Angels of the Flood

by Joanna Hines

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Kate. Thank you so much.’ Ridiculously, Simona’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You’ve no idea what it means to me to hear you say that.’

  Kate’s irrational dislike had subsided as quickly as it arose, but she remained annoyed with her hostess. The Fondazione might be an admirable achievement, but Simona was clearly neurotic and Kate could think of many ways she’d rather spend an evening… but then she thought of Mario, and her curiosity about him was reason enough to stay a little while longer.

  Chapter 6

  Mario

  MARIO BASSANO HAD TRAVELLED a long way in his life. As everyone knows, the first necessity for a long journey is comfortable footwear, and, like many people who’ve grown up in poverty, Mario had a weakness for fine shoes. Each spring and autumn he had two pairs hand-made for him in Milan from supplest calf leather that whispered onto his feet. As soon as they were scuffed or beginning to wear at the heel he gave them away. That glue smell of the cobbler’s evoked all the misery of his childhood: cast-offs that never fitted, cramped and painful feet. In addition to his twice-yearly order at Salvini’s, he found it hard to resist impulse buys. The more expensive the shop, the more tempting the purchase. That was how he’d been seduced that afternoon, when his work at the centre was finished, by a pair of tan loafers, exquisitely topstitched and outrageously priced.

  Shoes were his only real indulgence. His domestic arrangements since his separation from his wife were simple, some might say austere. His clothes were expensive but not ostentatious. The car he was driving now, as he turned off the autostrada and began the slow climb into the hills, was a two-year-old Audi, satisfying in its performance and speed, but hardly an extravagance considering his position.

  As the road narrowed he changed down from top gear, good driver and good car making the transition smooth as silk. Mario derived sensual pleasure from the action. It therefore troubled him, as he pressed his left foot on the clutch, that the rim of his tan shoe rubbed slightly against his heel.

  He was irritated. Unless the shoes were perfect from the start, he’d get rid of them. He pressed a button and the car filled with the cool, mathematical perfection of Bach. After a week of listening to troubled voices—anguished, angry, suicidal, psychotic—he slipped gratefully into a sphere of luminous harmonies and order. He couldn’t analyse why the music was such a reliable palliative: it was one of his many regrets that his early years had been too crammed to allow more than a cursory knowledge of musical theory.

  Dr Bassano’s patients would have been surprised to know the extent of his anxieties and regrets. He knew they regarded him as a paragon of wisdom and calm. Nowadays, that went with the job. Doctors, especially psychiatrists, had replaced priests as idealized male figures. When the psychiatrist in question was, like Mario, good-looking, courteous and kind, then it was hardly surprising if most of his patients, and a good number of his co-workers, fell in love with him at one time or another.

  He was aware of the devotion. Sometimes it was irksome; more often he felt humbled by the gulf between what people saw in him and the truth he knew about himself. He did his best to live up to their expectations. No doctor more conscientious or hard-working than he. Or more self-effacing. He was at pains to keep secret the fact that for the past twenty years he had worked without remuneration at the Mission for Santa Cecilia. Let the spoiled contessas and the bored wives of industrialists subsidize the human flotsam that washed up daily at the doors of the good sisters.

  About ten minutes from the motorway he saw the side road that led to his apartment in Montombroso. More than anything he wanted to go home, shower and change and have a long cool drink. It had been a demanding week and the heel of his new shoe was definitely rubbing.

  He drove straight on. For him, duty did not finish with the end of the working week. There were his two daughters to consider and his estranged wife. There was the Fondazione, now reaching the end of its tenth season. There was Simona.

  Recently, he’d been more than usually concerned about Simona. Most probably she was unsettled by having her mother come to live at La Rocca—after all, the two women had never had an easy relationship. He’d lost count of the times Simona had vented her rage over her mother to him. ‘That bitch! I hate her! Why doesn’t she die?’ But Mario knew that hate between parents and children is never a simple thing: love damned up, polluted, driven off course, turned back on itself—but always some remnant of love. Even if, as Simona’s for her mother, it felt poisonous as hate.

  Whatever the reasons, he’d been anxious about her. She’d done so well since she got the idea for the Fondazione. It had turned her life around and she had found a serenity that had been missing before. He’d been pleased for her, and proud. This past ten years, busy and productive, had lulled him into a false sense of security. Even now it was hard to put his finger on the problem—it wasn’t like the violence of the past. He’d become aware of her lack of attention, a sense of distance, a hint of secretiveness. If anything, he found this more worrying than the problems she’d had before. Her present behaviour, elusive and private, was a mystery. And Dr Bassano did not like mysteries.

  He crossed over the narrow bridge and followed the road that ran along beside the river until the turn-off by the abandoned lodge. This approach to Bertoni land was always a kind of pleasure. From far off there was the first sight of the bare dog’s tooth of the summit, the ancient tower of La Rocca just visible below. Then, as you got closer, the high point was obscured by trees as the countryside became deeply wooded and mysterious. It wasn’t until halfway up the drive that the Villa Beatrice came into view, pale and serene, like a light shining from the edge of the mountain. And always as he drew closer, there were two sensations coexisting inside him: a sense of homecoming, but also the feeling that prison gates were closing behind him.

  Five thirty on a Friday: Simona was usually still busy at the Villa Beatrice. Mario pulled over, but there was no sign of her. He learned from Magda, one of the administrators, that an Englishwoman had arrived earlier and that she and Simona had gone up to La Rocca. Simona had left orders she wasn’t to be interrupted unless there was a real emergency. He tried to remember if Simona had said anything about friends coming at the weekend, but he was fairly sure there’d been no such plans. Tomorrow the Villa Beatrice would fill with all the visiting dignitaries who were joining them to celebrate the end of the tenth season. Simona usually tried to keep her diary clear for a few days beforehand.

  He drove thoughtfully the last half mile to La Rocca. After the public elegance of the Villa Beatrice, every bush clipped, every terrace swept in honour of the ceremony the following day, La Rocca was private and remote. By the time he got there, the sun was casting long shadows across the forecourt. A noisy swarm of swifts, like a hail of black arrows, was circling the tower, making that high-pitched excitable noise that was so much a part of summer evenings at La Rocca. He got out of the car, stooping briefly to pat Rollo’s pale back. Now that the sun was less hot the old dog had moved from the cool hall into the fresh air. He checked the cars on the forecourt; they were all familiar. The visitor must have left hers at the Villa Beatrice. Mario walked round the outside of the house to the terrace under the vine where Simona usually entertained guests at this time of day.

  He was right. The two women were seated in a pair of enormous wicker loungers, champagne flutes in their hands. He heard their laughter before he saw them, and recognized the sharpened gaiety of two people who are striving to appear friendly.

  Simona saw him first. The Englishwoman, whoever she was, had her back to him and all he could see was the top of her dark head above the high wicker rim of the chair.

  ‘Mario!’ said Simona. ‘Punctual as always!’ She looked up at him, her eyes shining with amusement and what looked to him like triumph. ‘I told Kate you’d be here on time. You remember Kate Holland, don’t you?’

  A cold-water shock of recognition. Yes, he remembered Kate Holland al
l right. How could he forget? He was furious at Simona for not having warned him in advance. He didn’t like surprises at the best of times, especially not one like this when he was already exhausted from his long week. He walked casually across the terrace and found himself staring down into a face that was instantly recognizable. Her dark hair was untouched by grey—which could have been thanks to a good colourist—but her brown eyes still had that unnerving directness, a kind of transparent honesty which he’d once found so attractive, but alarming also. He realized with annoyance that she’d observed his discomfort, though he struggled to suppress it as soon as he could. This unspoken communication was an intimacy too soon. How long had Simona been planning this little reunion, and what the hell was Kate Holland doing here anyway?

  ‘Kate!’ Years of dealing with difficult patients had given him remarkable powers of recovery. ‘What a surprise! As lovely as ever.’

  She smiled up at him, entering the game. ‘Don’t tell me, Mario—I haven’t changed a bit!’

  ‘Only to grow more beautiful. Welcome to La Rocca.’ He went to the side table and poured himself a large scotch with a small squirt of soda. He was in no mood to celebrate with champagne. He turned and said smoothly, ‘Simona never told me she’d invited you here. I would have come earlier if I’d known.’

  ‘Well…’ Kate looked down into her glass.

  Simona stepped in. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary, Mario? Kate just happened to be passing this way and thought she’d drop by. Just to have a look at the place. Of course, I recognized her at once. I’ve persuaded her to stay the night.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mario. ‘Did you leave your car at the villa, Kate?’

  ‘No. I haven’t got a car.’

  ‘But I thought you said—’

  ‘I came by taxi.’

  ‘You’re staying at Montombroso?’ Mario’s question was casual.

  ‘No. I came up from Florence this afternoon.’

  ‘In a taxi?’ He was unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. ‘You just happened to be passing in a taxi?’

  Kate laughed. She’d always had an attractive laugh, rich and bubbling and infectious. Only right now, Mario did not feel like laughing along with her. Kate’s cheeks were slightly flushed with champagne as she said, ‘The last of the extravagant travellers, that’s me. And I never drive when I’m abroad. It’s just—’ Suddenly the laughter died in her eyes. ‘It’s just something I never do,’ she muttered. She leaned forward and set her glass down on the low table. She was frowning.

  Mario had learned enough to be on his guard. He decided to change the subject. ‘How is your mother?’ he asked Simona. ‘Will she be joining us this evening?’

  ‘I expect so. She had a bad morning, but she was asleep all afternoon and now they say she’s fit as a flea. But she may change her mind. You never can tell with my mother. She’s so unpredictable.’

  Mario sat down and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The scotch was releasing some of the tension in the back of his neck, but he dared not let his guard slip, not for a moment.

  Simona’s mother was unpredictable. You could call it that. But then the whole family was unpredictable, Simona more than anyone. He sighed. Where the Bertoni family was concerned, unpredictability was the only thing you could be certain of.

  Chapter 7

  Fogbound

  ANNETTE BERTONI WASN’T EXACTLY sure where she was. The fog had been bad bad bad all day. It came down for long periods, blocking out light and sense. Some days, the clouds bunched up at the sides and she was able to find her way through the tunnel they made—though where in darnation the tunnel was leading, she didn’t know. Sometimes, rare as hen’s teeth, there was a shaft of bright light round her, like the sunshine that poured down like a waterfall in the big spaces between the trees where she used to play in the woods behind Grampy’s house in Maine. In the brightness, which should have been an improvement but never was, she saw clearly—and she didn’t like what she saw.

  Right now, all she could see through the engulfing mist was that darn spot on the sleeve of her blouse. A grey blemish, shaped like a slug. She shook at it, to make sure it wasn’t just a scrap of fluff, then rubbed it with the tip of her bony index finger. It stayed put.

  ‘Nancy!’

  ‘I’m here, signora. It’s Giulia—’

  ‘Don’t cheek me, girl. See here, this shirt is dirty. Get me another.’

  ‘That’s just a fleck in the linen, signora.’

  ‘Look—don’t argue—look—a mark—there—see it!’

  ‘Yes, signora. Right away.’

  Annette Bertoni’s arms and shoulders were stiff with outrage as the girl’s broad hands removed the offending linen, then slid the pale silk on her body. She felt so mad and frustrated and helpless it was a wonder she didn’t spit sparks like a Catherine wheel and burn up with the rage. Ha, that would be the way to go. A shower of burning colours and then, phut, nothing at all. If only.

  ‘She’s ready now.’ That wretched girl was talking about her. Did they think she couldn’t hear?

  ‘I’m not ready! Don’t tell me I’m ready!’

  That patient sigh. Those huge brown eyes. It was like lashing out at some dumb cow. ‘What do you need, signora?’

  The question flummoxed her. What did she need? There must be something she needed, but just for the moment, she couldn’t think what it was. When she first came to Italy as a bride, there’d been strict rules about what young ladies should and should not have with them. Gloves at all times. Tissue paper for packing undergarments. And… Right before she set off travelling with a friend, just before a short journey from Verona to the south, there’d been that conversation with her mother in law. A young lady must always carry… what was it? What in darnation had been so important that…?

  She nailed the thought and smiled, remembering the reassuring feel of hard metal through embroidered silk. She struggled to get out of her chair. When the bovine young maid tried to help her, she shook her off. ‘I can manage!’ she said angrily, then gripped the back of her chair and reached out across the empty space to her dressing table. Two tottery steps and she was there. She hunched over the drawers, trying to make herself wider, so cow-eyes wouldn’t see what she was doing. Pulled open the third drawer on the right. A couple of chiffon scarves, smelling of lavender and stale face powder, then her fingertips touched heavy silk embroidery, pressed down to feel the smooth outline of the pistol inside. Did it still work? She must try it out some time. But not now. For now, it was enough to know it was there.

  She pushed the drawer closed and turned round, leaning back against the dressing table for support. ‘I’m ready now,’ she said. ‘Tell Dino I’m ready.’

  ‘Here, signora.’ He must have been waiting just outside the door. He crossed the room and took her by the arm. A lady must always go in to dinner on the arm of a gentleman.

  Ha! Not that Dino was any kind of gentleman.

  But he was reliable. A reliable peasant. That was the best that could be said about him.

  He didn’t smell right, though. His head was smooth and shiny as a billiard ball, and he was common as dirt. But he was good and strong. As was his smell.

  ‘Dino, don’t you ever take a bath? You stink like a barnyard.’

  He merely grinned. That Humpty Dumpty face of his was just made for grinning. Like a big round plate with a smile in the middle. Mind you, it was always possible he didn’t understand a word of what she was saying. She might have spoken to him in English. Sometimes she had a job to keep track of which language was which.

  It was hard work going down the stairs. She had to concentrate, but it was easier once she reached the flat and was headed into the dining room. Ah yes, there was company, and they were waiting for her. Let them wait. Mario—it must be the weekend again already—and Simona and… looked like a visitor. Good, an extra person might liven things up a bit round here. About time.

  For the next little while the mist settled
round her again, blocking out the others in the room. All her attention was on the food, and the wine in her glass. Nothing seemed to have much flavour these days, but she enjoyed putting it in her mouth. You had to concentrate though. Food didn’t act like it used to. It slid off the fork and skittered across the plate and sometimes even escaped out of the corner of her mouth right in the middle of chewing it. The wine brightened her up. Even if it did bounce around in her glass like a storm at sea. She got it down, slurping a bit but she got it down.

  That was better. The mist was thinning and she could hear voices. She looked round the table. The newcomer was seated right across from her. A woman with dark hair, who, now she looked at her more closely, seemed familiar, somehow. Reminded her of someone, though darned if she could remember who. An uneasy feeling was spreading through her body, up from her gut. It was kind of like fear, only Annette Bertoni had never been frightened of anyone, so it couldn’t be that. Darker than fear. Felt like hate. A sense of black wings flapping across her mind, that plunging terror of sudden loss. She didn’t want this woman here, whoever she was. She ought to go.

  ‘Who the hell are you anyway?’

  Her question punched a hole in the conversation. Three heads swivelled to stare at her.

  ‘I introduced you already, Mamma. This is Kate Holland, a friend from England. You met her years ago, but you probably don’t remember.’

  ‘I remember just fine. Don’t you go telling me I have a problem with my memory.’

  ‘Sure, Mamma, anything you say. Just that I already told you who Kate was ten minutes ago and you’ve forgotten already.’

  Annette Bertoni stared. That smart-alec woman speaking was definitely her daughter. Only problem was, she couldn’t figure out which one. Sounded a bit like Francesca when she was getting fresh, but come to think of it, Simona had been pretty hard to handle recently and anyway Francesca was… Francesca was…

  It was like someone dropped a dark red curtain down inside her brain. That agony of loss, pitching her into endless darkness. Where was her baby? ‘What have you done with her?’ she asked plaintively, but no one answered, they just carried on talking as if she wasn’t there.