‘Madonna!’ he exclaims when he catches sight of her. ‘Is that you, Frances? Bellissima!’
She laughs when he whistles and insists she twirls around.
‘Where are you going all dressed up and looking to die for?’ he teases. ‘And how come I’m not invited?’
‘Pasquale asked me to go with him to a formal function where he’s performing. At Capodimonte, the palace.’
‘You look like a princess, and you deserve a change from crawling around in the dirt with us. And don’t worry about me, I have plenty to do here working out my speech for the protest. Dealing with all the shit!’ He adopts a hang-dog look and starts to whine like a puppy.
She slaps him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back to help in the morning, that is if I don’t turn into a pumpkin!’
She totters down the stairs, her stilettos loudly clicking, hearing the blare of the television and Laura berating the twins as she passes the Foglianos’ apartment. The door to Pasquale’s place is open and she calls out to him.
‘Ah Frances, good, now we can go.’ He shuffles his cello case outside.
‘Don’t you look the maestro!’
Pasquale is dressed in a tuxedo. His white pleated shirt is pressed immaculately and he wears a black silk bowtie. His reddish black hair falls boyishly around his face. He blushes and smiles broadly. ‘All borrowed finery from one of the professional musicians in the orchestra. I have to look the part.’
He steps back to stare at her and whistles.
‘Not borrowed,’ she laughs.
‘Well, let’s go. I’ve called a taxi. We need to be there early so I can set up.’
‘That’s a relief. I couldn’t face the bus tonight.’
Pasquale laughs. ‘Just as well, looking like that you’d cause a riot!’
The cab is waiting by the kerb and Frances sits in the front while Pasquale squeezes himself and the cello into the back.
Men from the neighbourhood are congregating in their usual spots around the local square as the taxi drops down into Via Salvator Rosa and past rows of furniture repair shops. At the bottom of the hill, they hit a jam of traffic navigating around the National Museum. Veering left they weave in and out of a line of buses and head up a steep winding road.
Frances glances over her shoulder. Pasquale is peering closely at his left hand. It trembles slightly and she can sense his mood has changed. ‘Nervous?’
‘No, not at all.’ He pauses. ‘Well, a little. There will be many important people there tonight so I must play well. We’re playing a new work and I’m also playing a solo and…’ He breaks off.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. It is really such a small thing.’ He holds up his hand and she notices a bruise near his wrist.
‘I knocked it and it’s a little sore. But it will be all right.’
She leans over and pats his knee. ‘You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’
Guards in crisp black military uniforms belted tightly at the waist stop them at the tall iron gates. One of them scrutinizes the invitation Pasquale hands him, fingering it with his white gloves. He stares hard, eyes suspicious, at Pasquale, then Frances and the driver, and reluctantly opens the gate just wide enough for the taxi to enter.
Lines of red, white and blue lanterns illuminate the driveway. They alight outside huge grey stone archways in front of the royal palace. The walls of the renaissance building are spotlighted, showing off their handsome colouring in the signature red of Pompeii. The grounds are in darkness, relieved only by a trickle of small lights along a path that disappears into the night.
‘If I didn’t have this wretched instrument, I could take your arm,’ Pasquale says as they follow an usher along a red carpet through the courtyard and into the grand doors of the palace. No other guests appear to have arrived and they follow the carpet up a wide staircase alone and through a bank of glass security doors.
‘The palace is stuffed full of expensive art. Look, there are cameras everywhere.’ He indicates closed-circuit television cameras propped in the corners of the gilt-edged ceilings.
They pass into a long ornate gallery, portraits of severe red-capped cardinals and haughty Italian nobles staring disapprovingly from the richly wood-panelled walls. Massive chandeliers light up rows of tables set for a large formal dinner. The red, white and blue British theme prevails; starched white tablecloths and silver settings with placemats and serviettes alternatively red and blue.
‘Hey Pasquale, Frances, over here!’ Satore calls from the middle of the gallery where he’s perched on a small stage with two other musicians. Leaping off gracefully, he prances towards them. Sleekly tuxedoed, his hair is so gelled that it defies gravity and one ear glistens with a row of shining studs. ‘Dashing in black and white!’ He embraces Pasquale. ‘And wow! You could make me change my preferences,’ he teases Frances. ‘Are they real, darling?’ He flicks her earrings.
‘Real zircons. Yours?’
‘Two diamonds and two fakes. Bet you can’t tell which is which.’
She peers closely. ‘No. They all look real. Or false.’
Pasquale interrupts them. ‘I need to tune up,’ he says quietly moving towards the stage.
Satore stares after him. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Nervous.’
‘The sooner that audition is out of the way the better,’ he mutters, leading her to a table at the back of the room. ‘All the musos here together. Plus you.’
Frances can see her name on a placecard.
‘We will have to come and go to sing for our supper. But you can stay sitting. No one will be here for another half hour. Why don’t you have a look around? See if you can spot the famous flagellation,’ he adds mysteriously.
Waiters are hovering around the tables, straightening cutlery and distributing wine glasses.
‘Signorina?’ One of them arrives with a tray of champagne flutes.
She takes one.
‘You can go through to the exhibition,’ he says nodding to the next set of doors where a banner at the entrance declares: ‘British Masterpieces—to celebrate 300 years of diplomatic relations with Italy’.
The walls are covered with an odd mixture of old and new art. She’s drawn immediately to the middle of three large oil paintings encased in thick gold frames. Vesuvius is in mid-eruption. A label at the base reveals Joseph Mallord William Turner painted it in 1817, and the artist has portrayed Naples bathed in brilliant orange, the sky above the volcano swirling white and gold, the sea reflecting the turbulence, and in the foreground, Castel Nuovo, where she discovered the pumice, floundering boats and terrified fishermen. She looks more closely but can’t tell when this eruption occurred. There were six or so in the preceding century but none that year.
She moves to the next painting, also by Turner. By contrast, Venice’s Grand Canal is calm and peaceful, a gondolier paddling across the still water, a blue sky above. In the third, she sees a swirling seascape, the icy crashing waves so realistic she feels cold. Pulling her pashmina closer, she takes a sip of champagne.
More large paintings of the English countryside by John Constable occupy another wall, a cathedral, haymakers and a mill. Opposite, corpulent nudes by Lucien Freud cavort across the canvases.
Flickering lights draw her to the end. A vividly coloured circle covered in butterflies by Damien Hirst spins around and around, making her dizzy when she stares at it for too long. Alongside, streaks of fluoro lights in shocking pink and royal blue. The name of the artist, Tracey Emin, is written on the wall next to them.
She pushes through more doors into the next gallery where subdued lighting changes the mood dramatically. Menacing images taunt her from the walls—scenes of bloody battles, torture and suffering.
A white figure glows in the distance. Frances moves closer and sees the painting is labelled ‘Flagellation of Christ’ by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. Ah, that’s what Satore was on about. Christ is dressed in a loincloth, h
is skin pale and fleshy. Three sadistic tormenters surround him, cruelly binding him. At first it looks as though Jesus is bowing in submission, but then she sees the torturer on the right is kicking the back of his knee while the man to his left holds his hair tightly in his fist. She swallows hard. The beauty and the horror are staggering.
Nearby, another scene of torture and she recognizes the painter’s name, given to the street in her neighbourhood: Salvator Rosa. He’s portrayed a Roman general, Marcus Attilius Regulus, lying in the hands of his enemies, the Carthaginians. His head is sticking out of a nail-studded barrel and his eyelids are cut off to expose his eyes to the heat of the sun.
All around, men and women are baying for his blood. Once she would have dismissed this barbarism as historic, lost in time. But the terrible images of the beheaded scientists at Solfatara haunt her once more.
‘Signorina Nelson!’ She feels a hand on her shoulder and spins around, dropping her glass. As it smashes to the floor she comes face to face with the chancellor of the university, Alfonso Galbatti, and another man.
‘Sorry to startle you, my dear. You are enjoying the art? Personally, I find the modern works quite worrying. My preference is strongly in favour of our great classical artists.’
Although she is a good deal taller than both of the men, at this moment she feels less than a metre high. ‘Good evening,’ she stammers, noting the champagne is trickling across the polished floor onto a carpet.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Alfonso waves his hand dismissively. ‘I’d like to introduce you to the chair of our university, Signor Umberto Dragorra. He’s taken a strong interest in Progetto Vulcano. I’ll be back shortly.’
‘Charmed!’ Umberto holds out a chubby manicured hand and grasps hers firmly. ‘I’ve heard all about you from my good friend, Professor Corsi.’
He barely comes to her shoulder and he’s almost as broad as he is tall but there is an aggression in his handshake that makes her go weak at the knees. She withdraws her hand and forces a smile, struggling for something to say until he prompts her.
‘And how is the research going?’
Her face lightens. ‘Very well. We’ve made good progress on studying the wind patterns around Vesuvius and what might happen if there’s another eruption. Of course, the news is not all good. We believe the Red Zone should be extended and…’
A waiter has returned with Alfonso and deftly sweeps up the glass and dabs the carpet with a wet sponge.
Umberto holds up his arm to Alfonso and brings him into the conversation. ‘Signorina Nelson was just bringing me up to date with the research.’ He smiles with his lips but his eyes do not move. ‘You’re new to Naples, aren’t you? You know, sometimes it’s better not to move too quickly. You really have to be very sure of your ground, isn’t that right, Alfonso?’
The chancellor nods.
Dragorra continues. ‘Change for change’s sake. Isn’t that what you English say? Well, change is not always appreciated here.’
Two elegantly dressed women walk towards them. ‘Ah, our wives,’ he says moving away. ‘Come, Alfonso, I think we’ve been missed. A pleasure, Signorina Nelson, a real pleasure.’
Frances feels her face is flushed, runs her hand across her brow then slowly and deliberately returns to the dining room. By now the gallery pulsates with the chatter of hundreds of people. She finds her seat and wishes Pasquale and Satore could join her but sees they are tuning up ready to play.
A tall man with a row of small medals on his lapel taps the microphone on the stage. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. As Her Majesty’s Ambassador for the United Kingdom in Italy, I am delighted to welcome you all tonight. Please take your places and remain upstanding for our national anthems, played tonight by musicians from the Naples Conservatorium of Music.’
Frances accepts another glass of champagne from a waiter and quickly drains half before rising to her feet. The rest of her table is empty, reserved for the musicians, and she starts to regret agreeing to come. The first strains of ‘God Save the Queen’ fill the room and there’s an immediate rustling of dresses and clearing of throats as all stand to attention. This was one song she had never heard Pasquale practising but she watches as he, Satore, their second violinist and a violist perform it effortlessly.
The room applauds and seconds later the quartet bursts into an upbeat version of ‘Il Canto degli Italiani’. A couple of men start to sing and soon all the Italians in the room join in, some with hands on their hearts. ‘Fratelli d’Italia, l’Italia s’è desta…’
Their voices rise in unison and at the end of the anthem they cry out a loud ‘Si!’
She’s relieved when the musicians put down their instruments and Pasquale and Satore head towards her. The waiters are pouring wine into glasses and placing the first course, layers of smoked salmon resting on a green avocado mousse and a bed of watercress.
‘Needs trumpets!’ Satore says as he noisily sits opposite her.
‘Pardon?’
‘Our national anthem, it needs trumpets!’
Frances laughs but stops abruptly when she glimpses someone familiar coming through the entrance. It’s the green emerald dress that first takes her eye, then she recognizes its wearer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Camilla gazes at her reflection and doesn’t like what she sees. Why is it that this dress looked so good in the fitting room yet now looks like a sack? She twirls around to check her rear view in the mirror. No better, although she likes the slimming effect of the strappy stilettos. She tears the dress off and tosses it impatiently onto the floor. Hanging inside her wardrobe she sees a group of clothes hidden beneath plastic. Umberto had handed them to her the previous week and she hadn’t bothered to look. She peels the covers off and spreads them on her bed. Two suits, one cream, one red, and an emerald green silk beaded dress. Ah, he does have his uses. Of course, they could be counterfeit from some Naples sweatshop but equally likely to be so-called ‘excess stock’. They certainly look the same as the latest offerings from the catwalks of Milan.
She slides into the dress and zips it up. Not bad. It sits just above her knee and shows off her waist and cleavage. Of course he knows her size and figure well. Ruffling through her make-up bag she dabs green shadow onto her lids and brushes mascara on her lashes. Camilla steps back from the mirror. Her smoky grey eyes are accentuated by the green dress. She stares for several seconds without blinking and for a moment scarcely recognizes herself, remembering the hours she had spent staring at herself as a teenager, hoping that by looking long enough a miracle would occur and she would become as attractive as the beauties in her class. That didn’t happen but there has been a change. Those eyes once so full of hope—now there’s a hardness. She starts as the doorbell rings.
‘Alfonso…’ she says opening the door.
‘Signora Corsi?’
She’s surprised to see a woman there with a bouquet of roses.
‘There’s a card.’ She hands them to her and walks back towards the lift. ‘Buona notte.’
Camilla sets the flowers down on her dining table and removes the card.
‘Dearest Camilla, Duty demands that I accompany my wife to the dinner tonight. My deepest apologies. I will see you there. Yours always, Alfonso.’
‘Bastardo!’ Camilla hisses. She wants to fling the roses into the garbage but they are so rich and red she puts them into a crystal vase instead.
Anyway, she consoles herself, tonight it will be better to arrive alone at the British ambassador’s dinner. It will make it easier to spend time alone with him. It had been a while since they’d seen each other, when Brian had promised her a trip to London. They had met at a diplomatic reception in Rome, where he had hung back, making a play for her. He said he was separating from his wife, not that that mattered to her. And indeed, when he had phoned her the following week suggesting dinner while he was in Naples, she happily spent the evening with him at a restaurant. It felt only natural to burn off the calories af
terwards in his hotel suite.
Damn them all! If they want to play a double game, then I will outdo them with my own quickstep.
Camilla is about to telephone for a university chauffeur but changes her mind. Yes, this is a night to be herself on her own terms. She finds her mink in the wardrobe. This was Umberto’s first significant gift, acquired, he told her, from one of his Russian business associates in return for a favour. She had a feeling he might have been an arms dealer but this was information she really did not need to know. Stroking the soft black fur that feels like liquid silk, she snuggles it to her face and can’t help herself. Purrr! She adores the sexiness of it, as do more than one of her lovers. Thank heavens the smarter European fashion houses were using it again, in spite of the vitriol of those boring animal liberationists. Most of them wore leather shoes anyway. Hypocrites!
Draping it over her shoulders, she checks her face one more time in the large oval mirror near the doorway and double locks her apartment. The old lift slowly creaks down to the cobbled courtyard. She climbs into her silver Smart car and drives into the street where the dinner crowds are spilling from the pavements onto the streets. She beeps at them and they scatter like pigeons.
Turning into Via Toledo she heads north past the National Museum, navigates up the hill along Corso Amedeo di Savoia Duca D’Aosta and accelerates hard up the winding road to Capodimonte.
She stops outside the gates of the palace and opens the driver’s window. The cool air bathes her face as she passes her invitation to one of the military guards. He looks at it cursorily and passes it back to her, deliberately skimming his hand along her fur-covered arm. ‘Have a good evening, signora.’ He winks as he waves her through to the driveway.
Camilla grits her teeth. Signora! Not long ago the men called her signorina. The area closest to the entrance is already full but her car is so small she can park it sideways in a gap between two others. She looks at her face in the front mirror. Pursing her lips, she touches a new wrinkle. Signora indeed! Quickly she applies a thick new coat of shiny lipstick.
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