But the feeling didn’t last for long. The airport was very large and very modern and in parts very attractive, but it was also very frightening—at least to Candy, who had never before been abroad for so much as a summer holiday. Everywhere there seemed to be signs giving instructions in every imaginable language but English— or it could, she was willing to admit, simply have been that her bewildered eyes just weren’t capable of locating the English bits. Moving with the stream, however, she eventually found her way through Customs and Immigration, and then stood staring helplessly at the bustling tide of humanity flowing all around her. Even the eyes of the Customs officers had brightened with perceptible Latin appreciation at sight of her trim, insubstantial figure, and the way the warm gold of her light woollen suit complemented her eyes and her swinging hair, and now, standing unattended in the midst of the main reception hall, she found the strongly interested glances of dark-eyed passers-by acutely embarrassing.
She knew that someone was supposed to be meeting her, but nobody appeared to be looking out for her, and so far her name hadn’t been mentioned on the public address system. Despite the mildness of the atmosphere she began to feel rather cold, and when more than ten minutes had elapsed and still there was no indication that anyone was giving her a thought something seemed to start turning over inside her. At last fifteen minutes were up, and almost all of those who had travelled from London with her had been absorbed into the mysterious world beyond the main doors of the airport. Some were collected by relatives and friends and borne away in sleek Italian cars; others departed by bus or taxi, but nobody apart from Candy seemed in any way lost. The anxious-looking man with the two small boys was reunited with a plump and beaming matron who could only have been the children’s mother, and after hugging one another more or less incessantly for about five minutes the whole party went off happily in a battered Volkswagen. Candy even saw the Italian girl meet the man of whom she had obviously been thinking all the way from London. He was tall and good-looking and they made an attractive pair. She watched them as they stood gazing at one another in the midst of the hurrying crowds, and she watched them as they finally disappeared from sight through the swing doors of the airport ... but then, just as another cold wave of misery was about to break over her, she remembered where she was and what she was doing, and the thought of John was pushed out of her head by the thought of her present position.
She fumbled in her handbag for the address of the place that was to be her home for the next few months ... the Convent of the Holy Angels, Via Santa Cristina, Rome. If she wasn’t going to be met there was no doubt about it—she’d better take a taxi. A bus, of course, would be very much cheaper but it would also be something of an ordeal. She didn’t know how to set about finding the right one, and then there were all those staring eyes ... Whatever the taxi cost her, it would be worth it.
She moved outside, struggling not to look overburdened by the three suitcases she was trying to manage single-handed, and soon managed to attract the attention of a taxi-driver. He was middle-aged and paternal, and although he obviously considered her well worth looking at he didn’t have the effect of making her feel uncomfortable. She showed him the address of the convent, and he nodded and took all her cases from her simultaneously.
“Si, signorina. You get in and not worry, uh?”
With a sigh of relief she obeyed, sinking back on to the comfortable rear seat of the taxi, and as the curious eyes and the airport lights swirled away from her and they plunged into the mainstream of traffic heading towards Rome it sank into her consciousness at last that she was actually in Italy. It was an Italy of which she couldn’t yet see very much, despite the brilliance of the street lighting, for most of the time they seemed to be somewhere in the middle of a vast river of rushing traffic, but there was a strangeness in the air that touched her with a hint of excitement which she hadn’t expected to feel, and the faces in the cars moving on either side of the long gleaming taxi were strange too—strange, but vividly interesting. Some of the faces, she noticed, were strikingly attractive, with the chiselled features of ancient Rome and the black hair and eyes of the South, and the women tended to have lovely, flawless skin and a look of having been dressed by the top couturiers. Tired as she was, the faces fascinated her, and they kept her attention occupied for a long time. And then, all at once, they were drawing near to the heart of Rome, and the roads became slightly narrower. She saw great buildings that looked like palaces, glorious archways and shadowy ruins that in the past had looked at her a hundred times from photographs. In all directions the strong white light of the street lamps threw into vivid prominence the figures of Popes and Apostles, poets and emperors, saints and princes whose names had become interwoven with the life and breath of Rome, and every so often they flashed through a lovely piazza where fountains played and a few flower-sellers still lingered until late in the autumn evening to tempt the passers-by.
The size and beauty and splendour of everything around her overwhelmed Candy, and her own insignificance struck her rather violently. She began to be conscious of feeling tired and a little lost, and despite the breathtaking wonder outside the windows of the taxi she knew she would be glad when her destination was reached. Rome would still be there in the morning, and perhaps then she would feel more like taking it in—perhaps then it wouldn’t seem so frightening.
All the arrangements for her stay in Rome had been undertaken for her by the assistants of Signor Maruga, and they had decided that at least until she had had time to find her feet in their capital city she should be accommodated in the guest house of a Benedictine convent which was situated, she understood, not far from the magnificent bulk of St. Peter’s itself. She had never before stayed in a convent, and the idea had seemed strange when it was first mentioned to her, but now it struck her that in the midst of this sea of noise and bustle and confusing, conflicting impressions the tranquillity of the cloister would be a very pleasant refuge.
They entered a maze of narrow streets and tiny squares, and the noise of the traffic died away, to be replaced by the rushing of fountains and the shouts of small tousle-haired raggazzi who ought to have been in bed. At the street corners lights burned beneath brightly coloured images of the Virgin and the saints, and every now and then, from an upper window, there was a burst of music. Even inside the taxi Candy could hear it. One moment it was a radio, blaring forth the latest money-spinner from the world of Italian pop, the next it was a wonderful cascade of Beethoven from an unseen piano. She was fascinated, and absorbed in the sights and, sounds of the streets she didn’t realize they had reached their destination until the taxi-driver got out to open the door for her.
Then she saw that they had come to a halt in the shadow of a very old wall. Set in the wall was a handsome iron-studded door, and over the door a swinging lantern shed light upon a small, gleaming brass plaque to one side of it.
“The Convent of the Holy Angels,” said the taxi-driver in careful English, and extricated Candy’s suitcases from the boot. He stuffed all three cases more or less under one arm, and with his free hand pulled the bell-chain that hung beside the stout old door. Candy got out of his taxi and stood beside him, and as she stared up at the finely carved iron-work of the lantern he thought she looked very white.
“You are tired, signorina? You make a long journey to-day?”
She smiled and shook her head, so that her uncovered hair swung around her.
“It was a long journey, but a very easy one.”
“Yet you are tired. Now that you are in Rome you will rest.”
She was just about to disabuse him of any idea that she had come to Rome to rest when a light suddenly appeared behind a tiny window next to the doorway in front of them, and she saw that a nun was looking out.
“The Sisters wish to know who you are,” the taxi-driver told her. “It is their custom. It is very old. They cannot open the door until they know who you are.” He bent towards the beautiful, finely wrought grille tha
t protected the window and said something in extremely rapid Italian. The nun seemed to hesitate, and she bent her head a little to study the English girl more closely through the thin, ornate bars that separated them.
“You say that we are expecting, you, signorina?” Her voice was quiet and soft, and her English very good,
“Yes.” Candy moved closer to the tiny aperture, feeling very much as if she had suddenly stepped back into the Middle Ages. “Well, I ... I think so. Signor Maruga made all the arrangements.”
“Signor Maruga...?” It could hardly have been called a frown, but a faint pucker certainly did appear between the nun’s slim, straight brows. Then she smiled.
“Wait, I will let you in. Then you can, explain to us.”
She disappeared, and Candy swallowed and glanced at the patient taxi-driver.
Two minutes later the doors in front of them swung open, and another nun appeared. Once again the taxi-driver spoke quickly, and she nodded and smiled, and told him to leave the suitcases just inside the door. Then she beckoned Candy inside, and when she had paid the driver he touched his cap and beamed on her paternally.
“You will be all right now,” he told her. “With the Sisters you will be all right.”
Candy stepped across the worn threshold of the Convent, and as the outer door closed she glanced uncertainly at the white-robed figure beside her.
“Is it all right?” she asked, a little anxiously. “Can I stay here?”
The Sister smiled with the tranquillity of a being for whom no problem is insoluble.
“I am sure you can stay, signorina. Come with me.” They passed through into a small cloistered courtyard, where three more dim lanterns shone on the exquisite tracery above rows of Renaissance arches, and a tiny fountain gushed softly in the stillness of the evening. And in the shadows on the far side of the courtyard the, nun escorting Candy came to a halt beside a narrow door. She knocked, and then almost, immediately turned the handle and gestured to Candy to go in ahead of her.
The English girl found herself in a small, square, white-walled room, very plainly and sparsely furnished. Against the wall there stood a black oak bookcase filled with books and a prie-dieu with a simple crucifix above it, and in the middle of the room, under the central light, there was an enormous and very tidy deal desk. Two women were sitting facing one another across the desk—one a nun in immaculate white, the other a slim, black-haired girl in the dress of fashionable modern Rome.
The nun who had accompanied Candy said something quietly, and her fellow behind the desk looked up and smiled.
“Ah! We are expecting you, signorina. What is your name?”
Candy told her, and her expression changed.
“You are Candida Wells?”
“Yes.”
The nun’s rather humorous mouth curved into a wry smile, and she looked across at the young woman sitting opposite her.
“What a coincidence!” she remarked in English. “But there has been a mistake, I think. We were not expecting you until to-morrow, Signorina Wells. It was tomorrow, was it not?” And she looked again at her companion from the outside world, who had risen to her feet, and was studying Candy with interest.
“Yes, Sister, I thought it was to-morrow. But this must be my fault.” The young woman’s voice was as soft and gentle as the voices of the nuns, and she had the same air of detachment from the rough-and-tumble of the world, but when she turned round Candy realized that she wasn’t quite as young as she had seemed at first. There was something about her that at first glance gave an impression of extreme youth, but a closer look at her serious dark eyes and neat features told Candy that she was probably about thirty. She made a small, very Latin gesture with one well-manicured hand, and smiled apologetically.
“I thought you would be here on the ninth, but it must have been the eighth. I often make such mistakes. I am very sorry.”
She looked intensely worried, and Candy, already tired and bewildered, felt uncomfortable as well. The nun behind the desk intervened.
“Signorina Marchetti arranged for you to stay with us, Miss Wells, but unfortunately there seems to have been a little confusion. We were not expecting you until to-morrow, but, as you say in England, no harm has been done.” She smiled reassuringly at Candy. “Our guest-house is really full, but we shall accommodate you.” She didn’t look worried, but Candy had a feeling that she might have added ‘somehow’. Signorina Marchetti leant towards her across the desk, and said something quietly and urgently. The two women talked in Italian for about a minute, and then the nun spoke to Candy again.
“The Signorina suggests that you stay with her to-night. She has a most charming flat not far from here, and with her”—she shrugged and smiled—“you will be much more comfortable than you would be in our guest-house. But you must tell me what you would like to do.”
Candy felt more bewildered than ever. Although they were careful hot to betray the fact, it was obvious that if she stayed with the nuns she would definitely be putting them to some sort of inconvenience. But on the other hand it seemed a bit much that this strange Italian woman should be expected to entertain her— even though she was, presumably, some sort of agent of Signor Maruga.
“It’s very kind of you...” She looked at Signorina Marchetti, and hesitated. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“To me it is no trouble.” The other woman spoke almost eagerly. “I shall be most happy if you will agree to stay with me—for to-night at least. Your trunks ... they are here?”
Candy nodded a little wryly, thinking of her three small cases reposing in the outer porch of the convent. “Yes, my luggage is here. But there isn’t very much of it.”
“Then we will go. In the morning, if you wish, you may return here.”
The nuns smiled at Candy, and ‘arrivedercis’ were exchanged in all directions. Robed figures escorted the two young women from the outer world back across the little courtyard and through the echoing passageway to the massive main door leading on to the street. Outside, in the late evening tranquillity of the Via Santa Cristina, Signorina Marchetti’s car was waiting, drawn up rather quaintly on the pavement, and before the English girl knew quite what was happening one of the nuns had briskly seized her suitcases and deposited them in the Signorina’s boot. Then, smiling at her distressed expression, they opened the car door for her and helped her inside. She noticed that before stepping back one of them stroked the gleaming paintwork of the vehicle with a kind of childlike pleasure.
The car, a streamlined Italian model which would have cost a fortune in England and probably hadn’t cost so very much less in Rome, moved off with nothing more than a subdued purring sound, and as it slid quietly down the narrow street and round the corner into a piazza the woman behind the wheel glanced at Candy.
“We have not been introduced,” she remarked. “I am Caterina Marchetti. I was asked to make the arrangements for your stay in Rome, and to”—her serious mouth relaxed a little into a half smile—“and to ‘keep an eye’ on you ... that is the term, I think.”
“It’s very good of you,” said Candy, feeling slightly awkward. “I’m afraid I’m causing rather a lot of trouble.”
The Signorina shook her head. “For me it is no trouble.”
They came to a halt in a quiet cul-de-sac, outside a high stone building where one or two lights still gleamed behind heavy curtains, and where a general air of expensive sobriety indicated to Candy that they had reached a rather exclusive corner of the city. Signorina Marchetti got out of the car and beckoned what was evidently a porter from the shadows of the doorway before which they had come to rest, and the English girl followed her out on to the pavement just in time to see her suitcases being borne through swinging glass doors into the entrance hall of what seemed to be quite a luxurious block of flats.
The hall, when they went in, was large and rather dim, for it was lit only by a single lamp, which had been placed near the door, but as soon as she crossed th
e threshold Candy could see that she was in what must once have been one of the great palazzi, now converted into flats. In front of her a wide, shining marble staircase rose in a graceful curve towards the faintly visible splendours of a distant painted ceiling, and at the foot of the stairs the dully gleaming figures of bronze nymphs held aloft candelabra in which the last candles had long since been extinguished.
Signorina Marchetti hurried her guest past the antique glories of the staircase towards a corner where an ultramodern lift had been installed, and together they ascended to the fourth floor, where the Signorina’s own flat was located.
And, tired and dazed as she was, when she entered Signorina Marchetti’s wide salotto Candy could only stand and gaze around her.
It was a room that had probably once been a bedchamber—not one of the best bedchambers, for they would have been found on the lower floors, but still an apartment fit for a respected guest. Because it had never been one of the most important rooms its ceiling was not too uncomfortably high, and all in all, for a room in an ancient palazzo it had an astonishing air of cosiness about it. And at the same time it was bright and elegant, with white walls and tall windows, hidden at the moment behind curtains of gold brocade. There was a gold carpet that spread into every corner of the room, and the furniture was a subtle blend of twentieth-century comfort and Renaissance elegance.
Song Above the Clouds Page 4