Sea of Lost Love

by Santa Montefiore

  He shook his head. “I’m not staying,” he replied.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little childish?”

  “I’m under no obligation to fraternize with the guests,” he retorted.

  “This is a family business, and you are family. I would like to see you at the dinner table once in a while.”

  “Then once in a while it shall be. But not tonight. I’ve made other arrangements.” He drained his glass. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Are you going to leave without even greeting her?” Federica was furious.

  “I don’t think she has the slightest desire to be greeted, Freddie. And neither do I.” With that he stalked past her into the kitchen.

  Celestria stepped back, as if she had been tossed aside by a sudden wind, and looked to Federica and Gaitano for an explanation.

  “Leave him alone,” Gaitano said to his wife.

  “He’s so rude,” she replied crossly.

  “It’ll pass.”

  “You’ve been saying that for months.”

  “I never said it would be quick.”

  “He should pull himself together.” She felt Celestria deserved an explanation. “Let’s go and eat,” she announced, linking her arm through Celestria’s. “I’m afraid my son-in-law is a little volatile,” she ventured as they walked through the kitchen to the dining room.

  “Please don’t feel you have to apologize for his rudeness.”

  “Some might take offense.”

  “Rest assured, I’m not one of those. Gaitano,” she called out. “I want to sit next to you so we can talk about books some more. I feel we have so much to discuss.”

  “So do I,” he agreed, pulling out her chair. “We have merely scratched the surface.”

  Celestria was glad of Gaitano’s company. Pecking at the flesh of a novel was the only distraction powerful enough to take her mind off the man, who, for the slight misdemeanor of trespassing on his wife’s grave, was determined to make her his enemy.

  22

  Hamish sat in Saverio’s bar playing Scopa with old Leopoldo, his son Manfredo, and his good friend Vitalino. The sun had set; the dusky road outside was quiet but for the odd stray dog crossing the shadows in search of scraps. Saverio leaned over a cup of black coffee, moaning to a couple of sympathetic friends about his wife’s sour humor and refusal to make love to him anymore. He cast a glance at Hamish, whose tormented face was partly hidden by the hand of cards he was pretending to study, and felt a stab of guilt; at least he had a wife to complain about.

  Hamish was looking at the cards, but he wasn’t seeing them. He felt disgruntled, as if someone had pulled him out of his body and carelessly stuffed him back in again so that nothing fitted properly. He shuffled on his chair in an effort to settle back into his skin, but to no avail. He still felt troubled and uncomfortable. Vitalino watched him carefully. He was the first friend Hamish had made on arriving in Italy five years before, and he understood him better than anyone. He wanted to catch his eye and give him an empathetic smile, but Hamish was lost in thought.

  Hamish had been a very different man before Natalia’s death, Vitalino mused. He had painted with flamboyance, played the piano with flair and passion, and held everyone in his thrall with his talent for making the most mundane task of the day into the most hilarious story. No one could laugh like Hamish. A real belly laugh, throwing his head back and roaring like a bear. He rarely laughed like that these days, and Vitalino hadn’t seen a painting in months. Yet recently Hamish had slowly begun to reemerge. As if he had made a mental decision to begin the long climb back up the cliff from where Natalia had fallen to her death. He had started to paint again, and the task of building Gaitano’s library had filled him with enthusiasm, for, like his father-in-law, books were one of his great loves. Until the last few days, when, for no apparent reason, his climb had suddenly been frustrated. The pallor had returned beneath his tan; the haunted expression once more seeped into the lines around his eyes. He had that furtive, hunted look again, like in the days following Natalia’s death, when malicious whispers condemning him of foul play had lingered in the pauses between declarations of condolence.

  Old Lorenzo caught his son’s eye and shrugged. It was unlike him to resist a quip to shake Hamish out of his mooning. Leopoldo looked to Vitalino for guidance. It was no use. None of them knew what to do. If Hamish was reluctant to share his troubles, there was nothing that could persuade him.

  “Let’s buy another round,” Vitalino suggested, patting Hamish’s back playfully.

  “I’ll have coffee,” Hamish replied, placing his cards on the table. He noticed the look of concern on the faces of his companions. Shifting his eyes from one to the other, he gave them a wry smile and sat back in his chair. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “You’re not yourself,” said Leopoldo, his crusty voice surprisingly gentle. “Are you all right?”

  Hamish sighed. “My mind’s not on the game tonight. I’m sorry.”

  Manfredo folded his cards. “Let’s abandon the game, then. It’s no good for your morale to lose all the time!” He pulled a smile, which Hamish returned halfheartedly. Vitalino called out to Saverio, who tore himself away from his bitter soliloquy to make them coffee.

  “It’s that blond woman, isn’t it?” said Vitalino. Hamish looked startled. “We’ve all seen her. She sticks out like a swan among swine.”

  “She’s a beauty,” Leopoldo agreed, shaking his gray head. “You have to move on. It’s been three years. Natalia is with God.”

  Hamish’s face grew red with anger. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Leopoldo,” he growled. “Besides, she’s not my type.”

  “Then I will have her,” quipped Manfredo.

  “You’re most welcome,” Hamish replied, standing up. He threw some lira on the table. “For the coffee. It’s my turn.” He made for the door, gasping for air.

  Outside he stood in the moonlight, leaning heavily on his stick, breathing deeply. The door opened behind him, and Vitalino appeared, his face full of concern. “She’s rattled your cage, hasn’t she?” he said.

  “Yes,” Hamish groaned. He set off up the road. Vitalino accompanied him.

  “You have to learn to love again, my friend. You’re young…”

  “Save it!” Hamish snapped. “Leopoldo doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know her.”

  “Who is she?”

  Hamish stopped and turned to face Vitalino. He gathered himself a moment, as if it cost him to mention that hated name. “Robert Montague’s daughter.”

  Vitalino recoiled. “My God, what’s she doing here?”

  “I don’t know.” He continued to walk again. “But I wish she’d leave.”

  Vitalino thought for a moment. He had noticed her strolling through the town with Nuzzo the day before. He had been struck by her loveliness—as pale and graceful as an angel. The whole town was talking about her. “Look,” he ventured. “She’s not Robert Montague. I don’t think it’s fair to condemn her just because she shares his blood.”

  “I can’t bear to look at her.”

  “That’s easy,” said Vitalino.

  “This isn’t a joke.”

  “Aren’t you making a mountain out of a molehill?”

  “I thought you of all people would understand.”

  “I do. But she’s not her father. She’s an individual. You should treat her as one. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Not really.” Hamish shrugged off their first encounter in Natalia’s crypt; he was too ashamed to speak of it.

  “So you don’t know her at all?”

  “No,” he conceded.

  “You’ve prejudged her.”

  “Yes.”

  “For an intelligent man, you’re a fool!”

  Hamish shook his head. How could he expect his friend to understand when he didn’t know the whole truth? Only he and Natalia knew what was too dreadful to share.

  The following two da
ys Celestria walked through the small town of Marelatte in the hope of meeting the elusive Salazar, only to find the same woman with the same flustered expression on her increasingly gaunt face. As Celestria waited for the man to return, she whiled away the time by sitting in the garden reading The Forsyte Saga, which distracted her from her sorry situation, as Gaitano knew it would. Another family’s trials helped her temporarily to forget her own. Her head ached with thinking about her father. The book was a relief, like ice to lower a fever. She felt Hamish’s brooding presence in the Convento even though she rarely glimpsed him. She knew he was working on Gaitano’s library but dared not venture near, even though her fury at being ignored made him hard to disregard. His arrogance was unbelievable and aroused in her a nagging curiosity.

  She had been at the Convento for five nights, during which time she had barely mentioned her father. He existed only in her thoughts, shoved aside by the Forsyte family and any other means of distraction that enabled her to avoid feeling any pain. On the fifth night, however, the frustration of not finding Salazar, combined with Gaitano’s grandfatherly attention, Hamish’s rudeness, and too much wine, filled her with an overwhelming sadness. She went to bed heavyhearted, wanting nothing more than to cry into her pillow, but the tears would not come. She pulled out the photograph of her father in his panama hat that she had found with Federica’s letter, and held it to her bosom.

  Unable to sleep and longing to express her pain, she shrugged on her dressing gown and padded down the corridor to the piano. She sat on the stool in front of the window, through which a silvery beam of light entered to illuminate the keys. The piano had called to her from the first moment she had seen it. Yet she had not dared play in case someone overheard her. She didn’t desire to play the tunes she had laboriously learned since childhood, but her own made-up songs that she heard in her head and yearned to sing.

  She knew she wasn’t a good singer. Her voice was not clear but husky and unsteady. Sometimes she didn’t even make the notes. But it was the most satisfactory way of expressing her feelings. When she sang, she felt a loosening in her chest, a pouring of something warm and healing into her heart, and a lightness of being. It was her secret pleasure. She had never needed it more than now.

  Leaning the photograph on the music stand, she placed her hands over the keys. Slowly she began to play. She was careful to play quietly. She didn’t want to wake anyone up. As her fingers pressed the chords she felt a melody emerge and began to hum. The hum grew into words and the words into phrases as she sang of her love and her sorrow, climaxing in a chorus that she repeated over and over until the tears seeped through her eyelashes and poured down her cheeks.

  Unknown to her, Hamish had been restless, too. He had avoided seeing her by working on Gaitano’s library and dining with Vitalino and his large, demonstrative family. Yet his friend’s advice stuck in his mind. He was unable to shake it off because Vitalino was right. It was unjust to judge a woman by the actions of her father. Hamish had trouble sleeping, tossing in the heat of his room, plagued by night terrors and an unquenchable frustration. He had escaped to the coolness of his studio, up a small flight of stairs not far from the piano. At first he thought he was dreaming when he heard the soft notes wafting down the corridor. He had suspended his brush and raised his eyes to the door, listening intently.

  No one played but him. He couldn’t hear the voice, but he knew instantly who was touching the keys. Drawn by curiosity, he tiptoed down the corridor and peered around the corner, making sure he remained in shadow so she wouldn’t see him. What he saw moved him deeply and unexpectedly. Celestria sat in the pale moonlight, her face shining with tears, singing softly to herself. Her hair fell about her shoulders in waves, tumbling over her white dressing gown, loosely tied so that it revealed her smooth chest and the lace top of her negligée. She played a sad tune, stumbling on the keys, hitting the odd wrong note, but seemingly unaware. Her voice was deep and smoky, and it didn’t matter that she sang a little out of tune. She looked beautiful but, most notably, vulnerable. He forgot his prejudice and wanted simply to hold her against him. He remained for a long time staring in awe at the sight of the woman he had believed to be hard and arrogant. The overriding feeling, however, was one of shame. Vitalino was right; he was a fool.

  He watched her for an hour, oblivious of the time. Finally, she heaved herself up, drained from weeping. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her dressing gown, gently closed the lid of the piano, and returned to her room. Hamish retreated into the shadows so that she didn’t see him as she passed. He inhaled the faint smell of bluebells and watched her open her door and disappear inside. Overcome with longing, he crept over to where she had been sitting, as if the warmth of the seat would bring him closer to her. Suddenly he saw the photograph on the music stand. He recognized the man at once. Taken there at the Convento, he was unmistakable in his pale suit and panama hat. He picked it up and asked himself: Why is she crying for her father?

  Celestria was in bed when the photograph was slipped under her door. She heard the rustle as it was pushed through the crack. She sat up and stared at it, too frightened to move, for she sensed who was behind it. What flustered her the most, however, was that not only must he have heard her singing, but he must also have seen her cry.

  23

  The following morning Celestria awoke to see the photograph on the floor by the door. Daylight flooded the room with sunshine and banished the demons from the shadows. She no longer felt afraid or ashamed. Perhaps it had been Gaitano or Federica, neither whom would think any less of her for shedding tears. She picked the photo up and put it on the dresser, leaning it up against the mirror so she would see it every time she brushed her hair.

  She breakfasted early and, infected by the enthusiasm of the dawn, made off for Salazar’s office. Surely today would be different?

  She rang the bell and waited for the woman to open the door. To her surprise, she barely recognized her, as she was now fully made up with red lipstick, coiffed hair, and a little too much rouge. The woman smiled and beckoned her inside. Celestria’s heart soared. The elusive Mr. Salazar had returned. The woman said something incomprehensible in Italian and gently pushed her into the waiting room. There were a sofa and a couple of armchairs, a single painting of the sea, and a vase of yellow flowers on the coffee table. She offered Celestria a drink. “Caffé?” Celestria shook her head. She was much too nervous to waste time drinking coffee. “Please wait,” said the secretary, obviously struggling with her poor English. Celestria sat down, attempting to look confident, and picked up a magazine. The secretary disappeared. She could hear the murmur of low voices down the corridor. Finally, the door opened and a handsome middle-aged man strode in, wearing a pressed ivory suit and shiny, two-toned brogues. He was short, with sleek black hair, a low, unwrinkled forehead, thick eyebrows that resembled furry caterpillars, and the large, oleaginous smile of a man used to slipping through people’s defenses with his charm.

  “Signorina Montague,” he gushed, opening his arms as if about to embrace her. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” His English was good, though flamboyantly accented. His bitter chocolate eyes appraised her with admiration. “You are more beautiful than your father,” he said with a laugh. “Please, come into my office.”

  She walked past him, through a cloud of sweet cologne, into a room that was wood paneled, with a bookcase filling one wall, a pair of mahogany filing cabinets between two windows that gave on to a small cobbled courtyard, and a wide English desk more suited to a city chairman than a provincial clerk. He offered her a seat before sinking into his own leather chair. “I, too, have daughters,” he said, pointing to the family photographs that rested in silver frames on the desk amid piles of papers and a smart leather briefcase. “Italian women are beautiful, but you, signorina, put them in the shade.”

  Celestria was not in the mood for his empty flattery. There was even something insulting about his assumption that she would be grateful for it.
“I am here about my father,” she said briskly.

  “Of course you are. Signor Montague was a good client of mine.” Celestria was surprised. She hadn’t expected him to know he was dead.

  “Who told you he had died?” she asked. It was Salazar’s turn to look shocked.

  “Dead?” He shook his head and straightened. “I never said he was dead.”

  “You used the past tense.”

  “So?” he shrugged. “We no longer do business together.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So, he is dead?” The smile had slipped off his face, leaving his mouth loose and shapeless.

  “He died at sea.”

  “How?”

  “In a boating accident. He drowned.”

  “Drowned?” Salazar’s eyes widened in horror. He had suddenly gone very pale. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “So am I.”

  “How can I help you?” He loosened his tie as he was beginning to sweat, and forced a smile that hung unsteadily on his face.

  “I am sorting out his affairs. I know nothing of his businesses. I do know that he sent money out to you on a regular basis. I’d like to know where that money has gone.”

  Salazar hesitated a moment. He reached for a silver box, opened it, and took out a small cigar. “You don’t mind if I smoke?” Celestria shook her head. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a lighter. She knew he was playing for time. “Life is all fog and smoke and mirrors,” he said with a shrug.

  “What do you mean?” Celestria was irritated.

  “His business collapsed. He took what little there was left and disappeared. What can I tell you?”

  “Where did all those thousands of pounds go?”

  “Sunk, my good lady. I suppose, one could say, drowned, like your father.” His small eyes shone maliciously.

  “I don’t understand. What business was it?”

  Salazar heaved a sigh and took a long puff before placing his cigar on the edge of a glass ashtray already filled with ash. He leaned forward. His face was now red and sweating. “Signorina, it is a man’s world. If I were you, I would leave business to the boys. Besides, you have already admitted that you don’t understand. I have not the time nor the patience to enlighten you.”