The Grey Beginning, page 5
“Lost? Why didn’t you ring? One of the servants would have come for you. They were waiting until you were ready.”
The gulf between us was never more apparent than when it was illumined by a casual comment like that one. I had never thought of using the bellpull to summon a servant. It had not been too many generations since the Malones had been the ones who answered the bell. Instead of making me feel small and kind of humble, like Tigger, the thought amused me.
“Sorry,” I said breezily.
Emilia poured wine like chilled winter sunlight into the glasses and offered them. I took one, with a gracious nod of thanks. The contessa might intimidate me, but I was damned if I was going to be bullied by the maid.
After Emilia had gone we exchanged polite pleasantries for a while. Then the conversation turned to a monologue, as the contessa described the vast antiquity, enormous nobility, and distinguished history of the house of Morandini. As I listened I began to get a feeling that I was missing something—some underlying assumption that colored all her remarks—but I didn’t identify it until she said, “If you would prefer another room, that can of course be arranged. Or if there is anything you would like changed…”
Fortunately I had finished my wine. The glass slipped; I caught it just in time. “But you mustn’t go to so much trouble,” I blurted. “I have a room—at the Grande Albergo—”
“Alberto will bring your luggage.”
“But—but I—”
“Naturally you will stay here. Bartolommeo’s wife cannot stay at a hotel, even one called the Grande Albergo.”
A smile touched her mouth as she pronounced the name. It was the first sign of genuine humor she had displayed, and I found it attractive. She added, “You must allow me to make amends for my rudeness. I was under a misapprehension.”
I thought guiltily, you don’t know the half of it, lady. But less than ever was I moved to confess the truth. The blunt, cruel words would have shattered the porcelain facade of her dignity like a rock tossed through a shop window. Call me coward, call me craven—I couldn’t do it.
Without waiting for me to reply she pressed the bell. Emilia promptly appeared carrying a tray and began arranging dishes on the table. The tray was not the one she had been carrying when I first encountered her. It couldn’t have been. The soup was still steaming hot.
Emilia served every dish, though the table was so small I could have reached across it. The contessa talked about the beauty of spring and the loveliness of the Tuscan countryside. She quoted Dante—I guess it was Dante. Not until Emilia had collected the dirty dishes and gone out with her tray did the contessa relax. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and lit a cigarette. I was surprised to see such a fastidious woman smoking, and I noticed, as her hands dealt neatly with a gold lighter and gold cigarette box, that those members at least showed signs of age. Veins squirmed like little blue worms across the backs of her hands.
Then she got down to practical matters. We started from the fact that I would be staying at the villa. I never got a chance to protest that basic theorem because I was too busy protesting the corollaries that followed it. Alberto would collect my luggage…. No, he wouldn’t; thanks very much but I would rather do my own collecting. Alberto would pick me up after I had returned my car to the rental agency…. No, he wouldn’t; thanks very much, but I preferred to keep the car. She didn’t argue; instead she launched into a description of the villa’s domestic arrangements. Apparently it had finally dawned on her that I was a barbarian who would have to be instructed in the proper behavior toward servants and other conveniences.
The staff consisted of six people. No wonder the house was closed up and the grounds untended; six people to do the work of forty! Emilia had the impressive title of housekeeper; she also acted as the contessa’s personal maid, and I suspected this latter job took most of her time. Emilia’s husband Alberto was chauffeur and “head” gardener. A local “half wit”—the engaging term was the contessa’s—was his assistant. The cook was Rosa, the tuttofare a local girl named Anna. The contessa didn’t translate the second title. I knew just enough Italian to understand; the two words meant “to do everything,” and it was an accurate description of a maid of all work. Except for a woman who came in periodically to do heavy cleaning, that was it.
My chief reaction was sympathy for the tuttofare. My ignorance of high living kept me from noticing one singular omission in that list. No one for the boy. No nurserymaid, governess, tutor, or nanny. It was some time before I thought of that. I assumed he attended the local school, and that he was too old to need a nurse.
Alberto and Emilia were not local people. They had come from Rome with the contessa when she married. That explained the strange harsh accent I had noticed. Florentine Italian is musical and beautiful; the Roman dialect is considered crude. Maybe so, but I imagined the unpleasant personalities of the pair did not improve the charm of their speech.
The scene I had viewed from my window came back to me, and I said, “I take it Alberto is the man in charge of the dog?”
My hostess glanced unobtrusively at her watch. “Thank you for reminding me. I have an appointment at my hairdresser and must leave shortly; but first you must meet the dog.”
The dog got more respect than the servants—she hadn’t suggested that I be introduced to them. I was not keen on meeting that dog, but if I had to meet him, I preferred to do so under formal conditions.
A tinkle of the bell brought Emilia, who received her mistress’s instructions with a respectful nod and went out. After a few minutes the contessa took her gloves and bag from the desk and we went to the front door.
It was odd to go out a door I had never come in, and see the front of the house for the first time. It was big enough, but compared with the grim palaces of Florence it looked almost homey—if one may use such a word to describe a house that contained twenty or thirty bedrooms, not to mention innumerable reception rooms and salones. The facade was a simple rectangle of whitewashed stucco, accented by window frames and piers of the dark-gray stone called pietra serena. There were three stories above a high terrace reached by an ornate double staircase. Open arches in the platform supporting the terrace gave access to a lower, ground-level floor that presumably contained the domestic offices. The huge red-brown pots lining the terrace held small shrubs and trees that might, when the season was farther advanced, put out leaves and flowers and fruit; but they didn’t look especially healthy. Small statues alternated with the pots. At the foot of the stairs the drive widened into a semicircular expanse of gravel, with a fountain in the center and a statuary group in the center of the fountain. Bronze muscle men blew soundlessly into verdigrised shells and conches, or clutched coy mermaids to their metal chests. The fountain was dry. The sweep of grass that stretched down to a belt of trees in the far distance was in reasonably good condition and the flower beds had been weeded. I could see why Alberto and his assistant had no time for the rest of the estate. Keeping that four-acre stretch of turf mowed and the flowers weeded and watered was a full-time job in itself.
The car—a Mercedes, what else?—was waiting at the foot of the steps. Alberto had changed into a regular chauffeur’s uniform. It didn’t do much for his looks. The collar squeezed his bull neck and the buttons strained across his chest. In his polished boots and military jacket he looked like a retired storm trooper.
He held the dog’s chain. When the animal saw me, it lunged forward. Alberto let it go the full length of the chain, grinning when I jumped back. The contessa snapped out an order, like a row of ice cubes. Alberto’s smile disappeared. He practically genuflected, his manner as servile as that of the dog. He gathered up the chain and brought the animal to heel.
“Walk slowly toward him,” the contessa directed me. “Hold out your hand and let him smell it.”
I knew the procedure, but I had never seen a dog I was less anxious to try it on. When it was sitting, its head was on a level with my chest. The dog rumbled low in its throat as I sidled toward it. Alberto struck it across the face with the slack of the chain.
“Stop that!” I yelled.
The dog and Alberto appeared equally surprised. I crossed the remaining space in a few strides and thrust my hand at the dog’s muzzle. “There, good boy, you’re a nice dog…. You don’t want to hurt anybody….” In the same crooning voice I went on, “Alberto, old boy, I don’t know how much English you understand, but I’ll bet you know a little, and I am telling you right now to stop beating the dog. Stupido, cretino, don’t battere the cane.”
I did not turn to observe the effect of this high-handed behavior on the contessa, but I thought I heard a murmur of musical laughter. Alberto looked black. He understood the insults, at any rate. The dog was not impressed. I let him have a good long smell—his sniffs sounded like an old train engine getting up steam—and dared to run my fingers gently under his jaw before I retreated.
“That man has no more idea how to train a dog than how to solve a differential equation,” I said angrily. “Why do you let him—”
“He has his methods,” the contessa said calmly. She gestured at Alberto, and he dragged the dog away. The contessa drew on her gloves. “I dine at eight,” she said. “I hope you will join me at seven for a cocktail.”
She strolled slowly down the stairs. As she reached the car, Alberto appeared out of nowhere in time to open the door for her. It reminded me of the old saying about Queen Victoria—that she never looked over her shoulder when she sat down, because she knew someone would always make sure she had a chair under her.
I watched the car glide smoothly down the drive and vanish into the trees. I felt exhausted, as if I had been trying to walk against a strong wind. I fancied the contessa usually got her way. Or had I yielded, not because she outfought me and won, but because I had not fought very hard?
I got my purse from my room—my room—and went in search of my car. Somewhat to my surprise, it was still where I had left it. I got in and headed for Florence.
The drive took almost an hour, long enough for me to think about what I was doing, and decide that what I was doing probably wasn’t very nice. My parents would not approve. Sister Ursula certainly would not approve. Drs. Baldwin and Hochstein would disagree; they always did. The hell with Drs. Baldwin and Hochstein, I thought. I was sick of probing into my subconscious searching for motives. This decision felt right. It was only for a few days. She had not asked how long I could stay; I had not volunteered the information. If things got sticky, I would make my excuses and leave.
When I reached the Grande Albergo I double-parked in front of the door and went in. No one was at the desk. From the dining room came the clatter of utensils and the murmur of voices. It was still early, and Italians take long lunch hours, lingering over wine and coffee after polishing off their pasta. I was about to reach for my room key when Angelo came darting out of the dining room. He wore his waiter’s white apron over his concierge suit, and he was carrying a Tower-of-Pisa stack of cups. Seeing me, he came to a dead halt and stared as if he had never seen me before.
I said, “I’m checking out. There’s no hurry—I can see you’re busy. I’m going to go up and pack. When you get a minute, could you make up my bill, please?”
“Ah.” Angelo pondered. Then he put the cups down and went behind the desk. Handing me my key, he said, “Your friend has come.”
“My…Oh. No, I’m afraid not.”
“You were not here last night,” said Angelo. It was a simple statement of fact; the assumption was implicit, but not judgmental. Angelo made no judgments.
“I was at the villa,” I explained. “The Villa Morandini—remember? I’ll be staying there for a few days.”
“Ah.” Angelo thought this over. Then he said, “My brother is a policeman.”
“That’s nice,” I said, wondering what on earth he was getting at.
“It was from him I found where the Villa Morandini is. He knows all, my brother. If your friend does not come, you would like my brother.”
“I’m sure I would. But I don’t think—”
“He is taller than I,” said Angelo. “Taller than you. Very tall.” He measured his brother’s height with an outstretched hand. If the measurements were accurate, his brother could have played basketball with any team in the States.
“I’m sure he is very tall and very handsome,” I said. “And I’m very grateful to him for his help. I’ll let you know, Angelo.”
“Ah,” said Angelo. Seemingly at random he plucked a sheet of paper from a drawer, scribbled on it, and thrust it at me. “Il conto, signorina.”
We had a little discussion over the total. It seemed that the rates quoted on the card hanging on my closet door did not include astronomical local taxes, and a few other mysterious but (Angelo assured me) legal charges. I paid the bill and waved away the change. “Thanks for your help, Angelo. Is it all right if I leave my car here for a few hours?”
Angelo assured me I could leave the car anywhere I liked—in the street, in the lobby. “But do not put your suitcase in the car, signorina; leave it in the room, and I will bring it down and keep it at the desk. There are many thieves—many thieves….” And, shaking his head sadly, he picked up the cups and rushed away.
It didn’t take me long to pack. Angelo was nowhere in sight when I came down, so I hung my key back on its hook and went out into the street.
I had not intended to do any sightseeing, but in Florence you can’t go far without seeing sights, whether you want to or not. I was ambling along, not thinking of anything in particular, when I turned a corner and suddenly found myself in front of the Duomo, with the great dome lifting over it as lightly as a hot-air balloon. I had dreamed of coming to Florence with Bart one day; I had pored over guidebooks and art books, so I knew what the monuments looked like. What they looked like, not what they really were. The reality was overwhelming.
Later, I came by accident on the church of Orsan-michele, with its enshrined, life-sized saints, and there was Saint George, his arm resting lightly on his shield, his head lifted, looking for the dragon. I had fallen in love with Saint George during an art history class. I felt like a groupie gaping at her favorite rock star. Even the bird droppings that whitened George’s shoulders and handsome head did not mar his dignity.
Along the way I passed a bookshop. Among the books in the boxes in front of the store were a few in English, and I decided I had better get something to read. Long evenings with the contessa might seem very long indeed. Even if the villa had television, I wouldn’t be able to understand the language, and although there was probably a library—what great house is complete without a library?—it wouldn’t have much in the way of light English fiction.
I rummaged among the books, which had been tumbled haphazardly into the containers—secondhand paperbacks, dog-eared and in some cases missing their covers. It was a funny assortment; the flotsam and jetsam of the business, books nobody had wanted—a few mysteries, a few science fiction novels, quite a number of romances, poetry, belles lettres. Among the latter was a copy of The Innocents Abroad. My father was a great fan of Mark Twain; he had tried to get me to read The Innocents, saying it was one of the funniest books ever written. Naturally I had refused to read it. Now I picked it up with the feeling that it was a link, however remote, with home. I selected half a dozen others, more or less at random.
Eventually I found my way into the Piazza della Signoria. It was full of tourists and pigeons and fountains and statues. The copy of Michelangelo’s David was completely ringed in by tourists, some looking, some conscientiously reading their guidebooks. There were souvenir stalls all around, even under the beautiful medieval arcades. Oddly enough, the garish banners and cheap copies of David (made in Taiwan) didn’t seem out of place. There had always been crowds in the Piazza della Signoria, and small tradesmen selling their wares. Yesterday cooking pots and utensils; today, plastic Davids made in Taiwan.
When I sat down at a table at one of the outdoor cafés, I had collected several parcels, a small guide to Florence, and a handful of postcards. I wrote cards to several of my coworkers: “Having a wonderful time, aren’t you jealous?”
The family cards came next. My favorite (and so far, only) niece couldn’t read yet, but she might enjoy eating the card. I sent one to her and another to her parents, Jim and his cute wife; and another to Mike, living in bachelor indigence in Boston. I addressed the last to Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Malone. Then I sat staring at the blank half of the card, my pen poised.
They hadn’t wanted me to come. Pa had yelled and pounded on the table, as was his habit. The gist of his argument was, bury the past, forget it, and go on. Ma hadn’t said much. It had offended her thrifty soul to see me blow the entire insurance settlement on a trip abroad. It was all Bart had left—the insurance on his car.
Pa never liked Bart. He was too suave, too well dressed, and far, far too handsome. He smiled too much, particularly when Pa asked questions that weren’t meant to be funny, such as, “What do you do for a living?” Bart’s answer—“As little as possible, Mr. Malone”—didn’t go over too well. When I explained that Bart was trying to succeed in one of the most heartbreakingly competitive of all trades, and that establishing oneself as an actor took hard work, talent, and luck, my skeptical father just rolled his eyes and sniffed.
I thought I understood his skepticism and his hostility. It isn’t easy for a father to give his only daughter, the baby of the family, to another man. And when the man is a stranger, and said baby daughter shows up married, without so much as a preliminary letter of announcement…I didn’t blame my father for resenting that, but Bart had wanted it that way. I would have agreed if he had suggested we get married in diving suits, with Jacques Cousteau as best man.
I took a firmer grip on my pen and wrote, “It’s beautiful here. Everything is fine and I’m having a wonderful time. Love…”
It was a cop-out. But what else could I say? I hadn’t told the family I hoped to visit Bart’s grandmother, as I then believed her to be. They knew he had been born in Italy and they assumed I was on a sentimental journey. That was all they knew. They didn’t know Bart’s “grandmother” was a countess. That would have finished it for my father. He was a violent egalitarian, and when he started ranting about decadent aristocrats he sounded like the French Revolution. To explain the situation I now found myself in, or even part of it, would have taken more space than half a postcard. And it was not the sort of story I wanted the postman to read. Jack Wilson always read postcards, especially cards from exotic foreign lands. Then he went and told everybody on his route.
