He smiled torerantly. “Well, she was far from a fashion plate. Food? She ate like a bird, except that when either my partner or I took her to Doney’s. But on the other hand, when we were invited out there to the villa, I assure you that we came away hungry. She husbanded her money, as many old people do no matter how much there is of it. And so she left a huge nest egg for Elizabeth, who simply has no idea what to do with it. She doesn’t even realize.”
“Elizabeth?” I asked.
“Her companion of many years, Elizabeth Wadley, an Englishwoman. I believe they were girls together, when Mrs. Wadley lived for a few years in America … her father held some ambassadorial post. When they were both widowed, they met again and decided to make their home together. Mrs. Wadley was in a poor financial position, so it was a good arrangement for them. Poor Elizabeth, she must be heartbreakingly lonely.”
“Did my aunt make any other bequests? Aside from me and this Mrs. Wadley?”
“Oh yes, of course … to people who worked for her, quite generous amounts. Otherwise Elizabeth Wadley inherits it all. But of course it is very nice, because when she dies, the estate, in toto, passes on to the former owners, the family.”
“Who is the family?” I asked curiously. “The former owners you speak of?”
“By that I mean the Monteverdis. It’s an old name, signorina, dating back to the earliest centuries. A great composer comes from that branch, Claudio Monteverdi, 1567 to 1643. His was the first great name in operatic history. Orfee, L’incoronazione di Poppea, Tancredi e Clorinda. The Monteverdis are very poor, but still they live very well on their estate, thanks to the Contessa.”
“They live at the Villa Paradiso?”
A small smile crossed signore Predelli’s face. He pushed ashes back and forth in a tray with a burnt-out match and at last confessed the reason for his mirth. “The Villa Paradiso,” he repeated, still smiling. “Well, I don’t think they like that name, you see. It was the Villa Monteverdi, but when the Contessa bought it she renamed it. And it is not a very imaginative name, you must agree. Even if she had called it the Villa Sciaccapensieri … which is like the French Sans Souci … it might not have offended quite so much. Perhaps she had read Feydeau — THE HOTEL PAPRADISO — and was thinking of that, though that has a comic connotation. At any rate, when the Monteverdis come into their own again, there will be a change of name for the villa. The old, rightful name.”
He leaned forward. “But don’t mistake me,” he said. “They were enormously fond of your aunt. And she of them. There are two wings to the villa … in one of them the Monteverdis live. There is a stone wall at the back of the house, separating the gardens, but the gate of it is never closed. There was always privacy without familiarity.”
He looked at me shrewdly. “You can’t wait to see the villa, I’m sure.”
“I’m very eager to see it.”
He picked up a desk pad and wrote on it. “Here’s the telephone number of your aunt. Mrs. Wadley will be most happy. And how to get there. It’s only about six kilometers, not at all far out from the city. She’ll certainly introduce you to the Monteverdis. You’ll find them very simpatico. The Principe and Principessa will not be called by their titles. Simply address them as signore and signora.”
“You mean they’re — ”
“It doesn’t mean anything any more. It’s considered vulgar, except in jet set circles, to use titles as a form of address. You see, signorina, in Italy it is the same as anywhere else. The best people don’t — ”
He smiled again. “We have a saying. La genie semplice e la migliore. Quella che si da le arie ci fa ridere …”
“I know some Italian,” I said. “But I can’t translate that.”
“Roughly,” he said, “it means ‘people of quality don’t put on airs’.”
“ ‘Ridere’ means to laugh, doesn’t it?”
“Ah hah! You do know some Italian! All right, what I said was this, and it is a good thing to remember. ‘Simple people are the best … they laugh at those who put on airs.’ You don’t want to be laughed at, signorina? No, of course not. Address them as signore and signora. They will respect you for it.”
Chapter Three
I called the Villa Paradiso after I left the attorney’s office. The desk clerk obliged again, but there was such a long wait before the ringing stopped that I was sure my aunt’s companion was not at home. But at last a brisk, very British voice said, “Hello, hello.”
“Mrs. Wadley?”
“Speaking.”
I introduced myself. “I’m Barbara Loomis, the Contessa d’Albiensi was my great-aunt. She left me an inheritance. I’m here in Florence, and of course I’d like to see the villa, Mrs. Wadley … and meet you.”
“I beg your pardon?” There was a loud throat-clearing. “Who’d you say this was?”
“It’s Barbara Loomis,” I repeated patiently, enunciating clearly. She was well on in years, was perhaps hard of hearing. “Mercedes d’Albiensi was an aunt of mine. She left me some money in her will. I’m here, in Italy. In Florence. Would it be possible for me to pay you a visit, Mrs. Wadley?”
“Why, my word!” There was a booming laugh. “This is little Barbara? You mean — ”
“This is little Barbara,” I agreed. “Except that I’m not so little. I’m twenty-four.”
“You don’t say!”
I started all over again. “I’m here in Florence. I’d love to see the villa. I wondered about this afternoon.”
“Indeed this afternoon. What a delightful surprise. Hello, my dear. Yes, do come out. I shall be at home all the afternoon and evening. You’ll have dinner with me.”
“Oh, thank you, but I wouldn’t dream of — ”
“Oh, but you must. It will be like old times, to sit at table with someone else. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“It’s extraordinarily kind of you, Mrs. Wadley. But you must tell me what to bring. A little steak? Lamb chops? I can get something at the markets here.”
“Oh, I have provisions,” she said largely. “Don’t fret yourself. What time will you be here, dear?”
“I thought about — ”
“Then shall we say at around six?” she said, interrupting me. “Good, I’ll see you then. How jolly! It will be such a diversion for me. We shall have a splendid time. There’s a television. The reception’s poor, but no matter. There’s a hair dryer too; you’ll like that. Young people are so fond of washing their hair every two or three days. So then I shall see you about sixish.”
“Well, fine,” I said, a little dazed at mention of TV and a hair dryer. “But please tell me what to bring. I could pick up some meat … or fish …”
“I have everything like that,” she insisted and then, in a rush, avidly, “You might get some cheese sticks and those lovely salted almonds. And the vol au vents. I do so like them. On the Via Parione, the British shop. It’s not hard to find; it has the crest of the Empire on the glass door.”
There was a kind of buzzing, as if she had faded away, and then she said, “Sorry, I dropped the phone, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Good-bye, then. The taxi will be about four hundred lira, with another hundred for a tip. Don’t give him more than that, no matter how threatening he becomes. They see a foreigner coming, but don’t let him bully you. Capisco?”
“Capisco,” I said, but she had already rung off.
• • •
I found the British shop Mrs. Wadley had mentioned, and she was right … their wares were mouth-watering. I bought the vol au vents and the cheese croutons and a pound of “those lovely salted almonds,” and went in search of a taxi. There was a stand in the Piazza di Trinita nearby; I had only a few minutes’ wait. Inside, I told the driver the Villa Paradiso. He knew instantly, gave me a respectful and rather inquisitive look in the rear view mirror and pulled away with a snarl of wild rev of the motor.
We went through narrow streets, passed through an austere Ro
man gate and the remains of an ancient city wall, and then started to climb. The road was steep, as narrow as a needle, and serpentine. At every dangerous curve my driver leaned on his horn, but he was going at a fast clip and driving, essentially, blind … you had no way of knowing what was just round the bend. I found my fingers whitening as they clung to the leather of the seat; finally, I said, “Per favore, troppo veloce … lentamente, per piacere …”
“Si,” he said indifferently, and slowed up not a whit. It was horrendous … at any moment I expected a collision … the scream and wrench of metal against metal. But nothing of the sort happened, though when the cab finally screeched to a stop, I was shaking as with the ague.
“Quanto costa?” I asked, taking out my wallet.
He looked at me, in the mirror over the dashboard, consideringly. Then said, “One thousand lira, signorina.”
“No,” I answered, my chin out. “The people here told me it would be four hundred. Here’s five hundred. I won’t be cheated, particularly after that awful, frightening ride. Capisco?”
There was no argument. He took the five hundred lira, smiled pleasantly, wished me a fine evening and, jerking a thumb in the direction of the villa at our right, said, “Bellissima, that. Old, old. The family Monteverdi. Good people, a good name, old, old.”
He backed up, gunned his motor, and was off in a cloud of dust. I stood in the roadway, watching him disappear into the distance. It was just a little before six o’clock and would not be dark for another two hours, but just the same there was the violet foreshadowing of the evening slowly coming on. The earth smells were everywhere, warm and beautiful and primal … and the aroma of a thousand flowers enriched the dying day. The sun still scorched, but a vagrant breeze had sprung up, whispering the leaves in the trees. There was the busy twittering of bird life, and a cuckoo sang its song. A cow lowed, in the distance, wanting to be milked, and six solemn notes bonged from some nearby belltower.
The villa, rambling, large, of rough stone almost entirely smothered in climbing vines, was behind a brick wall whose rusty iron gate hung open and beyond which there was a courtyard, very medieval-looking. I could picture horses stabled there, with grooms currying them, but in today’s time it was a garden, wild and untended, but pretty and rustic. I could see at once, that, architecturally speaking, the beauty of the villa would be at the back of the house where, I knew, there would be a splendid view of the valley.
I went through the courtyard and then, after climbing a half dozen worn steps, clanged the heavy door knocker. I waited, but nothing happened. I reached for the knocker again, gave it three smart raps.
There was still no answer.
She did say six o’clock, I explained to myself. Didn’t she?
I rapped once again.
Nothing.
Well, this was a strange welcome, I thought and, making up my mind, went through the courtyard again. This time I plodded along a gravelled pathway that led to the back of the house, passing a small blue Lancia parked to one side. My footsteps crunched on the tiny pebbles. I was a little uneasy. Supposing there had been some error on my part … or some misunderstanding on hers. There was no way I could get a taxi back to town. I was annoyed too … after all …
And then I came to a most beautiful place. I was at the back of the house now, and standing in a garden that was so wonderful I had to draw in my breath. I had been right about the view. I was looking down on the glory of Florence. There was the Domo, the octagonal Baptistry, and the exquisite belltower of Giotto’s creation. Lacy churches dotted the landscape, the medieval campanile of the Palazzo Vecchio loomed; the Arno spun its way, with its many bridges, like a silver thread, below the lovely, lovely embankment.
I gazed, exalted. I felt as if I could reach out and scoop that miniature city, far below, into my hands, hold it there, captured, like a fistful of jewels.
It was at that moment that I heard the sound. For a minute or two I couldn’t pinpoint what it was … a light, sighing, quivering breath of sound …
Like someone crying.
Why, it was someone crying, I thought, and a fragment of memory flitted through my mind. When my little sister had died of meningitis … behind the closed door of my parents’ bedroom, the muted sobbing, like the tearing of silk … smothered behind a despairing hand.
I peered through sheltering trees and then I saw the figure kneeling on the ground. Like a penitent, with head bowed, and the dry sobs, almost but not quite soundless, coming from that crouched figure. I walked quickly toward it, and stood at last beside an old woman whose faded blue eyes were diffused with tears. White-haired, thin as a rail, with a long, sinewy neck, nose strong and carved and her mouth a red gash in the parchment white of her aging skin, she was bent over some object on the ground.
“Mrs. Wadley?” I said.
She looked slowly up at me, and her eyes were filled, not only with tears, but with shock and horror. Then I looked down, past her. The woman’s hands were threaded through a coat of fur. The coat belonged to a dog. A dead dog. I had never seen a dead dog, but I knew there was no life left in that little animal. Its eyes were open but unseeing. There was a foam of blood on its muzzle. It was rigid.
And then the woman spoke.
“He’s dead too,” she said. “And now Paolo’s dead too.”
“I’m so terribly sorry,” I said, and knelt beside her. “Was he very old?”
“Not old enough to die.”
“But — ”
She repeated it. “Not old enough to die. Oh, I know. Don’t think I don’t know. It’s a warning, you see.”
I stared at her. “A warning?”
She laughed, a strange laugh, looked down at the inert body of the little animal. She stroked its fur once more and then gathered the small body into her arms.
“He’s still warm,” she said softly. “He didn’t want to die. He grieved, yes, when she left us. But there was me, and he knew I needed him. He wouldn’t have wanted me to be alone. Oh, it was deliberate. They’re trying to frighten me.”
She struggled up. I helped her. “Oh yes,” she said, as she regained her feet. “Yes, I know. Everything’s very clear.”
And then a change came over her. Her face grew wary. There was a long silence and then, “Oh, you’re little Barbara.”
“I’m Barbara Loomis. You’re Mrs. Wadley?”
“Yes, how are you, my dear?”
It was grotesque; with the dead animal under one arm she held out a hand, shifting the weight of the dog. “Welcome to the Villa,” she said. “Come inside, do. I’ll give you some Punt a Mes, then I must have Gianni see to Paolo’s burial. He will be desolate, you know. He so loved our little boy. I want him buried under the twisted pine.”
She pointed. “That one. It was his favorite resting place. Now it will be his eternal resting place.”
“You mustn’t worry about me,” I protested. “I’ll wait here. Please don’t — ”
“No no,” she insisted. “You’ll have an aperitif, and I shall be back as soon as I can.” She cradeled the moribund dog in both arms and led me across the lawn to two lovely french doors that stood open. She stood aside for me to enter, and there was a forlorn drop on the end of her nose. She sniffled it away and pointed to a stand with liqueur bottles. “Help yourself, please, dear. If you don’t, I shall be most unhappy. I shall be back directly. Just let me attend to this sad undertaking. I’ll try not to be too long.”
“Please don’t hurry. Are you sure I can’t help?”
“Thank you, but Gianni and I will do it together.”
And then she left me, carrying out the dead animal like a sacrificial offering. I was, to say the least, shocked and put off by the whole thing. I thought it would be a long time before I forgot about those dead, glassy eyes, that blood-specked muzzle.
And the incoherent spate of words. “They’re trying to frighten me … it’s a warning …”
I poured out some liqueur into a small glass, lit a cigarette
and looked about. It was a vast, white-walled room with a vaulted ceiling, like that of a cathedral, lancet windows, and an enormous open hearth. In the center of the huge room a gigantic trestle table, with the golden patina of age, was piled with books, ceramic pieces, pewter trays and a great earthenware bowl large enough to hold Ali Baba or one of his forty thieves. It was filled with masses of dried flowers. There was a big concert grand at the farther end of the room, its top down and over it an old-fashioned, fringed and flowered shawl. And on top of the silk shawl, an abundance of gilt-framed photographs.
I got up and went over to look at the photographs. Right away I saw Mrs. Wadley, in beach attire (very modest), in front of a striped cabana. Perhaps on the Lido in Venice, I thought … or Ischia, or Capri. Several gentlemen of various shapes and sizes and ages smiled at me, one of them with an impressive black mustache curled up at the corners like Toscanini’s. There were two pretty children in pinafores, with their pretty mother. And — I nearly fainted with surprise — a snapshot of two people who were my mother and father of years ago. There was the same snap in an album back home. It was so odd to see it there among a raft of strangers, two people the late Contessa had known twenty-five years ago, for a day or two, and whom she had never totally forgotten.
Truly, the ways of the human heart were inscrutable.
And then, as I put the framed snapshot back on the silken scarf, I saw my dead great-aunt. That it was she took no conjecture on my part. It was signed, at the bottom, in a bold, round hand. “To Elizabeth, with love,” it read, and the woman in the photograph was handsome and, yes, regal, with a crown of iron-gray, strong hair that haloed her fine face. She looked a little bit like the Tsarina, with that kind of chiselled nose, and the clear blue eyes.
She must have been a beauty in her youth, I thought, and then saw her in her youth. It was unmistakably the same woman, twenty or thirty years earlier, in the clothes of the period, standing arm in arm with a dark-eyed man who was not quite as tall as herself, and rather frail-looking. His head, which was handsome and finely-shaped, seemed a bit too large for his small frame. He was looking straight into the camera, but Mercedes was turned sideways, gazing worshipfully at him.
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 67