Crystal’s timer buzzed.
She slipped on an eyelet beach robe, moving to the shade of a flowered marquee. From here visitors invariably described the view hyperbolically, calling it the most gorgeous in Sicily, Italy, Europe, the world. To her left, the town of Taormina tumbled from the medieval outcropping of Castel Mola to the azure Ionian Sea, a picturesque jumble of red roof tile, pastel stucco, maroon bougainvillea, spired church domes and square gray Crusader towers. Taormina was tethered both to history and the point of the bay by its most eloquent relic, the massive red brick ruin of the Greco-Roman theater. Crystal turned to her right, craning to see the abrupt rise of Mount Etna: a thin curve of smoke feathered above the volcano’s uneven cap of snow.
If only the weather holds for the Saudis, she thought. The Talbotts had invited the Saudi Arabian commission in charge of planning highways to “an intimate weekend” at the beginning of January.
Luxurious entertaining was the villa’s purpose.
Crystal, mistress of those artful, seemingly noncommercial friendships that give one the advantage over competitors, last year had determined that their second home, which sprawled along a fairway on Carmel’s Seventeen Mile Drive, was too stodgily bourgeois in this jet-set age. So when she heard from her old friend, Imogene Burdetts Lane Steenberg Capelli, that an Italian film star fallen on hard times was selling the spectacular Taormina property at a substantial loss, she flew over. One quick walk through convinced her. The modernization that had retained the villa’s eighteenth-century charm, the remnants of the original Roman estate and—most of all—this view would seduce any prospective client. Gideon groused about buying a vacation home in such a remote spot: however, having years earlier accepted his second wife as an indispensable part of his business (because of Crystal, Talbott’s had a substantial backlog even during cyclical slumps) he finally agreed to the purchase in his gruffest tone. And Crystal had bargained the desperate actress to an even lower price. The Talbotts had owned the villa ten months and thus far it had already paid for itself twice over with the contract to plan and oversee Egypt’s Mitwan Dam, where Gideon had been for the last three days, since the day after Christmas. He was returning to Sicily late this afternoon.
Boisterous masculine laughter rang over the roar of the sea, and a moment later Alexander appeared on the terrace, followed by Gid. Droplets shone on her sons’ dark tans, and their hair was plastered down with seawater. Both carried snorkels, fins, masks.
Gid’s infant resemblance to Gideon had become more pronounced, the same top-heavy torso and burly calves. His dripping thatch of curly hair was brown, he had Gideon’s round brown eyes and the heavy jawline, on which a scattering of zits showed.
The likeness, though, went only skin deep. Gid lacked the self-confident drive, the righteousness of his father. An innately decent, good-natured boy with a mild sense of humor, he kept his thick shoulders slightly hunched, as if to shrug off the adolescent doubt and insecurities that swarmed around him. His even white teeth, now displayed in a disarming smile, were the one feature he’d inherited from his mother.
Alexander, fifteen months younger, had shot up this past year and was an inch or so the taller. He had the long, narrow, Sylvander bone structure. Slight in comparison to his brother, not as physically mature, he moved around the pool toward her with a graceful assurance that made Crystal catch her breath.
Her second son was beautiful, no doubt about it.
His hair, darkened now by seawater, had the same gilded brightness her own had possessed naturally in her teenage years, and he wore it in the longer style of that irritatingly loud musical group from Liverpool, the Beatles. Alexander’s nose was fine and tilted slightly, like hers; he held his head at an arrogant backward tilt. His long, tawny eyes presented a continuous if subliminal reminder of Curt Ivory: because Crystal loathed the sire while adoring the son, she never consciously let herself dwell on where Alexander had gotten this particular feature.
Not only in appearance were the two Talbott boys near polar opposites. At Menlo, their prep school, Gid went out for team sports—soccer, hockey, football, baseball in season—while Alexander concentrated on tennis and golf, games that in Crystal’s mind would benefit him later. A was for Alexander, while Gid earned C’s and B’s. Gid seldom inhabited the detention room. Alexander was a regular: he had been involved in several prep school scrapes, the most recent involved a marijuana cigarette. Though Alexander had vituperatively and repeatedly denied culpability, Gideon had deprived him of his Vespa for the Christmas break, grounding him over Crystal’s protests.
“Mother,” Gid said, holding out his large, clenched hand. “I found something near the wreck.” This rocky bay had claimed armadas of ships from different millennia. “It’s for you.”
“Thank you, dear,” Crystal said, half rising. Gifts gave her a charge. Gid, knowing this weakness and knowing also that he was bottom man on the fraternal totem pole, spent much of his modest allowance on small presents for her. “Show me.”
Gid opened his fingers to display a thin, irregular disk thick with encrustation.
“It’s a Roman denarius,” Alexander said.
Gid turned. “You told me it was probably a shilling.”
“And you believed me? With that junk on it, that shape?” Alexander slapped his towel at Gid. “Put on your eyes, take a look. You can even see a bit of lettering.”
Gid retrieved the horn-rims he had set down near his snorkel, peering. “Roman,” he sighed, then glared at his brother. “You lied, you shit.”
“Gid,” Crystal reproved automatically.
“Sorry, Mother,” Gid mumbled.
“Hardly a major lie,” Alexander said.
“You saw me almost throw it back—you’d have let me, wouldn’t you?”
“Then I’d’ve fished it out, okay?” Grinning, Alexander feinted a mock punch at his brother’s navel. “Pow!”
Gid hesitated before his sweet-natured smile appeared. Raising his fists, he lolled his head like a punchy boxer.
The two danced around in a parody of a fight, exuding youthful energy and scattering drops of cold water.
“Can’t you do that someplace else?” Crystal asked.
Her shrill note cut through Gid’s horseplay. He picked up a towel, rubbing at the coin. “I’ll clean it up for you, Mother,” he said apologetically.
“If only I had my Vespa,” Alexander said, “if only I were allowed out, I’d take it to Montanini’s and find out what’s what.” Montanini, the elderly numismatist on Piazza Municipio, closed at the height of the tourist season because his authentic antique coins were too expensive for the beef-red hordes of English and Germans: he enjoyed showing his ancient treasures to Alexander, who among his other languages commanded fluent Italian. The boy had the knack of easy friendship even with those he scorned. “Welcome to Christmas and New Year’s in San Quentin.”
Gid rubbed at the metal with terrycloth, scraping his square thumbnail on the verdigris. “A-U-G,” he spelled out.
Alexander took the coin. “Caesar Augustus.”
“And people say our house in San Francisco is historical,” Gid said. “Think. Some poor sailor planned on spending this a thousand years ago.”
“Much earlier,” Alexander said.
“Wha?”
“Augustus ruled when Christ was born.”
“Right, right.” Gid good-naturedly slapped at his brother with his towel. “You and that genius IQ.”
“Gid, please!” Crystal said. “Go up and dress for lunch, both of you.”
She watched them ascend in the elevator. Sons, she thought.
The word sons was the only manner that her mind lumped the two. She was fond of Gid in a careless maternal way. Alexander she felt closer to than anyone since Honora—indeed, in the ambiguous way that the mind braids past and present, she related his domination of his slightly older brother with her own earlier sibling relationship. A compliment about Alexander warmed her as much as one directed at herself. She ar
gued with Gideon about the punishments he inflicted on the boy. She and Alexander collaborated in keeping secret the constant stream of cash that she slipped him—Gideon idolized the boys; yet, disciplinarian that he was, kept them on pitifully meager allowances.
As the shadows of the resident doves fluttered across the pool, Crystal closed her eyes, returning to her party plans for the Saudis. Unfortunately one of the group was related somehow to Curt Ivory’s old college friend, that fat, obnoxious clown, Fuad Abdulrahman, so Ivory had a big edge. Oh, wouldn’t it be an ecstatic triumph if Talbott’s were awarded the contract?
* * *
Gideon landed some four hours late at the seldom used Catania airport, where he was met by one of the squat, swarthy servants who had come with the villa. The drive along the cliffs from Catania to Taormina was long and tortuous, and by the time the Mercedes curved inside the gates it was after eleven. Crystal, on the front step, holding her silk caftan around her in the balmy darkness, laughed softly as the two porters bumbled around their returned master, spouting Italian, which he could not understand, making a big display of their bowing and scraping.
He stumped hastily up the tile steps to her. “How many times do I have to tell them Americans don’t go in for that guff?” he asked. “If they’re so eager to please me, why don’t they get a little work done around here?”
Time, having dealt so generously with Crystal, had cut cruelly at Gideon. His conservative single-breasted suit bulged over a large paunch, the flesh of his chin sagged on his starched collar, his sideburns were completely white.
“That’s picturesque Sicily for you, Gideon—kiss the padrone’s hand and do molto little labor.” Crystal pressed her smooth, perfumed cheek to his wrinkled one, catching the sour smell of his weariness. “Was it a horrendous flight?”
“Those Egyptians! They’re incapable of getting a plane off the ground on schedule! I for one refuse to believe they can be descendants of the people who engineered Karnak and the pyramids of Giza.” A common plaint with him since Talbott’s had begun to work on the dam project.
She linked her arm in his as they went up the curving staircase.
“Hey, Dad,” Alexander said, emerging from his room. The sound of rock music floated around him, and Crystal detected a faint aroma of cigarette smoke—or was it a more autumnal, illegal odor? Discreetly she closed the door.
“Well, son, what have you been doing?”
“Studying trig like crazy.”
The boys had started the Christmas break a few days early: Alexander excelled in math but had antagonized his teacher, so he was given additional trigonometry problems while Gid was meant to make up the lost time with a ten-page essay on the Civil War.
“With that Jazz blasting?”
“Jazz was in the twenties, Dad, this is rock,” Alexander said, feigning patience. “No, I quit around ten.”
Gid emerged from his room, taking off his glasses. “Hey, Dad, you finally made it.” He beamed, hesitated, then gripped his father’s shoulders in a brief, masculine embrace. “Glad you’re back.”
Gideon hid his pleasure at the contact by demanding, “What about that history paper? Have you finished?”
“By tomorrow. Been hacking away at it all week.”
Gideon turned to Alexander. “Did I smell cigarette in your room?”
“My room?” Alexander replied. “Must’ve been when Marisa turned down the bed. You know her, a regular chimney.” He smiled. “Dad, has Mom told you old Gid gave her a genuine Augustan denarius?”
“A coin?” Gideon asked Gid. “Did you buy it?”
Alexander replied for his brother. “The lucky bast—the lucky guy, he found it by the wreck.”
“So you went snorkeling?” Gideon’s gray-flecked brows drew together as he turned on Gid. “Do you or do you not remember that I gave you explicit instructions to finish that paper before you went fooling around?”
Swallowing, Gid bent his head. “Sorry, Dad.”
Gideon stalked ponderously into his room.
After he showered and put on his robe, he had a belated dinner. Crystal perched next to him, toying with her demitasse cup while he devoured pasta, roast veal and salad. Between mouthfuls, he volleyed a report on the Mitwan Dam. Attention fixed on him, she asked an occasional astute question. A comradely warmth hovered above the round mosaic table.
Gideon wiped his mouth. “Excellent meal, excellent. Just what I needed.”
“Coffee, dear?”
“Better not, it’s late.” He dropped his napkin. “Alexander shouldn’t have told on his brother.”
“That was a mistake, Gideon, he forgot about Gid’s essay. And you know how I feel. This is their vacation. Why keep them cooped up? Besides, if Gid’s meant to learn history, where better than Sicily?”
“It’s a pattern with Alexander.”
Maternal defensiveness swelled through her. “What are you talking about?”
“Whenever I catch him out, he covers up by diverting me to Gid.”
“Oh, come on, Gideon!” Crystal’s repudiation shook.
“Think about tonight.”
“Alexander doesn’t have a crafty bone in his body,” Crystal cried. “He tried to tell you something nice that Gid had done.”
“It’s happened over and over.” A moth swung around the chandelier above them, throwing blotchy shadows on Gideon’s bald, shining pate. “Crystal, I’m his father, I love the boy as much as you do. But I can see him. You, on the other hand, have a blind spot. And believe me, it’s no favor to him.”
“I do not spoil him, he is not my pet, so let’s not start that again.”
“This is for Alexander’s good, Crystal. I won’t have you ruining him.” Gideon, too, had risen. His features were swollen and his eyes were flat brown stones.
He’s angry, she thought.
Though remote from physical or mental cowardice, since the beginning Crystal had nursed a small, healthy fear of her husband: his anger never failed to intimidate her.
She forced a smile. “Let’s not argue. I’m too tired,” she said, drawing her caftan tightly to her waist, outlining her breasts and hips.
For a few seconds his expression wavered, then softened to beseeching lust.
“Crystal?” he asked huskily. Nowadays he seldom availed himself of his conjugal rights, always asking first.
“Wouldn’t you rather wait until tomorrow, when you’re not exhausted?”
“I’ve missed you,” he muttered, his eyes still on her breasts.
Her bedroom, which had been occupied by the movie star, was the one excessive room in the villa. Above the huge, circular bed the ceiling was lowered and covered with mirrors.
On the pornographic bed, Gideon immediately initiated his assault. She could see his flabby buttocks pounding away in the dim mirror, and gave thanks for his vigor. In the last two years he’d often been impotent. Sweating buckets, he would caress her frantically, begging her to pull at his limp organ until she felt like an unsatisfactory milkmaid. Generally their combined efforts resulted in nothing. Gideon, apparently believing sex high on her priorities, would apologize for his inadequacy and humbly sneak into his own bedroom.
As his body shook and thwacked against hers, she was wondering: What made him so dead set against Alexander? Has he guessed the truth?
35
Crystal avoided introspection about those worrisome matters embedded in the unalterable past, yet when she awoke the following morning and heard Gideon in the connecting room as he dictated to Mitchell, his executive secretary, the dictatorial tone of his barrage reactivated her previous night’s trepidations. Gideon had warned her often enough about spoiling Alexander, yet it seemed to her that in the past he had never been so vehement. Does he suspect? The horrendous thought reverberated and she rolled onto her back, pressing both palms against the sides of her head.
Gideon was starkly unforgiving when it came to sins of the flesh—witness the way he had cast out Curt, for whom he’d ca
red deeply, and the way he had denied Honora a few paltry dollars when he believed her illegally pregnant. If he finds out, it’s the end. I’m done for. With a long, quavering sigh, Crystal reached to press the buzzer set in the elaborately carved headboard.
By the time Anina, the skilled maid who traveled everywhere with her, had brought her breakfast tray, then helped her dress, Gideon’s booming had ceased.
Crystal went into his room. Wearing his old bathrobe and holding a sheaf of papers, he slumped in an armchair whose crimson calfskin proved by contrast exactly how weary and ashen his face was.
Alarmed by his appearance, she said, “Gideon, why don’t you go back to bed?”
“I’m not in the least tired,” he snapped. “While I was gone the reports and other urgent papers piled up.”
He was always brusque when reminded of the attritions of time on his physical energy, but Crystal, in her peculiar mood of vulnerability, saw his testiness as aimed at her—and Alexander.
“Would you like some coffee, dear?”
“I’d like to work,” he muttered, turning to his papers.
She backed into the sunlit hall, tapping on Alexander’s door. There was no answer so she peeked inside. The brass bed was made, the door to the big modern bathroom open—the film of dampness on blue tiles gave evidence of a servant’s recent ministrations. It was not yet ten: Alexander, when left to himself on vacations, slept until eleven or later.
She tapped on the adjacent varnished wood door.
“Come on in,” Gid called.
Her older son, in rumpled striped pajama bottoms, his curly brown hair wild, sat at his portable electric typewriter. “Morning, Mom.” With a broad smile, he brandished a sheaf of laboriously erased, dog-eared, three-hole notebook paper. “It’s been a long, tough fight, but the historical masterpiece is ready to type up.”
“That’s wonderful, dear,” she said. “Have you seen Alexander? He’s not in his room.”
Gid’s smile faded a bit. “He got up about a half hour ago. Said he was going to do some laps.”
She went down to the pool.
Too Much Too Soon Page 26