Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  To all those tired, or weary in heart, or forsaken, these walls are shelter and retreat, for meditation and prayer. All are welcome, whatever their faith or denomination. Pax vobiscum.

  As we left, the organist, having finished his Toccata and Fugue, switched to A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. And to those majestic strains we left, Gianni and I, and went down the stairs again, dozens of stone steps, hundreds. His hand was in mine, helping me, and I didn’t question it. I wanted the warmth of his skin, human warmth, right now … right now …

  At the bottom of the steps he tipped up my chin again. “So,” he said. “You are a romantic. A poet. I like that. Your eyes are filmed with emotion. I like it, signorina. Very much.”

  “My name is Barbara,” I said crossly, trying to blink the idiotic tears away. “Why can’t you call me that?”

  “I will,” he promised. “Yes, I will. Only, let’s be frivolous now. There’s a cafe just down the hill. Come on, darling, smile again.”

  The roadside cafe looked like a picture postcard, with trellised vines overhead that were heavy with purple grapes. There were flowers in abundance, in stone pots, and it was well patronized, with American, British and German tourists, and a sprinkling of Italians. We had sandwiches and beer.

  Four o’clock vespers rang out, and a contingent of novices, white-robed, moved in stately fashion from the cathedral, carrying banners, to the Baptistry beyond. Birds sang in trees and a camera flashed, capturing a party of people at an adjacent table, along with me and Gianni, forever.

  I looked at my watch. “Getting late,” I said regretfully. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go.”

  “You are right,” he said, sighing, and called for the conta.

  “It was a nice afternoon,” he said, as we left.

  “It was a beautiful afternoon. I’ll never forget it. Thanks, Gianni. Thanks very much.”

  Chapter Eight

  When we got back, Lucrezia was just leaving. She told me that Elizabeth and I had been invited next door for dinner. She gave Gianni and me a sly look and, behind his back, even winked at me. I winked back, not to be outdone. She climbed onto her Vespa and, before starting the motor, called to me, “Signorina, the evening is quite cool. Perhaps you had better take a shawl for the signora. In the top drawer of her dresser.”

  “All right,” I called back, and told Gianni to go on ahead. “You won’t take all night?” he demanded, a hand on my arm.

  “No, I won’t take all night. I just want to wash my hands and get Elizabeth’s shawl. Tell your family five or ten minutes, I’ll hurry.”

  I went into the house, lit a few lamps for cheer, ran my hands under the water and didn’t bother to do anything else. There was this to say for a sunburn: makeup wasn’t required. I regarded my bronzed face in the mirror and told myself I was quite a dish. Then I snapped out the light over the washbasin, made my way to Elizabeth’s room, found a shawl and was about to step into the garden when something caught my eye.

  I don’t know why, but I noticed.

  Of course Lucrezia had much work to do in this large villa, even our half of it, and I had observed that surfaces were not entirely free of dust. It didn’t matter. The only thing I was ever fearful of, in my Manhattan apartment, was roaches. I had been lucky in that regard, but part of it was due to eternal vigilance. A little dust didn’t break my heart so long as vermin were not present.

  It wasn’t the dust that bothered me. It was the fingerprints in the dust. Oh, not well-defined prints … simply the marks of hands in several places. Marks that left little, clean trails. It gave me a kind of electric feeling, those little trails. It signalled something to me.

  I looked about and saw the streaks everywhere. On a desk, a lowboy, a bedside table. My bachelor apartment had been broken into once, and it was just small signs that had stayed in my mind. Little nothings … but amounting to so much in the final analysis.

  Abruptly, I left Elizabeth’s room and went back to my own. And yes, they were there too, those ghostly fingerprints, etched, eerily, on the top of my vanity, my writing table and my bureau. And then, alerted, an uncomfortable pounding in my chest, I checked my armoire.

  It was closed, as usual, but was not closed correctly. That is to say, the left hand door had a catch at the top which, unless one slid it up, left the door a tiny bit ajar. It was ajar now, although that very morning I had secured it firmly. I was not the most compulsive person in the world, but living alone in a rather small flat I had learned the value of good housekeeping.

  And I knew I had slid the catch earlier.

  Someone had been in my room. And in Elizabeth’s room. I was sure of it.

  Looking for something?

  But what?

  I stared at myself in the mirror over the washbasin, smoothing an eyebrow thoughtfully. What in the world could someone expect to find in Elizabeth’s chaste room … or for that matter, in mine?

  I didn’t know, couldn’t imagine. But I was sure, was positive, that someone had been roving through our bedrooms, and it made me uneasy.

  For the moment, only that.

  But I knew that when night fell, and I was all alone in this room, with someone able to step in over that low sill, as I slept —

  That I would be intimidated, apprehensive, and that I would find sleep difficult to come by.

  “Now this is ridiculous,” I said to my reflection, and snapped off the light. I picked up my handbag and stepped outside onto the grass, making my way to the gate and then through it. I was greeted warmly, asked my preference in the way of drinks, and Elizabeth asked me if I’d had a good day.

  “Gianni said the two of you went to San Miniato.”

  “Yes, it was gorgeous.”

  “A superlative view,” the Principe said. “I was told it affected you so that you had tears in your eyes.”

  “Did he say that?” I asked, annoyed. “It was simply the sun in my eyes.”

  The Principessa smiled. “You seem to have a Latin temperament,” she said. “Don’t be ashamed, it is a sublime sight up there.”

  “But you haven’t done any shopping yet?” Francesca asked, looking surprised, even shocked. “But our shops are … one day you and I will go together, si? You would save money, without the import tax.”

  “Yes, I really should buy a few things,” I agreed, and asked where her daughter was.

  “In bed and, I hope, asleep,” Francesca said, but as I sat drinking my aperitivo I caught sight of a golden head at the upstairs window where earlier I had seen the Principe with his newspaper. The little girl was leaning out, her chubby arms on the sill, looking down at us, and I had a recollection from the distant past of myself sitting on the stairs of our duplex, gazing through the carved railings of the banister at the incoming guests … the beautiful dresses, the perfume drifting upwards …

  She saw me, made a round “O” with her lips, and instantly retreated. I didn’t let on.

  Dinner was served just as the dying day turned into a violet dusk. The Principessa, like any ordinary housewife, brought out the meal on a cart, wheeling it across the lawn. Both Gianni and Benedetto jumped up to help her and, pushing a strand of her iron-gray hair back from a faintly perspiring forehead, she took her place at the table and began serving. It was a simple meal but a delicious one, veal in a butter sauce, with small artichokes, following an Italian equivalent of Coquille St. Jacques. In an ice bucket were two bottles of wine. I said I was becoming fond of wine with my meals and asked what I was drinking. The Principe said, with a smile, that it was simply a vin ordinaire, from one of the nearby estates of the campagna.

  “It costs very little,” he admitted. “But we prefer it to more sophisticated vintages.”

  It was a fine evening. Elizabeth, who sat across from me, told me I was so wise not to wear my dresses that dismal new length. “With legs like yours it would be criminal to hide them. I myself used to be admired for my legs.”

  “Oh, now you are fishing,” Gianni said teasingly, and kis
sed the back of her hand. “You have better legs than most women half your age.”

  “My legs still aren’t too bad,” she said pridefully, and I realized she was a bit tipsy with the wine. “But the rest of me is porridge. Oh well, what does it matter? I’ve had my day. Now it’s your turn, you young people.”

  “Here’s to legs,” Benedetto said, raising his glass. Francesca giggled and said, “Now, now, Benno.”

  “Oh, but I like legs,” he said, and sank his teeth into her shoulder, at which she giggled again and pushed him away.

  “Animale …”

  He said something in a low voice and she raised her eyes to heaven. “This is a sinful man,” she cried. “I married such a terrible man …”

  “Gianni, would you see to the espresso,” the Principessa said, and Gianni got up to lift the urn from the cart. It was dark now, with only the candles flickering, and a firefly or two jetting through the dimness with a flash of gold. The valley below was a blaze of light, winking from window and turret, and the air was like gossamer.

  No wonder Mercedes had never left, I thought. No wonder …

  Chapter Nine

  I was sitting in the garden next morning, after breakfast. Elizabeth had excused herself, saying that she had slept badly the night before and would take a few winks to make up for it. I had my face tipped up to the sun and was thinking about buying a bikini at one of the shops down the hill when I heard a voice. Opening my eyes, I saw Francesca standing at the gate of the dividing stone wall.

  I said, “Buon giorno, Francesca,” and she lifted a hand, said, “May I?” and without waiting for an answer came through the gate and toward me.

  I saw at once that she had been crying. Her sherry-colored eyes were puffy and, perhaps noticing my scrutiny, she reached in the pocket of a handsome, trailing robe and put on a pair of oversized sunglasses.

  “Do I disturb you?” she asked.

  “No, of course not. Please sit down. I was just being lazy, and trying to get as brown as a berry. This Italian sun really does the trick.”

  “Yes,” she said, but vaguely, as if she had only half heard me. She sat down on one of the white garden chairs, reached in a pocket again, brought out a packet of Italian cigarettes and pulled one out. She found a match, lit the cigarette, and was unable to hide the trembling of her hands. I did my best to cover up for her.

  “Would you like some coffee? Lucrezia, I’m sure, has a fresh pot. No? That’s a beautiful thing you’re wearing, Francesca. I haven’t bought anything yet. I was just thinking about a bikini or two. You said you’d tell me what shops to go to. Oh, there’s an ashtray. How is your dear little girl? I can’t tell you how charming she is. I’m sure you’re very proud of her …”

  And, chattering, I watched her trembling subside. The fingers that held the cigarette were steady now. She pushed the gigantic sunglasses, tinted a bright blue, further up her small, chiselled nose and smiled at me.

  “I suppose you can see I’m upset,” she said.

  “Why …”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Of course you can. It must be quite evident. You see, signorina, I’m — ”

  I waited, while she puffed at her cigarette and then, with a set jaw, crushed it out in the ashtray.

  “It is very … difficile,” she said, her voice hard and brittle. She bit her underlip. “I wake in the morning and ask myself why I should go on. Yes, signorina, I am at my wit’s end. Women have not the easiest of lives. They watch and wait … and who knows where it will all end?”

  She leaned forward, tense.

  “Perhaps they will kill him,” she said in a strangled voice.

  I sat up quickly. “What do you mean?” I asked, and she pushed the enormous sunglasses up her tiny nose again with an impatient hand.

  “My husband is in serious trouble,” she said.

  I remembered the two men at the outdoor cafe in the Piazza san Giovanni. The knife quivering in the wooden shaft of the striped umbrella. The drawn look on Benedetto Monteverdi’s face.

  “In what way?” I asked quietly.

  I saw her teeth set, and for a moment her round, pretty, dimpled face looked gaunt and almost ugly. “He gambles,” she said tightly. “And he needs money to pay. He needs almost two million lira.”

  I tried to convert the lira into dollars … but I was no mathematician, and at last I had to ask, “How much is that in American currency?”

  She didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Three thousand dollars.”

  The rapidity with which she answered gave me the message. I cringed, offended and shocked. Because of course I knew why she had come here this morning. Her husband was in trouble … all he needed to be free of it was three thousand dollars. The American signorina must be rich … perhaps the American signorina could save the situation …

  “Ask her,” I could hear Benedetto saying, as if I’d been a fly on the wall of their bedroom, tossing and turning in the bed. “I have to pay. Ask the American girl. For God’s sake, help me, Francesca …”

  And, drying her tears, she had gathered up her courage and come to me.

  A prince and princess, and their sons and daughters, scrounging for money to pay gambling debts …

  She began talking fast. “The money would be paid back,” she said. “Every penny. He has learned his lesson. Benedetto won’t do it any more. I know he won’t.”

  She looked suddenly terribly pathetic, and no longer tried to stem the tears that flowed from her eyes. Her head, bowing like a flower beaten down by wind and rain, drooped sadly. “Just … if we can manage to … to pay this debt …”

  She raised her head. Took off the sunglasses, let me see her drowned eyes “I have to save him,” she said brokenly. “The family … if they knew …”

  I was terribly disheartened, because her pitiful mission was hopeless. I could no more lend them three thousand dollars than I could fly to the moon. I didn’t have three thousand dollars. In my savings account back home there was eleven hundred dollars I’d saved by scrimping, doing without, economizing in every way possible.

  And it was mine. I’d earned it. It wasn’t nearly enough, in any event, for the squaring of Benedetto’s gambling debts. It wasn’t even half the amount.

  And that this woman had been desperate enough to tap a total stranger for a loan.

  I was horribly disillusioned. Sorry too, for poor, pretty Francesca, with her swollen eyes. Sorry for a family who lived, in some way I didn’t know about, on the good will of my late aunt. I thought, she must have provided for them, in interim, in some way. Until they came, after Elizabeth Wadley’s death, into the gigantic estate Mercedes d’Albiensi had left.

  Which was so near, and yet so far. Elizabeth might live for another ten years. Meanwhile, although the Monteverdi family had free tenancy (I supposed) and perhaps a pittance for their food and upkeep, they had nothing put aside for a rainy day, such as Benedetto’s gambling debts. And, teary and distraught, one of them approached a total stranger for a loan of three thousand dollars.

  My voice sounded thin. I said, “I’m so awfully sorry, Francesca. I wish I could help, but I can’t. I haven’t anything to offer. Just a job is all I have. It pays my rent and utilities and food. I don’t have any money. I will have some money, left to me by my aunt, but not for months, or maybe a year, or maybe more than that.”

  I saw her shrink into herself. She believed me, I guess. She had lost her pride, apparently, because she said, “Oh, I told him that. I just had to — ”

  A sob escaped from her.

  “I just had to try,” she said in a muffled voice. “I don’t know what will happen.”

  She got up, leaned against the table for a moment and then, blindly, sticking on the sunglasses again, started to walk away. I was terribly disturbed. I got up too, and walked with her to the gate. The poor thing was shaking like a leaf. “Can’t Gianni help?” I asked. “Can’t — ”

  She turned to me. “Gianni? Gianni is an honorable man. He doesn�
��t gamble, he doesn’t waste. He doesn’t have anything, except when he sells a painting, or a watercolor. Ask Gianni? I should have married Gianni! Then I would not spend all my time crying, lose my looks, feel wretched … ah, signorina, you don’t know! I want to die! Because living like this — ”

  She put a hand over her face. I looked at her heaving shoulders. “Francesca,” I said, but she moved past me. Lifting her head again, her face drenched, her eyes wild, she asked my pardon. “You must excuse it,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done it. You must excuse me. You must — ”

  I put a hand on her arm. “But I feel terrible,” I said. “I’d like to help … only I can’t. Isn’t there anything … anything else I can do? I mean — ”

  She wrenched away from me and her eyes, darting at me were desolate, yes, but also vindictive. “There is only one way,” she said. “And if not that, then nothing. I must go.”

  “But Francesca …” I put a hand on her arm again. “I wish I could — ”

  She looked at my hand as if it had been a snake, and then writhed away from it. I felt as if my touch had dirtied her, that she felt that way, that my flesh, on her flesh, was hateful to her. Her eyes blazed for a second: her face, looking into mine, only inches away, bore an expression of contempt, even detestation.

  “I am sorry to have bothered you,” she said in a clear and distinct voice, and the intonations were so filled with anger and fury that I quailed, drew back. And leaving me with that horrid, hateful look, she plowed over the grass and went through the gate. I heard her footsteps swishing through the grass on the other side.

  I stood, shaken, and then went into the house. I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to calm myself. Asking me for money! A stranger … where did she think I would get the money she wanted? I was just, after all, a young woman, with a small inheritance that wouldn’t even come to me for quite a while. Why should she tap me for a loan? And, failing to get it, look at me with such loathing?