All the while, the elegant owner, with his alert, intelligent eyes, was assessing the progress of everyone’s meal so that no one was ever left wanting. The effect of this careful attentiveness was that all the diners settled into a contented hum of dignified conversation.
Seated under the tree with a breeze ruffling my hair, I felt a contented calm, and yet a heightened awareness of the sensual delights around me—the sun, the sky, the sea, the food, the pleasant company. I couldn’t help becoming fascinated with the other diners, most of whom were Italian, grouped around long tables for entire families whose children behaved phenomenally well, even when they had finished eating.
One little boy, dressed in formal white pants and white shirt, tiptoed around the perimeter of the restaurant beyond its railings, but his mother, elegantly dressed in a cream-colored suit, only had to call out his name once to make him come hurrying to her side.
“So this is where you came on vacation as a kid?” I asked Jeremy, picturing him as a sweet, earnest English boy sitting in one of these chairs, swinging his legs, those blue eyes of his taking in everything around him.
“Yes, for several years in a row, in early summer,” Jeremy replied.
“You and your mum, and Uncle Peter?” I asked. Jeremy’s English stepfather was Mom’s brother.
“Peter came once with us,” Jeremy said. “He loved it, too, but was always busy at work. He told me that someday I’d come here with my own wife and kid. Mum took me back here a couple more times after that.”
Jeremy had never known his real father, an Italian-American who came to London in the late 1960s for the music scene and fell in love with Jeremy’s mother; but ended up being drafted into the Vietnam war and died a few years later, not long after Jeremy was born. I wondered if Aunt Sheila had deliberately brought Jeremy here as a boy so that he’d become familiar with his Italian heritage.
The next plate arrived with a subtle flourish—a cold meat platter consisting of a slice of “English” ham and paper-thin shavings of a tender roast beef called bresaola. All the food was served in just the right amounts so that you could eat everything without over-doing it.
“Jeremy,” I said after we’d devoured it, “this is heavenly. I am never going to leave this place. I am going to stay in this chair until they fling me into the lake.”
“I won’t let them,” he promised.
I gazed across the lake at the mysterious shores opposite us. Small towns nestled at the foothills, looked like little villages from a long-ago world of make-believe. Somewhere across the lake was the coastal town where the Count lived in his castle. But there were so many intriguing châteaus and villas dotting the landscape, I couldn’t tell which one belonged to him.
“Looking for your Count?” Jeremy asked, amused. “I don’t know what you expect from the guy. He doesn’t sound like he’s in very good shape. He might be mad as a March hare, for all you know.”
“Maybe. But I just can’t help feeling that he might help us figure out what happened to Penelope’s Dream.”
“Well, what’s the bloke look like?” Jeremy asked.
“Elegant. Aristocratic. A big intelligent head. The kind of profile you could put on a monument,” I said. “Blond hair. But that picture was taken years ago.” The image of the Count from the photograph in the yacht club was fading fast in my memory, but I still thought I might recognize him.
The older waiter arrived with a very serious-looking platter that he placed on a temporary serving table which a younger waiter had set up for him in advance. A big, cooked trout that had been grilled over charcoal, was now being cut in half for us. The older waiter worked expertly with his cutlery, and lifted the fish right off the bones, placing one half on my plate first, then the other half on Jeremy’s.
“Mmmm,” I murmured. I sighed happily. “A fresh fish makes you feel like you’re going to live forever.” We gazed in amusement at the occasional boat passing by, whose driver and passengers waved or peered curiously at us. A man at a nearby table picked up his pink linen napkin, stood up and waved it like a nautical signal to his friends so that they’d know where he was sitting and they could join him. Small speedboats here were like taxicabs. Everyone looked happy.
“I love travelling by boat,” I said. Then I added, “You’re not really thinking of selling Penelope’s Dream, are you?”
“No,” Jeremy said. “I mean, I considered it. But I guess I was just blowing off steam. I felt a bit of a fool, having it stolen right out from under us. Being here on the lake has reminded me why I wanted a boat in the first place.”
Score one for Lake Como so far, I thought to myself.
After we’d finished off that fish, the next course arrived: we each got a half of a free-range chicken that had been slightly crushed and cooked in an iron pot with oil. It came with a green salad. Which was followed by a little chunk of parmigiano cheese that the waiters carried over in a giant wheel, spearing our chunks with the tip of a knife. And finally, just before the coffee, came a dessert of fresh ice cream called fior di vaniglia.
“Flower of vanilla! But they’re cutting up something to go with it,” I whispered.
“Oranges,” Jeremy whispered back. “Sliced not a minute earlier than when you’re ready to eat them. And I think they pour some kind of liqueur around it.”
I tasted the elegant combination, and then I laughed. “Oh my God,” I said. “Now I know what a creamsicle is trying to be.”
While Jeremy paid the bill, I excused myself to go the powder room, which was just off a big echoing room that served as an indoor restaurant during inclement weather. Nobody was eating there now. On the way back through this room, I noticed a whole wall of framed photographs of celebrities posing with the proprietor of the restaurant, taken over many, many years. He looked the same, handsome and smiling with his guests, but it was like being in a time tunnel, with faces and figures from many years gone by. Actors, musicians, all manner of famous folk, some who’d autographed the picture.
Then I saw it. I wasn’t sure at first, because the Count was even younger in this picture than he’d been in the photo at the Riviera yacht club. Here, he was very trim, handsome and, well, sexy. He had a wry curl of a smile that indicated a man who saw the ironic humor in life, and although his gaze was level and sharp, there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. The restaurant owner stood at his left; but on the Count’s right was a beautiful woman, with a 1940s hairdo—the kind with a big roll of a curl on her forehead—and that dark red lipstick and nail polish that you can spot even in a black-and-white photo. I peered at the signatures. Count Hubert von Norbert. And, right next to it, his wife had scrawled only her first name. Liesl.
I glanced up at the proprietor as he came out of the kitchen, where he’d gone to check on something. He smiled, and came over to see what I was looking at.
“Ah, the Count von Norbert!” he said. “Many, many years ago.”
I asked him about what had become of the Count, and he told me that indeed, the Count still resided on Lake Como, and had dined here for many years with his lovely wife. “Er, do you have any idea where, exactly, he lives?” I queried. “A castle near a town across the lake, right?”
He led me back outside, and pointed at one of the villages nestled near the shore; then, he raised his finger higher, higher, higher, up into the green hills, where, half-hidden from view by the clustered pines, was an old grey castle, tall and narrow, with a tower and turrets. It was such a natural color, blending in with the cliffs, that it appeared as if it had simply sprung up out of the rocks.
Jeremy had been watching us from the table, while he was taking care of the bill. Now he sauntered over to see what I was up to. The proprietor shook hands with him in that easy, generous way, and Jeremy thanked him for the meal, telling him that the place was as charming as he remembered it. The man received this compliment with dignified, modest grace. Then he excused himself to go and tend to some newly arrived guests.
“Jeremy!�
� I said. “Look. That castle. It’s where the Count lives. And, I found a picture of him! Come and see.” I dragged him back into the dining hall, and over to the photo of the Count and his wife posing with the owner.
Jeremy peered closely, intrigued in spite of himself. “So that’s him,” he said.
“And that’s Liesl,” I said. “Isn’t she glamorous? Oh, Jeremy, I hope he shows up at the concert tonight. Come on!” I cried. “I don’t want to miss our ferry back.”
“Hold on,” Jeremy said calmly, checking his watch. “We still have time to show you a great spot you shouldn’t miss.”
He led me along a path that wove around and up a grassy hill. We paused at its crest, to look at the ruins of churches whose stones lay about in the tall grass. We stood in a hushed quiet, broken only by the occasional soft scurrying of a lizard who was probably hurrying off to vespers. There was something about the silence, and the air, and the heightened feeling you get from having had good food and wine, and being greeted and treated like a human being when you arrive. I felt open and happy, wanting to be molto generoso to the whole wide world.
I glanced at Jeremy, who was watching me as if quite pleased that I had responded so warmly to these surroundings. I suddenly felt that sweet joy of one’s first childhood love, when, as a little girl, you’d be thrilled when a boy you liked took you to his favorite place, as a token of his devotion to you. “This was your hideaway as a kid, right?” I said.
Jeremy said nothing. He just leaned over and gave me a long, lingering kiss. There was something different in it this time, something very intense, and it left me shaky inside. For a moment, neither of us could speak. Even later, when we turned and began our descent down the hill, we moved in silence, listening only to the rustle of our footsteps walking through time.
Finally, holding hands, we went to the dock where the ferry would come. There were a lot of people waiting. Jeremy saw a water taxi that had just dropped some people off. He went up to the driver, and I saw them bargain back and forth. Then Jeremy held out his hand to me, and I climbed aboard our private little taxi that would carry us back to the Grand Hotel.
It went much faster than the ferry, which was an unexpected thrill. The boat sliced across the lake, sending powerful waves rushing behind us to the shore. I sat close to Jeremy, snuggling in his arms. We were quiet for a long time, all the way until we saw the lights of the dock again.
Chapter Eighteen
The Grand Hotel was already abuzz with music-lovers when we returned. Many had come to the hotel’s formal dining room to eat, and now were eagerly anticipating listening to a fine string quartet and pianists play an evening of Beethoven. We went upstairs to spruce up and change clothes. Jeremy put on a nice blue linen suit, and I dressed in a bright pink frock, which had tulip-shaped short sleeves and the dropped waist of a flapper. It was one of Great-Aunt Penelope’s vintage party dresses. I’d carefully sorted them, saving the most exquisite for a museum display I was planning, for the benefit of a children’s charity. But this 1920s charmer actually fit me well, so I simply couldn’t resist. I wore it with a pair of delicate gold sandals.
As we descended, I could hear that the violinists had begun to tune up. Slowly, the audience drifted into their seats, and the conversational buzz gradually dropped in volume. I kept a sharp look-out, but there were so many white-haired older gentlemen at this gathering. I did not see anyone that reminded me of the photographs of the Count, but it was hard to tell in such a crowd.
Jeremy and I took our seats on the aisle. These were nicely padded armless dining chairs in a style similar to Louis XVI, that had been assembled in theatrical rows. A very elegant lady who represented the hotel stepped forward and announced that the program would commence. A tall, middle-aged woman in a long black gown took her position at one piano, and a bearded man took his at the other.
Hearing Beethoven in this European setting, with the mountains all around us and the lake lapping at the shores, I felt a deeper understanding of music I’d heard all my life. The spirited, galloping passages made me think of hunters racing their horses through these dark, deep forests. The towering, sonorous peaks were like the mountains speaking; and the sweet, heartbreakingly delicate interludes were like the flight of the birds that I had seen swooping in the gardens here in perfect arcs. The music wove around us mysteriously, taking us to depths of great sorrow and heights of joy, and all the labyrinthine passages that connected them. At the very last, Beethoven brought us back down to earth so gently, and so softly, that there was an awed silence before the applause, as if the audience could not bear to break the spell.
After several selections, the performers took numerous bows, and were presented with bouquets of flowers. Then everybody rose and began rapidly pouring out into the lobby, where there was a festive atmosphere as the hotel guests and concert-goers were milling about holding glasses of spumante, looking slightly flushed from their cocktails and the contagious excitement as they responded to the sight of one another dressed up in celebratory evening finery. Attractive women fluttered by in long, wispy dresses, light summer shawls and high heels and sparkling jewelry; and their exclamations mingled with the deeper roar of the elegantly-suited men’s jocular voices.
“Any sight of the Count?” Jeremy whispered.
“Nope,” I said gloomily, “and I’m not even sure I’d recognize him if I saw him. For all I know he could have come and gone already.”
“I’ll get us some sparkling wine,” Jeremy said.
“Okay,” I said distractedly as he headed toward the bar where white-coated waiters were pouring it into flutes.
I prowled around the lobby, peering at any possibility. People were waiting for taxicabs or boats to take them away. I watched every one who was preparing to leave. One very tall, elderly man was seated on a small striped sofa. When I glanced at him I caught his eye, and he smiled broadly and encouragingly.
“Count?” I asked, half-under my breath.
“Count what?” he asked delightedly, rising. He came closer, very close, and I could smell whisky on his breath. “Did you enjoy the concert tonight, young lady?” he asked, leering closer.
“Oops,” I said, backing off. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”
“Maybe I am!” he said. “Don’t I know you?”
A touristy-looking woman, loaded down with a colorful beaded necklace and matching bracelets, was talking to her friends a few feet away, but now she looked up knowingly. “Bob,” she said sharply, as if speaking to an unruly child, and the man looked sheepish.
I moved away hastily, and drifted around the exits, searching, but mostly I just got in people’s way as they were leaving. Dejectedly, I turned back to the lobby.
Then I noticed a bent old man in a wheelchair near the lobby door, quietly waiting for his car to take its turn to pull up into the gravel driveway. There was something in his shriveled little face that rang a bell—those blue eyes and elegant profile. But I couldn’t be sure, certainly not from this distance.
His minder, a middle-aged nurse, had stepped away from him and was peering out the door to see if she could spot their car in the procession of headlights. So she did not notice when the poor guy dropped his pipe and could not reach to retrieve it.
I hurried over, picked up his pipe and handed it gently back to him.
“Yours?” I said with a smile. He turned his face upward and gave me a delighted, beatific smile. “Do you speak English?” I asked.
“Of course, of course, thank you, my dear girl!” he said in a charming German accent. He peered at me as if he thought he should remember me, but couldn’t. I realized that by wearing Great-Aunt Penelope’s vintage 1920s dress, I probably looked as if I’d stepped out of another era, perhaps even his own past. I knew that the nurse would be back at any minute and whisk him right out from under my nose. I had to take a chance, fast.
“Are you the Count von Norbert?” I asked lightly. He beamed.
“I certainly am!”
he chuckled. “And what is your name, my child?”
I told him, and then he said, “So, you are a fellow Beethoven lover?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “and my boyfriend is, especially.”
“Really?” he asked. “And how did you come to know my name?”
Something made me tell him the whole truth. “We fell in love with your yacht and bought it at the auction in Nice,” I said, very directly. Then I held my breath, watching him to see if his face would betray cunning, wariness or anything else to connect him with the shenanigans on Liesl’s Dream. But his face had a pure innocence, and he looked genuinely happy to meet me.
“Isn’t that nice?” he said in a way that made me wonder if he’d really understood what I’d just said. I looked up and saw that Jeremy had observed what I was doing, and he’d managed to detain the nurse, to buy me more time. From the look of things I think he was pretending to ask her directions, because she was gesturing toward the road.
“I would love to talk to you about the boat,” I said quickly.
“Talk? Why, my dear, then you and your boyfriend must come to have cocktails with me and tell me all about it!” he exclaimed. “Tomorrow night, promptly at five. I must dine early these days, you see.”
The nurse was marching back toward us now. Jeremy trailed behind, watching the whole thing. The nurse glanced at me, and she looked a bit wary, but the Count told her firmly, “Clara, give this delightful girl our address and tell her how to find us.”
Clara, not betraying any surprise, told me where to find the Count’s castle, then she hurried off to speak to his driver, who came out of the car to take care of the Count and his wheelchair, while the nurse prepared the backseat of the car for him, adjusting blankets. Jeremy had come to my side now.
A Rather Curious Engagement Page 13