The Grey Beginning, page 14
“Right move, wrong place,” I said a little breathlessly. “Emilia is probably looking through the keyhole and Alberto is ticking off the minutes until you drive out.”
“Since we will be blamed anyway, why not enjoy it?”
The first fine careless rapture was gone, though. I had a prickly feeling at the back of my neck, as if we were under hidden, intense surveillance. Which was ridiculous. The lantern lights flanking the door of the villa were some distance away, and the interior of the car was dark. When I drew away the second time, Sebastiano didn’t insist. I refused another cigarette. He lit his; the flame trembled perceptibly. “Get out, then,” he said lightly. “You won’t let me come to the door, you won’t…Next time it will not be so easy for you to run away.”
Despite the light tone and the smile that accompanied the words, I knew he was annoyed—at me, at Francesca, or at both of us. I didn’t blame him. He waited until he saw the door open, and then pulled away with a roar of the exhaust.
Emilia had indeed been waiting for me. She had the door open before I reached the top of the stairs. I felt like an adolescent who has violated a curfew, and I found myself self-consciously straightening my coat and tightening my belt as I crossed the terrace. The rain had stopped, but the wet stones were slippery.
Emilia stood back with exaggerated deference, holding the door. I had barely entered the house when I heard it—a scream of tortured metal that seemed to go on forever, and a dull, crunching crash.
For a few seconds I was frozen, flung back into a memory of past horror. But when I turned there was no flame, no column of smoke. I started to run. Emilia followed. I heard a voice call out: “What is it? What has happened?” The voice was Francesca’s. She had waited up for me too. I didn’t pause to reply.
The Cadillac was halfway between the house and the gates, where the drive curved. The hood was jammed against a tree trunk. The headlights still shone; one went off at a drunken angle, shedding a weird theatrical light up into the leaves.
I saw a man leaning against the driver’s side of the car looking in the window and thought it was Alberto, until the gatekeeper came running up, calling out. Sebastiano straightened. He spoke to Alberto, and then started violently as I caught his arm. I stammered out a series of questions, the conventional inquiries, to which he replied that he was unhurt.
Francesca was the last to arrive on the scene. She had delayed to put on a coat and—with her usual good sense—to find a flashlight. She turned it on Sebastiano. He was pale and his hair was disheveled, but his face, at least, was unmarked.
He insisted on inspecting the damage to the car before he did anything else. It might have been worse. One of the headlights was out of line and the hood was crinkled, but there did not appear to be anything wrong with the engine. It would cost a pretty penny to repair the body, though.
We went back to the villa, leaving Alberto trying to straighten the headlight. When Francesca got a good look at Sebastiano she announced flatly, “You have cracked a rib. You had better stay here tonight. I will call a doctor.”
“I am a doctor,” Sebastiano said, with a forced smile. “It is not broken, only bruised. I was thrown against the steering wheel.”
He refused her invitation to stay, or to let Alberto drive him back to Florence. Somewhat to my surprise she didn’t insist.
“But you shouldn’t drive,” I protested. “Even if you are physically able, there may be damage to the brakes or the steering or—”
He cut me short with uncharacteristic abruptness. “I will drive carefully. There is little traffic at this hour. Good night, Kathy—Francesca. I regret having inconvenienced you.”
“It is I who should apologize,” she said expressionlessly. “The drive must be in poor condition. I will have Alberto look at it.”
I don’t know how she managed in such innocuous words to convey the impression that the accident was his fault—that he must be drunk, or drowsy, or distracted. I knew he was none of the above, but I couldn’t understand how it had happened. The drive was not in first-class condition. There were slippery spots where the gravel had been worn away, but only excessive speed would cause a car to skid out of control.
Sebastiano kissed Francesca’s hand, wincing as he bent from the waist, and shook mine with ostentatious formality. His eyes avoided me. He telephoned an hour later, as Francesca had asked him, to let us know he had arrived home safely. Emilia delivered the message. He didn’t ask to speak to me.
Chapter
6
I WOKE UP SNEEZING. I HAD NOT CAUGHT COLD; THERE was a cat sitting on my face. Somebody giggled, and a voice said, “You have a mustache. A black-and-white-striped mustache.”
I removed the cat’s tail from under my nose and sat up. The kitten slid down my front, rolled over, and attacked my knees. I made a grab for it. Pete got to it first and hugged it protectively to his chest.
“Joe did not mean to hurt.”
“I was thinking about the sheets.” Ruefully I examined the perforated silk. “Your grandmother isn’t going to like this. I’m afraid Joe will have to have his claws clipped.”
“Clipped?” The silver-gray eyes widened in horror.
“It won’t hurt him. A scratching post might not be such a bad idea either.” I sank back onto the pillows, yawning. “You little demon, don’t you know that people who wake up their friends by putting cats on their faces are not popular?”
“But you sleep too late. Today we have the football, and also washing of David’s things. He said we could help. What do you call them—the things from the storeroom?”
“Darned if I know.” It had been late before I got to sleep, following the accident and its aftermath, but the beaming face that peered at me from over the cat totally disarmed me. He was reacting to a Saturday off like any child freed from the appalling boredom of studies.
“You have a mustache now,” I said. “Okay, buster, scram out of here and let me get dressed. I’ll be with you soonest. Am I allowed to eat breakfast first?”
A knock sounded at the door, and the boy’s face altered so unpleasantly I reached out a hand to him. Emilia came in before I could reply. “You are ready for breakfast?” she asked. “I have—” Then she saw Pete, who had retired behind the bed curtains, and burst into a tirade in Italian.
“I asked him to wake me,” I said sharply. “That will be all, Emilia. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”
“The contessa has eaten an hour ago. I will bring a tray to you.”
Pete didn’t come out from his shelter until she had closed the door. “You don’t have to go,” I told him. “Wait for me if you like.”
“No, I will put Joe in my room. Then I will go to David. He is in his room, at the garage. You will come?”
“As soon as I can.”
He scuttled out, clutching Joe. He didn’t want to encounter Emilia again, even with me there to defend him.
When I came out of the bathroom my breakfast tray was on the desk. For all her bulk Emilia could move quietly when she chose. I wasn’t sure I liked that idea.
The scientists were hard at work when I arrived. David had put his rags to soak. A row of trays filled with muddy liquid lay on the table. Pete was peering onto one of them with an expectant air that was, in my opinion, hardly justified. All I could see was dirty water.
“Just in time,” said David. “The great unveiling is about to take place. Nothing up my sleeve, lady and gent…”
He flexed his hand, reached into one of the trays, and came up with a fragment about a foot square. He dunked it in a tray of clear water to rinse it. “Voilà.”
The colors seemed to leap up off the surface of the water—bright crimson, clear green and buff against a background of rich dark blue. Careful stitching outlined a woman’s face and shoulders. Her features had the big-eyed stiffness of a Byzantine painting, and her hair, of soft auburn, was surmounted by a fillet of twisted gold threads. A border of flowers and leaves framed the portrait. At least David claimed it was a portrait.
“Fifth century if it’s a day,” he murmured rapturously. “And in perfect condition.”
“What do you mean, perfect? The stitching’s come undone here—”
He stepped back with a look of horror as I put out my hand. “Don’t touch it!”
“I was just pointing. Goodness, what an old granny you are.”
“I’ve been called worse.” David deposited his treasure tenderly on a piece of blotting paper and went on to the next. The fabrics—some woven, some embroidered—had a certain charm, especially the squares and roundels with running animals—cats, hares, greyhounds—which, according to David, had been stitched to clothing. I found them mildly interesting, but only mildly, and Pete soon got bored.
“Let us play football,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t having fun,” David said with a grin.
“I like that—” His finger indicated the embroidered cat. “But to wash clothes, it is a woman’s work.”
“Male chauvinist,” I said.
“What is that?”
“Well…It’s like saying girls can’t play football because they’re girls.”
“But they cannot. Except you,” Pete added.
“You’d better quit now while you’re ahead,” David advised him. “I’ll be through in a minute, Pete. Can’t stop in the middle of a job, you know. How about getting rid of the used solution for me? No, not out the window, you lazy cuss—in the sink.”
He indicated the door behind him.
“You’ve got plumbing?” I said, as Pete lifted the tray, spilling only a quart or so.
“All the comforts of home. This used to be the chauffeur’s quarters. Alberto being a happily married man, and Emilia being vital to the contessa’s comfort, they live in the villa.”
I helped Pete empty the trays and rinse them. David refilled them with distilled water and mixed some assorted chemicals. “That’s the lot,” he announced, dunking the next batch of scraps. “Now we can get on to the important business of the day.”
Pete had the football with him, of course. He clattered down the stairs ahead of us. “Who called you worse things?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“When I said you were an old granny I was being chauvinist. I apologize. You said—”
“Oh, yeah. Think nothing of it, dearie. My old man had more pejorative comments to make when I took up my profession. He went so far as to impugn my masculinity, if you can believe it.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“Follow in the paternal footsteps. He manufactures bolts—those fifty-cent bolts the Pentagon buys for nine hundred bucks.”
“Oh.” Another stereotype gone west. The starving academic was, or could have been, one of the idle rich. “A matter of principle?” I inquired.
“I don’t like bolts,” David said.
Pete decided he wanted to practice kicking that morning. I let David talk me into holding, though I ought to have known better. Pete kicked my hand as often as he did the ball, so after a while I persuaded him it wasn’t fair for me to have the honor of being the holder all the time, and David and I changed places.
The sun was high in the sky before Pete could be persuaded to stop. I reminded him that Joe would be waiting, and he gave in with reasonably good grace. “To take a nap is not so bad with Joe,” he admitted. “Joe must sleep lots, he is young.”
After he had gone I dropped onto the bench. David sat beside me. “Nap?” he said. “He’s too old for an afternoon nap, isn’t he?”
“I would say so. But his grandmother has some idea he’s delicate.”
“Delicate, my foot.” We had ended the session with some passing and tackling. David had been tackled. “Is that why he isn’t in school?”
“I guess so.” I felt sure David’s question wasn’t prompted by idle curiosity or love of gossip. But it was not my place to tell him about Pete’s emotional problems.
“This is a lousy setup for a kid,” David muttered. “He’d be better off in school. Hasn’t he got anyone to play with? Not even a pet, until you came up with the kitten.”
“I’m working on it,” I said briefly.
David’s wide, Petrouchka smile split his jaws. “I’ll bet you are. Little Miss Fix-It.”
“I’ve been called worse than that.”
“By your old man?”
“Especially by him. You’d like him,” I added after a moment.
“Maybe I’ll look him up when I get back.”
“When will that be?”
“June, July—whenever the money runs out.”
“Oh.”
“Any chance that you’ll be there?”
“At home with the folks? That depends on the job situation. If I can teach summer school I will; I need the money. If not, I suppose I’ll scrounge off my mother and father, and sling hash at the local diner.”
“Then you won’t be here?”
“Not on your life. I—” His eyes shifted, but not quickly enough. I glowered at him. “Who have you been talking to? Rosa?”
“I was not prying into your personal affairs, if that’s what you’re thinking. Rosa volunteered the information. She’s all excited about it.”
“Damn,” I said.
David went on, “She keeps talking about what joy it will bring to the house when the baby is born, and all like that. I got the impression you were going to stay until…that you were going to stay.”
“No.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” He stood up. “See you.”
After he had marched off, visibly offended, I regretted having been so brusque. Apparently my interesting and fictitious condition was now public knowledge, and it wasn’t his fault if Rosa liked to gossip. I could not imagine Francesca chatting with the cook; presumably Rosa had heard the news from Emilia. I should have known it would happen. It didn’t alter the situation, but somehow the fact that David was now one of the deluded majority brought the whole dubious business into sharper, uglier perspective.
I had been kidding myself when I thought I could prolong the lie for another month. Every day brought the possibility of a painful confrontation that much closer. If Francesca asked me flat out I would have to tell her the truth. When the situation first arose she had been a stranger to me, a stranger I didn’t much like. Now she was a person I knew, with feelings that could be hurt. I might not sympathize with those feelings; I couldn’t even say truthfully that I was fond of her. But when I thought of seeing her face change, her eyes harden with contempt—no, I couldn’t contemplate that. I had to leave, soon. I had done all I could for Pete; Lord knows it wasn’t much, but there wasn’t much I could do except talk. And I had done plenty of that.
As I showered and changed I rehearsed the speech I meant to make to Francesca: graceful thanks for her hospitality, apologies for remaining longer than I had intended. Then she would say something like “Not at all, it was a pleasure.” And I’d say, “It’s been great getting to know you, but…” But I have to get back to my job? But my mother broke her leg and she needs me to take care of her? But I feel another nervous breakdown coming on?
No. That was my guilty conscience thinking I needed an excuse to leave. What I needed was an excuse for barging in and staying so long. A polite hostess doesn’t ask a guest when she is planning to go. Maybe my cynical and melodramatic theories about the matriarch and the Heir of the Morandinis were all wrong. Maybe she would be glad to see the last of me.
I revised the dialogue.
“Thank you so much for your hospitality, Francesca.”
“Not at all. I’ve enjoyed having you here.”
“I’ve enjoyed it too. But I’ve trespassed long enough.”
“I’m sorry you must go. When are you leaving?”
“The end of next week.”
The end of next week. Set yourself a deadline and stick to it. Don’t let an unhappy child or a handsome doctor stop you.
The only trouble with preplanned conversations is that the other guy never says what he’s supposed to say.
I went downstairs early, wanting to get it over and done with. Francesca was not in her sitting room. I paced the floor nervously, picking things up and putting them down. Bart’s photograph followed me with smiling eyes. I tried not to look at it.
I heard the telephone ring. The instrument was on a table in the hall; I suppose Francesca didn’t want such an intrusive, modern vulgarity in her lovely room, where she might have to answer it herself instead of letting Emilia screen the callers.
The door opened. “It is a telephone for you, signora,” said Emilia.
It had to be Sebastiano. Who else would be calling? I picked up the telephone and said brightly, “How’s the rib today?”
There was a moment of silence. Then a voice said, “Which one? I’ve got eleven or twelve of the cursed things. They seem to be all there, but I’ve better things to do than ask them how they are feeling.”
“Pa!”
“So you know me, do you? But you weren’t expecting the old man, oh no. Whose ribs was it you were inquiring about so sweetly, may I ask?”
“Oh, Pa, it’s so good to hear your voice! How did you find me?”
“With great difficulty. And it’s costing me a pretty penny even on a Saturday, so don’t be wasting my time in idle chatter.”
“Who’s wasting whose time? How are you? Is everyone all right? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong here,” said my father with heavy significance. “It’s yourself that must be wrong, I’m thinking, to foist yourself on a poor woman who never saw hide nor hair of you till you turned up on her doorstep. What the devil are you up to? Never mind; don’t tell me, I don’t dare think about it. When are you coming home?”
