by Teresa Crane
She picked up the paper, watching him, loving the smile, the warmth of his hand on her shoulder. ‘So what is happening out there? Anything interesting?’
He shrugged a little. ‘Dock strike at home. Stalin has apparently taken over the Communists in Russia. The Fascists have finally taken over entirely here. There’s hyperinflation in Germany – so what’s new? And,’ he bent to her ear, lowering his voice, ‘I hate to tell you this, my darling, but the big news in Bagni isn’t in the paper.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s us. We’re rumbled. In the doghouse. Persona non grata, and all that.’ His smile was quizzical.
‘Why? What happened?’
He kissed her again, hitched himself onto the table. ‘I was completely ignored by three people this morning. Looked straight through me. It seems we are disapproved of. Severely disapproved of.’ He was laughing aloud now. ‘Idiots!’
She blinked. ‘Ignored you? You mean, deliberately ignored you?’
‘Oh, yes. It was made quite clear. We, my darling, are living in sin. And the world doesn’t like it. The expatriate Anglo-Saxon world that is.’
‘Well,’ Carrie composedly spread the newspaper before her, smoothing the creased pages. ‘The expatriate Anglo-Saxon world knows what it can bloody well do. Doesn’t it?’
He was silent so long she looked up. He was standing beside her, looking down at her intently, his eyes warm. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Oh, how I love you!’ He caught her hands, pulled her to her feet, kissed her and hugged her hard. ‘Come to Florence with me.’
‘What?’ Laughing she struggled free. ‘Now? This very moment?’
He shook his head. ‘Of course not. Don’t be silly. Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? just like that?’
‘Just like that. Come on. Don’t hang around, I might change my mind. Yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the trouble with you? You’re just so indecisive. It’s maddening.’ He laid his face against her hair. ‘Carrie?’
‘Mm?’
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘What? Going to florence? No, I don’t think so.’
‘You know what I mean.’
She leaned back to look into his face. ‘Yes, I know what you mean. And no, Leo. I don’t mind. I have what I want. I have all that I could possibly want. I told you; the world can go hang. It’s none of their business. Now. Tell me about Florence.’
‘It’s wonderful. You’ll love it.’
*
She did. They stayed in a small, picturesquely run-down hotel on the city side of the lovely old Ponte Vecchio. The city enthralled Carrie. She wanted to visit every single palace, museum and church, explore every single street, sit in every single piazza. She marvelled at the Cathedral and the Baptistry with its wonderful bronze doors known as the Paradise Portals, she insisted on climbing to the top of the Campanile to survey one of the most famous views in the world.
‘Oh, Leo – look! Isn’t it wonderful? It’s like having the city laid out on a tray. And the roofs are such a beautiful colour.’
Leaning beside her he smiled at her enthusiasm.
She slipped her arm about his waist, rested her head for a moment on his shoulder. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’
She felt the brush of his lips on her hair. ‘Thank you for coming. Florence has never been so lovely before. Have you seen enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Because I have suddenly realised that there are several hundred well-worn steps between me and the next glass of wine. And after that—’
‘After that?’ she asked, smiling into his eyes.
‘After that,’ he said, firmly, ‘we’re going back to the hotel for a siesta.’
‘But I’m not tired,’ she said, innocently.
‘Did anyone, my darling, say anything about being tired?’
*
When they got back to the villa there was an unexpected break in the weather; a series of violent storms lashed the mountains, and they were housebound for a few days. It was during this time that Leo’s nightmares returned. For three nights running Carrie awoke to find him tossing and sweating beside her, and during the day he was tense and quarrelsome. This time she neither questioned him nor allowed herself to be provoked. Unable to work in the garden she sat at the kitchen table looking through the notes she had made in the past weeks, and planning future projects.
‘Did I tell you that originally Beatrice intended the fountain arbour to be further down the hill, closer to the house?’ she asked. Thunder murmured in the mountains again, the air was sultry. ‘I’m half tempted to have someone come up to see if we could resite it. It would be nice if we could actually see it from here, and if it were less of a struggle to get to I’m sure we’d use it more.’
Leo, frowning, lifted his head from the book he had been reading. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Carrie, think about it. The effort of moving those statues? Don’t be daft. It’s totally impractical. They’re perfectly all right where they are.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Though I still think it would be nice. I’ll think about it. The fountain needs attention anyway. Next time I’m in Bagni perhaps I’ll see if I can find someone to come up and look at it.’ The thunder had moved closer. Leo winced and put a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. She moved to him, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
He shook his head. The first heavy drops of rain splashed on to the terrace outside, and a sudden gust of wind tossed the branches of the pear tree. He stood up, walked to the cupboard, took out a bottle. She watched in silence as he poured the dark wine into a tumbler, shook her head at his look of enquiry. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Sun not over the yardarm?’ The words were tart; self-mocking.
‘Something like that.’
He tossed his drink back, poured another, came to her. She recognised the look on his face, and shivered.
‘Come to bed,’ he said. ‘Now.’
‘Leo—’
His hand closed on her wrist. ‘Now.’
*
Thankfully, this time, the mood did not last. Within days he was himself again, in fact if anything suddenly he was as animated and ebullient as she had ever known him. A week passed, and then another, and his nights were calm. Obviously anxious to make amends for his ill humour he planned outings, picnics and expeditions, laughing her out of any excuse. ‘For goodness’ sake, leave the damned garden alone for a bit! You’ve years to do it. Come and enjoy yourself.’ And on one thing he was determined; that they should go up the mountain again, to Montefegatesi, and make love on the rock above the village. This was an expedition he planned with extra care; they were to take a picnic, and wine and rugs and cushions. This time they would be prepared; this time, he told her, everything would be perfect. Their day, a day they would never forget. He hired the donkeys and he packed the picnic basket, and on a gloriously warm August day they set off to ride the eight miles of track that led into the mountains and to Montefegatesi.
Leo was in a fever of high spirits. He sang, he teased her, he told silly jokes. Long before they were anywhere near their destination he had opened one of the bottles and was drinking from it as he rode. The sun rose higher, dazzling, in a sky blue as cornflowers. The track began to lift, winding through woodlands that rang with birdsong towards the treeline they occasionally glimpsed high above them. When they rode through the thinning scrub and trees onto the mountainside the sun hit them like a blow; and in the distance they caught their first sight of the tiny village, clinging to its peak, that was their goal.
[:0 eyed the much depleted bottle from which he was drinking. ‘We’ll go into Montefegatesi first, to replace this. Then we’ll go on up the mountain to the place we found before.’ He leaned across to kiss her; his mouth tasted of the wine. ‘And then, my darling, we’ll do what we did befo
re, only we’ll do it for longer, and in much greater comfort.’
Carrie tilted her head to watch the swifts and swallows that swooped above them, high in the brilliance of the sky. ‘Is it true that swifts make love on the wing, I wonder?’ she asked.
He laughed, throwing his head back, the sound bright and unrestrained. ‘It’s a nice thought. Perhaps we should try that too!’
They rode down the steep and narrow track that led into the tiny, tree-shaded cobbled square in the centre of the village just before noon and were greeted by a small pack of wildly yapping mongrels that skittered about the donkeys’ hooves in a frenzy of excitement, shattering the sleepy peace of the day. Shutters opened. Voices called. An old man sitting on a bench brandished a stick, his eyes sharp with curiosity on the newcomers. The dogs scattered and ran, still yelping, down an alleyway. Leo slid a little stiffly from his donkey’s back and turned to help Carrie from hers. ‘I don’t know about you, my sweetheart, but I’m ready for a quiet sit on something that doesn’t move. Come on. Let’s have a drink.’
The bar they entered was almost a carbon copy of the one in San Marco, but smaller, cooler, and empty of customers. The landlord came round from behind the battered counter, beaming, setting a chair for Carrie, speaking volubly.
‘Una caraffa di vino, per favore,’ Leo said, cheerfully, ‘In fact una caraffa grande. And that’s about my limit in the conversational stakes.’ He reached to take Carrie’s hand. ‘My darling Carrie you look wonderful, do you know that? I could eat you.’
She could not resist laughter. ‘Are you absolutely sure you should drink any more? You have had quite a lot. We don’t want you falling off your donkey!’
He poured the wine the landlord had brought with a steady hand. ‘No chance of that, my darling. No chance at all.’ He handed her a glass, clinked his against it in salute. ‘Here’s to our day.’
They drank the carafe and Leo, over Carrie’s half-hearted protests, ordered another. The somnolent calm of high summer had returned to the village. The donkeys dozed, standing, beneath the shady trees. At last Leo leaned forward and took Carrie’s hand in his, lacing their fingers. Suddenly there was no more laughter, no more flippancy. His face was disturbingly intent. ‘Are you ready to go? Are you ready to climb the mountain?’
‘Yes.’
He paid for the wine, and they walked into the warm afternoon in silence.
As they turned the donkeys’ heads and urged them forward into the sunshine the old man on the bench lifted a hand and nodded in dignified farewell.
*
They picnicked on the lower slopes of the peak; bread, cheese, ham and fruit washed down with strong red wine. A quiet had fallen between them. Leo sat cross—legged on a rock, cigarette between long, stained fingers, eyes remote and distant upon the magnificent, towering crags that stretched before and above them. An eagle soared, great wings spread to catch the slightest breath of air. Silence drummed in the ears; it was as if no world existed but this, of rock, and stillness, of heat and of light. Carrie tilted her hat to shade her eyes and studied the man’s profile, etched clean and sharp against the bright furnace of the sky; and something she saw prompted her to ask, suddenly, ‘Leo? Are you all right?’
For a moment he neither moved not answered. Then he turned upon her his most brilliant smile, and her heart all but stopped. ‘Yes. Of course I am.’ He straightened his legs, swung them from the rock, stood up with that grace that seemed second nature to him. Held out a hand. ‘Come on. Time to go on up.’
She had forgotten how steep, how vertiginous the climb was in parts; and the wine she had drunk – that Leo, she suddenly realised had been insistent that she drink – made nothing easier. And this time, oddly, Leo did not help her. He forged ahead, sure-footed and confident. Twice she had to swallow her pride and call him back to offer his hand. Stones and shingle slipped and rattled beneath her unsure feet, bounced down the cliff face and scattered into the space that she was suddenly frighteningly aware yawned and beckoned beneath her. Halfway up her legs were trembling and her hands clammy despite the warmth of the rock to which they clung. When at last she scrambled onto the ledge her relief was tempered by the thought that there was no way back to safety except by the path she had just trodden.
Leo had dropped the knapsack he had been carrying and was waiting for her; slim, straight, unsmiling. Dangerous. The word clicked into her head from out of the blue. Dangerous.
‘Leo?’ Her voice was uncertain. The perilous trembling had not stopped. She stepped slowly away from him, backing into the rockface. ‘There is something wrong. Isn’t there?’
He watched her.
‘Leo, don’t be silly. Please don’t be silly.’ She heard the precarious edge of panic in the words; forced herself to an untrustworthy calm. ‘I’m sorry to be so stupid. But I’m frightened. Please, let’s go back down.’
He held out a hand. ‘Come here.’
She shook her head, pressing back against the rock.
‘Carrie. Come here.’
There was a very long, very tense moment of silence. Carrie did not move.
He came towards her then, unhurried, reaching for her shoulders, drawing her to him, bending his head to kiss her. And for a moment the fire that was always there when he touched her flared again; this was Leo. She loved him. This was no dangerous stranger to be feared, from whom she had to escape.
The moment she relaxed to his kiss she knew her mistake. In a second he had twisted her around; when he lifted his head he it was who had his back to the rock. This time when she stepped back from him, heart pounding in terror, she stepped towards the edge, not away from it.
He moved forward.
Despite herself she backed away again. Gravel slid from beneath the soles of her shoes. ‘Leo. Leo! What are you doing?’
‘I think you know what I’m doing, my darling,’ his voice was very soft in the quiet. ‘I’m killing you. At least—’ he stopped.
‘But why? Why? I thought you loved me.’
‘Ah, yes. Love. A chancy thing, love. I should have known that. Shouldn’t I?’ He took another step towards her. This time, terrified, and uncertain as to how close she already was to the edge she stood her ground.
‘Love,’ he said again, and for an instant closed his eyes, as if against pain.
The instinct for survival took even Carrie herself by surprise. In that moment’s distraction she sprang at him, forcing him back against the rockface, nails clawing at his face.
Quick as a cat he caught her wrists, holding her from him, his wiry strength as always overwhelming her in seconds. But in that desperate instant of surprise she had managed at least to slip beneath his guard. The rockface jarred against her back, and she gasped with pain; felt the sudden wet stickiness of blood. For a moment they stood still, face to face, his hands locked about her wrists, as they had so often been before.
Then he stepped back.
She froze. ‘Leo. Leo!’
‘Love,’ he said again. ‘Whoever would have believed it possible?’ Another step.
She was sobbing now, uncontrollably, shaking with shock and with horror. ‘Leo, don’t!’
His voice was oddly detached, the narrow blue gaze distant. ‘They loved, I suppose – some of them, anyway – the men I left dead in the night.’ He spread his hands, looked down at them thoughtfully. ‘Do you know how many ways there are to kill a man with your bare hands?’
‘Leo – please – come away. You’re sick. My darling, you’re sick. Please come away, please don’t do this.’
‘Sick. Yes, I suppose so. But isn’t the world? And when the world takes you, and twists you, when the world encourages you to do the things that I have done and when it is done with you, abandons you – leaves you with nothing but the nightmares – isn’t it reasonable to try to take the things you want, the things you need, using the methods that world has taught you?’
‘Leo, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No.’
He stepped back again. Stood, face shadowed, body limned in sunlight, balancing. ‘No, I know you don’t. And I pray you never will.’ He moved very slightly.
‘Leo!’ The scream tore her throat.
‘So which is the greatest tragedy of life, my darling? Not to get your heart’s desire? Or to get it, and to find yourself so tainted, so fatally flawed, that you know that you will inevitably destroy the very thing you most love?’
‘Leo, please!’
His last movement unbalanced him entirely. Stones and small rocks showered into the abyss. And Leo was gone. He screamed once, as his falling body hit an outcrop of rock; then there was nothing. Nothing but the sunlit and echoing silence.
Chapter Thirteen
The sun still shone, though low now, dipping behind the village, blinding her; the tears – hysterical, terrified – came as she stumbled down the mountain track towards Montefegatesi. By the time she reached the square she was sobbing uncontrollably.
The village, perched on its peak, had known such accidents before. The shocked and bereft young woman was comforted, as best as was possible, the body of the young man recovered, decently shrouded, and arrangements made to transport both the living and the dead back down the mountain to Bagni di Lucca.
*
No one questioned that it was anything but a tragic accident. In her account of what had happened Carrie made no mention of Leo’s attempt to kill her. What would have been the point? To have done so would merely have brought questions she could neither face nor answer.
Why? Why?
The villa rang to her footsteps, the rooms stifling, airless, utterly empty.
Why?
*
The British community’s disfavour did not, it seemed, pursue its victim after death. In any case, predictably, Mary Webber’s busybody inability to keep out of anyone else’s affairs was strained to the limit by events, and for once Carrie was grateful for it. Within a day the woman had braved the mountain track to the villa and with her usual staunch and indefatigable energy had taken over entirely.