“Boy, that sounds great,” I said. “Frankly, I could use a little calm and beauty.”
He looked at me with affection and said, “Yes, if you’ve never been, then you should see it sometime. You would love it, too.”
“Not sometime, this time,” I pressed. “We have bigger things to figure out besides the yacht alone, you know. We can’t let day-to-day events pull us back into old habits.”
“You’re right to say that we need to gain some perspective,” he admitted. He looked at me and said with self-reproach, “This hasn’t exactly been a picnic for you, either. Here I am so busy feeling sorry for myself that I failed to notice. After all, it’s Penny’s Dream, stolen from you as well as me. You could use a breather yourself.”
“Exactly!” I cried. “The cops will keep an eye on the boat, and so will Claude and the crew, now that they’re working on it. When the repairs are all done, we’ll let cooler heads prevail. Then we can decide whether to keep the yacht or sell it. In the meantime, a little Beethoven music ought to improve our brain cells.”
“Yes, well, I must be losing my mind,” Jeremy said slowly, “because what you say is actually making sense to me.”
“Great!” I said, pouncing on the idea before he could change his mind. “Let’s leave tomorrow! I’m really looking forward to taking a break from all this.”
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. I mean, there actually was a Beethoven music festival going on at Lake Como. And I have always wanted to go there. And it made sense, really, to get away from the Riviera for a bit. However, I had one other teensy little reason for wanting to go there. I would certainly share this with Jeremy. But first I wanted to be sure that I was on the right track, and that my info was correct and up-to-date . . . and that the Count Hubert von Norbert, previous owner of our yacht, was still currently residing in a castle near the Alps . . . at Lake Como.
Part Five
Chapter Sixteen
Lake Como was unlike any lake I’d ever seen. I think of lakes as ... well, round. But Lake Como is shaped like a dancing frog, as if Matisse had painted it. It’s the third largest lake in Italy, but you’d never know it because of those long skinny legs; and even at the “torso,” or widest part, it’s only about three miles across, yet it’s also one of the deepest lakes in all of Europe. It is surrounded by magnificent Alpine mountains, and its shores are covered with evergreens and great big blossoming shrubs, which are reflected by the lake, giving the entire place a glowing emerald color. Green lake, green pine-covered mountains rising like protective walls, their peaks shrouded in misty, milky-white clouds at whose summit one might suppose that Zeus and all the other gods of Olympus were enthroned.
The town of Como itself sits at the “toe” of the left “leg.” It is a busy, bustling city that we drove beyond, because we had booked into a Grand Hotel at a quieter town farther up this leg. The beautiful old hotel seemed to be waiting just for us, perched high up above the lake. Our taxi pulled into the gravel driveway on the left side of the road. As we climbed out, I saw that, to our right, directly across the street, our hotel had a wooden pier extending out on the lake, with an outdoor restaurant on it. Beyond this was a gangway leading to a big “float” with a sizeable swimming pool atop it, so the whole pool just sat there serenely bobbing on the lake.
The bellhop waited patiently as I stopped in my tracks and gazed, open-mouthed, at the way the late afternoon sun was reflected in the swimming pool and the beautiful outstretched lake, and beyond, at the stunning view of the other coastline across the “leg” with its matching mountains, villages and hotels.
“Oh, Jeremy!” I breathed. “Let’s sit here and watch the sun set over the lake!”
“Erm, mind if we see our room first?” Jeremy said with amusement. We crunch-crunched across the brief gravel driveway, went into the hotel, and entered a glass elevator that took us up to the beautiful golden Belle Epoque lobby.
“You know, they shot the movie Grand Hotel right here, with Greta Garbo and John Barrymore!” I enthused, as we made our way to the front desk, which had a fleet of pretty Italian women wearing identical scarves made of the silk that Como is famous for. The receptionists were busily checking their guests in and out. When our turn came, they handed us a big heavy gold key with an enormous gold tassel. Then we went in another glass elevator, which was flanked by dramatic curving stairs . . . in case you felt like floating down in a chiffon gown to meet your date like a movie star.
Inside our room was a narrow hallway with a closet to the left, and a marble bathroom to the right. Beyond this was the main part of the room, with shuttered windows, a great big bed, a chest of drawers, and comfortable armchairs. The bellhop quietly brought in our bags. I flung open one of the shutters, and stared rapturously at the picture-book view of the mountainous sky, with its soft mysterious clouds, the lovely lake beyond, and, in the gardens below, some big green shrubs that were covered with giant rhododendron blossoms in pink and blue, practically the size of a cheerleader’s pom-poms. There were slender gnarled trees that attracted swooping, chirping birds, whose balletic moves made the whole place look like a garden from a fairy tale.
We went downstairs again, and entered the bar, which had outdoor tables on a balcony. You could gaze over the wrought-iron railing at the street below, and the lake and the floating pool beyond, which rocked and tilted gently like a swimmer’s float whenever a passing speedboat ruffled it or whenever the wind rippled its tides. We ordered bellinis, a cocktail made of champagne and the juice of fresh peaches. We smiled at everyone, and they smiled at us, because there was something about the nature of the place that made people happy and relaxed, as if they’d found a sheltered little corner of paradise, attended by waiters who had the calm courtesy and patience of angels.
Across the lake, we could see lights coming up on the beautiful town of Bellagio, so named from the Latin “Bi-lacus” which means “between the lakes” because the pretty town sits right at the—well, the lake’s crotch of the frog’s legs. Just north of Bellagio is the “torso” of the dancing frog.
And as we sat gazing out, the breeze stirred our senses and there seemed to be a whiff of magic in the air, because the wind had made its mysterious daily shift—from the afternoon breva which comes upward from the south to north—to the tivà which does the reverse at night. The waiter explained this matter-of-factly to us. But if you happen to be sitting there just at the moment when the wind makes that shift, you could swear that the spirits are speaking to you, ushering in your deepest wishes, or foretelling a great change in store for you.
“Mmm,” Jeremy said, sensing this, and closing his eyes. “Wonderful. ”
“And tomorrow,” I said enthusiastically, “we can go exploring the lake by boat. There’s plenty of ferries to take us anywhere we want to go.”
“Fine. I’ll take you to my secret island for lunch,” Jeremy promised.
“The Isola Comacina?” I asked eagerly. He looked surprised.
“How did you remember that name so easily?” he asked.
“I looked it up,” I said quickly. “This place is so rich in history,” I enthused. “Prehistoric bears used to roam around this lake. And later, royalty from ancient Rome on up to Victorian England, had villas here where they threw wild parties and had secret escapes from their castles. And Lake Como inspired so many great artists—Shelley and Wordsworth and Verdi and Liszt all created masterpieces while hanging around here.”
“And don’t forget the infamous guests as well—like Mussolini, who very nearly escaped over the mountains into nearby Switzerland . . . almost,” Jeremy said, his eyes still closed. But then he opened one eye and peered at me knowingly.
“So. Are you going to tell me now or later?” he inquired.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“Why are we here?” Jeremy asked firmly. “And don’t tell me it’s to relax. That’s all very well, but I know how that head of yours works, and you wouldn’t haul me all the way up here just f
or Beethoven. You’re no ordinary tourist, at least, not when you’ve got that look in your eye. You’ve picked up the scent and you’re on to something. So, what is it?”
I wasn’t entirely sure I liked having a man getting to know me so well that he could see through my best nonchalant act. I mean, I thought I’d been pretty discreet. But, since it was clear that the jig was up, I told him. “It just so happens that the guy who owned Liesl’s Dream lives on Lake Como,” I announced. “In an old castle somewhere around here. His name is the Count von Norbert. The lady at the front desk told me everyone knows him, because he’s been here a long time, ever since he came over from Germany during World War Two, to escape the Nazis. They say he’s old and frail now, and is a bit of a recluse.”
“Aha!” Jeremy said. “I just knew it somehow had to do with the yacht.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, slightly insulted. “If you knew that, then why did you go along with me?”
“Because I also know,” Jeremy said, “that if I didn’t, you’d try to pull this off yourself. And somebody has to keep an eye on you.”
“What am I, some doofus or something?” I demanded.
“No, it’s merely that you always think the best of people,” he replied. “Therefore, someone has to be on hand to think the worst.”
“Are you saying you suspected this all along?” I asked.
“I was fairly certain you were up to no good when we left Antibes, ” he said maddeningly, “but I knew for absolutely sure just now, when I went to get smaller change to tip the porter—and I saw you over at the front desk gabbing with the older lady receptionist. She gave you maps and she circled things on it.”
“Boy,” I said indignantly. “You’re a bigger snoop than I am.”
“I learned from the master,” he replied. “So, what else have you got?”
“Well,” I said eagerly, “the Count comes from a very old aristocratic family in Bonn. He was only eighteen when he married his childhood sweetheart—named Liesl. Ya get it?”
“Yes, yes, as in Liesl’s Dream,” Jeremy said. “Go on.”
“She was studying to become a concert pianist. But she caught polio and became crippled. Hitler didn’t have much tolerance for people with disabilities, you know. And the Count thought the fascists were ruining Germany, so he and Liesl decided to hightail it out of there. So they came here, to Lake Como. Liesl gave music lessons for many years after that, and the Count helped other war refugees who barely escaped with their lives.”
“Where’d you get all this gossipy, personal stuff?” Jeremy asked.
“Turns out the receptionist was once a pupil of Liesl’s,” I said. “She adored them. Says the Count and his wife were molto generoso, even after the war, supporting local charities and orphanages, making donations to fix the church bell, all that kind of stuff.”
“Sounds like a nice dapper sort of fellow,” Jeremy commented, intrigued.
“Yeah, she said he always cuts a bella figura in town, even after Liesl died in the 1970s, when her youngest child was only a couple of years old. The Count still made public appearances to keep up their charities and stuff . . . Until,” I added mysteriously, “very recently, when something went wrong. All they know around here was that he went off on his yacht and came back ‘a changed man.’ ”
“Blimey,” Jeremy said warily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” I went on dramatically, “nobody really knows. All she said was, ‘Alas, the Count suffered a stroke. He is more frail these days, a bit forgetful. He does not make so many public appearances anymore.’ From the way she said it, I gathered that he’s now a bit—senile or something.” I paused for breath.
“Wow,” Jeremy said. “That’s some story.”
“You haven’t heard the best part,” I said. “True, he doesn’t get out much anymore, but in honor of his wife, he always attends the annual music festival. In all these years, they say, he never misses. As in tomorrow night.”
“Good God, the audacity!” Jeremy marveled. “Luring me in with Beethoven, you treacherous female.”
“Well, it’s taking place right here in our hotel,” I continued, undaunted. “In one of those gorgeous old salons on the lobby level,” I said eagerly. “You know, the ones with antique wallpaper and golden trim, and those sofas that make you think of kings and queens with powdered wigs, throwing music soirées. I saw the waiters setting up rows of extra seating already. And there was a platform for the string musicians and pianist. And tables full of champagne glasses. It’s going to be wonderful. So,” I said briskly, “that gives us all day tomorrow to find out more about the Count, maybe see where he lives.”
“You’ll have to take me to my island and feed me a magnificent lunch,” Jeremy warned. “I can’t snoop on an empty stomach.”
“Why, naturally,” I said.
“Good,” Jeremy said briskly. “Because I already made the reservations. ”
Chapter Seventeen
Well, we overslept a bit. But it was all part of the enchant-ment. The shuttered windows kept us in such a spell-bound slumber that only the sound of the maids hoovering the hallways finally stirred us. I suppose, too, that the strange stress of the last week had caught up with us. So we gulped our coffee and rushed out of the hotel to catch our ferry, which we just barely made, jumping aboard seconds before it began ploughing across the lake.
I was glad to be out on the water, inhaling the invigorating air and finally getting my bearings. I soon realized that travelling by boat was absolutely the only way to really gain a perspective on Lake Como, with its string of pretty little towns. The mountains rose all around us as we flirted past the little coves and promontories with their villages, lovely churches and splendid villas, jewel-like in the soft morning sun, in colors of yellow and pink and ochre and terracotta. The Count’s castle was supposedly not very far from here, high up in the hills above a small town called Ossuccio. I figured we might get a glimpse of it from the little island that Jeremy loved.
“Ready for a little history lesson, Miss Researcher-Slash-Spy?” Jeremy asked with a cunning look.
“Why do you look so smug?” I asked.
“Because for once I’ve got some history tidbits for you,” he crowed. “Looked it all up when I was a kid hanging about here. For starters, the Isola Comacina is the only island on Lake Como. It’s tucked into a cozy nook of a peninsula—”
“Halfway down the left thigh of the frog’s leg!” I cried. I’d already spied it on the map.
“Frog’s leg?” Jeremy inquired. “Perchance, do you mean the Lake?”
“Yes, go on,” I urged.
“Well, the island is quite small—you can hike from one end to the other pretty easily. Even so, armies have fought over the Isola Comacina for centuries. When the Romans occupied it, the island was prized for the valuable olive oil from its trees,” Jeremy explained. “Then the city of Como teamed up with the notorious Barbarossa—”
“That means the ‘red-bearded’ one, doesn’t it?” I asked.
Jeremy said, “Yes, but he was actually Frederick the First—a German king from the 1100s. Nowadays the island is practically deserted,” Jeremy said, “except for some old churches and ruins, and, of course, the restaurant, which has been around since the 1940s and hopefully will be here until the end of time.”
“Is it run by the original owner still?” I asked.
Jeremy shook his head with a sly smile. “Nope. The very first owner was one of Mussolini’s captains, who ran away and used this place as his hideaway; then he opened this restaurant. But don’t worry. Far as I know, nobody’s hiding out there now. You are in for a treat. Here we are.”
I leaned forward, eager to catch my first glimpse of the Isola Comacina, which now appeared to drift magically into view as our ferry rounded the corner and pulled up to its shores. It was a tiny floating world unto itself, lush and green. We walked from the pier along a footpath, up to a high promontory, atop which the restaurant was
perched. Other diners were arriving in their own little speedboats.
The proprietor, a tall, tanned handsome man, stood at the entrance to greet each guest with a very natural attentiveness. He led us to a table laid with white cloth and pink napkins, perfectly situated in the shade of a leafy tree, where we had a view of the approaching boats.
A round-faced waiter with a businesslike manner plunked down a carafe of sparkling water, and a bottle of chilled white wine, and two short, stemless thick wine glasses—the kind that resemble whisky tumblers. I glanced around, looking for a chalkboard or something with the day’s special on it.
“Psst,” I said to Jeremy, “where’s the menu?”
“This is one restaurant where you don’t have to even think about what you want to eat,” Jeremy said, unfolding his napkin and dropping it in his lap. “They always serve the same one basic menu, because they do everything utterly right. Just sit back and be glad.”
This mystified me at first, until suddenly a flock of waiters arrived and began placing, in rapid succession, an array of pretty white-yellow-and-purple flowered bowls filled with appetizers, on the smaller serving table on my right.
“Go ahead,” Jeremy said, “pass it round.” I picked up one bowl after another, took some for my plate, then handed it to Jeremy. We tasted the various incredible antipasto, each served in its own vinaigrette. It was like being introduced to every vegetable for the very first time, and being transported by its perfection: tomato topped with a sliver of lemon; small, nearly seedless zucchini; enormous yet delicate white beans; succulent red beets; sweet carrots, and some delightful greens I’d never had before. And somewhere along the way, a big fresh loaf of bread had been placed on the table; and, there was now a platter of plump round onions that had been baked whole, to a soft and incredible sweetness. This was followed by little plates of tender prosciutto—the kind you can only get in Italy—accompanied by a delicate bit of melon that I popped into my mouth and realized, oh, that’s what melon is supposed to taste like.
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