I had just put the photograph back when I heard someone coming into the room. I was primed to see Mrs. Wadley, but it was not she. It was a man, tall, slim, dark, young … and looking curiously at me. We eyed each other for a second and then he said, in English but with a charming accent, “Hello, I’m Giovanni Monteverdi.”
I said I was Barbara Loomis, and mentioned the dog. “Yes,” he said. “It’s terrible. He must have gotten into some weed-killer.”
“I feel in the way,” I explained. “I’m wondering if I shouldn’t call a taxi.”
“No no, don’t leave her. It will be a bad evening for her. She will be with you soon, just make yourself comfortable, signorina.”
He excused himself. “I need a spade, and some kind of box, so that we can lay Paolo to rest in the earth.”
He went away and in a few minutes I saw him walking round the back, carrying tools and a cardboard box, walking springily on the balls of his feet. He carried himself well. I hadn’t failed to notice the length of his eyelashes.
And then he vanished out of sight.
It was almost half an hour later when Mrs. Wadley returned through the french doors. Pale and drawn, she apologized for keeping me waiting so long. She had regained her composure and, in spite of her pallor, smiled pleasantly and said how happy she was to meet me. “You’re so good-looking and have such beautiful legs,” she told me. “American girls have such a style.”
She pulled off a pair of garden gloves, white cotton and stained with the brown of the earth, so that I knew she must have helped Giovanni make the “final resting place” for the dog, Paolo. She saw that I had helped myself to the liqueur, nodded approvingly, and filled a glass for herself. We sat together on a rather worn sofa, and, lifting her glass, she said, “Buona fortuna.”
Then, her eyes keen and sharp as she gave me a piercing look, she said quietly, “You must excuse, please, my earlier hysteria. I don’t know what I said in my excitement … and sorrow … but I was, of course, shocked and — ”
She twisted her hands together. I saw the knuckles go white. But it was with a calm and clear voice that she went on. “When one is under stress,” she said, “one says ridiculous things.”
For a moment she was silent. Except for the whitened knuckles, there was no sign of agitation. “Well,” she said, at last, “let’s forget it, shall we? You’ve met him, Gianni. He said so. I like him, that nice boy. I like Italians, don’t you? I’ve spent a good many years of my life living with them. You must meet Gianni’s family. His father and mother. And the other son, Benedette, whose wife is Francesca. They have a beautiful little girl, Eleanora. But you must be hungry! It’s almost seven o’clock.”
She picked up her glass again and drained it, then saw the package I’d brought, exclaimed over it. “I’ll just put them on a tray,” she said. “Thank you, my dear. Aren’t they beautiful? I’ll be right back. And then I’ll make us a lovely dinner. You must be starved.”
She refused all offers to help, and when she left me to prepare dinner, I went to the piano. It was somewhat out of tune and the keyboard was a little stiff, but I played a few Chopin preludes and was beginning to feel quite at home by the time Mrs. Wadley wheeled in a loaded cart. The smells were wonderful. “It was so nice to hear the music,” she said, as she wheeled the cart over to the windows, where there was a small table with a centerpiece of flowers in a pewter vase. She didn’t lay a tablecloth, but put the dishes right on the well-worn wooden table. Then she drew up two chairs, cane-bottomed.
I said it looked marvelous, and she beamed, uncorking a bottle of wine with great professionalism. She filled two smashingly lovely crystal goblets and then sat down opposite me.
“A tavola nonsi invecchio,” she said, ladling food onto my plate.
“That means — ”
“At the table one doesn’t grow older.”
I looked at the wealth of food and remembered signore Predelli’s comment about the paucity of vittles served by the two women. Well, times had changed, I thought wryly. There was enough food for four people; furthermore, Mrs. Wadley ate voraciously. As if she had been starved for a long time. But then, of course, when Mercedes was alive, it had been the Contessa’s house, the Contessa’s way of doing things. Perhaps, like the signores Predelli and Pineider, Mrs. Wadley had habitually left the dinner table unappeased.
I was trying to form a picture of my great-aunt in my mind. More than that, I was determined to find out everything I could about her. It was a kind of challenge, a compulsion to know her, to ask, discreetly, questions that would give me a clue as to Mercedes’ss life-style and character. After all she had left me a tidy sum of money. But it was more than that … it was like wanting to walk into a picture on the wall, to enter into the mind of the man who had painted it.
And so, when Mrs. Wadley casually said that of course I would have dear Mercedes’s room, where I would be quite comfortable, and the use of the car whenever I wanted it, I didn’t protest for very long. I said I had booked a room at the Hotel Continentale and wouldn’t dream of imposing on her, but she insisted so vehemently that I stay at the Villa Paradiso (and in fact it was exactly what I wanted) that in the end I gave way gracefully, thanked her profusely and when I left, after my hostess called me a taxi, I said I would be round, bag and baggage, before siesta on the following day.
She said one last thing before I left, a thing that remained in my mind as I drove the perilous trip back to the center of town, at the same reckless rate of speed as the earlier trip out (only it was far more intimidating in the darkness). Framed in the dim light of a lantern as she stood in the doorway, she said, “You’ve no idea.”
Her brisk, clipped British voice was emphatic, and she was smiling in a kind of triumphant way. “Of course you’ve no idea. But I shall sleep so much better tonight. Knowing I won’t be alone. It’s so good of you.”
That was all; her voice trailed off, and I climbed into the cab, waving through the window. She stood there watching me go, and as the taxi gained the roadway, she was a little like a ghost, or a wraith, a tall woman standing there in the nimbus of the lantern. And then we plunged into the night, on that horrible, narrow road, with me bracing myself. But we passed only one car on the way down. Both cars came to a full stop, almost nose to nose, and then with both drivers muttering imprecations, they eased past each other without even grazing fenders. At the hotel I didn’t even ask how much the fare was, but gave him a five hundred lira note. He complained bitterly.
“Not enough.”
“It’s what I paid going out.”
“But it’s night now.”
“Is the gasoline more expensive at night?”
He sighed, giving me a sidewise look of, perhaps, grudging admiration for my perspicacity. I told myself I was learning fast and, after setting my alarm and lighting a cigarette, pulled out the postcards I had bought. But then I pushed them aside. They could wait. I would have plenty of time to write postcards at the Villa Paradiso.
Chapter Four
I was up early again the next morning, too early for room service, so I dressed, locked my bags and went downstairs to tell the concierge that I was checking out. “Oh, but I am so sorry, signorina,” he said. “You’re leaving Florence already?”
“No, I’ve been invited to stay at the Villa Paradiso.”
He clucked, looking impressed, and totaled up my bill on the adding machine. I paid it, said I was going to take a short walk, and would he order me a taxi for eleven o’clock. Then I went outside, strolled over the The Ponte Vecchio, and then back again to the Lungarno Acciaioli, where there were several outdoor cafes. I sat down at one of them, ordered breakfast and then, leaning back, saw a familiar face.
It was that of the man who had sat opposite my traveling companion, Peter Fox, at the Buca Lapi the night before last. He was reading an Italian newspaper and a cigarette dangled from his lips. There was a cup of espresso on the table in front of him.
I was buttering my roll, w
atching him, when I saw him lift a hand in greeting. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, crushed it out in one of the yellow ricard ashtrays and pulled out a chair next to him.
“Buon giorno,” he said, and another man threaded his way past the tables, returning the greeting.
The newcomer was the lawyer I’d met, Signore Predelli.
He saw me almost at once, stood up immediately and, murmuring something to the other man, came over to my table.
“Buon giorno,” he said cordially. ‘Oh yes, you are staying at the Contientale which, like my office, is just a step away. I almost always have my second breakfast at this cafe. Well, are you enjoying your stay, signorina?”
I said yes indeed, and then went on to explain that I was moving out of the Continentale into the Villa Paradiso. An odd expression came over his face, almost one of disapproval, and then he smiled pleasantly again. “How delightful for you,” he said. “But come, you must meet my partner, Pineider. I’ll have the boy bring over your plate.”
He signalled a waiter and then led me over to the other table. “This is the Contessa’s niece,” he said to the other man, who had risen, a napkin in one hand. “And Miss Loomis, this is my partner, Arturo. Signore Pineider. Imagine it,” he said, when my breakfast dishes were brought over and we were all seated, “the lovely young signorina is to stay at the villa.”
“No!” Signore Pineider cried.
“Yes, I’m going there in a short while. Isn’t it intriguing?”
“So you got on well together, you and Mrs. Wadley,” Signore Predelli said.
“Famously. I was invited there last evening. To be sure, it got off to a bad start. My aunt’s dog died. I kept knocking, but there was no answer. Then I went round to the back and there was Mrs. Wadley, bending over the dog. Gianni said he’d gotten into weed-killer. It was quite a shock. I could see she didn’t want to be alone, and accepted her invitation to stay at the villa.”
“The dog?” Signore Predelli repeated, sharply. “Paolo?”
“Yes, it was upsetting.”
I was conscious of a long look exchanged between the two men. I finished up my rolls and jam, felt the sun flaming across my face, thanked Signore Pineider for refilling my coffee cup from the silver urn and said yes, I knew I was going to like Italy. But there was something in the air, something I couldn’t fathom. Both men, though they were talking easily, being flatteringly attentive, had a kind of reserve about them. If there was something wrong about my staying at the villa, why didn’t they say so? And then, looking at Signore Pineider, I thought of him at the Buca Lapi, sitting next to the American, Peter Fox.
It had been a surprise to find myself in the same restaurant as Peter, but the fact of him being with one of my aunt’s lawyers was carrying coincidence a little too far. I remembered Signore Predelli saying, “… many of the late Contessa’s holdings were in America …”
There must certainly be some connection between Peter Fox and the lawyers Predelli and Pineider … something, it seemed more than likely, related to Aunt Mercedes. Well, what of it?
Yet I felt uncomfortable, somehow. As if there were something that was being kept from me. I looked at Signore Pineider, the cigarette dangling again from his lips. The sun made a blinding haze that gave everything an eerie shimmer. I put down my coffee cup.
“I must go,” I said. “I’ve ordered a taxi, you see.”
Both men stood up. Each kissed the back of my hand. “Arrivederci” Signore Predelli said genially.
“You must call us,” Signore Pineider said. “We’ll dine at Doney’s some evening soon. It was a great pleasure to meet you, signorina.”
I felt their eyes following me as I walked along the Lungarno back to my hotel. I knew they were watching me walk away. Again I thought, there’s something in the air.
• • •
I was at the Villa Paradiso at twenty after eleven. The driver lifted my bags out and took them to the door. This time I paid a thousand lira, owing to the weight of the bags. I was just about to lift the heavy knocker when I heard a soft voice. Turning, I saw a little girl, eight or ten, so exquisite that I thought of the young Infanta of Spain as painted by Velasquez. She had the tawny hair of Tuscany, and her cheeks were like strawberries. Over one arm was a wicker basket and her eyes were like sherry, enormous and limpid.
“Buon giorno,” she said.
I was just about to answer when Giovanni Monteverdi — or Gianni, as Mrs. Wadley called him — came through the courtyard. He saw me and waved. “Buon giorno, hello,” he said.
“Hello, Gianni. Will you introduce me to the young lady?”
“Sure,” he said and, bending, snatched a kiss from the peach-bloom cheek of the little girl. Teasing, he reached for the basket over her arm.
“No no,” she cried, taking it away from him.
“Secrets, secrets,” he said, shaking his head. “Speak the English, little one. This is an American young lady. Tell her you are happy to meet her. Si? Now, darling, you say.”
The beautiful child looked up at me, dimpling. “How do you do?” she said, and Gianni laughed. He walked up to me, holding the child’s hand. “Miss Barbara, this is my little niece, Eleanora. Eleanora, this is an American young lady, say hello nicely.”
“Hello, signorina.”
“Hello, Eleanora.”
“These are your bags?” Gianni asked. “Okay, I’ll take them in for you. Later, though. Now you must meet my family. They are in the garden.”
“Well, I — ”
“Ah, come on,” he said, in a friendly way, and I thought why not, I was not averse to meeting a prince and princess, even if I had to remember to address them as signore and signora. “My father has a headache,” the little girl said to me. “Nonna makes him tea. Papa didn’t sleep well last night. Poor Papa.”
“My brother Benedetto has a headache very often,” Gianni said, smiling. “He drinks too much, that one.” There was a teasing glint in his eyes. “Now, don’t say I mentioned it, but he gambles too much also. Loses … and then gets a headache.”
“I won’t say a thing,” I promised, smiling back.
“It’s different with me,” he boasted. “I don’t need the tables … or the vino. I see a lovely face, it makes me feel good, so I don’t need anything else. And then I have good friends.”
He put his arm on the little girl’s shoulder, as we walked round the side of the villa. “This young lady is one of them. Oh, sometimes we fight and hit each other, but — ”
“That’s not true, Gianni!”
“Come on, sometimes you’re a very bad girl.”
“No!”
And then we reached the Monteverdi’s garden. I felt as if I were in a scene by Pisarro or Seurat. Seated around a large white garden table that was sheltered by a flowered umbrella sunk deep in the earth, the family was gathered. A man and woman, elderly, she with springy white hair gathered into a bun at the nape of the neck and he with beetling brows and piercing eyes, nose like a hawk.
There was also a younger man, mid-thirties, stocky, no longer really handsome but bearing the traces of a once good physique. He had a newspaper open on his lap. A pretty, rather plump woman with her hair caught up in a tulle net at the top, pearl earrings and dressed in a peignoir, was lighting a cigarette. The sun gilded everything.
“Papa, Mama,” Gianni said, and led me forward.
There are certain moments you know, even at the time, that you will never forget. It was this feeling I had as I stood there in the late morning, meeting the Monteverdis for the first time. The bright ambiance of the Florentine day, the flowered daisies of the umbrella thrust through an opening in the garden table, the quivering of the leaves in the trees, the picturesque little girl with the basket over her arm, the young couple sizing me up — she with bright, curious eyes and he with the appreciative glance of a man who liked nice-looking women — the proud and acquiline faces of the older couple, the Principe and Principessa … it was as if time suddenly
stood still, so that I could store the recollection in my brain.
And the incredible beauty of the city that lay at our very feet, with the clam-white houses and pinkish domes and the gleaming crosses and gray-blue of the river, meandering … it framed itself in my mind, and I knew that when it came time for me to leave this place I would weep for the lost beauty of it, ache for it, as for a lost lover.
“This is the Contessa’s niece,” Gianni said. “Miss Barbara Loomis.” He turned to me. “My mother and father. My brother and his wife. Welcome to the villa, signorina.”
“Hello,” I said. “Buon giorno. I’m so very happy to meet you all.”
Gianni’s brother pushed back his chair and stood up. The older man made a show of rising, in deference to the stranger, and then leaned back in his chair again, saying, “Welcome,” in a voice like a singing bass. His son reached for my hand, kissed the back of it and said, “My wife, Francesca.”
The pretty lady smiled ravishingly. “Hello, darling,” she said.
The Principessa was graciousness itself. “We are happy and proud to meet you. Please sit down. No, not there … the sun will be in your eyes. Here, in the shade. Would you like coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, please, thank you.”
She picked up the silver urn. “Gianni, sit down. Don’t stand there like a great oaf. Take a chair, my son.”
The Principe said, “Do what your mother says. Sit down, don’t stare at our guest.”
Gianni laughed, sinking gracefully into a chair. “Stare? My brother is staring too. Maybe you’re staring as well, Papa.”
A fleeting smile crossed the older man’s face. “All right,” he said. “I may stare, but I don’t do it as obviously as you do. So, signorina, you had a good trip from America?”
“Yes, fine, and everything’s been so wonderful here. I can’t get over this view! Oh, the villa is so lovely, isn’t it?”
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 68