by Angela Arney
Eleanora stared after him, contrarily wanting him to return and be more persuasive. Suddenly, Italy seemed very far away.
If only Peter had known then just how near to capitulating she was, how close to throwing herself into his arms, he would have stayed. But he did not; her voice and demeanour gave no hint of indecisiveness.
*
‘Well, Peter, at least you were right about one thing.’
Walking slowly around the courtyard surveying her domain, Eleanora spoke aloud, then entering the castello, picked up her suitcase and taking it outside stowed it in the car parked just by the stone gateway.
He had said once that she would know when the time was right to go back to the castello, and she had. She looked around, still hardly able to believe her eyes. It was amazing how quickly the work had been completed. Her rather stilted Italian had proved more than useful, as had the fact that she was young, feminine and beautiful. Unaware of how like her mother she was, once Eleanora had decided to use the month and a half she had free before the audition with Raul Levi to renovate part of the castello, she had set to work like a demon. With a combination of femininity and steely determination she had bludgeoned her way through red tape to get what she wanted. The money, given by her mother, proved indispensable. Slipping a few thousand lire into an eager hand here and there ensured that the work she had in mind actually commenced and, more importantly, was finished.
As a result she was now ready to leave for Rome and her audition. The kitchen and three other rooms in the castello had been restored, furnished, and made secure. Eleanora was pleased with them. The outside walls had been stripped of ivy and the courtyard cleared of weeds. Terracotta urns filled with brilliant red geraniums now stood glowing with colour around the well and a purple bougainvillaea planted by the side of the kitchen door was already sending colourful shoots up along the wall. A young woman from the village of San Angelo had promised to come up and water the plants in her absence and dust inside the castello once a week. She was satisfied. Everything had been taken care of; there were no loose ends. Or were there? Withdrawing a sealed envelope from her skirt pocket, Eleanora tapped it thoughtfully against her chin. Ought she to have told her father what she had done? Not that he would mind that she had not asked permission, but her mother! That was a different matter altogether. No, much better to leave the letter just as it was, with only the sketchiest of details. She would write again, if she got a part in Euridice and settled herself in Florence. But even then, the castello could stay her secret, for the time being at least.
It was time to drive to Rome. A tingle of excitement mixed with apprehension flickered in the pit of her stomach. Rome, an audition, a new life, a step into the unknown. Eleanora paused in the gateway and looked back at the courtyard for the last time before leaving. How different now from when she had arrived; how pretty the profusion of crimson geraniums. Outside the ancient walls cicadas were chirruping merrily in the umbrella pines and the dusty smell of wild thyme, sage and rosemary filled her nostrils.
Suddenly her mood switched and inexplicable fears about the future loomed. But if I ever need it, here is my bolt hole, she reminded herself, a place where no-one will find me or even think of looking, a place where I can escape from the world and seek seclusion. Turning away from the courtyard, her gaze swept out through the gateway and down the mountainside towards the city below. It was early April and the harsh glare of the sun hurt her eyes. It was hot, burning hot. A haze blurred the view of Naples, the hillside shimmering and undulating in the heat.
Suddenly, quite without warning a vision of Broadacres burst in upon her mind. It was so clear even the smell of damp river valley earth enveloped her. A smile curved her lips. The horses would be out in the paddocks now, trampling the brilliant yellow celandines underfoot, greedily snatching at tufts of sweet spring grass. A soft green haze would be lighting the landscape with the translucent glow of spring.
The words of a poem she had thought long forgotten sprang unbidden into her head.
Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England – now!
How strange that she, who had never paid much attention to poetry during English lessons and in fact always thought it sentimentally slushy, should remember a poem by Robert Browning. It was no use pretending that Italy was her country. It was fascinating, and she liked it, but her roots were in England. The links which tied her to Broadacres were too deep and passionate to be denied. I will go back, she thought, but not yet, I dare not yet. First I must find myself, then I will have the strength to go back. If she went now, she knew she might never tear herself away. She wondered if the horses and dogs missed her. Was Gran still able to ride Diabolus? And had Donald Ramsay recovered enough from his stroke to be able to ride?
Her melancholy mood evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. Blinking back tears and reminding herself that the future was the important thing, she rammed the car in gear and started out on the drive to Rome and Raul Levi’s villa.
*
It was not difficult to find the villa in the centre of Rome, and when she arrived the great Levi was at home. An elderly manservant told her to wait in the hall while he went upstairs to fetch his master.
Raul came down almost immediately. ‘You left it almost too late,’ he said, ‘I am leaving for Florence the day after tomorrow to start work on Euridice.’
‘I know that. I timed it this way. I’ve been busy.’
Raul looked at her curiously, but Eleanora did not enlighten him. The castello near Naples was nothing to do with him.
‘Well, now you’re here come upstairs and we’ll see what sort of voice you have.’
‘I’m a mezzo.’
‘I know that; it’s your range and quality I’m interested in.’
Eleanora followed Raul up the stairs to the music room, looking around curiously as they went. It was a beautiful building, furnished with fabulous antiques. He certainly lived well and was not short of a penny or two by the look of things. She admired the way he strode up the stairs two at a time. He was tall, athletically built, and she estimated about the same age as her father. Meeting him again it struck her forcibly once more what an attractive air there was about him although his face hardly came into the category of good-looking. He must have been once though, Eleanora decided; very good-looking. But now his face had what Peter would have called a ‘lived-in’ look. Peter! The thought jolted her. Peter. No, I must not think of Peter; think about this man instead. This man was far more interesting.
Suddenly Raul turned and flashed her a smile. Eleanora tried to smile back but found herself blushing instead. His eyes gave out such raw, animal-like sexual signals that against her will she felt herself shuddering in answering excitement. He turned back and continued on up the curving staircase. Eleanora eyed his back speculatively. His reputation with women was legendary; he was a philanderer of the first order and, therefore, eminently suitable to provide her with the diversion she needed at the moment. A lover with no emotional strings attached – a perfect and painless springboard into the future.
Monika Muller was in the room setting out some music. She turned and looked Eleanora up and down. For a moment Eleanora felt uncomfortable; it was almost as if Monika were aware that Eleanora was mentally sizing up Raul Levi as a potential lover. Then she shrugged the feeling off. So what? Monika must be used to it. Eleanora was pretty certain that she had seen many young women throwing themselves at Raul Levi with a view to landing a part in one of his productions. Except that I’m different, Eleanora told herself. I don’t need the aid of the casting couch. Any part I get will be because of talent, nothing else. Eleanora stared back at Monika, her gaze hostile. What business wa
s it of hers anyway? She only worked for Raul. What he did in his private life had nothing to do with her. And if I decide to take Raul Levi as a lover, it is my affair and mine alone. Suddenly she felt very grown up and sophisticated to be making decisions about taking a lover; a woman of the world at last. Raul Levi, you don’t stand a chance, she thought. If I want you I shall have you!
‘Monika, this is Eleanora Howard, the English girl I told you about. Eleanora, this is Monika Muller, my right-hand woman. She organizes my life and speaks half a dozen languages. Without her I’d be lost.’
Monika inclined her head stiffly. Superciliously, thought Eleanora. ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she said in perfect English.
Because she was still a little nervous, Eleanora moved her head slightly with an arrogant toss of her hair. It was a habit she had had since childhood. It was also the self-same movement Raul always employed whenever his composure was threatened. Monika Muller stared. She had sensed right from the beginning when he had first mentioned Eleanora Howard that he was more drawn to the English girl than he cared to admit. Now she thought she knew why. Well aware of Raul’s faults, she was acquainted with his vanity. He had always been inclined to narcissism, and this girl was the feminine version of himself, except, of course, he would never see that. But it did account for the unusual attraction that Monika sensed existed between them.
As for himself, Raul had not bothered to analyse his feelings although her name, Eleanora, had succeeded in jolting his memory and he had retrieved the story he had written long ago about the two girls. He had a contact in Hollywood now, a Milton Hyam. He’d get Monika to translate the story and send it off. But for the moment his thoughts were concentrated on the girl standing before him. She was very tall and her beauty, although sensual, had an almost boyish air about it, which added an illicit degree of eroticism. Yes, the attraction he had sensed at their first meeting was still there. A strong chemistry existed between them, and he was certain she could feel it, too. Yet at the same time he was aware of another feeling lurking beneath the surface, a bizarre reflection of times long past. He felt unsettled, and then Eleanora smiled at him, her eyes flickering a blatant sexual challenge. He forgot the strange unsettling feelings as a raging fire spread through his loins. He wanted her, and knew he was going to get her.
Sitting down at the piano, he played an arpeggio. ‘Sing,’ he commanded.
Monika Muller left as Eleanora’s rich mezzo-soprano voice began to echo around the music room. It was time for her to pluck a ripe young man for her amusement. She knew the signs. Raul was going to be occupied with this young woman for some time to come.
*
‘Would you like dinner, or . . .?’
The audition was finished. Eleanora had got her part in the chorus of Euridice and was content, knowing that Raul had been impressed with her vocal ability. And now, a long Roman evening stretched ahead.
‘Or what?’ She barely recognized her own voice, it was so husky, so seductive, as if another woman had taken over her mind and body. She shivered, intensely excited and yet a little afraid, knowing full well she was stepping across a border into another world.
‘Whatever you want,’ Raul answered.
Eleanora stared at him, her dark eyes open wide. Raul looked at her and, never taking his gaze from hers for one single instant, walked across to her. He ran his hands down from her shoulders, letting them rest on her breasts with sensuous deliberation. For the first time in her life Eleanora knew what it was like to be filled with nothing but raw, naked lust. It took her breath away and she gasped.
‘I don’t want dinner.’
Raul took her there on the floor by the grand piano, clothes miraculously shed in a matter of seconds. Hands, mouths, bodies gasped and slithered in a timeless, chaotic, dark ecstasy. Finally, exhausted and sated they lay still.
Hell, thought Raul, still reeling in faint astonishment at Eleanora’s uninhibited response. Who seduced who?
‘Whoever said the English were cold?’ he said, kissing the long line of her neck and working his way down to her breasts. How many times had they both climaxed? He could not remember. He loved the febrile way Eleanora ground herself against him, frantic for the pleasure of an orgasm. Now the first frenzy had abated, they were beginning another exploration of each other’s bodies, this time slow and tactile.
Eleanora debated whether or not to tell him she was half Italian, then decided against it. It was more exciting to let him think she was a hot-blooded English woman. ‘The English enjoy fucking as much as anyone else,’ she said. ‘It’s only our weather which is cold.’
‘How many lovers have you had?’
‘Only one,’ Eleanora answered truthfully.
‘Did he know a lot of games?’
Eleanora laughed. ‘I have a feeling you know many more.’
Her longing for Peter seemed far distant, the time spent with him unreal. Raul engendered a raw sexual excitement which was new and enthralling. She forgot the tenderness of her love-making with Peter and revelled instead in the overpowering carnal greed now burning within her like a fever.
Raul stood up and pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s walk naked in the garden,’ he said. ‘You can be Eve to my Adam.’
It was 2.00 a.m.; the city traffic was as busy as ever. The noise of Rome washed over the high walls into the garden. It was hot, the garden heavily perfumed with gardenias and jasmine. Eleanora hung back. ‘Suppose someone should see us?’ she said, looking up at the neighbouring buildings, some of which overlooked the walled garden.
‘Do you care? I don’t.’
Raul looked dark and mysterious in the dim light of the garden, and very exciting. He made Eleanora feel reckless. ‘No, I don’t care,’ she said and, skipping on ahead, jumped into one of the fountains. Posing seductively against the falling water, she called, ‘Do I look like a Bernini statue?’
‘Exactly like one,’ said Raul.
He climbed over the edge of the fountain and Eleanora saw that he was fully erect. His penis was enormous, and glistening with drops of water. ‘You look like one of those rude Greek statues,’ she said, then gasped.
Without any formalities he took her again, there and then, slamming her hard against the rough stone of the fountain. The tone of their affair was set – no tenderness, just raw, obsessive sexuality holding them both in thrall. Raul had never felt such a compulsive hunger for just one woman before. He wondered if he could be falling in love. Eleanora knew she was not in love. She knew what love was like; she had loved Peter, and the feeling she had for Raul was not love. But in a way it was more exciting.
Two days later they moved up to Florence where Raul became absorbed in directing Euridice. Monika was left behind in Rome, much to Eleanora’s relief. She had an uncanny knack of making Eleanora feel that all her thoughts were transparent; that she knew every little detail of the affair with Raul. In Florence, with Monika out of the way, Eleanora was able to relax and enjoy her small role in the chorus. Life was exciting; every day there were new people to meet. The pain of losing Peter receded until she began to wonder if what she had felt for him had been real lasting love at all. Maybe her own words to her mother about the boyfriend–girlfriend relationship had been true.
In Florence, Eleanora did not bother to rent an apartment of her own but shared one with Raul overlooking the Pitti Palace. The sophisticated life of the Florentines suited her extrovert personality. She revelled in every waking moment with a kind of fierce enjoyment and firmly sat on her conscience whenever it showed signs of attempting to rear its head, convincing herself that at last she was really living life as it should be lived.
*
‘I’ve heard from Eleanora.’ Margaret waved the letter under Nicholas’s nose. ‘She is in the chorus of some opera which I’ve never heard of and living in Florence.’
‘I know.’ Nicholas sounded anything but happy.
‘She says she’s having a great time and not missing England at all.’ A fl
icker of sadness passed over her face. ‘Do you think that’s true?’
Nicholas shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’ He did not tell Margaret that he had heard, too, and that in his letter Eleanora had said her love life was blooming. The news distressed him. It was much too soon. Feeling sick with worry he prayed that Eleanora had not plunged into some disastrous liaison. He had to tell someone, but not his mother. He searched out Liana and found her in the office. She listened in silence while he read out the whole letter.
‘So! In the chorus now, and an understudy part in Così Fan Tutte at La Scala in the winter. And in love again! Well, it seems she is doing well and is happy.’
‘But falling in love again, so soon after Peter.’
‘Young people,’ said Liana, signing letters while she was speaking, ‘they’re all the same these days if the papers are to be believed. In and out of love like yo-yos.’
‘Maybe.’ Nicholas still was not happy. ‘I wish I could talk to her, but she says she won’t be home until next year.’
‘She also says, “If you feel like coming over to Florence this summer, do come.” If I remember correctly. So why don’t you? I can’t go, of course, but I will write to her.’
Nicholas folded the letter carefully and sat down opposite Liana. ‘Are you telling me that you really think everything has suddenly been resolved? All the unhappiness forgotten, gone away?’
‘Why not? She’s young, she’s resilient. She sounds happy. That’s good enough for me. I’ve got other things to think about.’
Liana had no intention of allowing herself to think anything else. Eleanora was happy; therefore, her guilt was purged. Time had proved her right and once again patience had paid off. Thank goodness she had not been panicked into blurting out the truth that night at the Ritz. What a waste of time that would have been, a futile squandering of everything she had accomplished at Broadacres.