The Grey Beginning, page 17
Pete grinned. “Would you?”
“Sure,” David said.
“O-kay,” Pete said.
He was sound asleep before we had gone a mile, curled up beside me with his head on my lap.
“Now you can tell everybody back home you saw the sights of Fiesole,” David said. “It’s a popular tourist spot.”
“What else is there besides a carnival?”
“Nothing much. A famous cathedral, with frescoes by Rosselli, tomb sculptures by Mino da Fiesole—boring stuff like that.”
“Oh well. Any woman of sense would prefer roller coasters and diseased hot dogs.”
“We could go back this evening. Have a quiet dinner someplace, stroll in the piazza under the light of the moon.”
“David, I can’t. I’ve been a rotten guest; tonight is my night for being polite to my hostess.”
“Some other time, then.”
Within another mile I was asleep too.
IV
I woke when the car stopped. The first thing my sleepy eyes saw was Alberto opening the gates. It was not the most auspicious welcome.
I had been able to conquer my forebodings during the horseplay and activity of the afternoon. Now they came back in full measure, and I had to keep telling myself I was being overly protective. There was no reason to suppose that another attack would follow so close on the last, or even that they inevitably occurred at night.
When David stopped to let us out, the front door opened. Emilia was there; and she wasn’t the only one. David muttered, “Oh, oh, here it comes,” as Francesca’s slim, erect figure crossed the terrace and descended the stairs.
But she was smiling. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked.
Pete nodded. He never spoke to her if he could help it. He was certainly no advertisement for the quality of my childcare: crumpled, sleepy and sullen, spotted with various foodstuffs. Francesca studied him. “I see you did,” she said dryly. “Thank il professore and the signora and go with Emilia. You will sleep well tonight.”
“I don’t know whether he’ll eat his supper, though,” I said, watching the small, stiff figure ascend the stairs.
“I suppose an occasional orgy of self-indulgence is good for all of us,” Francesca said. “I came to thank you personally, Professor, for your kindness. Please join us for cocktails this evening.”
I gathered she considered that the suitable reward she had mentioned. It sounded more like an order than an invitation. David said meekly, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Seven o’clock.” She dismissed him with a gesture only slightly less brusque than she used for Emilia and Alberto, and turned away. David winked at me and rolled his eyes in pretended awe.
Francesca waited for me at the door to make sure I didn’t linger to chat with the help. I told her I had my reservation, and would be leaving Sunday. “I’ll turn my car in at the station,” I explained. “So Alberto won’t have to drive me.”
“Whatever you like.”
Her remark about persuading me to stay on had been only a meaningless courtesy after all, and my apprehension had been groundless. “You see?” whispered the shadow of Sister Ursula. “Honesty is the best policy. Now if you will tell her about the other…”
Shut up, Sister Ursula.
When I went to my room I found a surprise waiting for me. The vase had been placed near the window and the setting sun struck full upon the flowers, making them shine like carved garnets. Not rubies; the roses were deep, deep red. There was no card.
If they were an apology, they weren’t good enough. If they were a reminder, they were a piece of damned impertinence. I moved them to a dark corner and collapsed on the bed for a nap.
Prompt upon the hour of seven I descended the stairs, washed, brushed, and properly clothed. I hoped David would be the same, and I also hoped he would be able to restrain his irreverent sense of humor.
He was on time, at least. Francesca and I had exchanged only a few words when he appeared escorted by Emilia. It would have been hard to say which of them looked grimmer. I studied him in exasperation. He was clean—but neat? That depends on how you define the word. From the remains of the once-gaudy scene plastered across the front of his T-shirt I deduced it was a souvenir from one of our national parks. Much of the color had washed out, but I could see the shape of a mountain.
Francesca wasted no time. “How is your work progressing, Professor?”
“Oh, fine. Great. I’m finding all sorts of things.”
“What sorts of things?” There was a slight edge to her voice. David looked terrified. He had selected a chair that was too small for him, and he perched uneasily on its edge, knees together, holding his glass of wine as if he were clutching a beer can. The pose and the expression were so exaggeratedly awkward—the country bumpkin in the china shop—that I suspected he was putting on an act.
“Uh,” he said. “Well, er…I’ve been working on the Egyptian collection. So far there’s nothing particularly interesting except the Coptic embroideries.”
“Embroideries?” A spark of interest warmed her face.
David expanded. “The Copts were Christian Egyptians. They used embroidery on robes and clothing for the most part, sometimes for cushions and wall hangings. The surviving pieces date mainly from the third to seventh centuries, though some are as old as the first century A.D. The dry climate explains why so much survived….”
He rambled on, sounding as stiff and dry as a textbook, until Francesca cut him short. “I would like to see them.”
“Oh? Oh, sure. I’m cleaning them now. Kathy can tell you. It’s a slow process, you have to use special chemicals and distilled water and let them dry—”
“How long will it take?”
I didn’t blame her for interrupting, since he appeared prepared to continue talking till someone stopped him; but I was a little surprised at her peremptory tone. David blinked. “A few more days. There’s another crate I haven’t opened, and it might have—”
“I’m afraid that whatever you are working on will have to be finished by the end of the week,” Francesca said. “More wine, Professor?”
“Uh—thanks.”
“I am going away for a while,” Francesca explained. “The house will be closed.”
My astonishment was scarcely less than David’s. She had not mentioned her plans to me. A wild and horrid suspicion flashed into my mind. Surely she wouldn’t pursue me and the apocryphal embryo into the wilds of western Massachusetts.
Francesca went on, “When you came we left the duration of your stay indefinite. I had no plans at that time, but now the situation has changed. I hope it does not inconvenience you, Professor.”
“Yes, yes—I mean, no. I mean—whatever you say, of course. The end of the week?”
“That will give you time to finish whatever you have begun,” she said complacently. “And you will let me know when the embroideries are ready for display?”
“Oh, sure,” David said bleakly.
She let him finish his wine, and then eased him firmly out the door.
I knew that if I didn’t find out what she was planning I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep that night. My uneasy conscience might even drive me into premature flight. Sneaking down the stairs at midnight, shoes in hand; hitching a ride to Florence; appealing to Angelo for a room, secret, no one knowing I was there….
With Machiavellian subtlety I said, “Francesca, I hope I’m not interfering with your plans. If you want to get away earlier, I can easily stay at a hotel for a few days.”
“That is not the case at all. The idea did not even occur to me until you told me you were planning to go home.”
That wasn’t reassuring. I abandoned subtlety. “Where are you going?”
She answered readily. “I haven’t decided. Switzerland, perhaps. Or Austria. Paris is impossible these days.”
I felt so lighthearted with insane relief that I dared make a joke. “Too many American tourists?”
“Too many tourists,” she corrected, unsmiling. “I have no prejudice against Americans, Kathleen. I know several who are very pleasant.”
“Some of my best friends…” I didn’t speak the words aloud; her sense of humor wasn’t exactly uproarious. A new worry penetrated my selfish euphoria, and I said, “What about Pete?”
“Arrangements will be made for him.”
I daresay I would have put my foot in my mouth and asked what arrangements if she had given me time. She pressed the bell, saying pleasantly, “I hope you didn’t overindulge in carnival food. Rosa has prepared one of my favorite dishes tonight.”
At home we’d have called the dish a seafood casserole, but the seasoning and the delicate wine flavored sauce made that term too commonplace for such a culinary masterpiece. Francesca was in an excellent mood; she even made a few dry, cynical little jokes. We were finishing dessert, another heavenly concoction consisting primarily of raspberries and whipped cream, when she said, “It is good of you to take such an interest in Pietro, Kathleen. You have strong maternal instincts.”
I wanted to get her off that train of thought. “He’s a very nice kid,” I said.
“You would like to see him again, in the future?”
“Yes, very much.”
“We must see if that can’t be arranged.” She smiled, as if nursing a pleasant little secret.
I excused myself early, saying I was tired, and for once I was telling the truth. It had been a long day and a longer night. Instead of going to my room I went on up the stairs to the top floor. I expected Pete would be asleep by that time, but when I put my ear to the door I heard voices, so I knocked.
A voice I didn’t recognize—a woman’s voice—answered in Italian. I assumed she was telling me to come in, so I did.
It was the tuttofare. I had forgotten her name. She was sitting on the bed watching Pete toy with the contents of a tray lying across his legs. When she saw me she got quickly to her feet.
“Hello,” Pete said, sounding pleased. “I was sick.”
“You were…Oh. I’m not surprised. Eating all that junk food, and then the roller coaster.”
“It all came out,” Pete said, making a graphic gesture. “The pizza, the hot dog, the gelato—”
“Never mind, I get the picture. Only too clearly.”
“So now they say I must eat this.” He scowled at the bowl on the tray. It appeared to contain some pale substance like mush. “I do not want it.”
“I don’t blame you. Is it as bad as it looks?”
“Try.” He offered an overflowing spoon.
“I will if you will.” The tuttofare giggled as we finished the mush, turn and turn about. It didn’t taste bad, or good. It didn’t taste at all. When the bowl was half empty I said, “That ought to be enough. Is she waiting for the tray?”
The boy’s eyelids lowered. “Always she waits.”
No knives, no glasses that could be broken…I gestured at the girl. She picked up the tray, started for the door—hesitated—spoke to me.
“She asks if you stay here?” Pete translated.
“Yes. Sì.”
The girl started to speak, then broke off with a nervous laugh. “She wants,” said Pete, “to tell you to be sure to lock the door.”
It wasn’t the girl’s fault. She was just obeying orders. I dismissed her with a nod and a stiff smile.
Pete got out of bed and opened the door of the wardrobe. Joe emerged, tail high, whiskers indignant. “She made me put him there so he would not eat the food,” Pete explained.
“Get in bed and I’ll tuck you in. I’ll bet you’re tired.”
“Yes. It was a good day.”
Joe thought the tucking-in process was a game for his benefit. He pounced on my hands and rolled himself up in the blanket. His antics cheered us, but I kept thinking of that damned key, and after I had turned out all the lights except one by the bed I said, “I won’t lock the door if you don’t want me to.”
“I want you to.”
I couldn’t see his face, except as a pale oval beyond the limited circle of the lamp. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. And,” he said, “please take the key.”
Chapter
8
I CALLED SEBASTIANO THE FOLLOWING MORNING TO thank him for his flowers—and for other reasons. The nurse informed me he would not be back until Tuesday. I thanked her and hung up without leaving my name.
Just as well, I told myself. I knew—how well I knew!—that it was difficult to talk with psychiatrists during working hours. I had a lot to talk about. I needed plenty of time and Sebastiano’s undivided attention. We had a date for dinner Tuesday. It was only one more day. One more night.
Francesca was working at her desk when I joined her for breakfast. She apologized. “There is so much to do when one is preparing to leave for an extended period. One of the things I would like, Kathleen, is to show you something of the city. What do you say to a thoroughly frivolous view of Florence—shopping, hairdressers?”
I had never seen her look so young and carefree. She’s probably happy at the prospect of ridding herself of the woman who came to dinner, I thought.
“I guess I need a beauty shop at that,” I said, smoothing my flyaway locks. “My hair needs cutting.”
“Only trimming and shaping. You mustn’t cut it short; it is beautiful hair.”
“I’d love to go to Florence with you,” I said, tactfully avoiding the question of how to style my hair. “Let me take you to lunch.”
“You are my guest. Today?”
“That would be fine.”
After breakfast I left Francesca working on her lists and wandered out onto the terrace. It was a lovely morning. You could practically see the flowers jumping up out of the ground. My fingers itched for a trowel. I love gardening, though I have been accused of not being able to tell a weed from a flower, and one of the charms of my little house on the hill had been its minuscule garden. I looked at my hands. They had become white and soft over the past months. A lady’s hands.
The sight of Alberto’s unfortunate assistant languidly at work on the front flower beds killed any lingering ambitions at horticulture I might have had. It wasn’t his fault he was a pitiable creature, but he made me nervous.
I had returned the key to the lock of Pete’s door early that morning, just after daybreak. I had not been able to resist a quick look inside. He was sound asleep, curled awkwardly around the cat, who was, in the manner of cats, lying in the precise center of the bed.
I decided to go up and extract him for an extra hour of football, or washing antiques, or whatever he had in mind. He had no doctor’s appointment that day, and it wouldn’t hurt him to miss an hour of such schooling as Francesca provided.
His face lit up when he saw me, and I concluded I would postpone telling him I was leaving for another day. He wasn’t studying; the heavy Italian history book lay significantly crumpled against the wall and he was playing with Joe, pulling a string to which a piece of paper had been tied.
“Shall we play football now?” he greeted me.
“You really ought to be studying. Oh, the heck with it. It’s too nice a day to stay indoors.”
“Shall we find David? It is better with three.”
“He’s probably in his room washing rags,” I said, remembering Francesca’s ultimatum. “We could stop by and see if he has time to play.”
Joe would have been happy to accompany us. A wail of frustration arose when we closed the door on him. Pete said seriously, “I do not let him go out. I am afraid he will run away.”
“You’re a good pet owner,” I said approvingly.
“David has told me. When an animal is young it does not have good sense, David says. There are many dangers here. Cars on the road, wild animals in the woods, or even…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. I had not told him about Alberto and the dog, for I felt it was too grisly a tale for a child. Either David had hinted at potential danger from the animal, or Pete was perceptive enough to have figured it out for himself. He went on, “And also, David says, it could climb a tree and not know how to come down. Is that true? If a cat can climb up a tree, why can’t it climb down a tree?”
I explained the physiological mechanism involved, as I understood it, and added comfortingly that most cats managed to get down sooner or later. I did not tell him about a feeble-minded feline we had once owned, who really didn’t know how to climb down. We’d once left him up the big sycamore in front of the house for three days, hardening our hearts to his shrieks after all efforts to entice him down had failed. Ma insisted he’d come down when he got hungry, but even she was relieved when Michael finally shinnied up, at extreme risk to life and limb, and retrieved old Bill.
Pete and I stood in the stableyard and yelled for David. At last his head appeared at the window. “What a racket!” he said. “Why didn’t you come up?”
“We thought you might be busy,” I said.
“Besides, it is more fun to yell,” said Pete.
“True. Aren’t you guys early today?”
“It is too nice a day to stay inside,” Pete informed him.
“True again. I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Have to finish this lot first.”
I was glad of the interlude because it gave me a chance to ask the boy some questions. I had been puzzling over that enigmatic comment of Francesca’s—that she hoped I would have the opportunity to see Pete again—and a possible explanation had occurred to me.
I sat down on the bench, and Pete rambled around kicking at the ball. “You said something about your Aunt Vera,” I began.
“Yes. She is the sister of my mother. You go over there and I will kick the ball to you.”
“In a minute.” I caught his arm and pulled him down beside me. “What’s her name?”
“I told you. Aunt Vera.”
“Doesn’t she have another name?”
“Oh, yes. It is a funny name. It is Hassel-berg. Her husband is Uncle Ben Hassel-berg.”
