The Grey Beginning, page 13
“Here’s the loot,” he said, indicating a canvas carry-all. “Cat food, medicine, the lot. Are you going to take him to Pete now?”
“Why not?”
“Can I come?”
“Why not,” I said, laughing.
The kitten woke when I picked it up. It wasn’t a beauty, but it looked a hundred percent better. We went into the house through the kitchen and stopped long enough to introduce the new resident to Rosa. She reacted as I had hoped, tickling it under the chin and giving us a saucer and a glass of milk to take up with us. David translated her comment. “It is a good house that has a cat. Better than mousetraps.”
“Mice,” I said.
“The place is riddled with them. Are you afraid of mice?”
“No. But I don’t like to find dead ones in front of my door.”
“Better brace yourself. It’s a demonstration of affection, I’m told, and this guy sure owes you.”
I can’t describe Pete’s face when he saw the kitten and realized it was for him. I still get choked up thinking about it. I managed to keep my emotions under control, however.
The kitten was not averse to more milk, so Pete fed it, and David explained the proper use of the things he had bought. “Don’t try to put the medicine in its ears by yourself, Pete. It’s a two-man job. Cats hate the stuff.”
“O-kay.” Pete stroked the cat’s back. It tried to purr and drink at the same time, sneezed, spat, and rubbed its nose irritably. Pete laughed. “Is it a boy or a girl? How old is it? What is its name?”
“Boy,” David replied. “About six weeks old. You’re the owner; what do you want to name him?”
Pete hesitated. Then he said, “Joe. His name is Joe.”
“Namath?” I guessed. “If you’re going to name him after a quarterback, there are other—”
“Not a quarterback. Joe is what his friends call my father. His name is not Joe, you understand, but that is what they call him in America.”
“That’s a very good name,” I said, clearing my throat.
“It is not bad, to name an animal for your father?”
“I think it’s a great compliment,” David said seriously. “I have a pig named after me. He’s a very handsome pig.”
“I will call him Joe David,” Pete said. “I have two names, so he can have two names. I cannot call him Kathy. He is not a girl. But when I get a girl cat or a girl dog…”
“That’s a promise,” I said. “Don’t forget.”
“I picked up a few toys too,” said David, clearing his throat. “Ball, catnip mouse. Here’s some string; what you do is, you tie something on the end and—”
“I know.” Pete seized the string eagerly. “I know how to do it. My aunt Vera had two cats. I played with them. Like this.”
He dangled the string. When we left he was laughing and watching the kitten pounce fiercely on the end of the string. It was the first time I hadn’t felt wretched about leaving him alone.
Aunt Vera. His mother’s sister? It had not occurred to me that he might have living relatives on that side of his family. The seed of an idea put up a tiny green tendril in my all-too-fertile mind.
“Hey,” David said. “We forgot something.”
“What?”
“Litter box.”
“Oh, lord, you’re right. Not that I care if the cat poops on the floor. Emilia will have to clean it up.”
“I’ll dig up something,” David said. “Literally.”
We parted with mutual expressions of esteem and a promise to meet next morning for football.
David headed down the back stairs and I went the other way, to the front stairs and my room. When I turned onto the landing I saw Emilia ahead of me, about to start down. Where the devil had the woman come from? She certainly hadn’t been with Pete, and there was no other reason for her to be on the top floor.
I called to her to wait. I felt fairly certain she had been spying on me, or on the child. Some people are natural sneaks, and Emilia probably justified her prying and spying on the grounds that her mistress ought to know what was going on in her own house. It would have been pointless to accuse her, though. Instead I told her I was going out for dinner and asked what time she locked up.
“You will be late, signora?” she asked.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Naturalmente, I will not lock the house until the signora has returned.”
I thanked her and went on down the stairs. Alberto must have told her about being raked over the coals. He might not resent my interference, but she did; the sullen hostility in her eyes was now open instead of half-concealed.
I wondered if she would put snakes in my bed or forget to clean my room. Probably not; as long as I was on good terms with Francesca I was safe—hated but sacrosanct. All the same, I thought, I’ll look under the covers before I get in bed.
III
Sebastiano was picking me up at seven. I decided to wait for him downstairs. The idea of being summoned by Emilia and perhaps being invited to join Francesca for a drink before we left didn’t appeal to me.
I was trying to decide between a bare-shouldered sundress, in which I would freeze, and the inevitable brown suit, which made me look ten years older, when there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” I called.
“Francesca.”
“Oh. Come in, please.”
I pulled the dress over my head as I spoke. The vexing question of what to wear was settled, anyhow. The zipper stuck as it always does when you’re in a hurry, and when Francesca came in I was squirming around, both hands behind my back, like Laocoön fighting off unseen snakes.
“May I?” she asked.
“Oh; thank you. I’m afraid it’s stuck.”
It took her about two seconds to free the catch. I thanked her again, and tied the belt. She said nothing more, just stood watching me. I knew what she wanted, but—naive me—I put it down to curiosity, and her habit of authority.
“I hope I gave Emilia enough notice—about not being here tonight,” I said after the silence had become embarrassing.
“Yes.”
She waited. It was against her principles to ask outright, but this time I was not going to make it easy for her.
“It may be raining before you return,” she said finally. “Do you wish Alberto to drive you, instead of driving yourself?”
“No, thanks.” There was no sense in stalling; he’d be at the front door in less than half an hour. “Dr. Manetti is picking me up.”
“Manetti!”
I decided to go on the attack. “Is there something I don’t know about him? Vicious habits, drunk driving, dead wives in the closet, like Bluebeard?”
She was not amused. She began, “Bart is—”
“Bart is dead,” I said harshly. “Three months dead. I’m sorry if your notions of propriety are offended, Francesca, but at home we don’t go in for formal periods of mourning and I find such observances hypocritical. You needn’t worry, I’m not going to…do anything you’d disapprove of. I only met the man two days ago. We’ll probably spend the evening talking about Pete—Pietro, I mean.”
“That is your only interest in Dr. Manetti?”
“I’d be a liar if I said yes, and you’d be very naive to believe me. He’s an attractive, interesting man. But I’m not in the habit of jumping into bed with someone the first time I go out with him—or even the second time.”
“I see.” Lines of worry scarred her forehead. She said, as if to herself, “There is no hope of dissuading you. I can give no reason…”
“I’m afraid you can’t dissuade me, no. I could meet him on the sly, but I’ve no intention of behaving like that.”
“I see,” she repeated. “Well, then…Perhaps it will be acceptable….”
And with that peculiar remark she walked out, closing the door softly behind her.
I thought of another old adage: Just because you’re paranoid it doesn’t mean somebody isn’t following you. What a strange interview that had been. It hadn’t occurred to me that Francesca might disapprove of a woman so recently widowed dating a man…. Well, to be honest, it had occurred to me. I had thought she might not like the idea, but I had not realized it would matter so much. Yet she had seemed more worried than angry. Perhaps Manetti did have a bad reputation. The Florence Strangler? The Marquis de Sade of Tuscany? I felt sure she’d have told me anything to his discredit.
I picked up my purse and my shabby old raincoat, which was all I had, and hurried down the stairs. I caught a glimpse of a black skirt whisking out of sight as I crossed the stairs. Emilia again. Damn the woman, I thought. How does she find time to get her work done? Or is spying on me her chief job?
It felt good to get out of the house, even though the shadows were closing in and the air was heavy with pent moisture. I had intended to walk to the gate, but after seeing how dark it was I decided not to. I was wearing rather high heels and the gravel was not the best of surfaces for walking.
He was early. I saw the headlights of his car appear and blossom into brilliance. They caught me full-on, and I put up a hand to shield my eyes. He was out of the car before I got over being dazzled.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, handing me in. “It is dreary, chilly—”
“The atmosphere inside was chillier.” I settled back into soft, gray velvet comfort.
“Oh? But I should have known. Was Francesca angry?”
“Not so much angry as upset. It doesn’t matter.”
“She is difficult to understand,” Sebastiano admitted. “So sophisticated, so modern, and yet there are these pockets of traditional belief. I hope you weren’t disturbed by her attitude.”
“Is that a professional question, Doctor?”
He laughed ruefully. “It is a hard profession, mine. When I ask a simple question, the question of a friend, I am accused of probing. When I don’t ask, I am thought cold and unsympathetic.”
“You have a point,” I admitted.
The big car—it was a Cadillac, brand-spanking-shiny new—went so lightly down the steep road that I hardly felt the bumps. A glare of headlights burst out at us, and Sebastiano pulled sharply to the right to let the oncoming car pass. He swore in Italian, and then said, “I hope you didn’t understand what I said. He was coming too fast for such a narrow road. But you need not worry, I am a careful driver.”
“I have a mild phobia about fast driving,” I said.
“I do not ask why.”
“Good for you.”
He laughed; then I could laugh too. I was much more relaxed with him than I had expected to be. After a moment he said, “If you don’t want to talk, that is fine. If you want to, then talk as you would to any friend. And I won’t send you a bill.”
It began to rain as we passed through the village, a soft drizzle that barely moistened the windshield. He handled the big car expertly. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I remember that we laughed a lot. But it was not until we reached the restaurant, and we had checked our coats, that I really began to appreciate him. I had felt self-conscious about my off-the-rack cotton dress. Sebastiano was wearing an equally unimpressive suit, and his shirt was open at the neck. The other diners were more formally dressed; I had to believe that Sebastiano had deliberately dressed down to my level so as not to embarrass me.
The headwaiter greeted Sebastiano with the enthusiasm reserved for old and valued customers and we were shown to a table in a shadowy corner. I asked him to order for me. It was all superb—the wine, the food, the deft, unobtrusive service, the beautifully appointed table. I couldn’t help thinking of the meal I had had with David. Plastic tablecloths instead of snowy linen, coarse white plates instead of fine china, a harsh, biting Chianti instead of—whatever this superb vintage might be. But the two men had one thing in common—the ability to make me feel relaxed and at ease, the ability to make me laugh. And if Sebastiano’s charm was practiced and professional, I couldn’t have cared less.
I refused dessert, though he urged me to have something. “You are too thin,” he said, his fingers tracing a line along the inside of my arm. “I speak medically, you understand. Doesn’t Francesca feed you?”
“Too well. Rosa is a good cook.” But there was a reason why I had enjoyed this meal more than usual. Every bite I took in that house stuck in my throat. I had not thought about it until that moment, but it was true. Breaking bread with another person has time-honored emotional connotations. Offering food is a gesture of friendship; accepting it is a sign of trust.
“You are thinking thoughts that are not pleasant,” Sebastiano said softly. “I don’t ask what they are. What shall we do to take your mind off them? Would you like to go dancing?”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. Although I am a good dancer. But not so good as your husband, perhaps.”
I looked up from my plate. He clapped his hand to his mouth in mock consternation and then said, “I can’t help it. Forgive me.”
“You’re forgiven,” I said, laughing. “Bart did love to dance, and he was marvelous. He was an actor, you know; every movement he made was trained, graceful.”
“I didn’t know. Francesca has spoken of him, but only of his childhood and adolescence. I am something of a movie buff; I’m surprised I have not recognized the Morandini name or features.”
“He had had a few small parts in television shows, but most of his work was on the stage.”
“Ah. New York?”
“Well…It was mostly summer stock, dinner theaters, that sort of thing. Luckily he had a private income or he’d have starved. It takes not only talent, but contacts and luck, to break into the theatrical profession.”
“True.” He waited a moment and then said tentatively, “If I were to suggest a film, it would not…”
“No, that would be fine. But my Italian is practically nonexistent.”
“There is a cinema that shows old British and American films. I don’t know what is playing, but we could go there and see.”
The movie was an old Marx Brothers film—A Night at the Opera. Sebastiano had not martyred himself on my account; he laughed so hard I thought he’d choke. When we came out of the theater it was raining heavily. He suggested a drink, or coffee. “I guess I’d better not,” I said reluctantly. “Emilia will be waiting up for me. I can’t stand the woman, but it isn’t fair to keep her up half the night.”
The streets were slippery. He had taken my arm; now he gave it a squeeze. “You are a very kind person, Kathy.”
My laugh had more than a touch of wryness.
The gates were closed, but before Sebastiano could sound the horn Alberto came out from the lodge and opened them. The rain had slackened, but he got pretty wet. Sebastiano said, “Is your tender heart concerned for Alberto too?”
“I just wish the rain were boiling oil,” I said.
“Dio mio, how vicious you are! What has he done to deserve that?”
“Lots of things. I don’t understand why Francesca employs a man like that.”
“His personal habits would not concern her so long as he performed his duties faithfully. I believe he and his wife have been with her for years. It is hard to keep servants, especially when one doesn’t pay high wages.” He brought the car to a stop in front of the stairs.
“Don’t come in,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry,
Sebastiano—that sounded awfully rude; I didn’t mean it that way—”
“It did not sound rude and I know why you said it. But I must see you to the door.”
“It’s stopped raining. I’d rather you didn’t. Really.”
“That bad, eh?” He sat back, his hands resting on the wheel. “Do you mind if I smoke? Will you join me?”
“And you a doctor,” I said. “It’s very bad for you.”
“It is a bad habit. I try to cut down—it is my first of the evening, if you notice.”
I accepted a cigarette. I didn’t want it, but it seemed boorish just to say thank you and leave after such a nice evening.
“I haven’t smoked since I got here,” I said proudly. “I don’t want to start again; I was smoking too much for a while.”
“How long has it been?”
“Since I quit? Only a few days, actually.”
“You know what I mean. And you know I am not asking as a doctor.”
“Sebastiano—”
“Six months? A year?”
“Three months.” I choked on the smoke like a teenager with her first cigarette.
“I didn’t know.”
“Francesca didn’t tell you?”
“No. And that is not strange, for we do not talk of family matters very often. When she called to ask if I would see you she said only that you were her nephew’s widow. I was taken aback when I saw how young you were. I knew you could not have been married long, but I had no idea….”
“You wouldn’t have asked me to dinner if you had known?”
“Oh yes, I would.” The answer was prompt and heartfelt. I laughed a little. Then I said, “Perhaps after all you share Francesca’s idea about the propriety of someone so recently widowed going out.”
“I don’t make rules. All cases are different. In your case, it shows a healthy attitude. One cannot mourn forever.”
“How true.” I put out my cigarette. “I’d better go in.”
“Yes, the poor servants whom you hate so much will be kept waiting,” he said mockingly.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening. I really enjoyed it, Sebastiano.”
“Then we will do it again. Tomorrow?” Before I could reply, he clicked his tongue and said irritably, “I forgot. I am going away for the weekend. Monday, Tuesday…Tuesday for dinner?”
“I’d love to.”
“Good. I will telephone.” He went on with scarcely a pause, “If I try to kiss you, will you consider it an affront to your hostess?”
I was laughing when he took me in his arms, and the kiss was more intense and prolonged than I had planned. It wasn’t at all like Bart’s kisses…. The fact that I could think of that, in the middle of a thoroughly satisfactory and enjoyable embrace, was not a good sign, but I didn’t let it keep me from responding. Not until Sebastiano’s hands moved under my loosely belted coat did I pull away.
