Angels of the Flood

by Joanna Hines

  Mario stood his ground. ‘Francesca would have been distressed if all her friends had left without saying goodbye.’

  ‘Excuse me, since when did you know better than I do what’s right for my daughter?’

  ‘She’s changed, Annette. I’ve been watching her, these past weeks, and I tell you, she’s not the same girl who came back from the States before Christmas.’

  ‘Damn right she’s not, and more’s the pity! If I’d known what was going on, I’d never have allowed her to stay with that rabble. You were supposed to report back to me and you let me down.’

  ‘I thought it was for the best. Even you must agree that Francesca is stronger, happier, than ever before. The improvement is all due to friends like Kate.’

  ‘Seems a strange way for you to talk. Doesn’t it bother you, knowing your girl is carrying on with people like that?’

  ‘To begin with, yes, it did. But… I like to see her happy, Annette.’

  ‘Happy? What nonsense. Francesca will lose all respect for you, and I don’t blame her. Mario, I want that English girl out of here. She’s dangerous.’

  To Annette’s fury, Mario actually laughed. ‘Dangerous?’ He walked over to the window. From the grounds outside the small sitting room in which they were talking, came the sound of girls’ voices, talking and laughing. That kind of easy banter among friends that Annette had never known. People had never been drawn to her. They’d admired her, but never liked her. Respect was what she wanted, it was what she had to have. ‘Kate’s not dangerous,’ he said in a low voice, and she saw how his face warmed as his gaze lingered on the three girls. ‘She’s hardly more than a child herself.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ snapped Annette. ‘She’s got you under her thumb same as Francesca. Well, I intend to make damn sure Simona doesn’t go the same way!’

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Annette, that you might not have any choice? Simona is nearly eighteen. You can’t keep her a child for ever.’

  ‘Now you sound like Francesca. What’s got into you, Mario?’

  ‘Nothing. Francesca has to have a chance to spread her wings before she settles down. Simona too. It’s like the song says, Annette, the times are changing. I used to see things your way, but now—well—I’m sorry, but I think you’re wrong.’

  ‘How dare you! Who are you to judge what is right and wrong? Unlike you, Mario, I do not have the luxury of thinking only of Francesca. I must consider the interests of the whole family. I thought you of all people understood that. Zio Toni does not have long to live and we have to safeguard the future.’

  ‘You mean, his money? But what if Francesca doesn’t want it? What if even Simona would be better off without it?’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’ To calm herself, Annette fished in her bag for a packet of cigarettes and lit one, inhaling deeply. She did not offer one to Mario. After a few moments she said coolly, ‘Listen to me, Mario. This isn’t some game we’re playing here. I’m not after the money so the girls can buy a few fancy dresses and go to finishing school and have parties. I’m talking survival, Mario. Staying afloat. I’ve been hanging on by my fingernails for so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like any other way. You think your family have debts because they paid for you to go through medical school? Well, think of a number and add a few zeros and you might come close. If Zio Toni doesn’t come through with the money then this family is finished. Kaput. Wiped out. Totally.’

  ‘You’d manage somehow, Annette. You always do.’

  ‘You’re not listening. It will be the end. My useless husband will probably kill himself, if I don’t get there first and do the job for him. We have to get the money. If Francesca won’t play ball, then Simona must do it. Otherwise we have no chance.’

  Mario didn’t answer right away. He went back to the window and looked out at the girls. Their laughter was free and infectious. At length he turned and said to her, ‘I regret you’ve got into this mess, Annette, but it’s not the girls’ fault. You know I hope to marry Francesca eventually, but in the meantime, if she wants to see a bit of the world, then I’ll help her any way I can.’

  ‘You’ll lose her.’

  ‘It’s a risk I have to take.’

  ‘No.’ The contradiction was made with such certainty that Mario flinched. He controlled himself and remained motionless as Annette crossed the room and stood in front of him. She raised her right hand and touched the rim of his collar, where his hair curled over. ‘You need a haircut, Mario. You’ll be as bad as the capelloni soon.’

  ‘Annette, don’t.’

  ‘I’ll do as I please, young man.’ She gripped the back of his neck, holding him in position as she touched his mouth with her fingertips.

  Instinctively he turned away, then reached up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Don’t you like it any more?’ He didn’t answer. She went on, smiling now, ‘I guess Francesca would be kind of upset if she discovered, eh? Is that what’s worrying you?’

  ‘You know damn well it would kill her.’

  ‘Oh really? Maybe now you’re the one who’s exaggerating, Mario. I admit she’s always been a sensitive child, one of those girls who takes things hard, but still, I don’t suppose it would actually kill her to know that her fiancé—not official, of course, but all the same—that her beloved fiance had been keeping Mamma amused while the little girl was in the States.’

  ‘You make it sound like a real affair but… it was only a couple of times.’

  ‘Three. I remember each occasion so vividly, don’t you?’ Mario was silent, staring at her. She continued easily, ‘I sure hope she never does find out about what happened. She wouldn’t like it, would she? It might even bring on a relapse.’

  ‘A relapse?’ He looked at her incredulously. ‘It would destroy her.’

  ‘So. We just have to make sure she never finds out.’

  ‘What are you saying? You think I would tell her?’

  Annette stubbed out her cigarette. All trace of anger gone, she was smiling now. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’d never tell her, Mario.’

  ‘Then… no, I don’t believe it.’ He met her gaze for a few moments, her hard, challenging stare, then turned away and walked across the room, putting as much distance between them as he could, before looking back and saying in a low voice, ‘Not even you… you’d never tell her.’

  ‘I might do. If I was pushed hard enough.’

  ‘But… are you jealous?’

  It was the wrong thing to ask. She was hissing with rage as she said, ‘Me? Jealous of my daughter? Never! I always thought my daughter could do better than a shrink from a dirt-poor village. I only went along with it for Francesca’s sake. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to tell her every sordid detail if I have to.’

  ‘Then I’ll deny it. She’ll never believe you.’

  ‘No?’ She smiled, regaining her composure. ‘But I kept your little notes, Mario.’

  ‘You did?’ He plunged his hands into his hair. ‘That’s disgusting. It’s blackmail!’

  ‘I prefer to call it a bargain,’ she said. ‘A business deal.’

  ‘But… you know what it would do to her. I can’t believe you’d hurt your own child that way.’

  ‘No?’ She looked at him in triumph. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I wouldn’t. But you’ll never know, will you, because you daren’t put it to the test. Because you know I might, if I had reason enough.’

  ‘But your own daughter…’

  ‘No need to sound so shocked, mio caro dottore. As I said already, unlike you I have the whole family to consider, not just one person. So?’

  ‘She must never know.’

  ‘Excellent. Then you will do as I say.’

  He nodded bleakly. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, ‘and I’ll explain.’ After a brief hesitation he went to sit on the edge of a straight-backed chair. ‘We will close ranks,’ she said, suddenly bus
inesslike. ‘We have to get rid of this English girl, send her back to Florence tonight. Break the connection. I don’t want Francesca to have any more dealings with those foreigners. She will stay here. Alone, she’s never been able to stand up to me.’

  ‘Not many people can,’ said Mario quietly. Louder, he said, ‘But Zio Toni has invited Kate to stay. If I can’t persuade her to leave, what then?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way. But if she refuses—then you must help me do whatever is necessary to keep my daughters on side. Francesca’s still in love with you, you know. I know my daughter. She’s acting up now, but she’s never really cared for anyone else. And as for Simona, she regards you as an older brother—she’s probably a little bit in love with you too. A few words from you and I’m sure both girls will be easier to handle.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Mario stood up.

  She ignored the sarcasm of his question. ‘For the time being. You can be sure I’ll let you know if there is anything else.’

  Mario had his hand on the door. He turned, his face white with suppressed rage, and said, ‘I wish to God I’d never had anything to do with the Bertoni family.’

  Annette laughed. She had sat down in a blue velvet chair and was lighting herself another cigarette. ‘Mio caro,’ she said, ‘I know just how you feel. I’ve wished the selfsame thing every single day of my married life.’

  Mario went out by a back door and walked quickly up a track that led away from La Rocca, striding up the hillside until he could go no further. He couldn’t stand to see anybody, least of all Francesca. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to face Francesca again. Regret wasn’t a strong enough word for what he felt right now. If he could have turned the clock back… but he knew Annette Bertoni would never let him off the hook.

  When he could climb no higher, he sat down on a rock and stared unseeing at the wide expanse of hills and woods all around. He was struggling to identify the moment when he’d made the fatal decision to become Annette’s lover, but it was impossible. When he first encountered her, at a fund-raising evening for a medical charity he supported, he’d been desperate to find out where Francesca had been sent, to find some way of contacting her. It was only natural he should try to court favour with Francesca’s mother, since she obviously held the reins of power in the family. And Signora Bertoni had been willing to be courted. As she’d told Mario, Francesca was vulnerable: even though she could see Mario’s feelings for her daughter were sincere, she still needed to find out for herself if he was someone she could trust.

  Trust. The memory of the word, how she had dangled it in front of him, made Mario feel ill. But at the time, it had seemed like a reasonable request, so he’d agreed to all her suggestions that they meet. He even learned to look forward to them: she could be good company, witty and urbane and interested in his work and his studies. One day he had met her for lunch as usual in one of her favourite restaurants and told her that for the sake of her reputation they would have to cease their meetings: already there were rumours that he was her lover. To his amazement she’d laughed at the notion and he realized that, far from being shocked, she was pleased people thought she had such an attentive young lover.

  She had invited him back to the apartment. There were some things of Francesca’s she wanted him to see. Her husband was out. Mario knew by now of her disappointment in her husband—the husband who’d flattered her with expensive presents and promises of wealth but who, when they got back to Italy, had turned out to be poor as a church mouse. He’d learned to see Filippo through her eyes and to despise him too. Mario was flattered by the confidences of this attractive and obviously unhappy woman. He went back to her flat at that hour in the afternoon when the servants were out and the city seemed half asleep in the heat.

  She had shown him a poem Francesca had written when she was fifteen, a poem full of thoughts of death and despair. Why couldn’t she have brought it to their meeting at the restaurant? He grew nervous and made some joking reference to the ridiculousness of the gossip that they were lovers.

  It had been a mistake, he realized as soon as he said it. ‘Ridiculous?’ she asked, the question husky and plaintive. ‘Do you really find me so unattractive?’

  Of course not, on the contrary, she was extremely attractive. Mario struggled to repair the damage. She was the most attractive of women… and it was true. He’d never been alone in the company of anyone so sophisticated and elegant. But still she was not reassured. He’d been thrown off balance by her sudden shift to vulnerability. He put his arms round her to comfort her. To demonstrate just how attractive she was, he’d kissed her. And somewhere between the kissing and the reassurance the moment when he could have drawn back passed without him noticing it, and was gone for ever.

  Three times, she said. He’d said two. He didn’t count the final time, after he’d happened to notice a letter from the clinic where Francesca’d been sent and memorized its address. He’d been appalled to learn Francesca had been sent to a private clinic, not the college he’d been told about. Why? He didn’t believe Annette’s account of Francesca’s violence against her uncle, that she’d poured boiling water on his leg. He thought they were making it up, horrified that even now it was possible for parents to incarcerate their inconvenient children. His final encounter with Annette had been brief, without any pretence of tenderness. He’d been intending to tell her it was the last time, but perhaps she’d sensed what he was about to say and she’d got there first. Saving face. From then on there’d been no more lunches, but he was careful to remain courteous and friendly: he’d known it would be a mistake to make an enemy of Annette Bertoni. But he’d never imagined the lengths to which she was prepared to go.

  Well, now he knew. He was furious with himself for having been so gullible. Had she seduced him because she was attracted to him, simply, or had she set the trap so she could use it against him one day if she wanted to? He wondered how he dared to call himself a psychiatrist when he was so easily fooled by human nature, but his schizophrenics and depressives were plain sailing compared to the Bertonis.

  He had lost Francesca. After that hideous meeting with Annette just now there was no going back to the illusion that one day he and Francesca could make a life together away from her family. Her mother’s threats, the blackmail, his terrible sense of powerlessness, would always come between him and Francesca. He’d waited three years while she was in America and would have waited another three if necessary, but it was only now, when he knew he was condemned to walk away for ever, that he recognized how strongly he had loved her.

  Desperately, he tried to work out how to get round Annette’s threats. He thought that if she ever dared to tell Francesca about their liaison he would simply deny it, brazen it out and say the woman was fantasizing. It would be his word against her mother’s—if Francesca cared for him, which deep down he still believed she did, then surely she would believe him rather than the mother she detested? But… but… a life together founded on a lie? What kind of a life would that be? Sooner or later the truth was sure to come out, as it always did, and then what? A marriage with poison at its heart was a lingering death. He’d never be able to endure such a thing.

  But supposing he were to take back the initiative and tell Francesca about the affair himself? If he confessed, she’d be horrified and angry for a while, and desperately hurt, but if she cared for him—again, that if—she would be reconciled in time. Perhaps. Alternatively, she might hate and despise him for ever; his pride could not endure the thought of that. Better by far to sever all links while she still thought well of him, perhaps even loved him the same way as he loved her. There was no guarantee that Annette would act on her threat, so why divulge a secret that was better left a secret for ever?

  He knew his only real option was to walk away, hard though that was. So long as he remained within reach of the Bertonis, he was doomed to remain a pawn in whatever game Annette chose to play. And the worst part was knowing that he had brought this misery
on himself.

  It didn’t stop there. He had always thought Francesca exaggerated her need to escape from her family; now he saw clearly that her only chance of finding happiness was away from their embrace. He was the one person who could have taken her away from them and he was powerless to help her.

  One last task Annette had set him and it could not have been closer to his heart. He was to see that Kate returned to Florence that afternoon, which meant he was to leave also. Leave, and, if he had his way, never come back. There was an ache in his heart at the prospect of never seeing Francesca again. She had been his first and truest love. He could not believe he’d ever care for anyone as he cared for her, but she came at too high a price.

  He stood up and began walking down the mountainside to look for Kate.

  The moment he was gone from the room, Annette’s composure vanished. She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. She was quivering like a leaf, shaking so much that when she tried to put the cigarette to her lips, ash tumbled down the front of her blouse. My God, what must he think of her? No need to ask the question, you only had to look in his eyes to see the depths of his contempt. And she had so craved his good opinion. Time was, they had been allies as well as lovers. Oh, she wasn’t under any illusions. She had always known he didn’t care for her the way he cared for Francesca, but even so… he had admired her and desired her and she’d revelled in that.

  All gone. Irrevocably gone. But it was a small price to pay. What kind of mother would resort to blackmail and threaten to destroy her own child? Simple: a desperate mother. A mother who’d teetered on the edge of the abyss for so long she’d forgotten what it was like not to wake every night in the small hours in a cold sweat of terror at what the future might bring. A mother who’d lied and cheated and schemed for years to keep her family afloat. And anyway, she knew Mario would never dare to call her bluff.

  He believed her threat, just as she’d known he would. He was innocent and idealistic, so he believed people less scrupulous than himself to be capable of anything, even the destruction of their own child. Because surely Francesca’s fragile equilibrium would be utterly destroyed if she knew of their affair. Mario wasn’t to know how much she cherished her wayward daughter, in spite of everything. She’d learned to play the part of unfeeling termagant with consummate skill. Sometimes she even came close to deceiving herself.