Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  She turns to Marcello, who is waiting for her. On Stromboli she had wondered whether their time apart would have dulled their passion, but their lovemaking is urgent—skin on skin, tingling with love and desire. They stay in each other’s arms afterwards, still and warm.

  Frances hears the twin boys talking below and baby Luciana calling out.

  ‘It does feel like home,’ Frances says as they lie together listening to the building waking. ‘Familiar sounds and voices, yet it also seems so temporary, and so odd without Ricky.’

  ‘Will he come back?’

  She had kept Marcello up to date on Riccardo’s progress on Stromboli, both at the observatory and with Olivia.

  ‘I doubt it. He seems to have found peace on the world’s most volatile island.’

  Marcello chuckles. ‘As you said, the kiss of fire. That must be awesome!’

  Frances kisses him hard and falls back laughing. ‘Sort of like that but with lots of flames threatening to kill you at any moment.’

  Marcello lies back on the bed and pulls her close. ‘We may have some of our own fiery moments ahead. You’ve heard Camilla Corsi is now the chancellor?’

  ‘Mmm. The news made it to Stromboli faster than rocks fly out of the crater. Remarkable. And to think Ricky thought she was doing Alfonso Galbatti’s bidding.’

  Frances remembers the mail and slides out of bed. She shuffles through the letters, disregards all but two and returns to the bedroom. One letter bears the university’s monogram, the other, in a rich cream envelope, is hand-addressed to her. She rips open the first and pulls out a single-page letter.

  ‘The letter’s from Camilla. Would you believe it, they’re starting up Progetto Vulcano again and she wants to meet me as soon as possible?’

  Marcello raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t trust her.’

  ‘I don’t. But at least on the inside there’s a chance of making a difference.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ Marcello is sitting up, his face serious again.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘I hope so. Nonno phoned me the other day and he wants to see me, which in itself is unusual. He never calls; he’s more frightened of the telephone than Vesuvius.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No. Just said I might be able to help with a problem. I want to go out this afternoon. Are you up to it? I’d love you to come and I know Nonno would like to see you again.’

  ‘Sure. Give me a few hours to catch up and come and pick me up later.’

  After Marcello has gone, Frances carefully opens the second envelope. An invitation to a gala concert at the Teatro San Carlo is inside. She traces her finger over Pasquale’s name on the bottom, her heart leaping when she sees he is the soloist. The date of the concert is the following night.

  Frances bolts out of the door and down the stairs. She knocks on Pasquale’s door but there is no answer. She dashes back to her apartment and returns with a note, slipping it under his door.

  She had intended to take a short nap but within minutes of closing her eyes, the rocking of the ship returns and sleep claims her. The ringing phone jolts her awake. Four hours have passed and Marcello is on his way over.

  Frances showers and dresses hurriedly, her hair still damp as she runs downstairs.

  ‘Hey, welcome home,’ Pasquale cries as she almost knocks his cello out of his hand. ‘Did you swim back?’

  ‘Ooops. Sorry, Pasquale.’ She pulls up short. ‘Yeah, straight across the Tyrrhenian Sea just in time for your concert, I hope.’

  He kisses her on both cheeks. ‘I’ve been crossing my fingers you’d be here in time. I have saved you two seats. You will be sitting with Poppaea and Satore and his friend Rufus. He seems to be a fixture these days,’ he smiles.

  Pasquale’s face is pale and his luminous eyes ringed with dark shadows. Frances takes one of his hands and squeezes it. ‘I’m so proud of you. You’ve made it!’

  ‘Not quite. Still have to get through my baptism of fire.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Yes. But I’ve been practising around the clock with my secret weapon.’ He taps the cello and shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘Take it easy, Pasquale. You’ll be brilliant. And you can always give them a burst of “Santa Lucia”!’

  He laughs and unlocks his door. ‘At least that is one I don’t have to practise.’

  Clouds of dust blow over their faces. From the brow of the hill where Raphaele Vattani grows his grapes, they can see directly into an excavation site the size of two city blocks. The arms of two cranes rise above them like a giant stick insect, lifting heavy steel girders as though they are matchsticks and lowering them into the massive hole. Acres of fertile sandy soil that nourished orchards and vineyards have disappeared, concreted over in a dull grey patchwork. A small army of construction workers swarms over the area, digging, climbing, drilling, shouting. A continuous low-pitched drone punctuated with loud clangs fills the air and assaults their senses.

  ‘Scandalous! Barbarians!’ Raphaele hisses. ‘Can’t you stop them, Marcello?’

  Marcello puts his arm around his grandfather’s shoulders, which seemed to have stooped in the months since Frances first met him. His old suit is more creased than she remembers and he has neglected to polish his shoes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nonno. I am as shocked as you. When did this start?’

  ‘It started just before Christmas, when everyone was too busy to notice. We weren’t told anything. Everything was quietly moved into place and then in the New Year, after you went away, all hell broke loose.’ Raphaele picks a bunch of his own grapes and squeezes the green, hard fruit. ‘So much lost!’ He shakes the vines and dust flies into the air. ‘Concrete! They’re poisoning my grapes and now they want my land!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Raphaele pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and shoves it into Marcello’s hands. ‘I’m not the only one to get one of these.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Marcello splutters. ‘The local council wants Nonno’s land to build a road to give better access to the largest and most prestigious shopping centre in southern Italy.’

  Vesuvius rises beyond them, the solidified river of lava shining on its slopes. Frances is stunned by its proximity to the construction site, which has already gouged the landscape and pillaged its beauty. ‘This is madness!’ she exclaims. ‘The buildings will be directly in the path of the volcano.’

  ‘They tell me at the café there’s also going to be a high school and a hospital next to the shopping centre,’ Raphaele says.

  ‘My God, they would put even their own children in danger! Who owns the land, Nonno?’

  ‘It belonged to one of the old families but they were forced out, offered money by the government to leave so there would be fewer people in danger from the volcano. That’s what they were told, and that their land was worthless, because it was in the Red Zone and could never be developed. They sold it for a song and moved away to live in the north.’

  ‘Who bought it?’

  ‘I only know what I hear. They say a woman from the city bought it, a stranger. She said it would stay as farmland.’

  The old man kicks a mound of soil. ‘Marcello, can’t something be done?’

  Marcello takes his arm and guides him back down the hill towards his cottage.

  ‘I’ll try, Nonno, but I don’t hold out too much hope. You know how things happen around here.’

  Frances sees them exchange glances, cynical and resigned. She follows them inside where Raphaele sinks exhausted into an old armchair. Marcello brings him a glass of wine and he sips it half-heartedly.

  She curls up next to him, not knowing what to say. He doesn’t seem to notice her and as he stares at the photo of his wife on the wall he mumbles to himself.

  Marcello interrupts him. ‘We have to go, Nonno. I’ll find out what I can and come back soon.’

  He goes to stand up but Marcello insists that he rests. As they leave he calls af
ter them, ‘I’m only glad Teresa’s not alive to see this!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Be careful, Marcello, and don’t forget the concert tonight.’ Frances worries as she watches him drive away. They had spent much of the night before poring over documents about development on danger zones around Vesuvius until the trail had run cold.

  Angry and frustrated, he had resolved to spend the next day investigating the sale of the land, the government approvals for the development and the people behind the push to seize his grandfather’s land.

  Her appointment with Professor Corsi is imminent. She quickens her step, pushing through hundreds of students lingering outside cafés and Internet shops near the university.

  Her heels clicking loudly on the mosaic floors leading to the chancellor’s office, Frances has the hapless feeling of a condemned woman walking to her own execution. Entering a grand hallway adorned with gilt-framed classical paintings, she realizes they are portraits of past chancellors, the oldest wearing wigs, the more recent ones with little hair at all. Their expressions are uniformly grim, as if they don’t like what they’re seeing. Frances finds herself tip-toeing as though one of them might stretch a hand out and smack her for disturbing their peace. She reaches the door to the office and is just about to knock when a glimpse of something out of place compels her to turn back. She walks over to the last portrait, clearly new. The frame is the same as the others but the brilliant-coloured paint and abstract style sets it apart. She stares at it for a minute or so, not recognizing the face. There’s a familiarity about its form; a sort of cross between Modigliani with the elongated head and neck, and Picasso, with its layers of distorted eyes, nose and mouth. Her eyes travel down to a tiny gold plaque at the bottom of the frame: Professor Alfonso Galbatti.

  Frances giggles. Nothing in the portrait resembles the squatly built chancellor she knew. She remembers him flattering Camilla while lording it over the Progetto Vulcano team, then kindly rescuing her when she dropped her champagne glass on the precious palace carpet. As she also recalls his dismissive comments about the modern art exhibition, it becomes suddenly clear that this is a legacy he would have loathed.

  When Frances knocks on the door a woman opens it and ushers her inside. ‘Wait here, Chancellor Corsi will see you soon.’ Her expression is severe as she indicates a row of plushly upholstered chairs in the waiting room.

  Frances picks up one of the magazines arranged tidily on an elegant coffee table. She is about to start reading when the woman returns. ‘Please come this way, Signorina Nelson.’

  She follows her into a capacious office, richly furnished with highly polished antiques. Chancellor Corsi is sitting behind a large desk. To one side of her, a vase of large red roses and silver-framed photos rest on a carved dresser. Behind her the large picture windows allow a perfect view of Vesuvius, glimmering beneath an unusually clear sky.

  ‘Ah Frances, come and sit down. Welcome back to Naples.’ Camilla beckons her over, her voice warmer than Frances had expected.

  ‘Thank you, chancellor. Congratulations on your appointment.’

  She waves her hand in a faint attempt at modesty then seems to reconsider. ‘You would have enjoyed my investiture if you hadn’t been so busy on Stromboli. All the city’s most important people came. Have a look at the photos if you like. Over there.’

  Frances feels obliged and walks over to the dresser. The largest photo shows Camilla wearing a plunging black dress partially covered by an ermine-edged purple velvet academic gown and a thick gold chain of medallions. In the other photographs she is posing with a variety of people, some of whom Frances recognizes: the British Ambassador, the President of Campania and Umberto Dragorra. A particularly handsome man is holding her arm in a photo placed in the middle.

  ‘I’m sorry I missed it,’ Frances says. ‘Was Professor Galbatti there?’

  ‘Sadly no, he is still recovering from a debilitating stroke, poor man. He was represented by his nephew, Professor Luigi Paoli. He’s in one of the photos with me. I really miss Alfonso, but fortunately, I have a daily reminder of him now we have his official portrait in place. Did you happen to see it outside?’

  ‘I did, it’s very different to the others. Does he like it?’ Frances strains to keep a straight face and has a vision of a portrait of Camilla hanging there in years to come. The Mona Lisa in a velvet cloak springs to mind, with that same unreadable expression.

  Camilla clears her throat and sips a glass of water. ‘He hasn’t seen it. But I’m sure he would. He is a great connoisseur of avant-garde art.’

  She shuffles some files on her desk and beckons Frances back as the woman returns with a tray. She places it on the desk. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Oh, just pour it, Maria, then leave us.’

  Camilla spoons some sugar into her coffee and stirs it vigorously. ‘Have a pastry. Sfogliatella, fresh this morning from my favourite baker.’

  Frances crunches into the seashell-shaped pastry and a rich, spicy ricotta cheese fills her mouth, aware that Camilla, eating daintily and frequently dabbing her chin with a linen serviette, is scrutinizing her. She’s at pains not to drop a single crumb.

  ‘Buono, yes?’

  ‘Yes, very good,’ she answers in a muffled voice.

  ‘But now it is time to talk.’ Camilla leans back in her enormous leather chair and swivels towards the window. The sun shines on her face, emphasizing a sleek new haircut and red highlights through her black hair. ‘Vesuvius is so beautiful.’ She swings back to look at Frances. ‘But like everything beautiful there is a flipside, a dark side. And Vesuvius has the darkest side of all, as the people of Naples have learnt only too well over thousands of years.’

  Frances is wondering where Camilla is leading her, what game she is playing.

  She leans across the desk and stares directly at Frances. ‘I want Progetto Vulcano back in business and I hope you will be part of it.’

  Marcello’s grandfather’s devastated face flashes in her mind. ‘It depends on what my role will be. I was very unhappy about the treatment of Riccardo Cocchia and I’m concerned that we scientists will not be able to work independently.’

  An angry twitch contorts one side of Camilla’s mouth. She says nothing for a few seconds then sips from her glass again. ‘Of course you can be independent. And maybe Signor Cocchia can rejoin the team, although it might be mutually convenient if he makes his contribution from Stromboli. I understand he has expanded his personal interests there. Isn’t that so?’

  Frances nods, surprised by her knowledge.

  ‘You might be right. But my concern is about the development going on around the Red Zone and along the coastline of Campi Flegrei. We believe it is madness…’

  ‘Frances,’ Camilla interrupts in a controlled voice. ‘Vulcanology might be a science, but it is an inexact science. My responsibility is to find the middle ground between an extreme view that would see all commercial development and activity around this city cease and a more reasoned approach. While we clearly have to respect the unpredictability of Vesuvius and Campi Flegrei, we still have to accommodate the needs of the three million people who live here. It’s the art of the possible, my dear.’

  ‘But we wouldn’t want another Pompeii.’

  ‘Quite, but you must remember that it’s very unwise to make too many waves in this city.’ She stands and walks over to Frances, an invitation in her hand.

  ‘Are you going to the spring gala concert tonight? I am looking forward to hearing your friend, Pasquale Mazzone, play again.’

  ‘Yes, I am. And you know he has his new cello? An anonymous donor paid a considerable amount of money for it. He’s very grateful.’

  Camilla smiles. ‘A very deserving young musician, don’t you think?’

  Pasquale has already left for the dress rehearsal at the theatre by the time Frances returns home but he has pushed an envelope with tickets under her door. She phones Marcello but there’s no answer. As evening falls, she still hasn’t h
eard from him and prepares to go to the concert alone, texting him a message to meet at the theatre. Her mood swings between anxiety and annoyance at his failure to call.

  Frances chooses a well-cut female version of a black tuxedo with a silver top beneath, another buy she couldn’t resist from Via Toledo. She brushes her hair up and twists it into a knot, fastening it with a silver clip. Her high stilettos squeeze her toes but she likes the look and decides the discomfort is worth it.

  Her taxi pulls up behind a line of others outside the Teatro San Carlo. The building is spotlit and a red carpet spills down the steps and onto the pavement. A glamorous crowd of Neapolitans crams the entry, chatting and laughing. Frances climbs the stairs and searches for the box office.

  ‘Frances! Darling, you look marvellous!’ Satore rushes over, closely followed by Rufus and Poppaea.

  ‘Thank you, Satore. You all look wonderful. Is that a new earring?’

  ‘An emerald, darling, as real as your green eyes.’

  Poppaea embraces her. Her face is glowing, her blonde hair strikingly curled and her eyes complemented by a deep-blue evening dress. For once, she looks relaxed and happy.

  ‘I’m really quite nervous. I hope Pasquale does well,’ she whispers to Frances.

  A loud bell rings and ushers start to move the crowd from the foyer. Frances rings Marcello again but there is no answer. She represses a rising sense of panic and sends him another text, telling him his ticket will be in the box office. She leaves it there in an envelope marked with his name and joins the flow of people into the theatre.

  In contrast with the rather austere exterior, the inside of theatre is so sumptuous it almost takes her breath away. Everything is red and gold, from the carpet, up the six levels of balconies, to the brilliant chandeliers.