Just South of Rome (6 page)

I went downstairs.

‘You look beautiful.’

It was exactly ten past seven and Stefano was leaning against the bar, chatting to Sarina.

‘Thank you.’ I was pleased at the ease with which I accepted the compliment. My reaction to flattery was usually rather gauche. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I fell asleep.’

Umberto, Rosella and Natale were at their customary table and Umberto leapt to his feet. ‘Ah,
bella bella signorina
Jane.’ He pounced on my hand, kissed it and dragged me over to the others. ‘Come, come, you sit with us. What you like to drink?’

My look to Stefano said
Must we?
, and thankfully he came to my rescue. ‘Why don’t we take our drinks into the dining room,’ he suggested, ‘before it gets crowded?’

‘Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks, Sarina. Hello, Rosella, Natale.’

‘
Buonasera
,’ Natale half rose from the table and gave a bob while Rosella looked admiringly up at me.

‘You are make-up,’ she said. ‘You eyes is beautiful.’

‘Thank you, Rosella, what a lovely colour.’ She was in peacock blue tonight.

Stefano handed me my gin and tonic, surprisingly cold with a generous serve of ice. We toasted the others, excused ourselves and left for the dining room.

There was a distant flash of lightning as we seated ourselves at the table by the French windows, then the faint rumble of thunder. ‘There is going to be a big storm,’ Stefano said. ‘It has been threatening all day.’

‘
Buonasera
.’ Annita had materialised the moment we sat.

‘
Buonasera,
Annita.’ I smiled, but the smile and nod she returned was that of a
subordinate awaiting orders. There was no trace of the warmth, or of the madness, for that matter, that I had witnessed earlier in the afternoon.

‘Bring me several bottles of Umberto’s wine, thank you, Annita,’ Stefano said. ‘We’ll choose the one we want.’

‘Of course.’ And she marched away.

‘She’s a strange woman,’ I said as I watched her leave.

‘Yes. She was held hostage by terrorists in an aircraft hijack, that’s probably why.’

‘Oh,’ I was taken aback. Annita had recounted her trauma to me in the utmost confidence, or so I’d presumed. ‘You knew that too?’

‘Of course. Everyone knows about Annita.’

I was going to say something, but decided not to pursue it and concentrated on the menu instead, although I knew exactly what I was going to have.

‘What did you do today?’ Stefano asked.

‘I walked, for hours actually, to the lake and through the old quarter of town.’

‘It is beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘The lake? Yes, lovely.’

‘I meant Genzano.’

‘Oh.’ I thought of the decayed villa just down the street and the slum-like lanes and alleys I’d explored. No, I couldn’t say they were beautiful; picturesque, evocative of bygone days, yes, but not beautiful. ‘It was certainly a beautiful town once,’ I said, which I thought was both honest and diplomatic.

Stefano was studying me closely, the same concentrated attention which had so attracted and confused me on our first meeting. ‘It is beautiful still. Very beautiful, if you look at it through the right eyes.’

There was no rebuke in his tone but I wondered if I’d hurt his feelings; he was a
local after all. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t criticising your town, it’s very picturesque, I just meant –’

‘It is not my town. I come from Castel Gandalfo.’

Those eyes again. They were too intimate, demanding something of me. I determined to keep the conversation light-hearted. ‘Castel Gandalfo, yes, I know. And your father is Italian and your mother is English.’

Hah! I’d got him. He was confused by the change of topic.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And they have a restaurant with views of the lake.’

‘Yes.’ Still confused. Good.

‘And their names are Bruno and Wendy,’ I said triumphantly.

‘No. Their names are Giovanni and Jill.’

‘Oh.’

‘I have the afternoon off tomorrow, why don’t you stay another day and let me show you the town properly?’

My mind was still dwelling on Bruno and Wendy. Well of course there would be a number of restaurants with views of the lake, wouldn’t there? It really didn’t bear closer inspection, I told myself.

‘I’m sorry?’ I hadn’t properly absorbed what he’d said.

‘Stay another day.’

This time I heard. And there was a special invitation in his eyes, I was sure. I felt a resurgence of my initial reaction to the man. I’d been right, I thought. He was a suave Italian womaniser and I was a lone female tourist viewed as prime game.

‘No,’ I said tartly, ‘that’s not possible. I have a very strict itinerary, which I intend to keep.’

Stefano sensed the walls go up but he merely shrugged and said pleasantly, ‘A pity.
I have a friend with a boat; we could have gone rowing on the lake,’ outside, the lightning cracked, ‘but then perhaps not.’ His smile was so amiable that once again I regretted sounding rude. God, the man was confusing.

Another crack and the gardens flared white as streaks of lightning forked the sky. ‘It’s almost overhead now,’ Stefano said, both of us gazing out at the storm. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’

The rain was pelting down and there was an ominous rumble. It built and built until the thunder broke free with an angry roar, and we waited once again for the lightning. There it was, a maddened yellow serpent in the sky, and outside the garden of ghostly white trees and vines and statues was frozen in time.

‘Yes, quite magnificent,’ I agreed.

Annita arrived with the wine. Stefano chose one of the bottles and insisted on paying cash for it.

‘Well, dinner’s going on my bill,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘You cannot pay for my dinner,’ I was about to interrupt, ‘my meals at the Hotel Visconti are free.’ Then he added with a mischievous smile, ‘If you wish to take me out to dinner, you will have to stay another night.’

I laughed, feeling silly for having taken offence earlier. ‘Really, Stefano, I can’t.’ It was true: I certainly couldn’t at the prices Umberto charged.

As Annita poured the wine, I said very firmly, ‘I’d like the
bistecca
with
spinaci,
thank you.’

‘The
bistecca?
’

This time I refused to be deterred by the blank look. ‘Yes, thank you, and the
spinaci.
’

‘One moment.’

As she left for the kitchen, Stefano raised his glass. ‘Good luck.’ We clinked glasses and took our first sip. The wine was very good.

‘Well, that’s one step in the right direction,’ I said. Then Umberto arrived at the table and the farce began.

‘You no want the
bistecca
–’

‘I do.’

‘For you I have tonight my special …’

It went on for several minutes, and the Americans were stampeding through the doors when I finally said, very loudly, ‘I take it you have no
bistecca,
Umberto.’ At which point he halted and stood stiffly to attention, the proud and wounded host.

‘Of course I have the
bistecca
. I have the best
bistecca
in the whole of Italy.’

‘Then that is what I will have, thank you. Medium-rare.’

‘As you wish. For you, Stefano?’

‘Just the first course of the pasta, thanks, Umberto.’

Umberto clicked his heels, bobbed his head, sniffed disdainfully and left.

‘You should have ordered from the menu,’ I said. ‘We’re dining a la carte, remember?’

‘You are,’ Stefano replied wryly. ‘I am not game enough.’

‘My, my, just look at that!’ The Americans were louder than ever as they yelled to each other above the crash of thunder. ‘Will you look at that lightning, my, my!’ Mary-Jane was the loudest of them all as they crammed around the windows ooh-ing and aah-ing each time the gardens flashed eerie and white.

As soon as the bowls of pasta appeared, however, the glorious Sarina once again scuttling from table to table, they sprang quickly to their seats to address the serious business of the day.

Annita delivered bread rolls and a salad to our table and returned moments later with an obscenely large steak and a bowl of pasta.

‘Bistecca,
’ she announced, ‘and salmon fettuccine.’

‘And
spinaci
?’ I queried.

‘
Spinaci
is out of season.’

I didn’t return Stefano’s look. I had my
bistecca
and I had won, I told myself as I attacked it.

The meat was inedible. I hacked and sawed and could barely get my knife through it. Tough as boot leather, red and cold in the middle. ‘It’s still frozen,’ I said incredulously.

Stefano simply laughed. ‘What did you expect?’

There was a loud shriek. It was Mary-Jane. She lifted the tablecloth and peered beneath the table. ‘We’re being flooded!’ she yelled.

It was true. The rain had seeped through both sets of French windows and was rapidly coursing its way under the tables. I looked down; any minute we’d be standing in centimetres of water.

The women jumped to their feet and started dragging their tables towards the main doors and the dance floor. Umberto, Sarina and Annita ran around with tablecloths and towels, damming up the doors. Stefano, strangely, was ripping open bread rolls and stuffing them with salad.

‘I think we’d better move,’ I suggested.

‘Yes,’ he said, wrapping the bread rolls in a napkin and draining his wine glass. ‘Finish your wine.’

Automatically I did as I was told and he took both our empty glasses. ‘Bring the bottle,’ he said.

‘Where are we going?’

‘For a picnic.’

Mystified, I followed him through reception and into the hallway, where he grabbed a mackintosh from the hallstand.

‘A picnic in the storm?’ I queried as he threw the mackintosh over our heads and opened the front door.

‘What better way to see it?’

‘You’re mad.’ And together we raced out into the pelting rain.

Across the gravelled courtyard, past the fountain, between the statues, beneath the vine-covered trellises (damn, I felt the heel of a shoe snap) and finally to the pergola at the far end of the garden.

We were breathless when we arrived, and a bit giggly with excitement. Stefano plonked the food and glasses on the wooden table, shook the mackintosh out and draped it over a bench.

‘Did you get very wet?’

‘No, surprisingly. Busted a shoe though.’ I took both shoes off. The heel of one had disappeared completely. ‘Who cares?’ I shrugged. ‘They’d had it anyway.’ They hadn’t ‘had it’ at all – they were my very best black courts – but shoes seemed a petty consideration, standing there amongst the vines, the storm raging about us.

‘I wonder how old they are,’ I said, peering up at the vines, thick and impregnable, which formed the roof of the pergola. Barely a drop of rain escaped them.

‘Very, very old,’ Stefano replied, pouring the wine, ‘possibly hundreds of years.’

We sat side by side on the wooden bench, sipping our wine, eating our bread rolls and admiring the storm. I wondered if, a hundred years ago, another young couple had sat under these vines watching a storm. And I wondered if, in a hundred years from now, yet another young couple would be watching yet another storm.

‘This was a good idea,’ I said, finishing my bread roll.

‘I had to do something to get you out of there.’ Stefano was enjoying the whole experience as much as I was. He looked very boyish in his excitement, I thought. ‘You should have seen your face when you were attacking that steak.’ He laughed. ‘Poor Umberto, I feared for his safety.’

His laughter was infectious. I joined in.

He poured another glass of wine and we sat in silence while the storm rumbled its way towards the distant hills. Finally, its ferocity spent, we were left with nothing but the torrential rain and an occasional grumble of far-off thunder.

I don’t know how long we sat there but, as the rain lessened, a wonderful sense of peace pervaded the garden. I couldn’t help but feel surrounded also by a strange sense of triumph, as if this timeless space, in once again escaping the wrath of the elements, was claiming an age-old victory.

Possibly it was this sense of occasion or possibly I was cold, but I shivered a little.

‘You’re cold,’ Stefano said and put his arm around me.

I was suddenly self-conscious. Was this the precursor to an embrace? Was he going to kiss me? I wouldn’t have minded at all if he had, in fact I wanted him to, but his hand was gently and firmly massaging my right arm, a natural gesture to warm me. How was I supposed to react?

‘I don’t know how you can defend him. He’s a dreadful man.’ When in doubt I always talk.

‘Who?’

The arm continued to harmlessly massage. Yes, he was only intending to warm me, I thought, feeling vaguely disappointed.

‘Umberto. Do you know he leads Rosella and Natale on shamelessly? They
honestly think he’s going to make Rosella a star.’ He was looking at me, and once again I was disconcerted. Keep talking, I told myself, keep talking. ‘Well, I think that’s terrible, don’t you?’

‘No.’ He’d stopped massaging now but his arm remained around me. ‘Umberto is very good for Rosella and Natale.’

I forgot my self-consciousness and stared at him, amazed. ‘Surely you don’t believe that. You couldn’t!’

‘There is little excitement in Genzano.’ Stefano looked out at the rain, which was falling gently now. I recalled my morning’s walk and the desultory air of the town. Well, he was right there, I thought.

‘Rosella is a shop assistant and Natale works for the local post office,’ he continued. ‘Every evening after work, they dress in their finest and come to the Hotel Visconti.’ He turned to me, his arm gently pulling me closer. ‘At the Hotel Visconti they find a world of promise and excitement,’ he was going to kiss me now, I knew it, ‘a world of romance.’ He gathered me in an embrace. ‘What matter if it is fantasy?’

I returned his kiss – a long, lingering, beautiful kiss. I was a little breathless when we parted; my God but I’d never been kissed like that. More importantly, I’d never responded to a kiss like that. I desired him. He knew it too. And I knew that he knew it.