The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  “You’ll be comfortable at my hotel.” He took her suitcase in his right hand and held his cane with his left. She held the other suitcase and walked alongside him, holding his arm, matching his broken pace.

  “I’m so glad to see you.” Her voice was breathy. “Your letters have meant so much to me. I’ve kept them all. Did you keep mine?” Her candor seemed gauche. Can’t she keep anything to herself? No, I did not miss her. He wondered if perhaps he really had. He focused his attention on getting a taxi. “Not even one of my letters?” He saw that he had hurt her feelings and felt guilty, confused. He hadn’t intended to lead her on.

  “Here’s our taxi. We’ll talk of these things later.” They settled into the cab.

  “I have a ticket on the four o’clock train,” she told him. He attributed the stab in his midsection to his awkward position and perhaps to a bit of indigestion brought on by his hasty breakfast on a swaying train earlier that morning rather than to his disappointment at this unexpected change in their plan.

  “I thought we said tomorrow.” He felt safe calling this to her attention.

  “I’m sorry, darling. Gabriele is doing the books tomorrow. If I’m not there, he will find my ‘investment’ in your gemstones.” Their taxi stopped at the carriage entrance at the Savoy Hotel on the Piazza della Repubblica. Losine helped Willa out and brought her to his suite on the fourth floor. A bellman followed with her suitcases. Losine opened the door, and Willa entered the golden yellow room.

  “So this is where you stay. Lovely.” She took a red rose from the vase on the table nearby and inhaled its fragrance. “I love roses.” Behind her, the bellman let the suitcases drop onto the floor.

  “Be careful!” Willa said to him. “That will break.”

  “It’s not important,” Losine told the bellman quickly. “There’s many more where that came from. Start the fire, please.” When the fire had flamed up, Losine gave him several bills, and the bellman withdrew, closing the door behind him. The latch clicked.

  Willa dropped the rose on a nearby table. “Why did you tell him it wasn’t important and then give him that illegal tip?” she said. “If anything breaks, it will be worthless.”

  “I don’t want him to come looking to see what it is when I’m out of the room,” Losine replied.

  “He didn’t look like that kind of person.”

  “Even the most benign-looking people can be dangerous,” Losine said. “Please, sit down. Will you have a drink and something to eat?”

  “Yes. Let’s celebrate. Together at last!”

  Losine had not expected her to be this forward, so openly certain of her feelings. So willing. Nothing like Greta. He should not have suggested that they come to his hotel until—unless—he was certain. She would surely get the wrong idea. He must complete the purchase of the fresco and clarify his feelings, his intentions. Certainly, it was not his intention to get involved in something so messy and unpredictable. What had he been thinking?

  “Champagne?” Losine opened a bottle of Moet from the bar, poured two glasses, and handed one to Willa. She laughed her melodic laugh.

  “To us and to our…our what? Our business transactions.” She laughed again. Guileless, he thought. At least, no one can see or hear her. Us. He felt more comfortable without witnesses to his guilt, to his betrayal of Greta earlier, and now once more with this woman.

  “To our transactions,” he said. On the table between them he set out the small plate mounded with caviar and toasts. I’ll maintain a businesslike distance, he told himself.

  Willa spread a generous portion of caviar on a piece of toast and bit into it. “I love caviar,” she said, her mouth full. She sipped her champagne.

  “Shall we look at what you’ve brought?” Losine said. She set her glass on the table. Languidly, she removed a silver key from her purse, unlocked the battered leather suitcases, and opened them. From the first, she lifted out two bundles, both wrapped in white lingerie, and placed them on the wide bed.

  “My laundry,” she laughed. Carefully, she unrolled one of the bundles. “These are the last two original Orvietos. Gabriele doesn’t know,” she said. “He wants to keep everything in the family just like his land, but we must raise money if we’re going to get our business going again.” She unrolled the other bundle. “There’s this box, too. It is beautiful, isn’t it?” She turned to the second valise and took out another bundle, this one wrapped in a dress. She laid it on the bed and unrolled the small, Etruscan fresco of a goddess of spring. It was far more beautiful and perfect than he remembered. He was flooded with an unaccustomed feeling of happiness. Concealing his excitement, he took out his wallet and counted out the amount they had agreed upon: thirty thousand lire. “What do you think these others are worth?” Why suggest more than absolutely necessary? Something could go wrong. “One can’t be sure until they’re sold,” he said.

  “Sold? I thought you wanted these for yourself, too.” She started to roll up the bundles.

  Though he realized that he had expressed an interest in the antiquities, he was surprised that she was so upset. “Your letter said you needed money, and I said I would try to help you liquidate them quickly.”

  “What about the money from my share of the stones? I have to replace the entire two hundred thousand immediately. Before Gabriele finds out.”

  “Very well. How much do you want for these, then?”

  “One hundred fifty thousand lire for the box.” He knew it was worth a great deal more. Did she? “And twenty thousand for the wine.”

  He didn’t want her to think he would take advantage of her. “It’s difficult to predict how much they will bring.” At least that much was true.

  “I know they’re valuable.”

  She isn’t a fool. “Everything can be put up for auction immediately,” he said. “I’ll contact the auction house tomorrow.” There, it’s done. A simple business transaction. All above board.

  “But I must have the money immediately.”

  He studied the pieces. Beautiful. Rare. Ancient wines? Their historic significance incalculable. “It takes time to get such objects to auction,” he said. “One wants the right house. Do you have permits?” She shook her head.

  “Heavens, no! If I had applied for permits, Gabriele would have found out.” She wrapped the pieces up and put the bundles in her suitcases.

  “What if I give you hundred and fifty thousand for the box today,” he said finally, “and let the buyer worry about the permit?”

  “Very well, then. One-hundred-fifty thousand for the box. Write that down. And for the wine?” She took off her jacket and settled back in her chair.

  “I could give you twenty thousand against sale,” he said. “That may be more than it’s worth, but I’m happy to do it for you.” A slight loss on the wine, he decided, would make him feel less guilty about ending his relationship with her. Still, it could be awkward if he put all this in writing. There could be trouble about a license. Or their relationship, for that matter. He didn’t want his name associated with any legal questions. He had enough legal troubles already.

  “That covers the two hundred you need if you include what we agreed on for the fresco.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Now, write down our arrangement, please.”

  He couldn’t avoid it, he decided. He went to the desk and took out a sheet of hotel letterhead. He would keep the descriptions obvious, innocuous. He wrote:

  Etruscan box without archeological permit, estimated value: 150,000 lire.

  Two bottles of antique Orvieto wine, vintage unknown, without permit, estimated value: 20,000 lire

  He stopped. How to describe the fresco? It would not leave his hands. A vague description would make it harder to trace, he concluded.

  Small painting of unknown origin, estimated value: 30,000 lire

  “Now, if you will sign here,” he said. He pointed to the space at the bottom of the receipt and handed her his pen. She signed the paper without reading it and re
turned the pen to him. He left her receipt on the desk.

  “I am so grateful for your help.” She picked up the receipt, looked at it. “Here, I think you must sign too. That way it’s official.” He had not expected this. He signed his name so that it was illegible. “Now, we’re partners,” she said smiling.

  Her guilelessness astonished him. He looked at her with new eyes, warmed to her once again. Yes, he had missed her, truly he had. She was beautiful, but it was her obvious trust in him, her unquestioning belief in his inherent goodness that affirmed for him his membership in all that was human. She put the receipt in her purse. It seemed to him that he had given her a receipt for the return of his soul. No longer lost. They sat in silence. An awkward formality arose between them.

  “You have been well?” he asked.

  She smiled at him, her green eyes sparkling. “Well? Of course, my sweet darling. I have been thinking only of you. Us. What about you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Merely ‘yes’?” she asked him.

  “Yes, I’ve been well, too.”

  She sipped her champagne and took another bite of caviar-laden toast. He heard the growing silence in the room, watched as she wiped her lips with a white napkin. He disliked the sight of the lipstick smears and the dark stain of caviar on the napkin. It seemed unkempt to him, an imperfection. He knew he was wrong. He got up and looked out the window at the wan sky and tried to think of something pleasant so as not to spoil their time together. Her rosy skin….

  “How often do you come to Firenze?” she asked.

  The image of her naked body intruded on his thoughts. Reflexively, he thought of Greta, his disloyalty to her with this woman. “Rarely.” He sat down in a nearby chair covered in fraying yellow silk.

  Willa folded the napkin in quarters and put it on the plate. “So this is a special trip, then?” Was she angling for a declaration from him? How could she under the circumstances? She brushed crumbs from her lap into her napkin.

  “I have other business here, too.” He wanted to sound indifferent, to step back from the precipice. A married woman. What would Greta think?

  “More business than ours?” She smiled as if they shared a private joke.

  “Yes.”

  She stood up, walked over to where he was, and leaned down to him. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you feeling well?” She kissed him lightly on the forehead and stroked his hair.

  “I wish it were only that,” he said, pretending she wasn’t there, yet eager to touch her.

  “If you wish that, then I do too,” she said. She reached down and rested her hand on his knee. He took her hand and held it so she couldn’t distract him by touching him.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” he said.

  “Where would you like me to sit?” Seized by his forbidden desire, he drew her onto his lap. They held each other quietly. He unbuttoned her blouse, slid it off her round, warm shoulders, and let it fall to the floor, overwhelmed with gratitude that in a world that was not his home, he was at this moment no longer alone. He held her against him, his cheek against the white satin and lace of the slip that covered her breasts. Slowly, he lowered her slip and bra and buried his face between her breasts, feeling their warmth against his cheeks. He stood up with her and carefully removed her skirt, folded it, and placed it on the chair where they had been sitting. On top of the skirt, he folded her slip, her stockings, and then her garter belt, bra, and panties, all white. Now she stood naked in front of him. It was the first time he had truly seen her body, and he drank in her voluptuousness and the minute wrinkles and stretch marks on her belly. He stroked her breasts, sucked at each nipple, ran his fingers over her hips, and, with her standing in front of him, kissed her between her legs holding her hips to steady himself. Then he guided her toward the bed and stood before her as she removed his clothes, tossing them on the floor like unwanted toys. He remained before her as she kissed him again and again, beginning with his lips, his ears and neck and moving down and around his body until she arrived at his erection, stroking and kissing it, too, until he trembled. He laid her back on the rose silk bedcover with her beneath him and pressed himself hard between her legs into the warmth of her. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she held him immobile. When, at last, she let him go, their slightest movement threatening the loss they both desired and holding it off until, no longer in control, they ended in a mutual cry.

  He opened his eyes and wiped the tears from hers and then from his own. “I love you,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Later that afternoon Losine escorted Willa to the station. While he waited with her on the platform, he took a brown paper envelope from his coat pocket. “Here’s fifty thousand more in case you need it.” She looked at him, her eyes wide. “We mustn’t allow anything to create suspicion.” She hid the money in a pocket deep inside the lining of her purse.

  “I’ll sell everything this afternoon,” he said. “How soon will you come back?”

  “I’ll let you know when I get home.” She kissed him and taking the empty suitcases, she boarded the train. He waited on the platform until she waved to him from her compartment. When she had gone, he strode out of the station into the crisp, grey-violet dusk. It was still early. He chose one of the beggars from among those who lined the entrance and gave him a fifty lire note. Instead of taking a taxi as he usually did, he plunged into darkening neighborhoods, amid doorways and courtyards blackened by time, beneath the balconies filled with ragged laundry that would not dry until spring, inhaling the aromas of soups and sauces simmering in nearby kitchens, embracing his own unexpected joy. As soon as I return to Milano, I’ll make a gift for her. Something beautiful. Something with emeralds.

  7

  Losine checked his valise on the seat next to him once again. Would the fresco be safer on the floor? He moved to the corner seat next to the window and placed the valise next to him so that he would be sitting between it and other passengers. He had consigned the other antiquities to the auction house of Flavi and De Angeli, the most respected dealers in Firenze. He was pleased with the arrangements he had made. In exchange for a larger share of the usual consignment fee, Pierluigi Flavi himself had guaranteed “an immediate sale.” The sale would bring enough to cover the higher consignment fee, the two hundred and fifty thousand lire Losine had given Willa, and, in addition, the amount of her remaining share in the gemstones, plus interest. Even under such favorable arrangements, he would only break even, but the two prizes he most desired— Willa and the fresco—were now his.

  Relieved by the new clarity of his feelings for Willa, he wanted to do something that would affirm their relationship in a tangible way. He found some paper in his briefcase and began sketching the design for a pair of earrings of antique gold. The pinkish hue of the metal would suit her coloring, and the two emeralds in his office safe, when cut, would complement her eyes. He drew the incised rosettes that would conceal the posts. From these, each pendant would hang suspended on a length of braided gold attached almost invisibly at both ends with a gold ring. The cut emerald pendants would move as she moved, reflecting the light in their facets, suggesting the flutter of leaves in a breeze. Losine imagined the sparkle of her hair and the pendants together as the play of sunlight on deep green water. In the corner of the sketch, he wrote, “two ounces of antique red gold.” Though less gold would suffice, he wanted to be sure to have enough should he decide to change the design or make a necklace, too. On the sketch, he noted instructions for cutting the stones. He put the drawing in his briefcase.

  In Milano, Losine put the drawing in a folder in the back of the file cabinet in his office next to the unmarked one where where he kept Willa’s letters. He closed the file drawer and locked it. There was only one key to the cabinet, which he kept with him at all times. He took his briefcase and went out of the office. He closed and locked the door. Tomorrow, he would meet with the representative from the gemstone syndicate and learn the fate of his investment.

&nbs
p; When he returned to his apartment building a few blocks away, he was pleased to see that in his absence the concierge had arranged for the polishing of the brass mailboxes, doorknobs, and other fittings, as he had instructed. The advantage of owning the building meant he didn’t have to accept any excuses for sloppiness. The concierge mentioned that a telegram had arrived for him. He opened his mailbox and collected the contents. Usually, he ate a solitary lunch on his balcony overlooking the street. Though he would have preferred the quiet of the terrace in back, he didn’t want to look at the garden. It was in poor condition just then, and it upset him to see it. He sifted through his correspondence looking for Willa’s telegram. There! She must have sent it as soon as she got home. He smiled at the thought. He set the stack of mail down on a nearby windowsill and opened the envelope. Dated that morning, it had been sent from Arezzo. Her discretion pleased him:

  Darling - All items plus cash found missing. Authorities involved very soon unless everything replaced immediately. Meet Firenze, usual place, tomorrow. Bring everything. Yours in haste - W

  Melodramatic, he thought. Foolish. What if the telegraph operator revealed the contents of her message to someone else? You never know. He put the telegram in the envelope and pushed it deep into his overcoat pocket. Given his situation, suspicion must be avoided at all costs. He despised the shiver of anxiety that passed through him. A sign of cowardice, he thought. He wanted to see her again. As soon as possible. The antiquities could be sold already, and withdrawing her stake in the gemstones prematurely could seriously undermine his own financial position and alienate his partners. It was regrettable that the objects had been missed so soon. He must do what he could for her to protect his own interests. He picked up the stack of mail and went to his apartment. There’s no choice but to return her stake and front all of the money myself. What a nuisance! Perhaps I could sell her share in the gems to another investor. But who? He took the fresco with him and went out, stopping first at the telegraph office where he sent a message to Flavi and De Angeli: Unforeseen problems indicate consignment must be withdrawn.