Italian Fever

by Valerie Martin

  He switched to her right foot. She had no doubt that his medical theories were the equivalent of voodoo, but she couldn’t be bothered to contradict him. He rolled her pajama leg up and began working on her calf. His fingers seemed to pry the long muscles away from the bones, and the resulting sensation, commingled of pain, pleasure, resistance, and submission, brought tears to her eyes.

  He stopped. “You must take off these clothes,” he said, pulling lightly at the waistband of her pajamas. “Take off everything but your underthings and I will bring a towel to cover you.”

  He went off to the bathroom. Lucy sat up and pulled off her pants. Apart from her underpants, she had on only a T-shirt, her preferred version of a pajama top, and a cotton sweater. She unbuttoned the sweater slowly, feeling awkward. He came back with the towel. She shrugged off the sweater and folded it carefully while he stood watching and waiting.

  “It’s too cold to take off my shirt,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Leave it on,” he said. “I will work around it.” He took the folded clothes and draped them over a chair while Lucy lay down again across the bed. Then he resumed the excruciating palpation of her right leg. “Are you embarrassed to take off your clothes in front of me?” he asked. His fingers had discovered an area of tension inside her knee, which he smoothed and prodded until she feared the whole joint might separate, and she groaned again. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “You should not be. Remember, I have seen you without your clothes before.”

  “That’s what embarrasses me,” she said. He worked up her thigh to the edge of her underpants, then back down again. She brought her hand to her mouth. Something was causing an increased flow of saliva; she felt a damp bit on the pillow beneath her mouth.

  “Also, you know that I am married and have children, so I know many things”—he paused—“to do with the body.”

  “Thank you for reminding me,” she said.

  He pressed the heels of both hands into the small of her back and leaned into her with all his weight. Children, too, Lucy thought. How many? She pictured him in the midst of his family, a voluptuous, temperamental wife, pouting over a pot of boiling water while their mischievous daughter teased her spoiled, petulant younger brother, who glared at her with the icy, pale eyes he had inherited from his father. And if the fiery beauty knew her husband was massaging the legs of an American woman in a farmhouse in Tuscany, wouldn’t she find a way to pour that boiling water right over his head? No, Lucy decided. Even though it was clear Massimo expected her to be curious, she wasn’t asking any questions about his family. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the pleasure of being powerfully manipulated. After a few moments, he said, “Are you falling asleep?”

  “No, no,” she assured him. “I’m wide-awake.”

  “Lift yourself up,” he said, “so I can raise your shirt.”

  She did as he asked. An absurd shudder of embarrassment came over her as the cloth came free of her breasts, causing her to flop back down upon the bed gracelessly. Massimo spread the towel over her, covering her from the waist down. “I’ll have to kneel over you to do your shoulders,” he said. She felt the bed give as he climbed upon it, planting a knee on either side of her hips. Then he lowered himself so that he was sitting on her buttocks. “I am not too heavy?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  He walked his fingers up and down her spine, pausing here and there to probe suspicious spots. Lucy looked out into the dim-lit room dreamily. She thought of her apartment in Brooklyn, her busy life there, which seemed so far away now, so distant in both time and space, she could hardly remember it. Then she imagined all the waves of the ocean, rising and falling, silvered by moonlight on this side but there, perhaps, still streaked with the deep red of the setting sun. And beneath the waves all the vast array of sea creatures, bumping about in the deep, never at rest because the sea, their atmosphere, was never at rest, but always churning, treacherous, and difficult. How vast it was, how mysterious. She had crossed it as if it were a particularly wide thoroughfare, but now it was between her and everything she knew and she could feel it out there, pounding against the shore of this odd place where she had washed up, where she was as far from her proper element as a fish thrown ashore by a storm.

  “What are you thinking?” Massimo said. He had lifted her left shoulder with one hand while he bore down upon her spine with the other. Her head drooped upon the pillow heavily, like a fruit grown too big for its vine.

  “Of the ocean,” she said.

  He released her shoulder and dug his fingers in at either side of her neck. “Of what?”

  “Of the Atlantic Ocean,” she said. “Of how big it is and all the different fish in it.”

  He moved to the other shoulder. “What a strange woman you are, Lucy,” he said.

  “Am I? How am I strange?”

  His hands came away from her neck. He raised himself from her back and in one motion brought himself beside her on the narrow bed. She had a momentary sensation of regret; the massage was over. But then he touched her cheek and rested his hand against her temple. “In such a way that I am wanting to make love to you.”

  She smiled. She thought of the care he had taken over washing her hair, the extraordinary kiss, which she knew could never be equaled, the sensual delights of the massage, so severe, yet tender, and now this simple declaration of desire, which her trembling limbs and suddenly racing heart told her she would return freely, without self-consciousness. She turned on her side to make more room for him. “This bed is so small,” she said. “And it’s not very sturdy.”

  He bent down over his ankles and began unfastening his shoes. “We will try very hard not to break it,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  THERE’S SOMETHING FISHY about the whole thing,” Lucy said.

  Massimo dropped the cover of the drawing pad over DV’s agonized grimace. “Why would anyone keep such a memento as this?” he observed. “That is what is odd to me.”

  “It doesn’t look like love,” she agreed.

  They had gone through DV’s wardrobe, where, in the pocket of a favorite jacket, Lucy had found, as she had thought she might, the keys to the rented car. Then she had shown Massimo the drawing pad, which was still on the bed where she had left it when Signora Panatella surprised her; it seemed a long time ago now, though actually it had been barely a week. Before Massimo, she thought. Henceforth, a good many events would be classified for ease of recollection as “before” or “after” Massimo. He glanced at the half-open drawer where the envelope protruded, just as she had left it. “This is the letter you spoke of,” he said.

  Lucy leaned across him, lifting the envelope. “I wish I had a sample of Antonio Cini’s handwriting,” she said. “Maybe I can get him to write something down for me when we go over there tonight.”

  He stayed her hand with his. He didn’t approve of her interest in the letter. He had a scruple she took to be part of his peculiar regard for the Cini name. “And if you were sure,” he said, “that Signor Cini wrote this letter to your friend’s mistress, what then, Lucy? What would that prove?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It would prove he’s lying. It would prove something happened here.”

  “What is it you think happened?”

  This question touched something sensitive and tender, like a bruise. “I don’t know,” she complained. “I don’t know. It’s all a big mystery, isn’t it, and it’s written in Italian. I can’t read this letter; I can’t even read the police report. DV never told anyone Catherine had left him, but apparently she was here such a short time, the landlord doesn’t even remember her. DV wasn’t the sort of man who stays alone in some farmhouse”—she opened her hands, indicating the world at large—“in the middle of nowhere, and he certainly didn’t take late-night walks on pitch-black roads just for the fun of it. He hated being outdoors; he had a horror of bugs. And where is this well he fell into? No one wants to talk about that. And where is
Catherine Bultman? People don’t just go up in smoke, Massimo.”

  “You are becoming upset,” he observed.

  “I am upset.”

  “You must calm down.” He pushed the drawing pad aside. “Sit here on the bed.”

  She did as he suggested. He stood before her, holding her hands. “When I was sick,” she said, “I had a dream. DV came to wake me up and he was angry. I’ve never seen him so angry.”

  She expected him to scoff at this confession, but he only looked at her steadily, as if she had said, at last, something that really interested him. “What did he say?” he asked.

  “He didn’t say anything. He just shook me.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder, and she rested her forehead against his chest. How odd he is, she thought. How completely unlike anyone I’ve ever known.

  “Do you imagine he was murdered?” he asked.

  “Not really. I’d just like a few straight answers, and they seem awfully hard to come by.”

  “But if you have no real suspicions, it is … so unnecessary to insist on such questions.” He stroked her hair, pressing her forehead into his breastbone. “Why not just gather up all these things belonging to your friend, Lucy, and send them back to his family in America and—”

  “And go home,” she finished for him, her voice tremulous with frustration and self-pity. Was it possible that he only wanted to be rid of her?

  He stepped back, holding her by the shoulders, bending down to look into her face. “And come to Roma with me,” he said. “I have to go back tomorrow and I can’t leave again for a week. I don’t want to be away from you for so long. We have so little time left.”

  Rome, she thought. His family, his friends. Would he pass her off as a client? Perhaps they would meet only in her hotel room. However limited the opportunities, she reflected, she would be a fool not to take them. Later, she might be sick with regret, doubtless she would be, but it would not be regret for having missed this chance. This line of reasoning, so distinctly in the “after Massimo” mode, made her feel excited and reckless. She seemed to herself like a romantic film heroine, always ready—nay, eager—to cast her fate to the most vagrant of winds. She threw her arms about his neck, drawing him to her. “Yes,” she said in a new, breathy voice direct from an imaginary film version of herself, “I’ll go with you to Rome. I think I would go with you anywhere.”

  THIS PROMISE WAS NOT, Lucy knew at once, one she could be relied upon to keep, but making it gave her the necessary excuse to ignore the impropriety and impracticality of Massimo’s plan. Everything about him that would normally have made her cautious—his enormous self-confidence, his clear preference for control over cooperation, his refusal to enter any but the most superficial conversation, the obvious duplicity of his relations with his wife, and therefore with all women, his peculiar lack of irony—combined in a mixture she found nonthreatening and oddly endearing. He seemed to think he was the only adult in a world of children and fools; he shouldered the burden of his incalculable responsibilities with an air of stoic resignation. His habitual smile was world-weary; she had not heard him laugh. He wasn’t vain, for he did not concern himself with his image; rather, she thought, he entirely was his image. He saw himself complacently, and he was always seeing himself. He treated her like a child. She had become one of his dependents, and as such, he took a paternal interest and pride in her little accomplishments. He guarded her health, petted and fed her. He liked to see her eat everything on her plate. His interest in her was, she thought with amusement, entirely physical. No one had ever shown such an interest in her before.

  And of course this all made him an extraordinarily exciting lover. His bulk, which had attracted her because it made him such an undeniable, solid presence, was revealed to be well toned and muscular. Though she admired his body, it was immediately obvious that she could not be more gratified by it than he was. All modesty was banished from their coupling because it was so evidently unnecessary. His body was a gift to her, and everything about hers interested him. He was determined to know everything that could be known about it. He reminded her of a man who has purchased an expensive and complicated new automobile; he wanted to maintain it perfectly in order to run it hard and fast. He found her responses gratifying; anything she did to please him seemed to please him inordinately. Afterward, when she lay stunned and satiated, she murmured, “How do you do that?” and he replied, “You do it, too, you know, Lucy.”

  She had the sense an erotic awakening brings to a young woman—younger than she was, she ruefully reflected—of the world being suddenly bigger, more various, more surprising and exciting than heretofore, but it did not escape her notice that for Massimo the world was much as it had ever been. She was breathless with excitement and amazement; he was as he always was. They both knew she was having an adventure that must come to an end when she returned to her old life in her own country. He was in his old life; he would never leave it.

  They made love, and in the process, the drawing pad slid onto the floor, the cover flew open, and DV’s image grimaced up at the ceiling. Then they made their plans.

  Massimo would go down first; she would follow by train, for, he assured her, driving into Rome was “a madhouse,” it was impossible to park, and she would have no need of a car while she was there. He knew of a hotel, small, near where he would be working, owned by a friend—hence inexpensive and personal. They would have to be discreet in public because of his family, but there was, he explained, no reason why he could not dine with her every day, at lunch or dinner, and he would arrange to spend at least one night of her visit in the hotel with her. As she listened, she couldn’t help imagining the dismal situation his wife was so evidently accustomed to, figuring in her husband’s plans as little more than an obstacle or an obligation. Lucy thought she could tell when he talked to her on the phone; there was a tone of self-righteous command, a greater frequency of the exclamation “Non m’interessa,” which he used to close or change the subject. A fair proportion of the world didn’t interest Massimo, Lucy observed. It couldn’t be long before she would herself fall into that ever-expanding category. But as he explained his plan for her, his hands moved over her body, sometimes gently, sometimes strong, but never rough or harsh, finding all the places that made her sigh and strain toward him.

  He turned her onto her side, fitted her hips against his groin, and kissed her softly, repeatedly, along her shoulder and neck. As she moved against him, her head slipped over the edge of the mattress and she was looking down into DV’s agonized face.

  This was the bed DV had slept in with Catherine.

  She pushed herself away from the edge, deeper into Massimo’s embrace. But she could feel DV there, staring up from the floor, and lingering everywhere in the room, like a chill. He hadn’t died here, but she did not doubt that he had suffered, and some residue of that suffering still coated every surface.

  Go to Rome, she told herself. Forget DV Get away from this house. Go spend a few days among the living.

  Chapter 12

  WITHIN THREE MINUTES of their entrance into his dining room, Antonio Cini, who constituted the first test of their discretion, surmised the new state of intimacy between Lucy and Massimo. He might have managed it sooner had he not been distracted by an argument he was carrying on with his father, which concluded when the old man broke away in a huff and stalked off to his dark hall without acknowledging the arrival of his guests. Antonio turned his attention upon them; his cold eyes raked over Lucy like a descending glacier, and she understood that something on her surface had altered since his last inspection and that he knew she and Massimo were now lovers. He took her hand and bent over her, placing light kisses on each cheek, murmuring her name like an insinuation. She noticed a fragrance—perhaps it was something he put on his hair—too sweet, and muddled by something acrid, perspiration, or just the odor of his flesh. The combination was sickening. She was reminded of the last time she had been in this dining room. None
of the other guests had been ill that night; surely there had been nothing wrong with the food, but the memory of her illness and the oppressive closeness of Antonio combined to put a sudden check on her appetite. “So you are completely recovered,” he said. “Thanks to the good efforts of this gentleman …” and he took Massimo’s hand with something almost like enthusiasm. Lucy was struck again by the odd, archaic diction of his English. Where had he learned it?

  The routine of the evening was much as it had been the first time. Antonio offered drinks and then suggested a sojourn on the loggia. It was a warm, clear evening, the air heavy with a lemony perfume. Lucy took her glass to the arch and leaned out over the thick stone sill, looking up at the stars dreamily, for in their progress from the dining room she had passed close to Massimo and he had brushed his fingers against her hip with an informed pressure that was unmistakably intentional. She didn’t know if Antonio observed this sweet familiarity, but she decided that she didn’t care, and not caring gave her an agreeable sense of bravado. The two men settled in the chairs behind her; she could hear them talking in a blend of English and Italian. Massimo was explaining his plan to return to Rome on the following day. Antonio showed no surprise at the news, nor did the addendum that Lucy would be spending a few days in the capital city as well provoke his habitual indifference to any exclamation beyond a polite expression of solicitude.

  Lucy turned from the window. “I’m not going down with Massimo,” she explained. “I have a few things to do here before I leave. I want to gather up some papers to mail from the post office in Sansepolcro. Then I thought I’d take the train from there. Do you think it would be safe to leave the car in the station for a few days?”

  “I don’t see why it would not,” Antonio said. “But what car will you be taking?”

  “The one at the house,” she replied. “DV’s rented car.”

  As if the mention of DV’s name contained some silencing property, Antonio studied his aperitivo for a moment before answering, “I wonder if that car will even start.”