pushing me too hard, when I heard someone approach. I turned around and tried to shake off my thoughts when I saw Connor MacKenzie’s youthful smile.
“The rebel is back.”
I laughed.
“Hardly a rebel.”
He gave me a big hug, kissing me on both cheeks.
“Sorry I’m late. I just got off the train from Rome. It’s so good to see you.”
He hadn’t changed. Always mischievous. Sensitive. We used to play together as children and I had been very fond of him. He studied in England and had been abroad when we got married. I hadn’t seen him for a long time.
There was a cheerful din from inside the house. The darkness was warm.
“I’ve often wondered how you’d look now,” he said. “You have a tan. And your hair’s lighter.”
“Life in the country,” I said.
“Well, it obviously suits you.”
I didn’t answer but, lowering my eyes, slowly clasped, then unclasped my fingers.
“And you?” I asked eventually. “What news of you?”
It was then that he reached for my hand, slowly and carefully, as if taking hold of something fragile. I did not withdraw it and he let it lie in his own, raising it to his face for a better look. Then, apparently finding what he was looking for, he released it and smiled.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you remember cutting yourself on that piece of glass?”
“Yes. That was a long time ago.”
“But you still have the scar. I always blamed myself. I got you to keep it for me.”
“We were children.”
“I told you it was treasure. I wouldn’t trust it to anyone but you.”
We smiled at the memory as we gazed at the outlines of trees and bu
shes in the blue dusk. I asked him about his work and he asked me about life in the country, and it was as if no time had passed since we last met, no time at all. Then out of the blue, he said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you’re more beautiful than ever.”
I blushed but managed to smile.
“Thank you. You were always able to lift my spirits.”
He took my hand again, but the touch was different from before.
“It’s so good to see you again,” he said, then quickly added, “we should go inside before I’ll be accused of monopolizing you.”
We met there every day that week. It was so easy talking to him but just as comfortable being silent with him. Some mornings he came over for a late breakfast (how nice it was to sleep in!) and read to me from the paper, and we discussed the news, gossiped and reminisced about old times. Other days we took long walks around the city, always ending up by the river. He found everything I said interesting, and I was so encouraged that I spoke more than I had for months. He seized every opportunity to touch my arm or shoulder, pointing out something he thought I should pay attention to, leading me through a crowd. He never asked me about you and I didn’t talk about you or the country, didn’t talk about anything that would disturb my peace of mind.
Of course I sensed that he was falling in love with me, but I managed initially to tell myself that his interest was purely that of a dear old friend. It was not until my mother remarked one night over dinner (after too much wine, with obvious glee in her eyes) how nice it was to see Connor again that I stopped lying to myself.
Did that cause me to pull back and come to my senses? No, quite the contrary. I encouraged him even more than before, bathing in his admiration, loving his love for me.
Vanity, childishness, irresponsibility, I say to myself now, but that doesn’t help.
After a week we rented a hotel room and spent the afternoon there together. He was so gentle and kind, so concerned that I wouldn’t feel rushed or compromised in any way. In an attempt to justify my betrayal, I contrasted his behavior and my resulting calm to how tense and uncertain I had felt with you recently. And of course I blamed you: it had to be your fault since with Connor I felt exactly the opposite.
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