"I understand." Jonathan smiled faintly. "But I'll take these all the same."
"All six of them?" The dealer's respect for his client's knowledge was waning visibly.
"All six of them. I have some aunts who also like colour," Jonathan grinned.
"Ah, si, si—that is different!"
The purchases were beautifully wrapped for him between layers of tissue paper. Everywhere he went Jonathan noted this care, the scrupulously honest marking of prices, the giving of the correct change, so counted over that the foreigner could understand. That and the sparkling cleanliness of the town was due to the Swiss influence, but it was pleasant for the Englishman.
He went to the main post office and mailed a card to his aunt. A non-committal card merely saying that the journey had been good and that he liked Lugano exceedingly. "I am going to fish and paint and laze in the sun," he scribbled, with a smile on his lips. That would please Aunt Bella no end, and it committed him to nothing with Uncle Steve. He felt oddly reluctant to write home properly, to tell them that he had already found Nicole Berenger; that he was living in the same house. Time enough for that when he had confessed to her and made his appeal.
The market, with its stalls piled high with gaily coloured fruit and souvenirs and sausages and cheeses, appealed to his artist's eye. Here the women shopped, dressed mostly in sombre black with shawls or mantillas over their heads; the real housewives and landladies of Lugano. They prodded and poked, chaffered and bar-gained, in the manner of housewives all over the world, and their sombre clothes only served to enhance the effect of bright sunlight and shadow, the colour in the fruit and vegetables and flowers.
Pausing by a flower shop, Jonathan thought it would please Nicole if he took her some flowers; it was she who kept the window boxes and plants at the albergo, and their healthy condition was proof enough that she loved growing things. He pondered over the begonias, but remembering the children's gift of the evening before, he did not want to compete with them and finally chose a gentian of the same vivid blue as Nicole's eyes.
Seeing him thus burdened, the old crones of the market place thought him a family man, not a tourist, and, grinning, cried their wares at him until he found his arms loaded with oranges and cherries and a melon, and a cheese of which he had never heard in his life. It was the smell of the cheese that drove him finally away from the fascinations of the market, back to the debarcadero centrale to search the lake for Nicole's shabby little boat.
Sitting there contentedly in the shade of the chestnut trees, Jonathan was well pleased with his morning. Now that he had parked the evil-smelling cheese well beyond the range of his nose he could enjoy the scene before him; the wide stretch of sunny water, to his right the cafés with their striped awnings and people enjoying their pre-luncheon aperitif, and the laughing couples pedalling the "beetle boats" about the lake, the larger boats bringing back tourists from the morning excursions. People of all nationalities, ages, colourings and taste in clothing passed continually beside his bench, and snatches of a dozen languages came to his ears. But what struck him most was the laughter that rang in the clear atmosphere, the expression of happiness on old faces as well as young. Perhaps because his work took him among the anxious, the un-happy, the sick, Jonathan was intrigued and delighted with this holiday spirit. Evidently people from all over the world came to Lugano to enjoy themselves, and did so in a way that was simple, healthy, joyous, very different from the hectic holiday programmes in the world's great cities.
I'm just a country bumpkin at heart, Jonathan told himself contentedly, and he was so absorbed in the busy yet tranquil scene that he failed to see Nicole mooring the row-boat just below his bench.
"Hola, Mr. Johnson! So you have been shopping!"
She stood before him, slim and laughing, her legs in their old slacks wide apart, her brown hands on her hips, her fair head on one side considering his heap of purchases. She demanded to know what he had paid for everything. "I expect they have cheated you, the old witches. A man shopping! For fifteen francs a day we will supply you with fruit; you don't have to buy it yourself!" she scolded. To appease her he held out the glowing gentian in its pot.
"For the loggia—you like flowers, don't you?"
"Thank you—you are very kind." Suddenly she was shy, soft and douce, as she stowed everything in the boat. "But you must not, please, buy food. How much was this melon? And the cheese?"
"I've forgotten," Jonathan assured her truthfully, helping to stow his purchases, "but you must not be cross with me, Nicki. I have not been shopping for years, except when I had to get new clothes." He grinned appealingly. "I have thoroughly enjoyed my morning! I began to feel I belonged here as soon as I had some parcels in my arms! I stopped feeling like a tourist."
She glanced up at him, shrugging. "All right. So you enjoy your morning, and spend too much money! Are you not still on the travel allowance?"
"No, not any more, thank goodness, so I have enough left to pay my bill; I'll pay in advance if you like—and no more shopping, if that will please you—"
A shadow crossed her small, sensitive face. She said with great dignity, "I was not thinking of the bill," and he apologised instantly.
"I know yon weren't, Nicole. I was only teasing. I brought more than enough with me, and I don't want to spend much on trips, so I shall have plenty."
"Bueno."
Now they had uncovered his last package, lying flat on the bench, and Nicole pounced on it. "You've been to Signor Castiglioni? This is his label. Let me see what you have bought—if the old devil has been cheating you I will make him give you some money back!"
"I—those are just some etchings. Well worth what I paid for them—" Jonathan was very conscious of the paintings in the parcel, very determined that Nicki should not see them. The boats had discharged all their passengers, the wharf was peaceful suddenly. Even the promenaders were dwindling away to their hotels and pensions. The girl had her hand on the string, sensing his reluctance!
"You saw my paintings? They're bad, aren't they? But you'd be surprised, people like them better than the quiet ones I used to paint."
Jonathan smiled, wishing he could not feel the colour mounting to his face. "They're pretty bad. But if that's what they want to buy—to take away as souvenirs—"
The church clocks were chiming the half-hour. Nick looked at her lodger with the straightness he found disconcerting, the uncompromising honesty of a child. "You don't want me to see the etchings," she said slowly. "I think you know you've been swindled. Please, I would like to look—Castiglioni doesn't close until one o'clock, there's still time—"
"Very well." He supposed the dealer would be telling her, in any case, within the next few days that he had sold six of her paintings to one customer. He was prepared for her laughter, perhaps her mockery, when she saw the contents of his package; he was utterly unprepared for the tide of scarlet that swept into her face, for the dismay succeeded so swiftly by fury as she rewrapped the parcel and turned to him.
"You've bought six—six—of my things! You've paid sixty francs for that rubbish, knowing it was bad!" Nicole stamped her foot on the hard stones of the quai. "Do you think I sent you to Castiglioni for that?"
Now he could see the Stannisford pride. She stood there accusing him like a small fury and he knew he had blundered, blundered seriously. He held out his hand for the parcel, but she would not give it to him. "I'm sorry, Nicki. I thought it would be a—a sort of present for you, like the flowers."
She clutched the parcel as if she wanted to throw it into the lake and he feared for his etchings. "The flowers were nothing—a nice present, yes—they cost a franc or two. But sixty francs! Do you think we want charity, when we're charging you for your board and lodging? These—these things—are worth ten francs to people who like them, who want them—but you—you know better!"
"My dear child, don't take it to heart so!" Jonathan took refuge in being avuncular, trying to tease her back to her usual good humour. T
o his utter dismay there were tears of fury in the blue eyes. "I'm sorry I was stupid, but you can paint me a real picture of the albergo to make up—"
"So you think I can paint 'real' pictures if I wish?" she demanded ironically, and swung on her heel. "Come, we'll make old Castiglioni disgorge your sixty francs. I couldn't bear to look at you another day otherwise!" And she marched before him through the streets of Lugano in her shabby shirt and trousers, seemingly oblivious of her appearance. Jonathan, following the slender, still scarlet neck in front of him, felt mingled shame and amusement. He had thought her practical enough to be glad of the sixty francs, or whatever she would get out of the deal; he had forgotten that her father had been an artist, that Nicole had both pride and integrity. And suddenly he liked her very much indeed for her anger.
She disappeared into the shadowy elegance of the art shop, and by the time Jonathan reached the doorway there was an altercation going on in rapid Italian. The suave Signor Castiglioni could also lose his temper, it seemed. Jonathan, feeling a fool, retreated down the arcade and hoped that she would not sell his etchings back to the dealer as well. But after a few minutes they were thrust into his hands by a smiling, triumphant Nicole, together with the sixty francs.
"He tried to give me forty, to keep the commission, the old devil! But in the end he paid up. Here are your etchings—they're quite good ones; you haven't been swindled over those."
"Thank you." He answered faintly, but an answering smile twitched the corners of his grim mouth. "You're very honest, Nicki. But won't this make it awkward for you with—future sales by Castiglioni?"
She laughed. Now that the battle was over and won she was happy again. "Oh, he knows he can sell my stuff all right; he won't make any awkwardness! And as for being honest—my father would never forgive me if I let anyone who didn't really want them buy my rubbish. Come, we must hurry, or Lucia will scold us for being late."
Rowing up the lake Nicole was quiet, Jonathan thoughtful. But when they had unloaded the boat at the stone steps she picked up the gentian and cradled it in her arms, as if to make amends for her temper.
"Thank you, signore—for the fruit and the flowers. The flowers I like very much, Mr. Johnson."
"Not Johnson—Jonathan," he answered quickly, "that is my Christian name."
"Jonathan ... ?" She stared at him, puzzled. "I've never heard that name before. Jonathan ... it is a nice name, but I could have sworn you said your name was Johnson!"
CHAPTER THREE
LUCIA consented to have her portrait painted, though she privately considered the Inglesi foolish to waste his time with an old woman when he could be painting someone young and luscious like Bianca or even Nicki—though how Nicki would ever catch a man's eye while she dressed in boy's clothing and did a boy's work old Lucia didn't know. . . . She was fond of the girl, especially because Nicole took good care of the children of her beloved Maria, God rest her soul, but in her young days girls had not rowed tourists about the lake wearing boy's garments. . . .
Jonathan sat Lucia in her rocking-chair out on the stone patio in the wilderness of the back garden, in the shade of a gnarled wistaria as old as Lucia herself. He had to accept her in her "best" clothes, but there was a tussle of wills when he wanted her to feign sleep.
''What use is a portrait of me with my eyes closed?" Lucia demanded crossly. "Does the man not know that a person's soul looks from the eyes? He might as well paint a death mask!"
Nicole, translating faithfully for both parties, smiled at the old cook, friend of the Fionettis down the years. "He says he first saw you asleep in the kitchen and fell in love with you, even if your eyes were closed!"
"Then he should not have looked!" Lucia argued. "No gentlemen stares at a woman while she sleeps."
"Tell her," Jonathan said, arranging his brushes, "that I am in complete agreement. Ï did not stare, I only peeped ... and for the present I am no gentleman but an artist. Tell her I have never seen a face I liked so much in sleep as hers."
Lucia chuckled harshly, shrugging, "Dio mio, Inglesi! All right, so be it."
While Jonathan, well pleased to have got his way, painted his portrait of Lucia in the mid-morning hour when the old woman's morning chores were completed—for they had a light luncheon and the main meal in the evening, when Emilio had finished his work and the children were back from school—Nicole made beds, dusted and swept, singing little French songs as she worked. Sometimes Jonathan could hear snatches of her singing, sometimes she glanced down into the patio when he was unaware and watched him working. He did not have to rest his model often, for as Lucia said, it was all resting for her, but between spells of furious painting they managed odd conversations in pidgin-English and dog-Italian, much to Nicki's amusement. The Englishman and the old Italian woman were a world apart, yet they shared some basic integrity and dry humour, and daily grew fonder of each other.
"He would make a good husband for you, that one," Lucia told Nicole one evening while they were preparing supper, and Jonathan was filling the big, burnished copper kettles that went on the wood stove. He wondered why the girl was blushing, but she laughed at Lucia as she replied crisply, "He probably has a girl in England. All the nice ones are caught before they grow old."
"He is not old." Lucia's black eyes sparkled with mischief. "He is thirty-eight. I asked him, and he counted on his fingers."
"You're an old gossip, and we'll have to get Emilio settled before I think of getting married. I think then I would like to go all over Europe, painting like my father did, before he met my mother. Maybe I shall never marry."
Lucia snorted. "It is every woman's duty to get married and have babies and make a good home for her husband; why else do you think the good God made Eve? But you will never catch yourself a husband until you wear pretty clothes."
"I don't care a centimo about clothes, or about catching myself a husband; I'm far too busy," Nicole retorted crossly, "and please don't have any ideas about Jonathan. He is my good friend, the good friend of us all. Isn't that enough?"
Jonathan, hearing his own name, wanted an explanation of the argument, but Nicole said it was all nonsense, and time she helped Bianca set the table, anyway. But as she worked with the chattering schoolgirl a little frown etched itself on her forehead. Lucia was a very old woman with a single-track mind, living foolishly in the past, but Nicole wished she had not said that about Jonathan. She liked Jonathan so much.
Nicole was painting the albergo for Jonathan, the view of the old farmhouse jutting out over the water, with the sharp peak of Monte Bré in the background. Each after-noon, when they had had tea, she would row herself out into the lake, sitting there, a small solitary figure in the late afternoon sunlight; she would not allow Jonathan to accompany her, nor to see the result of her work.
"I will wrap it up and give it to you when you leave," she promised mischievously, "then you cannot tell me how bad it is! At least it will be a small souvenir of the Albergo Fionetti... a little bit of Gandria for you to take back to your cold, grey country!"
"England is not usually cold and grey in July," he argued mildly, but he did not want to think just now of the time when he would have to go home, when this strangely peaceful holiday would be over. He was beginning to think it was the best holiday he had ever had, to understand why Nicole was not anxious to leave Lugano. It would be easy, too easy, to make one's home among these mountains, beside this still yet smiling water.
The best time for fishing was in the evening, just before nightfall. Sometimes Jonathan went with the young Pietro, who, for all his size, was knowledgeable about the lake, a patient and skilful fisherman. Then Jonathan would insist on rowing up the lake, away, from Lugano, away from the villages, until they reached the quiet stretch of the north-eastern tip, when Pietro would take charge of the boat.
"You make too much noise with the oars," he said once, grinning.
But when Pietro had homework to do, Jonathan went with Nicole. Returning from one of these expeditions
, rather later than usual, she tied up the boat with her quiet deftness, making so little noise that a couple locked in each other's arms in the garden of the albergo did not hear their approach.
It was evening, an evening of blue dusk. Jonathan, embarrassed because they might startle the lovers, went swiftly into the loggia and switched on the lights. Plumbing they might not have, but at least there was plenty of cheap electricity here. He was troubled because the man outside was Emilio, and he was astonished to see Nicole laughing.
"I wonder who the girl is—di notte, tutti i gatti sono bigi." Seeing his expression, she translated lightly: "At night all cats are grey. I hope it is Francesca. It will be good if Emilio marries Francesca."
"You don't mind?" Jonathan was seething, ready to go and knock Emilio into the lake. He could not understand Nicole's perfectly genuine amusement. "I thought perhaps—that you and Emilio—" he said slowly.
Nicole stared at him before laughing outright. "You thought I would marry Emilio? But that is the bêtise It would be like marrying my little brother!"
"Come into the kitchen, we'll have coffee. Eugh! It's cold on the water, as late as this. We'll show Lucia the bass, she'll be pleased—"
Jonathan followed her willingly. The children were in bed. They had stayed later than usual for the fishing to-night, and the warmth from the big wood stove was welcome. It glowed and filled the big old kitchen with its pleasant resinous smell, mingling with the aroma of the coffee Lucia had left for them.
"She has gone to bed; it's later than I thought." Nicole gathered the fish and washed it in the scullery beyond, leaving it on the ice-cold slabs of rock in the pantry. This was a natural cave in the rock face behind the house, where the perishable food was kept; beyond it another cave served as a cellar. There was no need of a refrigerator at the albergo. On the hottest days these rock-caves were cool.
Jonathan enjoyed the steaming coffee by the kitchen stove; he was immensely relieved because Nicole was not in love with Emilio. It simplified the whole problem if she had no romantic ties in Lugano ... and for the whole fortnight he had stayed there Nicole had had no meetings with other young men. She sat now in Lucia's chair, rocking herself to and fro gently, her blue eyes still curious and amused. They heard the soft phut-phutter of Emilio's motor-boat and Nicole chuckled suddenly.
Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake Page 6