Errant Angels

by Stuart Fifield

  ‘Amore, I cannot, not this evening,’ she had whispered into her mobile.

  She had gone for a stroll around the olive trees outside the Villa Legge, the better to make the call without the chance of being overheard. The fact that it might seem a little odd that she had gone for a stroll in the near blackness of the early evening and a question or two might arise as a result had never entered her head.

  ‘…yes, and I need to feel you, too, but not tonight. Benito is having some of his colleagues over for dinner… He says it is the pleasurable side of business.’

  Riccardo had made some lurid reply involving a detailed description of his interpretation of the word ‘pleasure’, which made her stop walking and shiver with suppressed anticipation.

  ‘Stop it!’ she had whispered into the mobile. ‘You are cruel to entice me so, when I cannot get away.’

  She had returned to the house looking a little flushed and entered through the large kitchen. Tabita Agostini looked up from the food she was busy preparing. She paid little attention to the flushed cheeks and the slightly desperate look of disappointment that hung about her mistress’s face. She had seen it often enough over the years.

  ‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ Benito di Senno had said as she entered the formal sitting room. ‘I was wondering where you had got to. You look lovely, as always. Our guests will be with us in about an hour. Does Tabita have everything under control, as usual?’

  Renata had nodded and mumbled some incomprehensible reply as she took a seat.

  ‘Are you quite well, my dear?’ asked her husband, noticing the flush in her cheeks, which had not quite faded back to normal.

  ‘Of course,’ she had replied, smiling. ‘Absolutely fine.’

  Despite his legal training, Benito di Senno was not as astute a judge of human nature as was his cook-housekeeper.

  That telephone conversation had scuppered the plans for the early part of Fossi’s evening. Suddenly finding himself at a frustrated loose end, he had decided to go out to La Cucina d’Oro for supper. The food at the Golden Kitchen had, as usual, been delicious, as had the bottle of Barolo, but it had done very little to lift his mood of frustration. He had left the restaurant quite early by his usual standard and had walked back to his home. With only the first part of the evening gone, and unable to settle down to anything even remotely resembling either work or relaxation, he had turned in. With his head full of the vision of an aroused Renata and of the erotica he had planned for that evening, he found sleep impossible. Now, shortly before midnight, he flung off the single sheet under which he had tossed and turned, and slowly started caressing his chest and nipples. His other hand slowly traced its way down the hairy path of his chest, towards the object of his pleasure, which had risen up to welcome it. In the coolness of his air-conditioned bedroom, he slowly and rhythmically began to satisfy his frustrated desires. As he did so, for some reason which he was beyond the point of being able to either fathom or control, Renata’s face had slowly changed. It had become thinner, younger and the features had become finer – much finer, like a fine china tea cup, like an English Rose, ripe for the plucking. By the time he reached fulfilment, the face of his object of desire – Renata di Senno – had been replaced with that of the new COGOL member, the English teacher who lived in Pisa – Yvonne Buckingham.

  26

  On the top floor of her apartment block, Maria Santini felt herself sliding into one of her pools of neurotic helplessness. A trail of silver Carezze wrappers led from the bedroom to the dining table and then onwards towards the balcony. Also scattered intermittently along this route of increasing despair were assorted pieces of paper torn from the ‘New Releases’ section of the current Gramophone magazine. Maria’s bright-red, manicured talons had made short work of shredding these harbingers of unwelcome and painful memories – especially the page containing the announcement of the new recording of Carmen.

  ‘Bastards!’ she muttered through tightened jaws. ‘Why should you be the ones? What about me?’

  She sat on a chair, half in the spacious sitting room and half out on the balcony. This action in itself was revealing, inasmuch as it demonstrated her inability to make a decision. She sat facing outwards, half in shade and half in the morning sunshine; it was a metaphor for her own existence, of the career she still desired, but had abandoned when her nerve had gone. It was a desire usually held in check by COGOL and chocolate, but it was also a desire which became depressingly all-consuming when she saw the names of those – her former friends – who had gone on to ‘make it’. She rocked backwards and forwards gently, staring not at the already lively scene of the Piazza del Giglio, the Square of the Lilly, which spread itself in front of her apartment block, but at her two feet, which were firmly planted on the marble floor tiles. She had created a crisis in her own mind and slowly felt herself being drowned by it. As she moved rhythmically she muttered and occasionally burst into a sustained fit of humming. It wasn’t loud humming – her jaws were too tightly compressed to allow for that – but it was persistent: arias from the operas or snatches of them. The very thing which caused her all of her trauma was the one thing in which she took refuge.

  ‘You think you are good?’ she muttered, turning to look at the mangled remains of the bulk of the magazine on the floor. ‘Well, I also have my audience to please … tomorrow at the Istituto Musicale!’ She sounded like a little child who thought that her helping of ice cream was smaller than anyone else’s. She returned her gaze to her feet and continued to rock gently.

  ‘Stride la vampa…’ she hummed.

  The two faded herons on her kimono-like gown seemed to flap graciously as she rocked back and forth. They floated in the faded confines of the woven material with each rise and fall of her chest. The truth was that they had been reluctant participants in this sort of scene on many, many previous occasions – ever since that unfortunate night of the oranges in the opera house in Barga. They had long ago decided that the best thing for them was to simply float and watch. They had seen it all before.

  27

  As her neurosis closed in around her and she became imprisoned in her own void of bitterness, Maria Santini paid little attention to the day-to-day life as played out in the piazza below her balcony. Whilst she hummed and rocked, the spacious Piazza del Giglio, which spread itself like the archetypal picture postcard of Tuscany, continued to fill with people going about their business. The first customers of the day had settled themselves at the tables of del Mostro’s and the early guided tourist groups had emerged from the Via del Duomo, stopping to admire the statue of Garibaldi in suitable heroic pose, which stood in the middle of the large public space. Then they continued across the expanse of the piazza to admire the faded glory of the Teatro del Giglio with its classical architecture. The guides never failed to point out the large lily – the symbol of Pisa and Tuscany – which adorned the sculptured oval in the centre of the pediment.

  On the ground floor, four storeys underneath Maria’s gently swaying form, lilies and flowers of all sorts played an important part in the small, successful business run by Gilda Ignazio. Belli Fiori aptly described her enterprise. She owned a florist shop. In fact, it was the florist shop in Lucca.

  ‘…yes, we can do all of that for you,’ Gilda said, speaking softly into the telephone. She had a practised telephone manner and her husky voice was as seductive as the scent from the flowers that filled her shop. ‘…but of course, any number you require,’ she continued after a short pause. ‘Please hold on. I will make a note of that… We will have to order in extra, but it should not be a problem.’

  As she reached across her desk, she suddenly became aware of a shape standing in the corner of her shop, admiring the generous displays of roses, chrysanthemums and – naturally – lilies. Gilda knew instinctively who it was. Even from the back, there was no mistaking the familiar outline of the Contessa. The caller continued speaking and Gilda returned her attention to her order book.

  ‘…yes
, everything will be ready by six next Thursday. Will you be collecting your order…? Yes, we can deliver.’ She wrote quickly and in a firm, decisive hand, the way her father had taught her. She thanked the caller for the order and replaced the handset in its cradle.

  ‘Good morning, Contessa,’ she called out, looking up at the figure in front of the floral displays. ‘I hope that you are well.’

  The elderly woman nodded her head, but did not turn around. ‘Very well, thank you, my dear,’ she replied, ‘and how are you? I hope that you are in blooming health,’ she continued, smiling at her own pun.

  ‘The Contessa is too kind to ask,’ replied Gilda, ‘and yes, thank you, I am in good health.’

  ‘You are lucky to be surrounded by such beauty,’ continued the Contessa, indicating the flowers; ‘much better than working in an office.’ She looked up through the large bunches of massed flowers and out towards the piazza. In front of the shop, basins and buckets on tables and trellises held further forests of multi-coloured blooms. ‘You have done very well for yourself, but I think that you are going to have to find a bigger shop…’ The elderly woman suddenly seemed distracted; something had caught her attention.

  ‘The Contessa is too kind to say so,’ said Gilda softly.

  There was a short silence. Gilda waited for the Contessa to speak. Her visitor was watching a child in one of the tourist groups running amuck around the lower step of the plinth on which Garibaldi’s statue stood. The child tripped and cascaded inelegantly to the paved floor of the piazza. Howls suddenly filled the air, shattering the morning peace. None of the adults in the group seemed to pay the child any attention, except for the mother, who seemed more embarrassed by her offspring’s actions than anything else. As the two women watched the spectacle outside in the bright sunlight, the telephone suddenly burst into life.

  ‘If the Contessa permits?’ asked Gilda, half turning to point at the desk.

  ‘Of course, my dear. Off you go,’ replied the Contessa expelling the breath that she had been holding. ‘I’m in no hurry this morning.’

  The tour group had moved on and the howls of self-pity had receded with it, but the Contessa remained looking out through the stacked baskets and buckets of flowers at the now empty steps.

  In her mind she was looking at a different plinth, one on which Garibaldi had been replaced by an ancient Roman statue of Ceres, goddess of the crop and of fertile nature. Leading from the statue, forming a kind of ceremonial way, stretched a long flight of broad marble steps leading down to well-manicured lawns and terraced borders. Beyond the ornately decorated balustrades flowed the extensive vineyards and fields of the Villa Batelli. In the cool hills to the northeast of Lucca, the villa was one of the numerous residences owned by the newly returned Conte di Capezzani-Batelli. It had once again become a family home – the Count, his young English wife and his four-year-old sickly son and heir. The scene recalled in the recesses of her memory was every bit as beautiful and fragrant as that created by the contents of Gilda’s small shop. Despite this, it was a frightening scene and the Contessa tried valiantly not to look down the flight of stairs. Over half a century later, she still saw everything as vividly as the day it had happened. She knew that she would look down – she always did – and she knew that she would see the crumpled form of little Enrico lying there, spread-eagled on the unforgiving marble expanse of the last step, his head twisted in grotesque confirmation that his little neck was broken.

  What they found at the foot of the impressive stairs beneath Ceres’s statue was the unfortunate conclusion of what had started almost from the moment their only child had inhaled the air of wartime London.

  The awful truth manifested itself as soon as he had started to crawl. He would suddenly buck – like a frightened horse – and would scream the place down as he shuffled away into the nearest corner in what seemed like abject terror. Giacomo had watched this condition develop with even more alarm than had his young wife.

  ‘Please God, not il malocchio,’ he muttered after a particularly frightening manifestation of Enrico’s seemingly worsening condition.

  Penelope had looked at him quizzically. ‘What was that you said?’ she asked, her voice betraying the strain of the previous few hours.

  ‘Il malocchio,’ he repeated, taking her hand in his. ‘In English you call it the “Evil Eye”. I hope to God that he is not the victim of it.’

  ‘The Evil Eye,’ she repeated, turning to look at him. ‘What on earth is that?’

  There was a lengthy silence as she looked at her husband and he looked at his wife. He seemed to be fighting an inner battle of the Titans. If she did not know about the Evil Eye, did he have any right to tell her about it? It was, after all, only peasant superstition, but it was implicitly believed by many. They had enough of a burden to shoulder with their sickly firstborn, without adding to the burden by bringing in the intangible elements of the supernatural.

  ‘It is nothing,’ he said softly, moving nearer to her to kiss her gently. She nestled her head against his chest. He turned his head to look in the direction of the room in which their son had finally fallen into a fitful sleep. Outside, war-torn London slumbered, vigilant against a repeat of the air raids and of the Blitz of 1940. Inside the airy space of 26 Prince Consort Mansions, a recently married couple seemed to be just as vigilant over their infant son.

  Penelope suddenly sat up straight and looked at her husband with iron determination, which far outweighed her youthful years. ‘Was it something about a malady … about Enrico?’

  Giacomo sensed that his wife would not give up until she had an explanation. He took a deep breath and held her even closer to him. ‘The Evil Eye – il malocchio – is a curse. Someone puts it on you and you … well you’ – he seemed to be struggling for words – ‘you have a very bad time of it afterwards … that is what happens.’

  ‘A curse?’ she repeated, looking at him in a disbelieving seriousness. ‘A curse … on whom? Surely nobody would put a curse on us?’

  Giacomo shrugged. He knew his wife would probably not believe him. And why should she? After all, she had not had the exposure to such things he had had. He knew that the English were a superstitious people, but he was not sure if the Evil Eye was a superstition they subscribed to. It was quite a different matter in Italy. He did not respond to his wife’s question.

  ‘Who on earth would put a curse on us? Why?’ repeated Penelope, turning a grave face towards her husband.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea at all, cara,’ he replied, sighing. ‘The war is over for Italy and there are many grudges to be settled. Such a thing is possible, I suppose, if there are those who feel wronged by my family … for whatever reason.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a moment. What wrong could your family have done to anyone?’ she asked with child-like simplicity. She looked at him with wide eyes, not inviting a response as much as underlining her reply to his outlandish claim. In truth, she knew almost nothing about her husband’s family. She knew he came from Lucca in Tuscany – not that she had had any idea where that might be when he had told her. She also knew that he had an elder brother and that they owned land. And that was just about the sum total of her knowledge of his roots. Giacomo knew far more about her family, whom he had obviously met prior to the wedding. Comfortably settled in their Hampshire house with its extensive gardens, spaniels and horses – not to mention the young Irish maid who had ‘found’ Penelope on Waterloo Station – the Strachans presented a picture of domestic happiness that he had not been fortunate enough to share in his own past.

  ‘It is late, cara, and we are both tired. Such thoughts are only too eager to creep into a tired brain. Do not concern yourself with il malocchio. It is, as you English say, only an old wives’ tale.’ There had been hardly any conviction behind the statement.

  Only upon their arrival in Italy, had Penelope Strachan discovered that her husband came from an old aristocratic family and was now Il Conte di Capezzani-Batelli and that
she was now La Contessa. The significance of her new title and surroundings did not truly permeate her consciousness; her mind was too full of concern for the wellbeing of her son. They had entertained hopes that the freshness and warmth of Tuscany would help and up to a point, it had. There had been days when Enrico’s breathing had seemed like any normal little boy’s – days when he had played with his toys on the carpets of the villa, watched over by his anxious parents and his devoted nanny. Elizabeth also helped where she could, but lacked the medical training thought necessary to become his full-time nursemaid. And then, when it seemed as if the improvement might just be permanent, the other thing had reared its head again – the other thing, for which they had absolutely no explanation. Enrico would suddenly cringe away from something – an unseen, frightening something – which seemed to terrify him.

  On such a day, Penelope entered the spacious grandeur of the Villa Batelli’s main reception room. Despite her youth, she looked drawn and tired and she was wringing her hands in a manner not unlike Lady Macbeth.

  ‘The doctor says Enrico’s chest infection is a little better and that he has given him an injection. He thought him a little distressed and uncommunicative for a four year old’ – there was a pause – ‘so he says he will call in again tomorrow…’ Her voice trailed off, leaving the final cadence of the sentence unfinished. Giacomo was standing at one of the high French windows, his hands folded across his chest, a lit cigarette, un-smoked, smouldering in his left hand. Most of it had been transformed into a compacted column of ash and seemed in imminent danger of tumbling to the floor. At the sound of his wife’s voice, he turned and put the cigarette into an ashtray, oblivious to the fact that the action had caused the ash to fall down the front of his immaculate waistcoat.