“So do I,” Celestria replied. “Then we can go home.”
Mrs. Waynebridge’s face fell. Celestria wished she hadn’t said it, because she didn’t want to go home, either.
Celestria slipped on her sunglasses and followed Nuzzo through the little wooden door into the burning hot sun. Nuzzo pointed out small attractions he thought the signorina might enjoy. She threw a glance at Gaitano’s little folly, half expecting to see Hamish there with his saw in his hand and his brown torso glistening in the sun.
Marelatte was dominated by the Piazza della Vittoria. Tall palm trees stood among olive and orange trees, paved walkways lined by iron benches, stone water fountains, and borders glittering with brightly colored flowers. The trees were alive with birds, chirping loudly from the branches. A young couple walked hand in hand across the shadows, and a pair of toothless old men sat on a bench in the shade, watching them enviously. Celestria and Nuzzo walked on passed the piazza, up a wide street where the baroque town hall stood proudly in the center, larger and more ornate than the more humble buildings that surrounded it. A narrow street branched off to the left, where a plain-fronted house stood, its iron balconies hanging with terra-cotta pots of red geraniums, and, beyond, a pale pink church rested in the shade, the curvature of the pediments on the roof giving the skyline a pleasing harmony.
Nuzzo greeted people as they walked. Celestria noticed the appreciative glances in her direction. A group of small, brown-faced boys stopped kicking their ball, their playful squeals fading as they stood in a huddle, watching the angelic blond lady with wide, curious eyes. She smiled at them, and they proceeded to nudge one another, fighting to lay claim to her affection. “I ragazzi like you,” said Nuzzo, grinning. Celestria laughed, not understanding the words they now began to shout after her.
Finally, Nuzzo turned off down a cobbled street where the sun didn’t reach. It was cooler there in the shade. A cat scratched her gray back against the wall, hopping lightly off on her three good legs when she saw them approach. Nuzzo stopped outside a wooden door on a plain-fronted, flat-roofed building. The window to the right was misted by a net curtain, but Celestria could make out the vague lines of an office. “Ci siamo,” he said. On the wall beside the door was a bell and a brass plaque: F.G.B. Salazar. Celestria hesitated a moment, gathering herself. She hadn’t worked out what she was going to say. Now she had no time. She pressed the bell and, with a racing heart, waited for a reply. After what seemed like a long time, the door opened and an anxious-looking woman peered out.
“Buon giorno, signora, è arrivata la signorina Montague per il signor Salazar,” said Nuzzo, taking off his hat respectfully.
“Non c’è,” the woman replied, shaking her head. Nuzzo made some inquiries. The woman replied briskly, shrugged, and closed the door.
“What did she say?” Celestria asked.
Nuzzo looked at her sympathetically. “Il signor Salazar, no.”
“He’s not here? Well, when will he be back?” She stared at Nuzzo irritably. The poor man pulled a face. He didn’t understand her question, and, even if he did, he was unable to reply in English. “This is ridiculous!” she snapped. “I’ve come all the way out to Italy to see him. How long is he going to be away? How long do I have to hang around waiting for him?” She was filled with disappointment. Nuzzo looked terrified. Celestria felt sorry for him; it wasn’t his fault. “Let’s go back to the Convento and ask Federica,” she added more gently.
“Convento? La signora Gancia?” Nuzzo’s eyes lit up. He replaced his hat and strode into the sunshine. “Andiamo!” he said, beckoning her to follow. She remained a moment staring at the window, willing Salazar to appear. With an impatient sigh, she set off after Nuzzo.
Celestria arrived at the convent hot and irritated. She found Gaitano in the courtyard talking to the old man with the cart full of timber that Nuzzo had chatted with on the road the day before. Gaitano smiled at her, and the old man took off his hat respectfully. They wound up their conversation and parted, the old man delighted to find Nuzzo hovering in the entrance hall with nothing to do. Gaitano raised his eyebrows kindly.
“You don’t look very happy,” he said as Celestria approached.
“I was hoping to have a meeting with Mr. Salazar today,” she replied. “He’s wasn’t in. No one speaks English around here. Can you ask Nuzzo what the lady said?” Gaitano shouted across the courtyard. Nuzzo broke off his conversation with his friend and hurried out of the shadows. They exchanged a few words. Gaitano nodded gravely. He turned to Celestria and shrugged apologetically.
“This is Italy for you. He’s away on business, and she doesn’t know when he’s going to be back.”
“What am I to do? I have to talk to him. It’s important.”
“I’m sure he’ll be back in a few days,” said Gaitano, trying to sound positive. The girl’s face remained taut with frustration. Gaitano nodded at Nuzzo, who disappeared back into the shadows.
“In a few days? What am I going to do while I wait?”
“Do you like books?” Gaitano asked.
“Yes,” she replied sulkily.
“So do I. I’m in the process of constructing a library in the garden. Come, I’ll show you my English collection.” He led her across the stones to a small door that opened into a large, vaulted room full of books. They were piled against the walls, on the tables, and balanced in unsteady towers in the middle of the room.
“These are all English?” she gasped in astonishment.
“I like to read in the original language where possible.” Gaitano gazed upon them lovingly, as if they were his children.
“I can see why you need to build a library,” she said, feeling better in the cool, out of the sun. She wandered among them, bending down to read the spines, forgetting all about Salazar.
“I see you like books, too.”
“I lose myself in literature,” she replied, picking up a book of poems by Wordsworth. “My grandfather buys me books. He has the best taste. He has never given me a book I haven’t loved. I’ve always loved Wordsworth.” She ran her fingers over the dusty cover in a caress. “I wandered lonely as a cloud/That floats on high o’r vales and hills,/When all at once I saw a crowd,/A host, of golden daffodils…”
“Beside the lake, beneath the trees,/Fluttering and dancing in the breeze,” Gaitano finished the verse for her. His eyes lit up with admiration. “Which is your favorite book?” he asked.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” she replied without hesitation.
“Alexandre Dumas,” said Gaitano, raising his eyebrows. “That’s Hamish’s favorite book, too.”
“Oh,” she muttered dismissively, finding it hard to believe that such a crude man could appreciate good literature.
“Did he read it in the original language?” she asked, replacing Wordsworth on his pile.
Gaitano laughed. “I very much doubt it. When he arrived in Italy, he spoke nothing but English. However, he discovered a talent for languages, which wasn’t a great surprise to me because he is musical. Musical people are often gifted linguists.”
“My grandfather made me read it in French, but I have to confess I read it again in English later. It was only then that I fell in love with it.”
“That, of course, is the test of a good book. You can read it over and over and find new things each time. A good book never loses its appeal.”
“That is so true.” She threw him an enchanting smile. “Which is your favorite?”
“Proust, A la Recherche du Temps Perdus.” His French was flawless. “I love many, but I love Proust the best.”
“I wish I could read them all in their original languages,” she sighed, picking up Anna Karenina.
“Russian defeats me,” he said, watching her with new eyes. “Latin languages are very easy for us to learn. They are all very similar. Russian, on the other hand, is a world away. I have to read Tolstoy in English.”
“I think the job of the translator is a much underappreciated ski
ll. They are unsung heroes. It is thanks to them that I have enjoyed so many foreign books. I’m ashamed to say I wouldn’t know any of the translators by name.”
“Let me lend you a book to keep you entertained while you wait for Salazar to return,” he suggested enthusiastically, wandering around the books in search of one that would please her.
“I would love that. Thank you,” she replied, feeling the familiar sense of excitement at the thought of a new book.
“I find the experience of diving into a new world the most exhilarating of sensations,” he said.
“I agree. Each book is like a little world. You can carry it in your hand, and, yet, the space it creates in your mind is infinite.”
He stopped, crouched down, and traced his fingers up the spines of another stack. “This is my American section,” he said. “Have you read The Age of Innocence?”
“Edith Wharton. ‘Americans want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it.’” She laughed huskily. “I’ve read it.”
“So I see.”
“My grandfather is American.”
“Then perhaps that is not the section I should be looking through.” He walked to the other side of the room, pushed his glasses up his nose, and bent over. “This is my English, twentieth-century section,” he announced, then proceeded to mutter to himself as he glanced up and down thoughtfully. Finally he seized upon the perfect novel. “The Forsyte Saga.”
“I haven’t read that,” she said, watching him ease it out then rearrange the books so the towers remained standing.
“John Galsworthy. A fine writer. You will enjoy him.” He passed it to her.
“This will keep me entertained for days!” she exclaimed. “It’s the size of War and Peace.”
“But infinitely more readable!”
“If I disappear for a week, I will blame you.” She laughed.
He looked at her fondly. “If you disappear for a week, Celestria, I will blame myself!”
He watched her cross the courtyard. What a surprise, he thought, dazed from the pleasure of their encounter. I would never have taken her for a reader. He was still grinning when Hamish found him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said to his father-in-law.
“Oh?” Gaitano replied, taking off his glasses and slipping them in his breast pocket.
“I need to know how deep you want those shelves.”
“I’ve just been talking to Celestria,” he said casually. “We’ve been sharing our love of books.” Hamish didn’t reply, so Gaitano continued. “Guess what her favorite novel is?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged dismissively.
“The same as yours.”
He looked taken aback. “The Count of Monte Cristo?” Hamish frowned. He couldn’t imagine a girl as superficial as her getting through a novel like that.
“She read it first in French. She quoted Wordsworth and Wharton.”
“I don’t suppose she has anything better to do than lie about, reading.”
Gaitano looked at him quizzically. “Is there anything better to do?”
Hamish ignored him. “Will you come and take a look at those shelves? I don’t want to make them too shallow.”
Gaitano followed him into the courtyard. “I want to be able to fit two rows of books on each shelf, otherwise I just won’t get them all in.”
“We’ll have to find you another folly.” Hamish chuckled.
“Freddie says I should give some away.”
“Doesn’t she realize you have one of the best collections in Italy?”
Gaitano sighed melodramatically. “She’s not a lover of literature like you and me, Hamish. Silly woman doesn’t understand. It would be like giving away parts of myself.”
Hamish patted him on the back vigorously. “Don’t worry, we’ll fit them all in, and if we don’t, we’ll build you shelves in the Convento. She’ll just have to free up space by getting rid of some of her own collections.”
“If it comes to that, Hamish, it won’t be me who tells her but you. You’re the only person with a growl that makes her bark sound like a baaaa!” They both roared with laughter.
Celestria heard the rumpus in the courtyard below and peered out from behind the curtain. She saw Hamish and Gaitano wandering across the stones to the front door. Hamish had his arm around his father-in-law, who looked frail and bald beside Hamish’s brawny physique and thick shaggy hair. There was something very touching in the way that Hamish patted his father-in-law on the back, as if they were two friends equal in age and strength. But how could Gaitano love him? So far she had witnessed nothing of Hamish’s charm, of which Mrs. Halifax had spoken in such glowing terms, nor found in him any evidence of the man who loved Dumas’s great novel. He had been ill mannered and gruff when he should have been courteous. She watched them disappear with a mounting sense of outrage. If he was charming to Mrs. Halifax and affectionate to Gaitano, why couldn’t he be kind to her?
She lunched with Waynie, Federica, and Mrs. Halifax, complaining bitterly about her thwarted plan to meet Salazar. “He might not return for days!” she exclaimed.
“Then your ill fortune is our good fortune,” said Mrs. Halifax. “Because we will enjoy your company for a little longer.”
“At least Gaitano has lent me a novel.”
“Ah, Gaitano has discovered another book mate,” said Federica with a wry smile. “He will be pleased. I don’t have the patience to read. Natalia was like me; she had no desire to plow through a novel. She preferred pretty things she could wear. Hamish, however, loves books, too. He and Gaitano can spend a whole evening discussing a single novel.”
“My grandfather calls it ‘pecking the flesh’ of a good novel,” said Celestria, ignoring Federica’s reference to the rude Hamish. “We like to peck the flesh well into the small hours. There’s something magical about that time when the dawn is breaking and everyone is asleep, just the two of us, entering another world together.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” exclaimed Mrs. Halifax, taking another slice of prosciutto. “I prefer the early hours of the morning, or dusk, when the light is most subtle, when one is utterly aware of the transience of it all. That one’s life is but a blink on the eye of time. I like to be alone to experience it without distraction. That way I can reflect on my life and appreciate it.”
“Do you read, Mrs. Waynebridge?” Federica asked. Mrs. Waynebridge blushed and shook her head. She wasn’t about to confide that she was illiterate.
“She knits the most beautiful sweaters,” interjected Celestria, sensing her discomfort.
“I’m knitting Celestria a jersey,” Mrs. Waynebridge added. “Parrot green.”
“Parrot green?” repeated Mrs. Halifax. Her eyes shone with delight. “Parrot green is my favorite color. I have the most delightful pair of shoes in parrot green, decorated with purple sequins. Aren’t you lucky, Celestria? I can’t wait to see it on.” Celestria managed a thin smile at the thought of having to wear parrot green.
“Oh, it won’t be ready for ages,” she said hopefully.
Mrs. Waynebridge shook her head. “On the contrary, if this Mr. Salazar keeps you waiting, Celestria, I’ll have it done in a jiffy!”
That evening, Celestria bathed and dressed in a fever of agitation. She was certain that Hamish would be at dinner. She was uncertain, however, of the best way to treat him. Should she ignore him? Should she return his rudeness? The thought of having to talk to him was worse than any she had ever had. No one had disliked her before. The novelty was an exceedingly unpleasant one.
She pulled on a pair of pale blue slacks and a light cashmere sweater, for the nights could be chilly, and tied her hair into a ponytail. She didn’t wear makeup; she didn’t want him to presume she was dressing up for his benefit.
As she walked down the stairs she resolved to treat him coolly and with indifference. Maialino and Fiametta were lying under the cloister on the pile of crimson cushions. They no longer ju
mped up when they saw her, for they were accustomed now to her presence at the Convento. The candles were already lit, although it was not yet dark, and the smell of beeswax combined with the salty smell of the sea. The light was dusky and pink, falling through the little window in the wall and onto the stones in the courtyard that hadn’t yet been swallowed into shadow. She wandered through the kitchen and out into the garden, where the rest of the group was enjoying a glass of wine.
Hamish stood head and shoulders over everyone, even Gaitano, who was tall. When Celestria stepped out, he raised his eyes and watched her. She made a conscious effort not to look at him, although she felt the discomfort of his stare. Federica brought her a glass and led her to where Mrs. Halifax was chatting to Mrs. Waynebridge, commenting on the beauty of the sky, noting the pink clouds that drifted on the breeze like puffs of cotton candy.
“You can see why I love to come here and paint. The sky is never the same one day to the next. Nature is continually miraculous.” She turned to Celestria. “Ah, my dear girl. You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you,” she replied, then caught sight of the eccentric pair of shoes beneath Mrs. Halifax’s long purple dress. “Parrot green!” she exclaimed with a chuckle.
“My favorite shoes. I’ve worn them especially for Mrs. Waynebridge,” she said.
“Perhaps you should knit the sweater for Mrs. Halifax, Waynie!” Celestria suggested.
“If we stay long enough, I’ll knit one for both of you,” Mrs. Waynebridge replied.
“Oh, would you!” Mrs. Halifax exclaimed. “I would adore a jersey in parrot green, and perhaps a little purple to match my shoes.”
“It would be my pleasure,” gushed Mrs. Waynebridge, feeling the dizzy effects of the wine.
Celestria’s attention was drawn to Gaitano, who was talking to Hamish. She raised her eyes, stumbling at once into Hamish’s gaze. She recoiled, as if burned, and shot him her most haughty look before turning her full attention on Mrs. Halifax.
Federica walked over to her husband and son-in-law. “Are we to have the pleasure of your company for dinner?” she asked Hamish.
Sea of Lost Love Page 25