The Importance of Being Seven (30 page)

They stood in the hall.

‘Dark,’ said Bruce. ‘I can’t stand these dark entrance halls. It’s like entering a cave, isn’t it?’

Matthew said nothing. The hall was on the dark side, but no darker than many. And the flat was on the ground floor, which was always darker than the drawing-room floor and the floors above. What did Bruce expect? Mediterranean light?

‘Gloomeee!’ said Bruce, extracting his torch from his pocket. ‘I suppose it’ll be all right, though, if you carry a torch with you most of the time.’

Before Matthew could utter any refutation, Bruce had moved across the hall and was poking about in the corridor. ‘You know, it’s not usual to have the client with you as you do your survey,’ he remarked. ‘It could influence you. You don’t want to see the place through the client’s eyes – you want to see it through your own.’

‘I could wait in the garden,’ said Matthew.

Bruce reassured him. ‘No, don’t go. I quite like having somebody with me. You never know when the floor’s going to collapse. Especially in buildings like this …’ He stamped lightly on the floorboards. ‘Only joking, of course. Ha ha et cetera. Did you hear about that surveyor who looked up the chimney of some house in Perthshire and got stuck? Terrible story. Nobody knew he was doing the survey and he could have died. But somebody came in and heard him and they got him out. Poor chap. Too fat, I suppose. I go to the gym. You go the gym, Matthew?’

Matthew thought of his New Year resolution. ‘I try to. But you know how …’

‘Didn’t think that you were the gym-going type,’ continued Bruce. ‘No disrespect. It’s just that some people look like Mr Universe – others don’t. You know how it is?’

Not having seen Bruce for some time, Matthew had forgotten what it was in the other man’s manner that was so objectionable; now he remembered. It was his utter self-confidence, his breezy insouciance, his tactlessness, his lack of attention to anything that anybody said to him.
And there were probably other failings, too, that would reveal themselves as one got to know Bruce better.

‘Anyway,’ said Bruce. ‘Let’s take a look at this place. What did you pay for it, Matthew?’

Matthew was about to tell him, but Bruce was not listening.

‘I notice that you didn’t ask for a valuation,’ Bruce went on. ‘So I won’t give you anything in writing. But I can give you a verbal valuation if you like. It won’t cost you anything extra. You want it?’

Matthew was uncertain. Bruce, however, continued. ‘In its current condition – which is not brilliant, I’d say – about seven hundred thousand tops. Maybe a tiny bit more in a good market. What did you pay, Matthew? Six fifty?’

Matthew said nothing. Bruce looked at him, waiting for an answer that did not come.

‘You didn’t pay eight, did you?’

Matthew turned away. ‘It’s private,’ he said.

Bruce shrugged. ‘Oh, well. Let’s go through here … Hold on, hold on.’

Matthew watched as Bruce looked up at the ceiling.

‘Odd space,’ said Bruce. ‘Usually you find …’

‘I think they did some alterations,’ said Matthew. ‘The lawyer said something about not having had permission. I thought that it wouldn’t matter too much as we weren’t planning to sell it again in the short term.’

Bruce frowned. ‘Hold on … Look, you see up there? There? Yes. That’s where a wall used to join the roof. That’s what they took away. And it went all the way to where that Chinese thingy is – that cabinet.’

Bruce pointed to the far side of the room where a large Chinese display cabinet reached all the way up from floor to ceiling.

‘Yes,’ said Matthew.

Bruce turned to look at him. He lowered his voice. ‘That wall, Matthew, was a supporting wall. You see – look up there. You see that bulge in the ceiling? That’s your proof.’

‘A supporting wall?’

‘Yes,’ said Bruce. ‘And you know what a supporting wall does? It supports. And you know what happens when you take away a supporting wall? You have no support.’

‘But if that were the case,’ said Matthew, ‘then wouldn’t the ceiling have come down?’

Bruce nodded. ‘It should have. But you see that cabinet over there? That, I think, is holding up the ceiling. Move that and the whole thing comes down.’

Matthew stared at Bruce in horror.

‘And here’s something else,’ said Bruce. ‘If the ceiling comes down, then that could bring down the ceiling above it, and so on – all the way to the top flat and the roof. And if that happened, then the flats next door could lose vital support and come down as well. So the whole of Moray Place could fall over like a house of cards.’

‘Oh,’ said Matthew.

‘So the fact of the matter,’ Bruce said, relishing his newly found Jeremiah role, ‘the fact of the matter is that all of Moray Place is probably being supported by one Chinese cabinet. Quite a thought, that!’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Matthew.

Bruce smiled. ‘Don’t move the Chinese cabinet.’

Matthew moved past Bruce and out into the garden. He felt empty. Was it too late to change his mind? He thought it was. Of course they could get a structural engineer and have some remedial work done – that was the obvious thing to do – but what would Elspeth think of him if she discovered that the flat on which he had
just spent an inordinate amount of money was not only worth much less than the sum he had paid, but was also on the verge of collapsing?

He walked to the end of the garden. There was a small stone bench against the wall there and he sat down on it. Somewhere in one of the nearby trees, a bird burst into song; and then there was a child’s voice and a woman saying something to the child. Did the neighbours know, he wondered, of the deadly peril they were in? Should he warn them and should they evacuate the whole of Moray Place while his missing supporting wall was replaced? He had no doubt but that it was his duty to do that, but it would not be easy.

He closed his eyes. His life, which only a few months ago had seemed uncomplicated, now seemed to be beset with problems and dangers.

They had received very clear instructions as to how to reach the villa. These were now read out by Angus as Domenica drove and Antonia stared dreamily out of the car window.

‘According to this, we come to a milestone that says twenty miles to Montalcino,’ said Angus, consulting the piece of paper given to him earlier by Antonia. ‘Then, after a further ten miles, we start looking for an unmarked road to the left.’

‘Kilometres,’ said Antonia.

Angus studied the handwritten instructions. ‘No, miles. Look, they’ve written miles.’

He handed the piece of paper to Antonia, who looked at it cursorily and then shook her head. ‘Yes, it appears to be miles, but that must be a mistake. The Italians don’t do miles.’

Domenica joined in. ‘But the person who wrote these instructions – your friend – is not Italian. She obviously thinks in miles and realised that we would be doing the same.’

Antonia shook her head again. ‘But what about the milestone?
That’s not going to be in miles, is it? Why would the Italians put miles on a marker? It must be kilometres.’

Angus sought a compromise. ‘Let’s just look for something that says twenty. It doesn’t matter if it’s twenty miles or kilometres or even leagues. Then, when we’ve gone ten kilometres we look for a road. If there is no road, we do an additional … how ever many kilometres would make it up to ten miles.’

‘The wisdom of Solomon,’ announced Domenica. ‘And there, if I’m not mistaken, is the stone.’

They passed the white marker and ten kilometres later they came to the road. This led sharply down, and then levelled off to follow the ridge of a line of gentle, rolling hills. The sides of the hills were covered here and there with rows of vines, lines of dark green that made it seem that the land had been touched by a giant comb. At the edge of the vineyards was scrub bush – a tangle of trees and shrubs, punctuated at points by signs of human attention: a small grove of olive trees, a parade of towering cypresses planted along a track that might once have been an avenue on some grand, now vanished, latifundium.

Domenica drove slowly; the road was unpaved and the tyres were throwing up barrages of tiny stones that sounded sharp against the side of the car. After a short while, the land suddenly opened up on one side and they realised that they were travelling on a small escarpment.

‘Look over there,’ said Angus. ‘Oh …’

Domenica slowed the car.

‘That will be Sant’ Angelo in Colle,’ said Antonia. ‘I’ve seen pictures of it.’

‘Such beauty,’ said Angus. ‘Can it be real?’

It was, although it gave every appearance of being a dream. Domenica applied the brakes and the three of them stared for a moment at the sight of the small town, seemingly suspended in blue air like a delicate, shimmering mirage. Cyril, for whom any sight was perfectly possible, attended not to any of that, but to the smells which were now assailing his nostrils – smells that were unfamiliar to him but urgently begged for investigation. Sticking
his nose out of the open window, he drew in his breath, and then gave a bark of eager anticipation.

‘He wants us to get there,’ said Angus.

They continued their drive. They were close to the villa, which according to the instructions lay only a short way from the farmyard that they could now see coming up on their left. The farmer’s wife, they were told, had the key and would open the villa for them.

She was waiting for them, having spotted the car coming. Domenica addressed her in Italian, which brought a warm gush of welcoming words. Antonia witnessed this sour-faced.

‘She didn’t say she spoke Italian,’ she muttered to Angus. ‘She has such talents.’

‘It will be very useful,’ said Angus. ‘My own Italian is rather weak. I get by, but not very well.’

‘So everybody seems to speak it,’ said Antonia resentfully. ‘I suppose even Cyril.’

Angus smiled. ‘What about you?’

‘I speak German,’ said Antonia. She was not to be upstaged by Domenica; she would not allow it. ‘And French. And a bit of Spanish.’

‘But not Italian.’ said Angus.

There was no time for further discussion, as the farmer’s wife had extracted a key from the pocket of her apron and was gesturing for them to follow her. They left the car where it was – the villa was reached by a narrow track that would not admit a vehicle. It was not far away, separated from the farmyard by little more than a straggle of olive trees. The farmer’s wife explained that she had already stocked the kitchen with some basic supplies – a salami, some bread, pasta. They could get more from Montalcino itself, which was only a twenty-minute walk away on the other side. They could drive, of course, as some Scozzesi who had stayed in the villa last month were unable to cope with walking in the heat.

They came to the villa, which was a smallish, square building of stone topped with a roof of red tiles. There were wide eaves, and shade, and the doors and windows looked invitingly dark and cool in the harsh light of noon. They went inside and were shown round, the farmer’s wife opening shutters as they went from room to room.

‘We shall sleep in this room,’ said Domenica, as they went into the larger bedroom. ‘Which bed would you like, Antonia?’

Antonia made her choice, sulkily.

‘And that, I believe, will be your room, Angus,’ Domenica continued, pointing down the corridor. ‘You have the better view, but then, you are an artist, and that is your right.’

Angus fetched their luggage while Domenica and Antonia investigated the kitchen and received instruction in the operation of the hot water system. Now installed, they sat on the veranda and looked out over the hills. The air was loud with the screech of cicadas; the sky so high and empty that it was barely blue, more a washed-out, exhausted white.

‘I read a poem once,’ said Angus, breaking the silence. ‘It was about angels in Italy. How they are seen flying across a sky exactly like this. Flying on great white wings.’

‘It’s such a pity that angels don’t exist,’ said Domenica. ‘This would be a perfect setting for them.’

Over the next few days, Domenica, Antonia and Angus settled into a routine at the villa. The Italian summer heat was less fierce than usual, and it was possible to walk about in comfort throughout the day, with the possible exception of a couple of hours around noon, when the sun was directly overhead and such shade as the trees afforded was sparse and pinched. That did not matter a great deal to the party; outings into Montalcino took place after breakfast, which was a leisurely meal taken under the vine-covered pergola at the side of the house. From the breakfast table, they watched Signora Ochilupo, the farmer’s wife, as she hung out laundry in the farmyard below or carried hay from the barn to the stalls of the three white oxen that pulled the farm’s antiquated cart. There was little sign of the farmer himself, although occasionally they
spotted him pruning vines or scratching at the surface of the soil with a large and unwieldy hoe.

‘Timeless agriculture,’ said Domenica. ‘Not producing very much, I fear. But doing what their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents did. In the same place, too.’

‘Which we have lost,’ said Angus. ‘We have lost that sense of connection with the past, haven’t we?’ He looked into his coffee cup as he spoke. He had not started to paint yet, but the germ of a painting had planted itself in his mind. He would paint a rural scene in which the sense of continuity and linkage would be explored.

Signora Ochilupo insisted on accompanying them on their first expedition into the village. Not all the shopkeepers were to be trusted, she explained, and prices could be inflated for foreigners. If she went with them, they would be charged the same prices as the locals. She could advise them, too, she said, on the best cheese and salamis.

Domenica assumed responsibility for the cooking. Nothing was said about this, and neither Angus nor Antonia argued with it. Angus was in charge of wine, and bought several bottles of the Ochilupo wine as well as some rather more reliable-looking Rosso di Montalcino and, at considerable expense, a couple of bottles of Brunello. A supply of bones was obtained for Cyril, who had settled more or less immediately into his new existence and had found a good spot under an old olive tree where he could lie and watch the oxen and the few straggly sheep which grazed in the olive grove. He accompanied Angus into the village, too, and had made the acquaintance of several Italian dogs, who had accepted him after only the briefest period of suspicion and distrust.

Angus began to paint; Antonia busied herself with her historical novel set among the early Scottish saints of Galloway, and Domenica read. Each had his or her spot in which to pursue these interests, and if there had been tension at the beginning of the trip, there was none now.

‘I could stay here for ever,’ said Domenica. ‘Doing just this – which is largely nothing.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Angus. ‘I could too.’

‘We mustn’t vegetate,’ said Antonia. ‘Florence beckons.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Angus. ‘The Uffizi. And the Brancacci Chapel at Santa Maria del Carmine. Could I put in a special plea for a visit to the Brancacci Chapel? I want to see the frescoes.’

‘Anything is possible,’ said Domenica, adding, ‘now that we are in Italy.’

‘There is a fresco by Masaccio,’ Angus went on. ‘St Peter baptising the neophytes. And there are the most extraordinary hills in the background – rather like anthills.’

‘We shall certainly see those then,’ said Antonia.

‘And Cyril,’ said Angus. ‘Cyril would love to see pictures of St Francis for whom, as a dog, he must have a special affection. There is a lovely one of the saint with birds perching on his arms. I think it’s in the Chiesa di San Francesco.’

‘If he’s allowed in,’ said Antonia.

‘I cannot imagine that animals would be barred from a church dedicated to their patron saint,’ said Domenica. ‘But one never knows.’

‘Of course dogs have their own patron saint,’ Angus pointed out. ‘St Hubert of Liege is one, as is St Rocco. I’m a bit hazy on St Hubert, but St Rocco I know a little about. He went into the forest to die of the plague but was befriended by a dog who brought him food it had stolen from its master’s table. He is often depicted with a dog at his feet – the dog bearing some food in its mouth.’

Domenica laughed. ‘I find the whole idea of patronage so colourful,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that I don’t know if there is a patron saint of anthropologists. One would have thought that an occupation as hazardous as anthropology can sometimes be should have the protection of a saint or two, but there we are. We must struggle on bravely.’

‘If there is none, then it’s a curious omission,’ agreed Angus. ‘Bearing in mind that there are patron saints for some very obscure occupations. Did you know that there is one for greeting card manufacturers? St Valentine of Rome, quite appropriately.’

Antonia got up and went off to her room. ‘I must write,’ she said. ‘All this talk of saints has reminded me of my own Scottish saints. I must return to them.’

Once she had gone, Angus turned to Domenica. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘Have you noticed anything odd about Antonia?’

‘Where does one begin?’ she whispered.

‘No, seriously. When I came out here this morning she was standing over there looking out towards Sant’ Angelo. I said good morning to her but she appeared not to hear me. So I went up to her and stood beside her and do you know what? Her eyes were closed, and she was shivering. Like this. Shivering all over.’

‘Perhaps she was cold,’ said Domenica.

Angus shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t that. When she realised I was there she opened her eyes and said to me that she had been transported. Then she started to mutter. She said, “The beauty! The beauty! The beauty!”’

Domenica frowned. ‘Like Mr Kurtz in
Heart of Darkness
? Doesn’t he say, “The horror! The horror!”?’

Angus nodded. ‘Mistah Kurtz, he dead – to quote T. S. Eliot, and Conrad, of course.’

Domenica was silent. Then she said, ‘We must be watchful.’

‘Yes, we must,’ said Angus.