He offers to escort me the rest of the way to the villa. I accept nervously, and then it dawns on me that perhaps Lorenzo has a sexual motivation for keeping the conversation upbeat. But no matter what his intentions toward me might be this evening, there is really nowhere for us to meet in private. The villa’s gate automatically locks at dusk and I press the four-digit code to open it. Once the metal grille swings wide. We proceed until we round a bend that gives a full frontal view of the downstairs. The shutters are closed in Marina’s room, but they are open in Stefano’s, and I can peer right in.
Wearing the same dressing gown I’d seen him in previously, he’s standing, supporting himself on a cane. Just as we pass, Carla bustles into the room holding a tray with what I presume to be his evening meal. Without saying anything to Lorenzo, I continue to watch. Carla, whose movements normally strike me as being rushed, even abrupt, tenderly hovers as she sets the plates down and actually escorts Stefano to the table. At first I think he’s ill and can’t help himself, but then I realize that this is their little ritual, that she’s serving him the way perhaps she once had served her husband. I see them murmuring to each other, and then she leans against the wall and watches him eat. Their mutual devotion is obvious and very touching. But then I believe I can detect a weary look on Carla’s face.
Lorenzo finally says, “That’s the signora’s husband, isn’t it?” I nod. “He looks a lot older than she is.”
“He’s also a perfect target from where we stand.”
“But the gate is locked.”
I shiver. “Not always.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Just listen to me.”
I still don’t believe him.
When we finally arrive at the carved wooden side door of the villa, he says, “The ballroom is amazing, isn’t it?”
I hesitate and then admit that I haven’t yet been upstairs; it has been nearly in constant use for the hired weddings.
“Well, then, I will show you. May I?”
“How do you know it?”
“Like I say to you before, this is a historic place. We came here as schoolchildren. Like going to a museum.”
Would Marina object to my inviting Lorenzo into the villa? Maybe she doesn’t even need to know. After all, her rooms are pretty much removed from the staircase that leads up to the second floor. I somehow sense I’m doing the wrong thing, but I want to make love to this man.
Knowing the front door has already been locked and bolted, I lead Lorenzo through a secret side entrance where the door is always kept unlocked, then down into the subterranean zone and through a dank-smelling cavelike passage with crudely constructed stone and mortar walls. We emerge into an industrial kitchen used by the wedding caterers for food preparation. We pass the bolted wooden doors of the cantina where the wine made in the villa’s vineyards is bottled by the local farmer. It’s hard to imagine that Marina and her mother lived down here for four years during the Second World War and that the thick walls concealed the daily movements and activities of their Jewish friends. At one point Lorenzo rests his hands on my shoulders and gives me an urgent squeeze. I automatically pick up the pace, leading the way up a steep flight of marble steps to a landing, round a corner, and proceed to a foyer from where wide, limestone stairs ascend to the villa’s upper chambers. He follows closely behind, and as we pass various portraits of royal-looking subjects in period regalia, I’m aware of his breathing. And then it dawns on me that the last person I slept with—if one could even call it “sleeping with”—was Ed. And so equal measures of sadness and anger momentarily dampen my expectation.
Lorenzo slips in front of me and opens a set of hand-painted wooden doors, revealing an enormous space that runs the entire length of the villa. The ballroom is remarkably beautiful and I gasp.
The ceilings vault up into forty-foot-high Romanesque arches. Nearly every square inch of the walls and ceilings is frescoed with scenes of villages and meadows and clusters of citizens in sixteenth-century dress. There is much painterly detail in the castles, the topiary gardens with paved pathways, the bystanders, the people promenading their dogs. At the far end of the ballroom are perhaps fifteen round tables covered with pale green linen tablecloths and set elaborately with silver-and-crystal ware for a wedding that will take place within a day or so. At either end of the room enormous gothic-shaped windows are kept wide open and don’t appear to have screens.
I feel Lorenzo draw close. He puts his powerful arms around me, then takes my head in both his hands and gently swivels it around to make sure I see the walled city and the deep blue Apennines ranging behind it. His rubbing deflates all the pent-up anxiety. Our lips touch for a moment and finally our mouths open.
“So you’ve been in here before?” I say after we kiss for a few minutes.
“Yes,” he says, breathing rapidly. “But so long ago. Amazing how much I remember.”
“But your work must take you to many villas like this.”
“Ah, but this is a special one to me. The first villa I ever visited. Her father was very generous about opening his home to the public. Then again, he was a politician.”
Lorenzo begins kissing me again. His lips are full and he tastes like peppermint and wine, and now I think not of Ed, but of Michel. And the sadness is deeper and cut with bitterness: Why do I keep finding myself attracted to married, unavailable men? And once again I’m overcome with the feeling that surely Marina would condemn my bringing married Lorenzo into the villa for an assignation. I stop him and say, “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here.”
He grins. “Okay, I’ll tell you the real truth. This is all part of my job. I’m supposed to protect you. But in order to do that I have to stick really close to you.” His eyes, which one could describe as the nearly translucent green of tropical water, are mirthful.
“Yeah, right,” I say in English.
He persists. “Come on, she’s in her room for the night. She won’t come up here. These people never spend much time in their public rooms.”
“Unless she thinks somebody’s here who shouldn’t be.”
“Don’t her dogs tell her?”
It was true, the dogs for some reason haven’t barked.
“There are several bedrooms off the ballroom,” Lorenzo whispers. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads the way. It’s been just too long since I’ve had any kind of intimate contact. Missing it, needing it, I no longer can resist him.
At another set of double wooden doors, I say to his back, “And you remember all this from long ago?”
He turns to me. “I’ve been here a few times since then for one reason or another. Break-in attempts, that sort of thing. Though nobody has ever managed to get inside this villa.”
The bedroom he chooses is frescoed in the same style as the ballroom and has a very simple wood desk with an inlaid leather blotter angled into one of the corners. There are two twin beds separated by a small mahogany night table. Facing me, he pulls off his T-shirt with a single deft movement, revealing his chest and a gold cross that rests on a tuft of hair. I feel desire tightening my stomach muscles, slightly souring my taste buds. Something inside me collapses as Lorenzo begins unbuttoning my shirt. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark shape swooping through the air and panic.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“I saw something flying.”
“It’s probably—”
“There it is again. I think it’s a bat.”
Now Lorenzo sees it. “Ah, yes, it probably came from one of those open windows in the ballroom.”
Something dark heads toward me and I duck.
Lorenzo laughs. “Don’t worry. They won’t collide with you.” He pulls me tightly to him, runs his tongue down my neck, and then bites me gently. “But if I were you, I’d watch out for the vampires.”
Ten
As lorenzo stays late, I don’t get to sleep until well past two A.M. and manage
to doze through the villa’s morning clamor: workmen, dogs baying, Carla’s operatic singing. On my way to the kitchen to make myself a café mocha, I run into Marina, who remarks, “Here you are just getting out of bed, and I’m already thinking about lunch.” She’s holding two dusty bottles of red wine pressed from her own grapes that she has just fetched from the subterranean cantina. Setting the bottles down on the kitchen counter, she says flatly, “Well, you must’ve made this carabiniere happy because he already has called you. I told him you were still sleeping, and he says you cannot reach him until this evening. But he left you his mobile phone number.” She frowns. “And I was thinking to myself, these mobile phones have been around for so long now that I almost forget what secret lovers used to do to be in touch. Can you even remember?”
“They waited until their spouse or their partner was out of the room and made a quick phone call.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” she says acerbically. “Or they wrote secret letters late at night and hid them until they could be posted. Before the anonymity of email.” She squints at me. “So, he was here with you in the villa last night, wasn’t he?”
I hesitate a moment, wishing I’d followed my gut instinct not to bring Lorenzo into the house. “Yes, he was. It probably wasn’t a good idea.”
Marina shakes her head. “Good or bad idea. It’s just not done. You’re my guest. It’s not correct for a guest to bring someone else in the house uninvited by me and to make love to them. Most hosts would be insulted and would ask you to leave immediately.”
Speechless, I just stare at her for a moment. “So you’re angry with me?” I finally say nervously.
Marina hesitates. “I am, and I am not. It’s not so bad because I happen to know the person you brought here, a carabiniere no less, who knows that I would never stoop to report him. If he were a complete stranger, however, I’d be really cross.
“But I’m trying to understand why you might be doing this to yourself. Carrying on with another married man. My concern is certainly not moral. But rather that you would continue to choose situations that can only bring terrible unhappiness.”
I find myself absentmindedly observing a row of spices, herbs, and jars of sugar and Tuscan farro noting that all these cooking ingredients are in various languages. Finally I say, “I guess I’m afraid of long-term stability, so I just keep tying myself up in knots.”
Marina cries, “But then you confess to having a fantasy about the Frenchman leaving his wife for you!”
“Probably because I know he never would.” I advance this idea, but know deep down it’s a lie. Indeed, Marina looks at me with skepticism. A few uncomfortable moments pass. “So you heard us come in?”
“Not I. My dogs.”
“I’m really sorry. Bad judgment on my part, I admit. But I also didn’t hear any barking. If the dogs had started barking I would have sent him away.”
Marina smiles tightly. “They pace my room and whine instead.”
“You must feel like a mother monitoring her child’s activities.”
“Well, certainly I am the age to be yours. However, I’d prefer to think of myself as a wise older friend concerned about your well-being. Concerned, shall we say, about an incurable romanticism.”
Reaching up to grab a glass canister of ground coffee, I say, “Marina, do you really believe that falling in love with somebody should, in an ideal world, be a reasoned act?”
“Were that it could be. Let’s just say if at all humanly possible, love and admiration for a lover shouldn’t sway one’s better judgment. My God, don’t think for a minute that I’m immune to romantic folly. I’ve certainly committed enough of these acts of madness in my life. But let me quote Goethe to you. ‘My good young friend, love is natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time: Devote a portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to your lover. Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you may make’—here I am substituting him for her—‘him a present, only not too often—on his birthday, and such occasions.”
“Sound thinking, that.”
“Now, speaking of love, have I ever told you about the romantic history of the villa?”
“You’ve alluded to it.”
“It has to do with a love triangle.” She grins. “A different sort of love triangle than the ones you seem to get yourself involved in. Would you like to hear the story?”
I nod and say by all means.
“I’m just fixing some lunch. Rather than have it in the kitchen, let’s dine in the library.”
Marina, a brilliant half-hour chef, whips up a pasta sauce made of home-grown tomatoes, mint, and parmigiano. I bring the steaming plates into the library while she brings the wine. The library has become my favorite room in the house. With cozier dimensions, twenty-foot-high bookshelves, and comfy sofas, it certainly is the most congenial. The other main rooms are so cavernous that you feel like an interloper within some great institution or that you’re wandering through an echoing hall in a museum.
A flood of sunlight pools on one of the huge Persian area carpets, and several of the dogs are lying on their sides, basking in its warmth. Primo, the alpha, is stretched so that his stomach bows, his flanks jerking spasmodically in response to a dog dream. His black-and-white head flicks to attention as we enter, one roving eye trained on me, and then he flops down again. I sit on the ruby velvet sofa, and Marina positions herself catty-corner to me on a worsted wool armchair. The food is delicious, its flavors extraordinarily distinct, and I eat ravenously without trying to make conversation. Marina’s portion is half the size of mine, and she seems amused by how zealously I polish off my pasta.
“You really are a wolf, aren’t you?” she says, but still seems delighted by my appetite.
“This is amazing,” I tell her, but she bridles at the compliment and claims that I’m used to Americanized pasta, which tends to have too many ingredients and none of them fresh enough.
Once I finish, Marina proceeds to tell me the tale of Napoleon III’s best friend, a Dutchman named Emilien Nieuwerkerke, who, as the minister of culture, fled France when the Prussians took Paris. To escape arrest, Emilien disguised himself as a coachman and then drove three beautiful Russian princesses out of the city. Shortly thereafter, he bought the Villa Guidi and came to live here with the princesses, who actually were three generations of the same family: a grandmother, daughter, and granddaughter, each of whom, in succession, became the man’s lover. But because there was such an age difference between Emilien and the youngest of the princesses, he arranged for her to be married to a titled yet impoverished Italian nobleman who agreed to live at the villa and share his wife with the older Emilien. What made the Italian willing to do this? The fact that the villa would one day be left to him and his heirs. And so, in this highly unusual arrangement, the two men and the three princesses all lived together at the villa, and when the last of them died, the property passed into Italian ownership. The extended family is now buried in the small adjacent chapel that was built two hundred years after the villa itself was completed.
“Somebody should really write this story,” I suggest.
“Actually it has already been written. As a novel—by Stefano, as a matter of fact.” Marina pauses and then smiles cagily. “Emilien is the first of his three novels, all written after he turned sixty. And I would like you to read it. Because, well, Stefano and I have discussed your helping us. We think that if you could translate some sample chapters, this will make it possible for us to find the right English or American publisher.”
Without reservation I tell Marina that I’d be happy to help however I can.
“You’re a darling,” she says, reaching over to caress my cheek just as Carla comes into the room to inform her that a workman has located a clog in one of the gutters that drain the villa’s flat tiled roof. The two women hurry away to consult over the proper way to remedy the situation.
Back in my room, I scan the bookshelves and, wedged together among
all Stefano’s precious Pléiade, are his novels, whose dust jackets have a zebralike design theme that suggests some sort of trilogy. I am hardly surprised that Marina’s generosity toward me will now exact some kind of payback; this, I suppose, is as it should be. And, I reason, if I do end up doing some speculative translation work, then I will no longer be beholden to her kindness. And so, I grab hold of the novel entitled Emilien, gently pry it out of the bookshelf, and after reading the simple dedication to Marina, begin the first chapter.
I expect to find dense Italian wrought with imagery and literary allusion, an Italian similar to that of an Eco or a Calasso. However, I am pleasantly surprised to discover a simple, elegant style of a writer, who, at least initially, reminds me of Italo Calvino. Then again, Stefano has worked mainly as a journalist, so it stands to reason that a novel of his would be, at the very least, accessible. And yet, navigating the first hundred pages with relative ease, I find it quite dull going. The story of Napoleon’s relationship with Emilien Nieuwerkerke and Emilien’s sexual intrigue with the three princesses (and the subsequent introduction of an Italian nobleman into the mix) sounded a lot more concise and livelier when Marina recounted it. She apparently could not recognize (or perhaps she just refused to) that Stefano’s novel does not succeed in alchemizing anecdote into drama. In fact, contrary to the narrative drive of Conversion, Emilien is a plodding, pastiche-like book. I wonder if perhaps Stefano was influenced by the newer European literary tradition in which psychological examination trumps plotting and characterization. I will certainly finish Emilien, but can understand why there has been no offer of an English-language publication. It’s a worry.
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