The Italian House

by Teresa Crane

  The quarrel the next day blew up so very quickly that she never could remember exactly how it started. They had reached the house in the last quiet light of dusk. Leo had insisted on opening another bottle of wine. She had gone to bed, tired and muzzy-headed and slept like a log until she had jumped awake to find Leo threshing beside her, drenched in sweat; another nightmare. As she had done so often before she held him as he woke, muscles corded, jaw clenched so that his teeth ground together. And as so often before, as consciousness had returned he had turned away from her, tense as a coiled spring. The next morning, as always, he looked drawn and tired.

  ‘Leo, what is it? What do you dream?’ she asked, her heart aching for him.

  He shook his head, eyes fierce and guarded. ‘I don’t know. I can never remember afterwards.’

  She looked at him for a long moment. ‘I don’t think I believe that,’ she said at last, quietly. ‘Was it – is it – something to do with the war? I’ve heard that some—’

  ‘Leave it, Carrie. Just leave it.’ His face was white and hard as bone.

  ‘Leo, please. I’m only trying to help. I thought that perhaps if you talked about it—’

  He ran his hand tiredly through his hair. ‘I’m sorry. But I don’t want to talk about it. I really don’t. Leave it. Please.’

  As the day wore on he became shorter and shorter of temper; she was positively relieved when he said in the early afternoon that he was going for a walk to clear his head. When he came back a couple of hours later, however, the relief was dissipated; perfectly obviously his ‘walk’ had taken him directly down into San Marco, and to the bar. She recognised the signs now; for all the absolute steadiness of hand and tongue, for all the unchallenged grace of movement, he had been drinking heavily.

  She managed to avoid him for an hour or so. The house was very quiet. She felt as if she were walking on eggshells. She did not remonstrate when he refused tea in favour of another glass of wine. She tried to thank him for the trip up the mountain the day before. ‘It’s I who should thank you,’ he said; but this was that other Leo, with no ready smile, absolutely no expression in the narrow eyes, an almost ruthless set to the straight mouth.

  Whatever insignificant, inevitable spark it was that set the quarrel off, Carrie never ever forgot the sudden blaze of it; always, later, she thought of it as a bush fire that sprang to vicious life in a blustering wind, that fed upon itself, becoming ever more frightening and destructive, defying any attempt to control it. By the time the disputed subject of marriage came up she was as angry as he, but infuriatingly and demoralisingly in tears.

  ‘Leo, please! I’ve tried to explain—’

  ‘Explain?’ He was suddenly cold as ice. ‘Explain? What have you explained? Nothing. You have put forward no rational reason for not marrying me. You’ve put forward a hodgepodge of excuses, most of which seem to be grounded in bloody superstition. Forgive me, my darling,’ that last word was chill, and she physically flinched at it, ‘I find it hard to believe you. There seems to me to be only one reasonable and rational explanation. You don’t love me.’

  ‘No!’

  He ignored her. ‘You don’t’ he repeated evenly, ‘love me enough to trust me. To marry me. So where does that leave me? Have you thought of that? Have you even considered it?’ He reached for his jacket. The hard, bright gaze did not leave her. ‘You said Angelique is at the hotel in Bagni?’

  ‘Leo please!’

  He stepped forward, unexpectedly caught her wrist in a grip so strong that she could not disguise the pain. Watching her, knowing that he hurt her, he did not relax his hold. ‘I know where I’m wanted,’ he said, very steadily. ‘And I know where I’m not. Do you think I’m stupid? Tell me now; will you marry me?’

  She opened her mouth to say Yes. Anything. Anything to stop you from going to her, and then Maria’s words – Don’t marry him, child. Promise me — were there, positive and clear as a bell in her head. And driven by something beyond control she found herself saying, ‘If you must go, you must go. I won’t be coerced.’ Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. Her tangled hair was damp with them. ‘Go. If that’s what you want, go! Go to Angelique. She’s beautiful, why wouldn’t you want her? She wants you.’

  The brutal grip tightened. ‘And you?’

  ‘I want you too,’ she said, and her tears were helpless. ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Not enough.’ He shook his head. Stilled. And then, very deliberately, he opened the hand that had held her so strongly, releasing her. He stepped back, shaking his head. ‘My darling, not enough.’

  Nursing her bruised wrist she watched him go, heard him run up the stairs, and then some moments later come down again. She waited, hoping against hope that he would come back to her; surely he would not leave with no word?

  She heard the front door close.

  From the kitchen door she watched the light, erect figure, the small suitcase that was his only luggage in his hand, run down the steps of the terrace and walk off along the track. She watched through tears until he disappeared into the trees.

  Predictably, he did not once look back.

  Chapter Twelve

  She told herself that this time she would not let herself care; often she told herself that. This time she would get over him. She had what she wanted – the house, the garden, her freedom – often she told herself that, as well; too often by far.

  But as before, the pain of his loss was all but intolerable. She ached for him. Ached for his presence, in the house, at the table, in her bed – to her shame, especially in her bed.

  She would not – could not – consider where he might have gone, or who he might be with; tried not to remember the clear inference of that last bitterly angry exchange. Leo was not a man to live without a woman, and Angelique was beautiful.

  Let her have him then, Carrie told herself stubbornly; I’m better off without him.

  There were indeed times when she came close to convincing herself of that; for much as she loved him, and beguiling and gentle as he usually could be, there were those other, disquieting times when it was as if an unpredictable stranger inhabited his skin, a man she could not reach, no matter how hard she tried. A man she did not know. A man in whom, no matter how she attempted to excuse or deny it, she caught a disturbing glimpse of cruelty. A man, she admitted to herself now, for the first time, who occasionally frightened her. Of course she was better off without him.

  But still she cried.

  She spent long hours in the garden, working from dawn until dusk, heavy work, man’s labour, trying to exhaust herself – trying, if truth be told, to ensure at least a couple of hours’ sleep. Her young helpers were genuinely concerned; the Signora must not lift rocks, drag logs, dig the stony ground. The Signora must take care in the sun. But the Signora simply shook her head, smiling her thanks, and ignored them. The Signora tore her hands and all but broke her back, the Signora burned her skin in the bright hours of the Tuscan day and spent the early hours of darkness studying plans and writing notes by lamplight.

  And still, she did not sleep.

  She became a virtual recluse. She would not go down the mountain to Bagni; at worst there was the possibility of seeing Leo and Angelique together, at the very best – the village being the same as any other village the world over – she would have to face knowing looks and sympathy. She could not bear the thought of either. Isabella shopped for her and visited Maria, taking Carrie’s small gifts of comforts or money. If Maria sent a message then Carrie never knew it; her system of communication with Isabella was of the most basic kind, and did not extend to such sophistication, whilst Maria of course could not write.

  In the first couple of weeks that followed Leo’s departure Mary Webber called twice. On both occasions Carrie quite unashamedly hid in the garden and absolutely refused to show herself. To her relief the woman had the grace to take the hint, and did not come again.

  And then, five long and unhappy weeks after Leo had left – five weeks spent s
truggling to come to terms with the fact that she would never see him again – Carrie came in from the garden, hot and tired and dying for a cup of tea, to find a neatly folded note upon the kitchen table.

  Leo’s handwriting. She would have recognised it anywhere.

  She stood for a suspended moment, looking at the folded scrap of paper before she stretched a scratched and dirty hand to pick it up. The note was short, and quite brutally to the point: ‘I’m in San Marco. If you want me, come. I’ll wait until this evening. No longer.’

  She lifted her head. If you want me, come.

  She dropped into a chair, elbows on the table, bowed her face into her hands.

  If you want me, come.

  In the darkness behind her closed eyelids she saw his face, laughing. She saw him watching her, eyes narrowed; wanting her. She saw him bending his head to light a cigarette, the lines of his face lit by the flame, saw the negligent flick of the head when his hair fell over his eyes. Saw the slight, graceful ease of every movement he made.

  If she wanted him?

  I’ll wait until this evening. No longer.

  Oddly, an obstinate part of her brain fought her instinctive urge to run to him. Think, it said, think! What is it you really want?

  Leo, she answered, as she had answered before, knowing all her fine, self-deluding defiance defeated. I want Leo.

  *

  It was perhaps a ten minute walk down into the hamlet of San Marco. The afternoon was hot and still. Cicadas rasped and chirped, dust rose from beneath Carrie’s feet. The smell of rosemary and thyme hung in the warm air. She could see the roofs of the houses through the trees beneath her. The sky was a bowl of light, bright and harsh as hammered metal.

  The tiny village was quiet, shutters and doors closed against the heat. The bar stood back a little from the rutted track, a small, ramshackle building set in the shade of a huge chestnut tree. She had never before been inside it. As she stepped through the door, from the glare of the sunshine to the cooler shadows of a single, shuttered room, she was blinded, and she stood uncertain, trying to get her hearings in the dim light. After a moment her vision cleared; and suddenly her cheeks burned.

  The room was untidy, far from clean, and stiflingly hot; the air thick and acrid with cigarette smoke. flies buzzed at the windows. There was a small, stained counter and a few tables, covered with ragged oilcloths. Why in the world she should have assumed that the place would be empty of anyone but Leo she could not imagine; but she had.

  It was not.

  There were upwards of a dozen dark-faced men lounging about the tables, glasses in hand. The barman leaned upon his elbows on the smeared and pitted surface of the bar, his eyes bright and interested upon her. In fact every face but one was turned towards her; she was quite openly the focus of every pair of eyes but Leo’s. Conversation had stopped. A chair scraped as someone lowered the front legs onto the floor and sat forward, the better to view her.

  Leo sat, solitary, at a table on the far side of the room, his long fingers lax about a half-empty glass, upon which, beneath lowered eyelids, his gaze was fixed. He did not look up.

  For the space of several heartbeats the tableau held. Carrie’s legs were trembling; in an agony of embarrassment she willed Leo to look at her, to speak, to smile, to hold out a hand. To help her.

  He did not stir, though he must have known she was there; and with a sudden lift of anger at the unnecessary cruelty of it she understood. This time, she was to go to him. For a moment she was tempted to turn on her heel and leave him. If she had believed for a second that he would follow she would have done it; but she knew with certainty that he would not. As the others in the room stirred back into life and conversations were resumed she walked steadily to where he sat, aware that for all the movement and talk every eye, sly, inquisitive, was still upon her.

  She was standing in front of him before, with a studied coolness so obvious that it cut her to the heart, he lifted his head. The narrow, bright eyes were inscrutable. ‘You came.’

  ‘Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t?’

  He lifted a shoulder. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Leo, did you deliver the note yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, why? If you were at the house why not speak to me there? Why make me come down here?’

  ‘I needed to know. I needed to see if you would make the effort.’

  ‘Well, I have. So now you do know. So, please, won’t you come back to the house? Won’t you come back home?’

  He shook his head, slowly. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But why not? Leo? Why not?’

  He did not reply, but sat watching her steadily. And Carrie, suddenly, recognised his purpose.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ he said softly.

  ‘Leo no! Don’t do this, please.’

  ‘Upstairs.’ He tossed back the rest of his drink, stood, and walked past her to a door on the other side of the bar. One of the watching men said something in an undertone, and another laughed and made a gesture that Carrie did not understand, but that nevertheless heightened the colour in her already burning cheeks.

  Without looking back Leo pushed open the door and mounted the dark and narrow staircase it revealed. Carrie was left to follow or not, as she chose.

  Humiliatingly aware that every knowing and amused eye in the room was still upon her, she followed.

  He was waiting at the top of the stairs in a dim-lit, ill-smelling, airless landing. As she appeared, he pushed open a door. The room beyond it was claustrophobicly small and sparsely furnished: a narrow, uncomfortable-looking bed, roughly made, the bedclothes none too clean, a washstand containing a chipped jug and bowl, one rickety chair. Leo’s small suitcase stood, neatly placed, in the corner. It was very hot. Leo walked to the window and threw wide the shutters, turned to face her.

  There was a long moment of silence, and even now, even here, he would not make the first move. Carrie it was who went to him: it was without thought or volition that she found herself in his arms, and then his mouth was ferocious on hers. There was little of gentleness here, no tenderness. There was force and there was need. There was violence. Hands and mouth bruised her, and when she bit his lip he bit her back, fiercely, making her catch her breath in pain; she tasted blood in her month. They had played rough games in their lovemaking before, but never like this. He pinned her beneath him and he took her in anger and with savage lack of care.

  ‘I’m hurting you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She almost spat the word.

  ‘You like it.’

  She gritted her teeth and would not reply.

  He tightened his grip on her wrists, making her flinch. ‘Tell me to stop.’

  She could not.

  When it was done she found that she had cried, and could not remember doing so. They lay quietly for a long time before he lifted himself onto his elbow beside her, put a finger to her still-wet cheek. ‘I’m sorry. Carrie, I’m sorry,’ he said, quietly, all violence spent.

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t have to be.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned from her, slipped from the bed, reached as always for a cigarette. She watched as he lit it, sat on the bed, blew smoke to the cracked ceiling.

  ‘Leo – why? Why did you make me come here? Why wouldn’t you come back to the house? Why did you make love to me like that? Did you really want to hurt me?’

  ‘Yes.’ He had his back to her. Through the smooth, fine skin she could see the straight and delicate line of his spine.

  ‘But why? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I say because I love you it would sound absurd.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Her voice was quiet.

  He smoked in silence, his face sombre.

  ‘Leo?’

  He turned his head.

  ‘Do you still want to marry me?’

  He watched her for a long moment. Then ‘No,’ he said.

  Her eyes widene
d a little in question.

  Leo took her hand. ‘You were right. There’s no need. What difference does a scrap of paper make? You came to me of your own free will today. You let me make love to you here, knowing that everyone downstairs knows what we’re doing. You let me hurt you. It’s enough.’

  ‘This was – some kind of test?’

  ‘I didn’t actually think of it in that way but, yes, I suppose it was.’

  She put her finger to his marked lip. ‘And did I pass?’ she asked, softly.

  He smiled. ‘Oh, yes. You passed. With flying colours. And now—’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now you have to be a very brave girl, make yourself respectable and run the gauntlet of the bar downstairs.’ He stood up, pulled her to him, held her, his face resting on her tangled hair. ‘Then we’ll go home.’

  She tilted her head to look at him. ‘Home? Do you mean that? Is that really how you think of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She put her hand in his, smiling more than a little wryly. ‘In that case why waste time making myself look what I’m not? Respectable indeed! After the show you just made of me? Come on. Take me home. Please.’

  *

  They slipped back into the old ways so easily that it was almost as if the quarrel had never happened. The days were long, the nights scented and warm. Leo, suddenly, was at his kindest and best; it seemed that there was nothing he would not do for her. It was full summer now, and very hot; Leo was insistent that she stay in the cool of the house out of the noonday heat. If they needed something from the village he went himself, whistling blithely down the track, hitching a ride back up the mountain, trying out his very bad Italian on anyone who cared to listen. On one such occasion he brought back an English paper, tossing it on the table in front of Carrie, bending to kiss the top of her head. ‘There you are. Catch up on the news. It’s over a week old, but never mind. I’m sure the world won’t mind that we’re a few days behind it.’ He grinned cheerfully. ‘In fact I doubt it will even notice.’