Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (85 page)

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Because the arrow says San Miniato in this direction.”

“Quite right,” he said, and we drove up a steep hill.

Our ride had taken us along the Lungarno, where we had crossed the river at the Ponte alle Grazie, turning into the Piazza Peggi, from whence we were now wending our way, circuitously, to the Piazza di Mechelangelo, passing a campanile of ancient times. When at last we reached the very summit of the hill, Gianni parked the car; we got out and he led me over to a waist-high brick wall.

“Now you see the beauty of Firenze,” he said, pointing downward. “Now you see my beloved city. Is it not wonderful?”

If I had thought the vista from the villa exquisite, it was nothing compared to this. I longed for the wings of a bird, so as to fly, free and unencumbered, over the loveliness that lay below. Every spire and dome, tower and turret, was like a miracle: what lay below seemed fairyland, a shimmering mirage, like the wondrous landscape in the pure and guiltless mind of a child. The Arno, a ribbon of gold-glazed blue, pierced the distant city like a needle. I caught my breath and Gianni bent to look at me.

“Is it not fascinating?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He looked closely at me. Embarrassed, trying not to show my emotion, I turned away. But he tipped my chin up.

“I think you like it very much,” he said simply. “I think you feel it in your heart, the way you look at it So then don’t go back. Stay here. Why do you want to go back?”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” I said irritably … irritably because I ached
not
to go back. I pushed his hand away. “Let’s go into the Cathedral.”

“All right,” he said, and as we went up the long, steep flight of stone steps, I could hear the organ thundering away. It was Bach, a toccata and fugue, and the interior of the cathedral was cold and eternal: it had been there for hundreds of years, for another hundred of years would give solace to troubled hearts. I had a moment of fierce anger at the practice of obsolescence in my own country. Nothing was sacred, nothing inviolate … nothing …

We walked down the aisles, our footsteps echoing hollowly on the marble. Dim, vaulted, the rose windows blazing in the afternoon sun, the beautiful old church was a reminder of beauty that could never die, or ever be extinguished. Eternally tranquil, promising life everlasting for those who ached for it, the vast stone edifice was a reminder that man had a soul, and was not totally venal. It was a sanctuary, and the message outside, on one of the great oaken doors, proclaimed it.

To all those tired, or weary in heart, or forsaken, these walls are shelter and retreat, for meditation and prayer. All are welcome, whatever their faith or denomination. Pax vobiscum.

As we left, the organist, having finished his Toccata and Fugue, switched to A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. And to those majestic strains we left, Gianni and I, and went down the stairs again, dozens of stone steps, hundreds. His hand was in mine, helping me, and I didn’t question it. I wanted the warmth of his skin, human warmth, right now … right now …

At the bottom of the steps he tipped up my chin again. “So,” he said. “You are a romantic. A poet. I like that. Your eyes are filmed with emotion. I like it, signorina. Very much.”

“My name is Barbara,” I said crossly, trying to blink the idiotic tears away. “Why can’t you call me that?”

“I will,” he promised. “Yes, I will. Only, let’s be frivolous now. There’s a cafe just down the hill. Come on, darling, smile again.”

The roadside cafe looked like a picture postcard, with trellised vines overhead that were heavy with purple grapes. There were flowers in abundance, in stone pots, and it was well patronized, with American, British and German tourists, and a sprinkling of Italians. We had sandwiches and beer.

Four o’clock vespers rang out, and a contingent of novices, white-robed, moved in stately fashion from the cathedral, carrying banners, to the Baptistry beyond. Birds sang in trees and a camera flashed, capturing a party of people at an adjacent table, along with me and Gianni, forever.

I looked at my watch. “Getting late,” I said regretfully. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go.”

“You are right,” he said, sighing, and called for the
conta.

“It was a nice afternoon,” he said, as we left.

“It was a beautiful afternoon. I’ll never forget it. Thanks, Gianni. Thanks very much.”

When we got back, Lucrezia was just leaving. She told me that Elizabeth and I had been invited next door for dinner. She gave Gianni and me a sly look and, behind his back, even winked at me. I winked back, not to be outdone. She climbed onto her Vespa and, before starting the motor, called to me, “Signorina, the evening is quite cool. Perhaps you had better take a shawl for the signora. In the top drawer of her dresser.”

“All right,” I called back, and told Gianni to go on ahead. “You won’t take all night?” he demanded, a hand on my arm.

“No, I
won’t
take all night. I just want to wash my hands and get Elizabeth’s shawl. Tell your family five or ten minutes, I’ll hurry.”

I went into the house, lit a few lamps for cheer, ran my hands under the water and didn’t bother to do anything else. There was this to say for a sunburn: makeup wasn’t required. I regarded my bronzed face in the mirror and told myself I was quite a dish. Then I snapped out the light over the washbasin, made my way to Elizabeth’s room, found a shawl and was about to step into the garden when something caught my eye.

I don’t know why, but I noticed.

Of course Lucrezia had much work to do in this large villa, even our half of it, and I had observed that surfaces were not entirely free of dust. It didn’t matter. The only thing I was ever fearful of, in my Manhattan apartment, was roaches. I had been lucky in that regard, but part of it was due to eternal vigilance. A little dust didn’t break my heart so long as vermin were not present.

It wasn’t the dust that bothered me. It was the fingerprints in the dust. Oh, not well-defined prints … simply the marks of hands in several places. Marks that left little, clean trails. It gave me a kind of electric feeling, those little trails. It signalled something to me.

I looked about and saw the streaks everywhere. On a desk, a lowboy, a bedside table. My bachelor apartment had been broken into once, and it was just small signs that had stayed in my mind. Little nothings … but amounting to so much in the final analysis.

Abruptly, I left Elizabeth’s room and went back to my own. And yes, they were there too, those ghostly fingerprints, etched, eerily, on the top of my vanity, my writing table and my bureau. And then, alerted, an uncomfortable pounding in my chest, I checked my armoire.

It was closed, as usual, but was not closed
correctly.
That is to say, the left hand door had a catch at the top which, unless one slid it up, left the door a tiny bit ajar. It was ajar now, although that very morning I had secured it firmly. I was not the most compulsive person in the world, but living alone in a rather small flat I had learned the value of good housekeeping.

And I knew I had slid the catch earlier.

Someone had been in my room. And in Elizabeth’s room. I was sure of it.

Looking for something?

But what?

I stared at myself in the mirror over the washbasin, smoothing an eyebrow thoughtfully. What in the world could someone expect to find in Elizabeth’s chaste room … or for that matter, in mine?

I didn’t know, couldn’t imagine. But I was sure, was positive, that someone had been roving through our bedrooms, and it made me uneasy.

For the moment, only that.

But I knew that when night fell, and I was all alone in this room, with someone able to step in over that low sill, as I slept —

That I would be intimidated, apprehensive, and that I would find sleep difficult to come by.

“Now this is ridiculous,” I said to my reflection, and snapped off the light. I picked up my handbag and stepped outside onto the grass, making my way to the gate and then through it. I was greeted warmly, asked my preference in the way of drinks, and Elizabeth asked me if I’d had a good day.

“Gianni said the two of you went to San Miniato.”

“Yes, it was gorgeous.”

“A superlative view,” the Principe said. “I was told it affected you so that you had tears in your eyes.”

“Did he say that?” I asked, annoyed. “It was simply the sun in my eyes.”

The Principessa smiled. “You seem to have a Latin temperament,” she said. “Don’t be ashamed, it is a sublime sight up there.”

“But you haven’t done any shopping yet?” Francesca asked, looking surprised, even shocked. “But our shops are … one day you and I will go together,
si?
You would save money, without the import tax.”

“Yes, I really should buy a few things,” I agreed, and asked where her daughter was.

“In bed and, I hope, asleep,” Francesca said, but as I sat drinking my
aperitivo
I caught sight of a golden head at the upstairs window where earlier I had seen the Principe with his newspaper. The little girl was leaning out, her chubby arms on the sill, looking down at us, and I had a recollection from the distant past of myself sitting on the stairs of our duplex, gazing through the carved railings of the banister at the incoming guests … the beautiful dresses, the perfume drifting upwards …

She saw me, made a round “O” with her lips, and instantly retreated. I didn’t let on.

Dinner was served just as the dying day turned into a violet dusk. The Principessa, like any ordinary housewife, brought out the meal on a cart, wheeling it across the lawn. Both Gianni and Benedetto jumped up to help her and, pushing a strand of her iron-gray hair back from a faintly perspiring forehead, she took her place at the table and began serving. It was a simple meal but a delicious one, veal in a butter sauce, with small artichokes, following an Italian equivalent of Coquille St. Jacques. In an ice bucket were two bottles of wine. I said I was becoming fond of wine with my meals and asked what I was drinking. The Principe said, with a smile, that it was simply a
vin ordinaire
, from one of the nearby estates of the
campagna.

“It costs very little,” he admitted. “But we prefer it to more sophisticated vintages.”

It was a fine evening. Elizabeth, who sat across from me, told me I was
so
wise not to wear my dresses that dismal new length. “With legs like yours it would be criminal to hide them. I myself used to be admired for my legs.”

“Oh, now you are fishing,” Gianni said teasingly, and kissed the back of her hand. “You have better legs than most women half your age.”

“My legs still aren’t too bad,” she said pridefully, and I realized she was a bit tipsy with the wine. “But the rest of me is porridge. Oh well, what does it matter? I’ve had my day. Now it’s your turn, you young people.”

“Here’s to legs,” Benedetto said, raising his glass. Francesca giggled and said, “Now, now, Benno.”

“Oh, but I like legs,” he said, and sank his teeth into her shoulder, at which she giggled again and pushed him away.

“Animale …”

He said something in a low voice and she raised her eyes to heaven. “This is a sinful man,” she cried. “I married such a
terrible
man …”

“Gianni, would you see to the espresso,” the Principessa said, and Gianni got up to lift the urn from the cart. It was dark now, with only the candles flickering, and a firefly or two jetting through the dimness with a flash of gold. The valley below was a blaze of light, winking from window and turret, and the air was like gossamer.

No wonder Mercedes had never left, I thought. No wonder …

I was sitting in the garden next morning, after breakfast. Elizabeth had excused herself, saying that she had slept badly the night before and would take a few winks to make up for it. I had my face tipped up to the sun and was thinking about buying a bikini at one of the shops down the hill when I heard a voice. Opening my eyes, I saw Francesca standing at the gate of the dividing stone wall.

I said, “
Buon giorno
, Francesca,” and she lifted a hand, said, “May I?” and without waiting for an answer came through the gate and toward me.

I saw at once that she had been crying. Her sherry-colored eyes were puffy and, perhaps noticing my scrutiny, she reached in the pocket of a handsome, trailing robe and put on a pair of oversized sunglasses.

“Do I disturb you?” she asked.

“No, of course not. Please sit down. I was just being lazy, and trying to get as brown as a berry. This Italian sun really does the trick.”

“Yes,” she said, but vaguely, as if she had only half heard me. She sat down on one of the white garden chairs, reached in a pocket again, brought out a packet of Italian cigarettes and pulled one out. She found a match, lit the cigarette, and was unable to hide the trembling of her hands. I did my best to cover up for her.

“Would you like some coffee? Lucrezia, I’m sure, has a fresh pot. No? That’s a beautiful thing you’re wearing, Francesca. I haven’t bought anything yet. I was just thinking about a bikini or two. You said you’d tell me what shops to go to. Oh, there’s an ashtray. How is your dear little girl? I can’t tell you how charming she is. I’m sure you’re very proud of her …”

And, chattering, I watched her trembling subside. The fingers that held the cigarette were steady now. She pushed the gigantic sunglasses, tinted a bright blue, further up her small, chiselled nose and smiled at me.

“I suppose you can see I’m upset,” she said.

“Why …”

She shook her head impatiently. “Of course you can. It must be quite evident. You see, signorina, I’m — ”

I waited, while she puffed at her cigarette and then, with a set jaw, crushed it out in the ashtray.

“It is very …
difficile,
” she said, her voice hard and brittle. She bit her underlip. “I wake in the morning and ask myself why I should go on. Yes, signorina, I am at my wit’s end. Women have not the easiest of lives. They watch and wait … and who knows where it will all end?”