The Malaspiga Exit (3 page)

It was very brief: four lines running boldly across the page, unevenly spaced.

‘Dear Signorina Dexter, Thank you for your kind letter and welcome to Florence. We should be pleased if you can take tea with us on Wednesday at five o'clock. Isabella di Malaspiga.' The signature was large, the letters ended with an artificial flourish that suggested years of practice. It was the way someone signed their name when they believed that name itself to be important. Isabella di Malaspiga. She had written to the Duke, her cousin; he must have passed her letter to his mother. That would explain the delay. How very correct they were, this family of aristocrats, self-consciously admitting a distant kinswoman to take tea.

Tea. She thought only the English indulged in that habit. She folded the letter in its envelope and locked it away in her case. She was not nervous; she lit a cigarette defiantly to prove to herself that her hand was steady, and threw the match away because it trembled in her fingers. There was something about that sinister crest that frightened her, a tonal quality in the name which held menace. Malaspiga. Perhaps she had been scared by some story about them when she was a child—she couldn't remember. It was as if she had deliberately shut all thought of them out of her mind. She sat on the edge of the bed, relit the cigarette and smoked, thinking quietly. Her letter had introduced her as the grand-daughter of Maria Gemma di Malaspiga, niece of the twelfth Duke who had married and gone to America. It had taken her a long time to write it; several attempts had been made and the results thrown away before she felt it was exactly right.

When telling a lie, Frank Carpenter used to say, always hide it in the middle of truth. She had said she was making a pilgrimage to her ancestral city, recovering from the loss of her brother who had recently died, and would very much like to make the acquaintance of her cousins, and if possible see some of the family treasures while she was in the city. She hoped that they would forgive the intrusion, but meeting them would mean a great deal to her. She had added a hypocritical flourish, much against her will, to the effect that she had dreamed of coming to Florence and seeing her grandmother's old home ever since she was a child. Thinking of Carpenter gave her courage. Feminine nervousness couldn't be helped; she owed a basic self-confidence to him. Not just to the training he had given her, but to that night spent together. The memory of it strengthened her. In moments when the sense of isolation most affected her she had something more than a memory. Something which could be a promise for the future. ‘If you need me …' he had said. It was an offer that included more than the Italian journey. She threw the cigarette away. The invitation needed an answer. Another letter. She rebelled against that. There was a telephone at the Villa Malaspiga. These were human beings, capable of normal communication. It was ridiculous to feel in awe. She picked up the phone and asked the switchboard to get the number for her. The unfamiliar monotonous whine continued until she almost gave up. Then a voice answered, and speaking in Italian Katharine asked for the Duchess di Malaspiga, and gave her own name. Katharine di Malaspiga Dexter.

There was a long wait, so long that she wondered if they had been disconnected. Then a high-pitched voice sounded through the receiver.

‘Isabella di Malaspiga is speaking. Is that Signorina Dexter who wrote to us?'

‘Yes,' Katharine said. ‘It is. I've just received your letter. I'd be delighted to come for tea on Wednesday. It's very kind of you.'

‘Not at all.' The voice sounded like a young girl; it was friendly and excited. There was no suggestion of grandeur or patronage. ‘We are so looking forward to meeting you, my dear child. My son is especially pleased. He is so happy to have found a new cousin. Until Wednesday then. Goodbye.'

She had been very welcoming; very warm. It was ridiculous to feel afraid of them one moment and then charmed by a few friendly words over the telephone.

The taxi crossed the Ponte Alla Carraroia; the bridges of Florence were dramatically beautiful, wide and gracefully arched over the broad sweep of the river Arno. Churches raised proud domes on the skyline, and the distinctive Italian bell towers fingered the blue. Even the name for them was musical. Campanile. For all its beauty and its ancient culture, there was a toughness, an arrogance, about Florence which was reflected in the Florentines themselves. Yet it was so difficult to find fault when every street revealed an architectural treasure, with the gleaming river running like silver through the centre and the colossal splendour of the great Cathedral, its bell tower and baptistry dominating the city's heart. It was the city of the Medicis, the Riveras, the Malaspigas, the workshop of Michelangelo, of Donatello, of Ghiberti. Time was not important, even to the busy Florentines. It was made for man, and not man for time. Eating, not dieting, was the occupation of the women, all of whom seemed to have enormous appetites and superb figures. The vanities were different; sex was implicit without in any way intruding. There were no vulgar hoardings, no suggestive advertising which was so much a part of American life. It was assumed that the men were virile, the women seductive. In contrast with the tourists of all nationalities who crowded the city, the Florentines stood out, dark and sinuous as cats, gracefully sharpening their claws for the exploitation of the foreigner.

Katharine spoke their language fluently and with a grace that they appreciated, not because she had studied hard, but because it came naturally to her. And a passionate love of the arts had awoken in her. Beauty, visual and tactile, was displayed all round her, in the architecture, the paintings, the rich fabrics, even the food. The waiter at her hotel, who took tremendous trouble advising what to choose on the menu, informed her proudly that French cooking owed its excellence to the importation of her Florentine cooks by Catherine de Medici.

She could never be a part of these people, her background and attitudes were too different, but now and again something unfamiliar stirred in her, roused by a sight or a sound which was wholly Italian. The moment she saw the Villa Malaspiga, it happened again. The Viale Galileo wound upward behind the centre of Florence on the other side of the Arno. Pine trees stood sentinel over the enormous houses, shielded behind ornamental gates. The road rose higher, climbing steeply, and when they turned into the entrance of the villa, Florence lay stretched out below them, glittering and displaying itself in the sunshine, the roof of the Cathedral glowing red. The crest was everywhere. On the wrought-iron gates, which were twenty feet high, above the pillared doorway, carved in stone. On the mosaic floor of the entrance hall. The coronet, the wreath pierced by the corn shaft. A manservant waited beside her. He wore a white coat and the crest was embossed on the brass buttons. She noticed in amazement that he also wore white cotton gloves. She gave her name and followed him through the entrance hall, which was dominated by a pair of magnificent marble statues. There were massive double doors, elaborately carved. When they opened she found herself looking into a long, cool room and immediately a musty smell intruded. Her heart was racing. A man came towards her, a tall, slim man, pale and smooth, like ivory. The best-looking man she had ever seen in her life.

‘Signorina Dexter?' I am Alessandro di Malaspiga.' She gave him her hand and he brought it up to his mouth, without actually touching it. His eyes were black, large, heavy-lidded. After a second's pause, they smiled at her in keeping with his lips.

‘Please come in; my mother is waiting for you.' The length of the room was exaggerated in her mind. Afterwards, when she was used to it, it didn't seem too large. That day it was like a vast corridor: the walls covered with tapestries, a huge table, riotously carved, standing in the centre of it, and round a fireplace, painted, carved and gilded with the Malaspiga coat of arms, she came upon a group of people. There were two servants dressed in white livery. They stood behind a table, which was covered with a white cloth and glittering with silver. In a long chair, her feet raised on a foot-rest, a woman looked up at Katharine and held out a pale hand, flashing with rings.

It was the same bell-like voice, beautifully modulated. ‘How delightful this is. I am Alessandro's mother. We talked on the telephone. Do come and sit beside me; let me look at you.' It was a beautiful face, impossibly white-skinned, with great black eyes that glowed, a mouth painted bright scarlet. Delicate waves of grey-black hair curved from under a wide-brimmed hat, with a wisp of veil falling from the crown. On the left lapel of her black silk dress she wore a pale pink rose. After the first shock of seeing her, Katharine realized that she must be nearly eighty years old. Two other figures rose from a settee; one moved with the grace so natural to Italian women, and Katharine shook hands with a painfully slim girl with a handsome face and coal-black eyes. She wore no makeup except black liner which emphasized the density of her eyes and detracted from fine features and a beautiful mouth.

‘My daughter-in-law, Francesca,' the old Duchess said. ‘And this is our friend Mr. Driver.'

She pronounced the English name with emphasis. Her presentation of the young Duchess di Malaspiga had been hasty by comparison. He came forward and shook Katharine's hand. He was a young man, somewhere in the early thirties, with fair hair and grey eyes, fine teeth—she thought irrelevantly that you could disguise every feature except the magnificent dentistry of the North Americans.

‘Hullo,' he said. ‘John Driver—nice to meet you, Miss Dexter.' The accent was Canadian.

‘Sit down,' the old Duchess suggested again. ‘Close to me, my dear.' She gave Katharine a beautiful smile.

Then the servants began to serve tea. It was an extraordinary ritual. Tea was poured from a huge silver pot into cups so small that they contained only a mouthful. Sugar and milk were presented on a silver salver. There were plates of rich pastries and an enormous confection of icing and walnut was solemnly cut and slices passed round. Nobody ate anything, except the Canadian, and the Duke, who took one pastry and left half of it. She was too nervous to eat herself; she finished the tiny cut of tea and sat balancing the cup, wondering suddenly if Ben Harper or Frank had any idea what they were asking her to do when they suggested she get to know her family. Family. It was ridiculous to use the word in connection with these unreal, stylized people. The beautiful, mummified old woman in her picture hat and fresh rose, the impossibly handsome Duke di Malaspiga, his wife with her Cleopatra eyes and sad expression—only the man called Driver was real. He asked for more tea, talked to the Duchess, and watched her with friendly eyes.

Her cousin the Duke leaned towards her.

‘You have a family resemblance,' he said. ‘Did you know that? A distinct resemblance to one of my aunts. She was a blonde too, like you. I must show you her portrait. She died three years ago but she was very beautiful.'

They were all beautiful; Katharine didn't doubt that. He had wonderful eyes, dark and expressive, a mouth that was too well moulded for a man, and yet there was nothing feminine about him. He was completely male; he reminded her of an animal, something proud and swift that moved among trees. He said suddenly, in a quiet voice, ‘Don't be nervous of us, Signorina Dexter. Let me take that silly little cup away from you. I hate tea, but my mother insists upon it.'

‘I'm not nervous,' she protested. ‘At least, I don't mean to be. You've all been so kind.'

‘Then you are shy,' he said gently. ‘I didn't know American ladies could be shy. It's not a common attribute.'

‘Maybe not,' she countered quickly. ‘But we're not all brash widows from the Mid-West, either.'

‘You are from New York?' He accepted the retort, and she had a feeling that he respected her for making it.

‘Yes. We all live in New York now.'

‘I've been looking up my family records,' the Duke said. ‘I have some papers relating to your grandmother. And her marriage. I thought you'd be interested to see them.'

‘I would,' Katharine said. ‘I'd love to see them. I hope you didn't mind me introducing myself. But I'm alone now, and it seemed such a perfect opportunity to look up my grandmother's family and see all the places she used to talk about.'

‘We're very happy you wrote to us, aren't we, Mother?' He turned to the old Duchess. He raised his voice and repeated the question. Katharine wondered why the old lady didn't wear a hearing aid. She nodded and waved one dainty hand; it was a coquettish gesture, perfected many years ago.

‘Very happy. Tell me about yourself, my dear. Who did your mother marry—I'm sure I met some Dexters after the war. Probably your relations.' She waited, still with the encouraging smile on her painted lips.

‘My father's family came from Philadelphia,' Katharine said calmly. ‘We used to live in Philadelphia when I was a child, but then my father decided to live in New York. He's still there. My brother and I lived together; when he died I decided to take this trip.' She had perfected the story, and repeating it helped.

‘You won't regret coming over,' John Driver interposed. ‘I came on a short visit and I'm still here.' He laughed. It was a pleasant sound. She couldn't imagine any of the others making it.

‘I fell in love with Florence; people talk about Rome and Venice, but I found the heart of the Renaissance right here. Even the heart of Italy. And then I met Alessandro and that changed everything.' He looked across at Katharine's cousin; he had an attractive, extrovert face, not strictly good-looking because his features were irregular, but likeable and humorous. He seemed unaware of her unease; being so at home himself, he was trying to convey to her that she too would learn to relax with them all.

‘How long have you been here?' Katharine asked him.

‘Four years and two months. Your cousins won't let me go home!'