The Grey Beginning, page 20
We were getting along swimmingly when the damned telephone rang. When I heard the far-off shrilling, I had a premonition. Sure enough, it was for me.
Sebastiano apologized for not calling earlier. “I was late getting in last night, and this morning has been busier than usual. Not a free moment! You have not forgotten our engagement this evening?”
“Of course not. Look, Sebastiano, I’ve been thinking; why don’t I meet you? I could drive to Florence—”
“I don’t often run the car into a tree, Kathy.” The tinny impersonality of the connection robbed his voice of emotion; I couldn’t tell whether he was joking or offended.
“I was only thinking of the time,” I explained. “It’s an hour up here and another hour back—”
“That is not important.”
He was offended. I said quickly, “If you don’t mind, then. To be honest, I hate driving in the rain on unfamiliar roads.”
“Do you need spectacles that you are too vain to wear?” he asked teasingly, his good humor restored. “Never mind, vanity is a sign of mental health. I will pick you up at seven.”
I thanked him and hung up. When I turned from the phone, there was Emilia at the door of the sitting room with the coffee tray. What she knew, Francesca would soon know. I decided I might as well get it over with.
“That was Sebastiano,” I said, returning to my place at the table. “I’m going to have dinner with him tonight. I hope that doesn’t conflict with your plans.”
“You must do as you like.”
“It will be the last time I see him,” I explained. “I want to thank him for his kindness and say good-bye. Besides, there are a few questions I want to ask about Pietro. Supposing I should be able to take him back to the States I ought to know the best way of handling the transition.”
“Yes, that is reasonable.” Her stiff face relaxed.
Yet as I retreated to my room I felt like a naughty schoolgirl escaping from the principal’s office. The strange thing was, I was beginning to like the woman—or rather, not dislike her as much as I had. We had nothing in common, we could never be friends. But if we had met under other circumstances, we might have felt at ease with each other. I had to admit that the present circumstances were mostly my fault.
II
I waited for Sebastiano in the hall. It was raining so hard I preferred Emilia’s not-so-thinly-veiled hostile glances as she passed back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room. I wondered why she disliked me so much—or rather, why she let it show. Alberto couldn’t have any better opinion of me, but he had never been less than obsequious after the first encounter, when he had not known who I was.
As soon as I saw the headlights I pulled the hood of the raincoat over my head and went out. Dusk had fallen; Sebastiano didn’t see me till I opened the car door and tumbled in.
“Is this the American liberation I am always reading about?” he demanded. “You can’t allow a man to do something for you?”
“It isn’t liberation, it’s common sense. Why should both of us get wet?”
“I have,” said Sebastiano, “an umbrella.”
I remained respectfully silent, and after a moment he added, wonderingly, “Why did I say that? I sound like an English butler.”
“I’ll let you use the umbrella next time,” I promised.
He didn’t get a chance at the restaurant; the doorman had his own, a perfect monster of an umbrella, the biggest I had seen off a beach. We did not go into the city, but dined at a new restaurant on the outskirts; it had been a monastery, and the restoration was charming and whimsical. Favored patrons, of whom Sebastiano appeared to be one, had tables in miniature white-painted cells, with a discreet wooden grille on the open side.
Since I never can leave well enough alone, I proceeded to spoil the cheerful atmosphere by asking Sebastiano if his ribs had healed. After all, the last time I had seen him, he had been hobbling with one hand pressed to his side as if he expected the contents to spill out. The question brought a frown to his face, and a curt reply: He was fully recovered, thank you.
I took his annoyance for a display of wounded male ego and would have dropped the subject; but then he said, still frowning, “I suppose I must tell you. I have been debating as to whether I ought; but if you are driving yourself, especially at night…The reason I skidded is because someone ran out in front of the car.”
“Good heavens! Alberto, was it?”
“Not Alberto. This was someone I had never seen before—a truly monstrous figure, like a creature from one of the old horror films. He appeared out of nowhere. I had to slam the brakes on and the car went out of control.”
“I think I know who it was,” I said. “Francesca has a poor mentally handicapped man working as assistant to Alberto. He has physical handicaps as well.”
“Ah, I see. It occurred to me that it was a vagrant—a tramp. But in that first moment I confess I felt a touch of superstitious panic. I was reminded of the great Lon Chaney in some of his masterful performances.”
“I know how you felt. I had a brief encounter with the man one day in broad daylight, and I was uneasy too. I don’t suppose he realized that he was endangering himself, or you.”
“I’m glad you understand. Most of the unfortunates who suffer from such handicaps are the gentlest of people. You probably frightened him more than he frightened you in the encounter you spoke of. It is a shame the public has such a distorted view of mental illness.”
“Thanks in part to those horror movies you’re so fond of.”
“People ought to be able to distinguish between fact and fantasy.” He added shrewdly, “Don’t you liberated ladies have daydreams of being overpowered by a handsome pirate or highwayman? You wouldn’t really want it to happen to you, though.”
I didn’t resent the touch of malice in his speech. He could not know why it hit so close to home.
I turned my attention to the menu. It was decorated with amusing little sketches of plump monks doing various things…. “Good heavens,” I said, blinking.
Sebastiano laughed. “They are clever sketches, aren’t they? I hope they don’t offend you. Outsiders are sometimes puzzled by what they consider our cavalier approach to religion.”
I assured him I was not offended. The approach of adolescent girls to religion is not always conventional, either. I told him about a sign one of the girls had tacked up on her locker, until one of the nuns removed it. “Holy Virgin, who conceived without sin, let me sin without conceiving.”
Sebastiano chortled over that one, and we exchanged stories until we were toying with salad, which in Italy, as I had discovered, is served after the main course. I was having such a good time I almost hated to bring up the subject of Pete. I knew I was going to be scolded.
He didn’t blow up when I told him about the most recent attack, but the look he gave me was not exactly admiring. “And you didn’t mention it to Francesca? Kathy, I can’t believe you could be so careless.”
I didn’t deny the charge. “I’d have called you if you had been available. Oh hell, why not admit it? I don’t approve of the way Francesca is handling the child.”
“I assume she is following my instructions. You are a sentimental little thing, Kathleen.”
I didn’t deny that accusation either, though it sparked a tiny flame of resentment. I don’t like being treated like a sweet little dumb female. “Is it your idea that he live at home, without a tutor or governess or teacher? Without friends his own age? There isn’t one person in that house who shows him affection, except the cook, and he hardly ever sees her.”
“I suggested to Francesca that he would be better off at school. There are excellent institutions….”
“Then why hasn’t she done it? Why haven’t you insisted?”
“Insist? With Francesca?” His laugh was tinged with bitterness. “I sometimes think a hereditary nobility is the curse of any country. They have no power; they are often stupid, uneducated; yet the aura of superiority still surrounds them.”
“Francesca would be charismatic if she had been born in a gutter,” I said. “I understand your dilemma; she’s in charge of the boy, and you can’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. You’ll be glad to hear that she is considering a change. Within the next few days.”
“What? She has said nothing to me. But,” he added sourly, “she would not consider it necessary. She wouldn’t notify her hairdresser or her plumber that she meant to stop his services.”
“Come on now,” I said. “You’re a big, grown-up psychiatrist. Can’t you laugh at Francesca’s foibles?”
“I may be a psychiatrist, but I am also human.” He shook his head. “This news disturbs me. Vanity aside, I would have expected her to consult me as to where the boy should be sent. The doctor who takes over his treatment ought to know what I have done and what results I have achieved. How soon is this change to take place?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I won’t mention that you told me. But I am entitled to know what you know.”
He was all business, brisk and professional. I had to agree with him. So I told him what Francesca had said.
“She is closing the villa?” he exclaimed. “But then you—you too are going away.”
“You must have known I would, sooner or later. This isn’t my home.”
“Of course. I don’t know why I had the impression you were staying on indefinitely. Something Francesca said, I suppose. Then I won’t see you again.”
He took my hand and looked deep into my eyes. His disappointment pleased me, but it also aroused feelings I could not encourage. “Now who’s being sentimental?” I said lightly. “I’ll be back one day. At least I hope I will. This hasn’t exactly been a pleasure trip.”
We lingered late over coffee and brandy, talking—mostly about Pete, but also about the country Sebastiano loved and his regret that I had seen so little of it. “Surely I will see you another time before you go,” he said.
“I had better not plan on it. My schedule is still uncertain. And Francesca doesn’t like my seeing you. I won’t sneak behind her back, and I don’t want to make her angry.”
“You are not immune to the aristocratic aura, either.”
“It isn’t that.” I didn’t want to tell him my real reasons for wanting to remain on good terms with Francesca. She hadn’t actually said she was sending Pete back to the States with me; if I told Sebastiano, he might repeat my statement to Francesca, despite his promises, and she might resent my interference.
Sebastiano didn’t give up easily. He continued to press his point as we drove back. “There is so much to see and do in Italy, so much to experience. It is nothing less than an insult that you are leaving so soon. You need not stay with Francesca. There are other places.”
Other bedrooms, other beds. He wouldn’t make the offer openly unless I responded to his hint. There was enough of the traditionalist under his modern manners to make him a little hesitant about propositioning a widow of three months—a sharer, however faintly, of that aristocratic aura he had mentioned. If it hadn’t been for Pete…well, I’m not sure how I would have responded. As it was, all I could do was pretend I didn’t know what he was getting at, which made me appear pretty simpleminded.
He was still at it when we stopped in front of the villa. “Don’t go in just yet,” he murmured. “It is still early—see, there are lights in several windows.”
Making out in the front seat of a car isn’t my idea of comfort. If Sebastiano had yearned to bid me a prolonged and passionate farewell, there had been a dozen places along the way where he could have pulled off the road. I knew his reason for waiting until we reached the villa, and a damned childish reason it was. He had even checked to make sure the inhabitants were awake and watching before…
One of the lighted windows was that of my room. The golden rectangle was bisected by a shadow. It was blurred by rain and distance, but I knew what it was doing. Looking down at the car.
Emilia, on her nightly errand of turning down the bed and tidying the room? The shadowy shape looked taller and slimmer than hers.
“I’ve got to go in,” I said.
He took my hand. “I find it harder to say good-bye than I had thought. There is a conference this fall, in New York….”
I agreed to meet him in New York, to call him before I left Italy, to try to find time to see him again. I may have agreed to move in with him or help him rob a bank; I don’t know what I said. I didn’t linger to make sure he negotiated the drive without incident. The door was unlocked. I closed it and went straight up the stairs.
My room was empty. The fire had been built up and the bedclothes had been turned back. Across the bed…It looked like the sprawled body of a woman, impossibly slender, long skirts trailing, head concealed by the shadow of the curtains.
I found the switch controlling the chandelier and the room sprang into brilliant light. It wasn’t a body. It was a nightgown, arranged in the faintly grotesque shape employed by chambermaids in old-fashioned, elegant hotels—waist pinched, skirts carefully spread out. Not that I had ever stayed in such places, but I had read or heard about the custom. The most interesting thing was that it was not my nightgown. It looked like one of Francesca’s; silk chiffon, transparent as a drift of cloud, lace-trimmed and embroidered.
I touched the folds of the skirt. The garment looked brand-new, but the truth didn’t dawn on me until I saw the other things. They lay in piles on the chair next to the bed, neatly folded, just as they had come from the shop. Bras and panties, nightgowns, slips—the finest batiste and the most delicate silk, tucked and pleated.
When I acted, it was without conscious thought. The emotion that moved me wasn’t anger or resentment or pride, it was simple negation—a large, silent NO.
Carrying the nightgown, I marched down the hall to Francesca’s room. She wasn’t asleep. I could hear voices. The fact that I could hear them through the heavy door suggested that she was berating Emilia about something.
I knocked. Francesca answered: “Who is it?” She must have known who it was, otherwise she wouldn’t have spoken English. I answered anyway.
“It’s me, Kathy. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Just a moment.”
It was more than a moment. The seconds ticked by as I stood there. When Francesca finally opened the door I thought I understood the delay. She wouldn’t allow anyone except her maid—a nonperson, by her definition—to see her au naturel. Her makeup had been so hastily applied it failed to cover the deep lines framing her mouth.
She stood back to let me enter. It was the first time I had seen her bedroom. The color scheme was her favorite ivory and off-white; it gave the room an oddly Spartan, almost monkish appearance. But the sheets on the narrow bed were silk, and the top of the dressing table was covered with cosmetics and beauty aids. The only other modern touch was a small clock radio. There was no one else in the room, so I decided I must have heard the radio. Or else Emilia had gone out through the adjoining room, presumably a bathroom, whose door stood slightly ajar.
I held out the nightgown. “I can’t take this, Francesca. Or the other things. I appreciate the thought, but I can’t.”
Her only visible reaction was a tightening of the muscles at the corners of her mouth. Anger, I assumed. I had not been very gracious.
After a moment she said, “Don’t you like the…things?”
“They’re beautiful. But—no, they aren’t what I would have selected, even if I had the money. I haven’t time to hand-wash and iron lingerie.”
“Money,” she repeated, with a faint distaste. “As I told you, you have a legitimate claim.”
Even in my present mood I was not boorish enough to say that if there was something owed me, I’d rather have the cash. The amount that had been spent on the lacy frivolities would have paid my rent for a year.
So the discussion ended, as it had before, with my giving in—or appearing to. I couldn’t afford to alienate her at this stage. I told myself I would leave the clothes in the wardrobe when I left.
As I went out I noticed that the door next to Francesca’s was open. So was the door leading into the abandoned wing. Emilia could have gone that way. I had meant to ask her if she had been in my room, but the question was irrelevant now. It must have been Francesca whom I had seen looking down from the window.
A breath of cold air brushed my face from the open door. The darkness at the end of the long, empty corridor seemed to shift and curdle, like shadows trying to shape themselves into a solid form. With the cold air came sound, a breath of soft laughter, trembling on the rim of soundlessness.
When I got back to my room, breathless and shaking, I saw that the fragile silk of the gown was crushed and wrinkled where my hands had squeezed it. I threw it onto the chair and got into bed.
Then I got out of bed. Once again the hated, the too-familiar ritual—a look at a sleeping child, a turn of a key in the lock. The hallway was chilly with dampness, and some of the bulbs had burned out.
III
I was beginning to count the days—and the nights. Perhaps the weather had something to do with my growing impatience to be gone. Wednesday was another gloomy, dripping day, which meant I couldn’t take Pete outdoors. I should have driven to Florence and visited the museums, and the other sights that draw tourists from all over the world; heaven knew when I would be able to afford to visit Europe again. Hopefully I would come back someday; but at the moment I only wanted to be somewhere else.
I decided I had a legitimate need to know how Francesca’s plans were developing. I had promised my father I’d call when I got my reservation. That call had yet to be made. I faced Francesca with the question at breakfast; and, as usual, her unsmiling regard drove me into incoherent and graceless explanations that probably bored her as much as they disgusted me. “I have to let the folks know when I’m arriving. It’s a long drive from Wayford to Boston, and my brothers work, and so does my father, part-time anyhow, and my mother hates to drive….”
