Celestria was affronted. He stood up and opened a drawer in one of the filing cabinets behind him. Celestria looked out into the courtyard. An iron gate stood at the top of a small incline of steps, opening into what looked like a pretty orchard of apple trees. The steps made her think of the mausoleum in the city of the dead, and her thoughts once again wandered to Hamish. Salazar turned, bringing a file with him, and sat down. He placed it on the desk and opened it. Celestria peered over. He was flicking through what looked like correspondence and lists of numbers and names. “This, my good lady, is all I have left of your father.” He slapped a page with the back of his hand.
“What are they?”
“Lists of creditors.” He looked at Celestria and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Your father left nothing behind but angry people demanding money.”
At that moment there was a knock on the door. The secretary appeared, looking flustered. “C’è una signora alla porta che dice di volerti vedere, dice che è urgente. E’ arrivata direttamente da Parigi.” He smiled at Celestria, but loosened his tie again.
“Tell her I am busy,” he replied frostily. “Tell her to come back tomorrow.”
The secretary nodded and closed the door behind her. Celestria frowned.
“It seems I am besieged by women today. I am a lucky man.” He picked up his cigar and puffed on it again. “Now, where were we?”
“My father’s business. Was it his alone?”
“No, he had a partner, and the countess, of course.”
“The countess?” Celestria screwed up her nose. “Countess Valonya?”
There was another knock on the door. The secretary didn’t wait for Salazar to respond but opened it in a fluster. “Dice che la vedrá. E furiosa.” He chuckled nervously. The secretary was very pale, wringing her hands. She spoke at great speed, her voice a note or two higher than before. After she had left, he shrugged again.
“The woman is in love with me,” he sighed pompously. “What can I do? Frenchwomen are very pushy. They don’t like to take no for an answer. She has telephoned me daily from Paris, demanding to see me. Can you imagine?” He took a puff, pausing for a moment. “I deal with all sorts of people, signorina. From the ex-king of Italy to the present king of olive oil. I treat them all the same. With respect. My job requires discretion. My clients are important men of means and position, and they don’t take very kindly to being played with.” He narrowed his eyes and gazed at her through the diaphanous screen of smoke. “Your father was a gambler. Some he won, some he lost, but he played a little too hard. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Celestria nodded slowly, though she wished he would make himself clear.
“What part did the countess play in my father’s affairs?”
“I never liked her. Let’s just say she was a lugubrious character. He sent her out when he could not come himself. A shadow that blended in with the night.”
Suddenly a loud crash resounded through the building. The secretary hurried in. There was a terrible commotion. Salazar stood up and dialed for the carabinieri. Celestria peered around the corner, to where the front window was broken. Shattered glass lay all over the floor. Within minutes a couple of policemen in khaki uniforms had arrived. Salazar strode past her. He let off a round of staccato Italian phrases at the woman who was now being marched away by the police. She hurled back abuse, straining to free herself.
Celestria caught sight of her. She was beautiful, middle-aged, her shiny brown hair parted on the side and carefully tied into a tight chignon at the back of her head. She wore an ivory suit, the jacket nipped in at the waist, the pencil skirt reaching just below her knees. Her heels were high, and of pale leather to match her handbag. She didn’t look the type to throw a brick through a window; more likely to have a champagne glass in one hand and a cigarette holder in the other.
Salazar shook Celestria’s hand. She knew he was withholding information. But he was as slippery as the grease he used to slick back his hair. For the moment there was nothing more she could do.
She left with reluctance, aware that she had learned nothing at all. So the countess had done her father’s dirty work, but what exactly had that involved? Salazar had given nothing away. She had no means of knowing whether the money had indeed been withdrawn, and, as far as she could tell, there was no way of finding out. Lord, she wished her grandfather had come with her. She wasn’t equipped to work all this out on her own.
She wandered into the piazza and sat on a bench in the sunshine. A horse plodded past, pulling a cart of pine furniture. She watched him and envied the man who led him, for he appeared to have not a care in the world. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized that it was two in the afternoon and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She thought of the vast sum of money her father had supposedly withdrawn the week preceding his death. To whom had the countess given it? Was he being blackmailed? If so, what could it be that he hadn’t wanted anyone to know about? He hadn’t had a job for two years. He had squandered his family’s money. Where had it all gone to? What was he running from?
She stood up to make her way back to the Convento and she noticed the police station at the other end of the piazza. Curiosity overrode her hunger, and she walked around to see what had become of the Frenchwoman. There seemed to be no one about. She looked up and down the road, then stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the door and listened. She heard a burst of laughter, then a woman’s voice, smooth and silky like condensed milk. She recognized it at once. Perhaps, if Celestria could solicit her help, she might shed some light on the mysterious Salazar. Celestria felt she had nothing to lose by trying.
She entered the police station to find the Frenchwoman sitting on a chair surrounded by a group of eight enraptured policemen. One was lighting the cigarette she held to her crimson lips, another handing her a little cup of coffee. They were all laughing at whatever she was saying. Her Italian seemed flawless. When she saw Celestria, her eyes narrowed and the smile turned into a scowl. “Chi è lei?” she said, nodding towards Celestria.
“I was having a meeting with Salazar when—”
“I threw a brick through his window.” Her English was good but heavily accented. “What is it to you?” She took a drag and blew out the smoke, watching the younger woman with disdain. The policemen were clearly bemused.
“I think we are in the same boat.”
“You can think what you like, chérie.” She showed no willingness to collude.
“Can we talk in private?”
The Frenchwoman laughed meanly. “I am under arrest, or perhaps it has escaped your notice.” She ran her eyes over her audience and straightened the cap of one of them, before patting it playfully. “Why don’t you go away?”
Celestria was stung. The woman began to speak to the men in Italian. They all turned to Celestria and laughed. She spun around and hurried out, her cheeks burning with humiliation.
Folding her arms against her chest, she strode back beneath the pine trees to the Convento. “This has been a huge mistake coming out here,” she muttered to herself crossly. “Why is everyone so horrid?” She cast her eyes over to the city of the dead.
As she stepped through the door into the Convento, she bumped straight into Hamish. Without deliberating her words, she stiffened and, to his astonishment, said exactly what was on her mind. “Oh, Lord, it’s you again! The one person I do not wish to see today.”
“I—” he began, but she cut him off with a loud sigh.
“Save it. I don’t know what it is about this place, but it is filled with very rude people. Where I come from people are good-natured and polite. And you know what? It’s not the Italians who are rude. No, Nuzzo is a darling, and Freddie and Gaitano are charm personified. It’s the Scottish and the French, who should really know better.”
“I should apologize,” he said, frowning heavily, visibly disturbed by her outburst.
“It’s too late for that. You’ve had ample opportunity. Anyway, I really don’t care. I have busi
ness to see to. I’m not here on holiday, you know. It is really of no consequence whether or not I get on with people like you. My mission is altogether more important. Why don’t you go and shout at someone else? I’m in a hurry.” She folded her arms and stared at him defiantly. “In fact, you should meet the Frenchwoman with whom I’ve just had the misfortune of colliding. You’d get on like a house on fire!”
Hamish stepped aside with reluctance. He was bewildered. He hadn’t anticipated such rudeness from her, and it had wrong-footed him. He watched her march across the courtyard and disappear up the stairs without a backwards glance. She hadn’t even accepted his apology.
24
After lunch Celestria composed a telegram to her grandfather. She wrote that Salazar had been extremely unhelpful, most probably hiding the truth. She had no way of finding out. She didn’t speak Italian and had no “connections” to rely on. She also mentioned the Frenchwoman and the brick she threw at his window. “Where do I go from here?” she wrote, then ventured into town to find the post office.
Mrs. Waynebridge and Nuzzo walked along the top of the cliffs, where the stony ground gave way to tufts of rough grass and sprigs of herbs. Fluffy sheep grazed on the vertiginous hillside, apparently unafraid of falling into the sea. The air was sweet with the medicinal scent of the eucalyptus trees, and the sound of the waves lapping the rocks below lent a musical accompaniment to their promenade. Nuzzo had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing his muscular brown arms. His beret protected his head from the sun, but the skin on his face was thick and weathered due to having lived most of his life out of doors at the mercy of the elements.
Mrs. Waynebridge was hot beneath her hat and welcomed the breeze that swept in off the ocean. The sun was high in the sky, and she could already see her white skin turning pink on her freckled forearms. Nuzzo playfully endeavored to teach her Italian by pointing things out and stating their names with the same clarity with which he had introduced himself on their first night.
“Pecora,” he said, pointing to the sheep.
“Pecora,” she replied.
His face lit up excitedly. “Pecora, brava!” He looked about for something else. “Mare,” he said, pointing to the sea. “Mare.”
“Mare,” she replied.
“Brava, signora. Mare.” Mrs. Waynebridge felt her heart swell. Nuzzo’s enthusiasm made her feel young again.
“Cielo,” he said, waving his hand up at the sky. “Cielo.”
“Cielo,” she repeated.
He shook his head, impressed. “Bravissima!” he exclaimed. Then he bent down and plucked a small yellow flower that nestled between two white stones. “Fiore,” he said, handing it to her.
“Fiore,” she repeated softly. He gazed at her, his eyes full of affection. “Bella,” he said bashfully.
Mrs. Waynebridge swallowed. Even she knew what bella meant. She looked down at the flower. “Bella,” she said.
“No, signora.” He shook his head, gesticulating at her. “Lei è bella.”
Mrs. Waynebridge blinked at him. “Me?”
“Si, signora. Lei è bellissima.”
Celestria returned from the post office and wandered through the kitchen to sit on a bench in the garden, surrounded by terra-cotta pots of lavender. Amid the aromatic tranquillity of the herb garden she pondered her next move. Her meeting with Salazar had come to nothing. She had no option but to await her grandfather’s instructions. As much as she tried, she was unable to ignore Hamish’s insistent face, which leapt into her mind at every available opportunity, demanding to be noticed. She dismissed him with a snort as Mrs. Waynebridge finally returned from her excursion, flushed and bright eyed, a lively bounce to her walk. In her hand she twirled a small yellow flower.
“I found out nothing,” Celestria told her flatly. “I’m at a loss where to look now.”
Mrs. Waynebridge sat beside her, grateful for the shade of a large canvas parasol. “Maybe you’re looking for something what isn’t there.”
“There’s something there, all right. The bugger won’t tell me, though. He played with me like a cat with a mouse. I don’t speak the language. I have no way of knowing whether he was telling the truth.”
“Why don’t you just lie back and enjoy a holiday?” Mrs. Waynebridge smiled secretively, taking off her hat to fan herself. “It’s a beautiful place. Bella, pecora, cielo, mare, fiore, bella…” Her voice trailed off.
“Because I won’t rest until I find out why my father killed himself. I suspect it was blackmail.”
“Blackmail?”
“I’m sorry, Waynie. I can’t expect you to understand when I haven’t kept you in the picture. My meeting, though, bore no fruit, but I met a frightful Frenchwoman who threw a brick through Salazar’s office window and was dragged away by the police. He’s obviously not very popular. This town is full of the rudest people.”
“And some very nice people, too.” Mrs. Waynebridge stared out over the orange grove that extended from the garden to a small cluster of houses fighting for shade beneath towering pine trees.
“More flirting, I presume. Really, Waynie, I’m shocked. You’ve not even been here a week!”
Mrs. Waynebridge played with the little flower. “No harm in a little flirting. I don’t think I’ve looked at another man since me Alfie passed away. That Nuzzo is a right so-and-so.”
“How do you communicate? He doesn’t speak English.”
“We get by.”
Unable to sit still, Celestria suggested they go for a walk. Mrs. Waynebridge, tired from her morning excursion, declined. She was happy to sit in the sun, alone with her thoughts. She hadn’t had such nice thoughts in a very long time. So Celestria headed off alone. To her annoyance, she caught herself looking for Hamish everywhere she turned her eyes, but instead she found Mrs. Halifax on the cliff top, painting a small, disused fortress.
“You know,” she said, gazing out over the sea. “Puglia has been dominated by the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Normans, the French, the Spanish, and the Neapolitans. These lookout points were built to keep watch for approaching Turks. They would send signals down the coast by lighting fires, alerting one another of attack. Terribly romantic, don’t you think?” Celestria sat down on the dry, spiky grass and looked out over the sea. “You’ll find some beautiful Moorish buildings here, too. It’s a great melting pot of different cultures. I do love it.”
“I expected it to look like Tuscany.”
Mrs. Halifax laughed. “Most certainly not. That’s the charm of it.”
“You paint very well,” said Celestria, glancing at the canvas.
“I’ve had years of practice.”
“Don’t you get bored?”
“Certainly not. Why would I get bored? Every scene I paint is different.”
“But you’re on your own all the time.”
“I’m surrounded by the wondrous beauty of nature. It fills my soul. Besides, I like to be alone with my thoughts. I remember the past. That makes me happy.”
“Why didn’t you return to France?”
“Ah, I aroused your curiosity.”
“You said you’d tell me.”
She stopped painting. “I fell in love.”
Celestria looked surprised. “You fell in love?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Old ladies don’t fall in love. Well, it’s not what you think. I fell in love with a little boy who lived at the château.”
“Ah.” Celestria nodded.
“His mother worked there. He was mute. A dear little thing he was. So enchanting, with white-blond hair and these big, curious, intelligent blue eyes. He reminded me of my son.” She sighed and started painting again. “Then one day, at Mass, a miracle happened. God gave him back his voice.”
“A real miracle?”
“Yes. They do happen, you know, very occasionally. If you let them.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went to live in America. His mother fell in
love with an American who came to stay. I don’t blame her. He was a dish if ever I saw one. After that the château held little charm for me. Without Mischa the place seemed cold and empty and joyless. I never went back. But I remember him always. There’s a place in my heart where he resides along with my son and husband.”
“It must be a painful place,” said Celestria.
“Painful? No, my dear, it’s the happiest place there is, full of memories of the people I have loved. You’ll learn that love comes in many different disguises. It strikes when you least expect it and often when you really don’t want it. Sometimes it’s so quick to take you over, you don’t believe it. In the end there is nothing as important as love. It’s the only thing you take with you when you die.” Mrs. Halifax gazed out over the sea, a wistful smile warming her face with the sun.
“It’s very quiet here, isn’t it?” said Celestria after a while.
“It’ll take some time to get that dreadful city out of your system.”
“Oh, I love London,” she said brightly.
“I like it, too, in very small doses! Do you want to paint something?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d be very good.”
“Why not have a try? Look in my bag; there’s a small sketchpad. Why don’t you grab a piece of charcoal and have a go. You don’t have to show it to anyone, if you’d rather not.”
As there was nothing else to do until her grandfather arrived, Celestria sketched Mrs. Halifax. The old woman sat beneath a straw sunhat, in the shade of a withered evergreen tree whose branches were low with prickly, unfriendly leaves, holding her brush in front of her nose every now and again to measure distances. While Celestria drew, she entertained Mrs. Halifax with stories of her family in Cornwall. Mrs. Halifax laughed out loud.
Sea of Lost Love Page 27