Fortunately Salvatore was unable to hear these remarks. He was at the head of the next table but one talking to Aunt Mad. Suddenly she turned round to Cesare, who was patrolling the tables, and said:
‘When the time comes for speeches, it is you who should speak.’
‘But I don’t speak,’ said Cesare. ‘You know that, aunt.’
‘You could say something pleasant about Salvatore, a kind of introduction.’
‘I don’t know anything about him,’ said Cesare mildly.
‘I certainly don’t want to be described,’ said Salvatore. ‘That’s one thing I hope to be spared, to know exactly what kind of a man I am.’
‘Well, I should be glad to know what kind of man you are,’ said Aunt Mad.
‘The kind that loves your niece Chiara, and would give his life for her.’
In the atmosphere of wine and winter sunshine this sounded not at all absurd, in fact it was not absurd and no-one thought it was. Aunt Mad seemed moved, others sitting nearby also seemed moved and began to clap their hands in frank admiration. Mad looked up again at Cesare, who said calmly, ‘You see how much better he speaks than I do.’
6
‘Such a quaint old man,’ said Lady Jones. ‘Such a character. If only one had more Italian. I thought at first he was employed here in some capacity, but as far as I can make out from what he told me . . . he was certainly waiting at table. But of course he may have made a vow of humility.’
7
‘Your daughter is looking very beautiful, Giancarlo,’ said an old Ricasoli who had known him for years without number. ‘I don’t know that I could have ever, quite honestly, have said that before, but today she is looking very beautiful.’
‘Ah, that’s what it is,’ said Giancarlo. ‘I didn’t quite know what it was, I thought she was looking happy.’
‘And how do you get on with your new son-in-law?’
‘Very well, as well as one can get on with a doctor.’
They walked together for a little, arm in arm. They were talking about their bowel movements. Loyalty from that quarter was the one thing necessary, said Ricasoli, for absolute peace of mind.
8
Monsignor Gondi was looking for Cesare to ask him whether it might not be appropriate to address a few pastoral words to the staff. Both Annunziata and Bernadino seemed to some extent to have forgotten themselves, but a day of festivity should not mean a day of disorder. Cesare, who was the tallest person present except for Signorina Barnes, was easy enough to pick out in a crowded room, but just at the minute he was not to be seen.
9
When was it that Signora Gentilini began to feel not herself? She had left the table, and Gentilini, in his turn, was deeply and not very willingly occupied with Salvatore’s mother, who was explaining to him her unaccountable gift for foretelling the future. He was wondering how it would be humanly possible to get back to the hospital by five o’clock. ‘My son,’ she told him, ‘who is a man of science, can’t account for how it was that I was able to predict his father’s death, not only as to the year, but as to the day.’ Collect the family, thought Gentilini, make my goodbyes, find out who’s parked in front of me and ask them to move. He looked round unobtrusively but couldn’t for the moment see his wife. It was Cesare who found the Signora lying shapelessly outside one of the lavatories allocated to the ladies, just as Barney came storming out of the other one.
‘What’s wrong with her, is she pissed?’
Cesare shook his head. That was quite out of the question. Unlikely that she had taken any wine at all.
Barney knelt down. ‘Well, she’s not dead. I’ve done my Red Cross up to Grade One. Perhaps it’s her time of the month, or a bit of a collapse. I know who she is, she came with that doctor, she’s his wife, I think, I’ll go and get him.’
As she scrambled upright Signora Gentilini opened her eyes, with their large yellowish whites, and said:
‘Non so capacitarmi . . . mi vergogno . . .’
‘What’s she ashamed of?’ asked Barney.
‘She wants to recover,’ Cesare said.
‘You mean that she’s afraid of embarrassing her husband. You mean he hardly ever takes her out with him in public and she’s afraid that if she screws it all up and calls attention to herself she’ll never be allowed out again. She’s downtrodden to that extent?’
Cesare did not deny this.
‘He must be a brute.’
‘I only met him today for the first time.’
‘And he’s a brute.’
‘No.’
Signora Gentilini sat up, and clinging to Cesare’s arm began to talk in a rapid, broken manner. Anyone would think that she was not used to going out, not used to company, but the fact was that she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything although everybody had pressed her, and that had caused a little faintness, also there were so many people, so many new faces and no two of them exactly alike, the truth was that she hardly ever went out formally nowadays, a mother had so little opportunity except for a giro with the family, her husband had warned her that it might be too much for her but that was ridiculous, as a girl she had had invitations every day of the week. She then fell back against the wall and shut her eyes again.
‘Give me a hand,’ said Cesare.
‘You don’t mean you approve of all this?’ said Barney, who had been able to understand in part.
‘You take her feet.’
And Barney picked up Signora Gentilini’s ankles, swollen in their strap shoes, Cesare, at the top-heavy other end, walked backwards. The weight of the Signora, who was quite a short woman, was unbelievable. There was a stiffness, too, in her deep sighs, as though she was wearing leaden corsets. At the corner of her bright red lips a bubble rose and fell cautiously. Her right hand still kept its grip on the long handles of the grey suede bag which matched her outfit and which was now dragging along the ground.
They had to avoid the front rooms through which the guests were milling, the kitchens and the kitchen passages. Still supporting the weight with his left arm Cesare opened, behind his back, a small door. Then they had three steps down to negotiate. They were like criminals, or pious relatives at a funeral, crossing a yard now where a curly-haired bitch came out and looked soberly at Cesare, waiting for permission before sniffing at the handbag and the shoes.
‘My God, we don’t need her,’ said Barney.
‘She’s old, let her be,’ said Cesare. With the dog at their heels they struggled into the farm office.
‘Well done, Signorina Lavinia.’
‘Not to worry,’ said Barney, ‘everyone tells me I’m very strong.’
Cesare gave his cautious smile.
They eased the inert Signora into the dusty chair. ‘I still think she ought to brace up,’ said Barney. ‘I mean morally. I usually tell people what they ought to do. That’s what she needs.’
‘You must think of what she wants,’ Cesare said. ‘Wait here.’
Barney was left only for a few minutes with the heaving, tightly-clothed wife and mother, subservient to men. The scent, she thought, even in the cold of Cesare’s office, which got no sun, was strong enough to make a cat sneeze. Then he was back, with a sandwich of bread and ham.
‘Did you get that from the kitchen? I could have gone.’
‘No, Annunziata’s there.’
‘Well, but I’m not afraid of Annunziata.’
‘You would be if you saw her now.’
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Counting the forks.’
He gave her the sandwich. ‘I have to go back to my guests. Make her eat something as soon as you can, and then take her back to the others. Don’t brace her up. Let her be.’
As he went off the Signora gave a kind of lunge and Barney held out a piece of bread on her hand, as though she was feeding a horse. ‘Gently, good girl, take it easy.’
The mouthful of bread had a good effect. ‘You’re better now, signora,’ said Barney. ‘Much better.’ It never occurre
d to her that her Italian might not be understood, and it always was.
She helped the poor female to her feet and vigorously dusted her off. Her skirt had been made in the old-fashioned style, for walking and for being looked at, not for sitting down, and it had creased lamentably. But in the grip of a new, or renewed worry Signora Gentilini no longer cared how she looked. She cried, ‘Where are my children?’
‘Come with me,’ said Barney. ‘We’ll find them.’
‘It’s not the girls . . .’
‘Why not, don’t you want the girls?’
‘Luca is so imaginative and daring. Often people misunderstand what he does.’
Before they had crossed the yard the two little girls met them, pleased to be the bringers of bad news. Luca was doing very wrong. He was in the dove-house. They pointed.
The casetta had been restocked since Bernadino’s loss. It was locked, but Luca had climbed up from the inside and forced open one of the louvres. The doves were escaping. They had only one wing clipped and after soaring boldly out, one after another, against the blue-winter sky, they reeled sideways like broken toys and lurched towards the ground. Luca was imitating them as they fluttered grotesquely towards the open fields, stretching out his arms like an idiot, and stamping his feet.
‘Luca! Your clothes!’ the Signora said. ‘Do your mother’s wishes mean nothing to you?’
‘What were you doing?’ asked Barney.
Luca looked round and saw Barney. He was terrified.
‘He was driving the birds mad,’ declared the little girls. ‘He told us that he could drive them mad in this way.’
Barney took Luca by the elbows and shook him once.
‘Cretino.’
The eldest girl took her hand, the younger one clung to her mother. Both of them wept because the beautiful birds were loose. ‘They’ll come back at feeding time,’ said Barney, who wasn’t sure whether they would or not.
Luca walked after them in silent rage and dejection. The huge English signorina did not even look round to see whether he was following or not.
When Barney marshalled the four of them into the house, leaving them with Gentilini, Chiara had gone to change her dress. Cesare was surrounded with people, but when he was near enough for her to be able to hear he remarked, ‘Brava, Lavinia.’
10
When Barney had heard that Cha’s bridesmaids were going to include one of the Capponi girls, and one of the Rucellai, and one of the Frescobaldi, and that there was no way of avoiding this as she had known them ever since she was born, Barney asked to be counted out.
‘They’ll all be half my size. I don’t mind towering, I just don’t want to dwarf people.’
In the end the two of them saw each other only for a few moments after the wedding and clung to each other in one of the great raftered bedrooms looking out over the wintry land. Chiara had taken off her plain white dress, which lay discarded on the floor, and put on another one of plain grey flannel.
‘None of them thought much of my dress, Barney. I could see they hated it.’
‘Well, they couldn’t wear it themselves, that’s why. It’s all right on you, though.’
‘Please don’t let us drift apart,’ said Chiara in tears.
‘You sound like my grandmother,’ said Barney. ‘But keep smiling, we shan’t drift apart, I’ve decided not to.’
‘Please tell me if there’s anything you want, or if there’s anything in the world I could do for you.’
‘Blow your nose,’ said Barney. ‘Since you’ve raised the subject of what I want, though, I was thinking that your cousin might take me out to dinner.’
Chiara looked startled. ‘I don’t know that he ever asks anyone out to dinner.’
‘Well, never mind it,’ said Barney. ‘I’ll manage without. God bless, Mrs Rossi.’
11
They were married, they drove away together, they were going to Misurina d’Ampezzo, in Salvatore’s new second-hand car. The car was a Fiat, because the company had just started a road breakdown and rescue service for Fiats only. It had been a great surprise to Chiara to find Salvatore making such a practical decision, just as strange as if, for instance, Cesare had given way to imagination. Of course, Salvatore couldn’t practise as a neurologist without being, for the most part, calm and sensible, it was just that until today she hadn’t had any experience of it. Now she had a problem, as it hadn’t occurred to her that she could love him any more than she did, but to take in this new aspect of him her love would have to expand, and show that it had expanded.
‘None of them thought much of my dress,’ she said.
‘What does that matter, it suits you, it’s how I like to see you.’
‘You don’t care about it, do you?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘I don’t either.’
She looked sideways at the stranger. He was quiet, rational and predictable, and she saw that he wouldn’t any longer be driven to a frenzy by any small thing that she happened to do or say. When they reached the bedroom of the ski-hotel, lined with wood like a cigar-box, and were sitting together half crazy with happiness, she began to take off the grey dress and to tell him at the same time that she wouldn’t have known where to go for her clothes this time, she was no good at shopping, and then a woman, not a young woman, middle-aged in fact but kind-looking, had called round at via Limbo and asked if anything had been decided yet, and if not whether she could be given the job of making the wedding-dress and perhaps another dress as well. She was a good worker, she said, trained with a good house. ‘We were surprised, because it was very early on and we hadn’t put an announcement of the engagement in the paper.’
‘How did she know about it, then?’
‘Well, it turned Out that her lover had told her.’
‘Why did he know?’
‘She said he was very well educated and knew everything that was going on.’
‘He didn’t suggest that she should come and see you?’
‘Yes, he did, he thought it would be a good way for her to make a little more money. She said that he was always very thoughtful.’
Salvatore got to his feet.
‘You won’t wear that dress again.’
Chiara, who had been gently turning the sleeves the right way out, felt her heart miss a beat. He pulled the dress away from her so violently that her hand felt scorched. His intention had been to tear it up immediately, but Marta’s new machine sewed strongly and it was not so easy. Salvatore had strong wrists however and there was a sharp crackling as one of the sleeves parted company with the top.
‘Just tell me this,’ he shouted, very dark and very pale. ‘Did she bring her sister with her?’
‘What sister?’
All that Chiara understood clearly was that when they had left Valsassina he had thought she looked all right, and now he didn’t. She sprang to help him, not only because he had taken against the dress, but because of a certain wildness in her that wouldn’t let him have all the destruction to himself. Between them they were stretching and shredding the fine grey material into jagged pieces. The pieces drifted about, cluttering up the carpet.
‘What sister?’
Salvatore looked at her. ‘Your hand is bleeding.’
‘I know, I don’t mind.’
‘Why don’t you mind?’
‘It doesn’t hurt much.’
‘Why doesn’t it hurt much?’ he asked furiously.
And now it appeared that they couldn’t go down to dinner, she had nothing else but her ski-pants and some knitted things and their attention had been drawn to a strict notice in the dining-room. No Ski-Dress. Salvatore therefore rushed out like a lost soul through the thin drifts of snow to find some sort of shop that was open and to buy her something, anything, anything at all.
12
It was not till after the wedding that the Azienda di Turismo finally gave definitive notice that the Ricordanza must be opened on certain days to group visits during the
forthcoming spring. Failure to comply would mean liability for a greatly increased tax on their richezza mobile, private property and family farm, and a fine for their negligence in performing their common duties as citizens. To some extent this was an exercise of the imagination. Every year the authorities published lists of the principal families of Florence showing their declared income and, in the opposite column, the official estimate of what this really was, allowing for bank deposits, which were not declared, and the two differing sets of books kept by all private companies. Only the Ridolfi, perhaps, with their poor grasp of reality, might be written off as having scarcely more income than they admitted to. And the Turismo would perhaps not have bothered themselves with the Ricordanzas if this had not been the year of the cypress disease, when it became clear that most of the old villas in the environs would be in an unpresentable condition. For miles around Florence, the great trees drooped like sink-brushes. But the Ricordanza had no cypresses, and its lemons and roses had never been known to fail.
There was no grant for repairs. Giancarlo had assumed that there wouldn’t be one, and he was right. He pointed out that the premises were shabby, and the garden steps, in particular the grassy staircase of the midgets, possibly dangerous. Robiglio, the Deputy Director of Tourism, dismissed this objection immediately. The travel companies would be liable for any accidents outside the building, the parties would be covered by the package insurance. Their tour of the house would be twenty minutes only, which hardly gave them time to hurt themselves, and they would be hurried back for tea at the Ugolino golf course. ‘It will be excellent for children,’ Robiglio added vaguely.
‘Certainly,’ said Giancarlo, ‘provided you can find children that don’t fall over.’
‘We still have to add an extra page to the brochure, and a photograph. An extra page, that is, summarizing the legend connected with the Ricordanza. Unfortunately, though, the story as it stands won’t do at all. It wouldn’t be attractive to tourists in any way.’
Innocence Page 17