The Grey Beginning, page 8
“Will you?”
“It’s damned unlikely. But one never knows.” His eyes rested gloatingly on the heaped-up boxes.
I stood up. “I can see you’re dying to get back to work. I won’t keep you any longer.”
“Not that way.” He put out a casual hand to detain me as I turned toward the narrow opening through which I had come. “I don’t know how you ever made it through all that stuff. I’ll show you my door.”
“I don’t want to take you from your labor of love.”
“It’s time for my morning break anyway.” He untangled his long legs and got to his feet. “A quick run around the garden, followed by a call on the cook. Come on.”
The way out was certainly less complicated than the route I had followed coming in. Uncarpeted stairs and straight passages led down four flights. The last stairs ended in a brick-floored corridor whose walls were of peeling stucco. “Kitchen is that way,” David said, lifting a thumb toward the right. “Pantries and storerooms on the other side. All unoccupied now. And this…” He opened a door. “This is my exercise yard.”
It was a small courtyard, high-walled and rank with weeds. A path had been beaten through the weeds around the walls, presumably by David’s feet. A few tangled roses struggled out of the brush to cling to the broken bricks and a half-rotted wooden bench stood against one wall. That was the extent of the amenities.
“‘Run’ would be more like it,” I said. “You mean this is the only part of the grounds you’re allowed to use during the daytime?”
“Now, now, don’t let your democratic indignation get the better of you. I’m here on sufferance, and I take what I can get. It isn’t so bad; my room is over the garage, which is through that gate. I can go and come as I please. Anyhow, I’m not anxious to socialize with the gentry or the staff—especially Alberto.” His dust-streaked face was grim. I wondered what the chauffeur had done to inspire his silent condemnation, but David did not elaborate.
“That other gate opens into the kitchen garden,” he went on. “You can get into the house that way, or go around to the front door.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the lecture.”
“Any time.” His wide smile illumined his face. “If you get bored, come up and help me rummage.”
“I might at that. If you get tired of running around this—this outdoor cage—come and play football with me and Pete.”
“Pete?”
“I should say Pietro; the contessa doesn’t care for American nicknames. Actually he’s the Count Morandini, but it sounds silly to call a ten-year-old boy by his title.”
“You mean there’s a kid living here? A ten-year-old?”
“Haven’t you seen him?”
David shook his head.
II
I left David doggedly jogging around the path. Four circuits made up half a mile; he’d paced it off with a pedometer.
Seeing him in daylight, I realized how distant was the resemblance I had fancied. He didn’t look anything like Bart. They were about the same height and build; that had been enough to deceive me. Even when dusted, David’s brown hair was several shades lighter than Bart’s; he moved without Bart’s smooth actor’s grace. Running, he looked like a loose-jointed, long-limbed marionette, a Petrouchka puppet with a cheerful clown’s face. He should have had freckles. Maybe there were freckles, under the dust. Even if it had been clean, his was not the kind of face women looked at, the bolder staring openly, the well-bred sneaking little sidelong glances. Women did that to Bart. I remembered the smug satisfaction with which I had clung to his arm, watching other women yearn for what was mine.
I made my way to the walled garden where I had found Pete playing. It was quiet and deserted. There was no sign that a child had ever been there—no forgotten balls or toys lying in the long grass, no swing or trapeze hanging from the limb of a tree.
David’s blank surprise at the mention of a child had left me with a queer feeling. He kept to his own part of the house and grounds, of course. He was in the attic most of the day. Still, it bothered me to think that the boy was so invisible. Maybe he was away at school. Maybe he had been home for vacation the day I saw him, or he attended a boarding school during the week and was only at the villa on weekends.
I decided I might as well do a little exploring. As Francesca had indicated, I was dressed for it, and I couldn’t get any dirtier after my visit to the attic. Besides, I wanted to find out where the garage was located so I could get my car without having to apply to Alberto. I must remember to retrieve my keys, too.
I went back to David’s exercise yard. He had finished his jogging and gone, presumably to beg a snack from Rosa. Through the gate he had pointed out I saw a stone-paved yard with the old stables on the far side. They were part of the house itself, the lower level of a wing that extended away from the central block. The former coachhouse had been turned into a garage. Beyond it, rows of empty stalls stretched forlornly to the far end of the wing.
I didn’t go through the gate. The Mercedes was out in the yard, and Alberto was polishing it. Sunlight reflected dazzlingly from the gleaming chrome of the grille. Too bad he wasn’t as conscientious about the dog.
I wondered where the animal was kept. It must be nearby, in the work area. I decided it might be a good idea to find out so I wouldn’t inadvertently wander into its run. The formal introduction hadn’t convinced me of its good intentions.
The obvious course would have been to ask Alberto. Instead I backed quietly away from the gate and began looking on my own. It didn’t take me long. I smelled the place before I saw it—not far from the stableyard and, in my opinion, too close to the route Pete followed to reach his bleak playground. The dog’s pen was worse than bleak, it was a disgrace. There was a kennel of sorts, tin-roofed and obviously not leak-proof. Though the walls of the pen were ten feet high, the dog was chained. A narrow stretch of beaten earth, liberally sprinkled with piles of dung, marked the limits of its restless pacing. It wasn’t pacing now; it lay stretched out, head on paws, next to a cheap plastic bowl containing a scant half-inch of scummy water.
He looked so bored and pathetic I almost did something really stupid. When I touched the gate he started up. The wind must have been blowing the wrong way, for he had not caught my scent. Did he jump with joy at the sight of me, the only person in his life who defended him and spoke gently to him? He jumped, all right—straight at me, jaws gaping. The chain brought him up with a jerk. He strained at it, snarling.
“You have a rotten memory,” I said. “Calm down. You’re not supposed to eat me; I’m one of the gentry, remember?”
I talked to him awhile, till he stopped snarling and sat down, staring at me like someone trying to remember a face. As I walked away I was so angry I was shaking. It was only sensible to keep the dog chained; he could probably jump the gate with no trouble. But the chain was far too short and Alberto didn’t even bother keeping the pen clean. I wondered how often the dog was fed. From the way he had drooled at me, I deduced it wasn’t often enough.
I returned to the kitchen garden and went through another gate. I had never seen a place so walled off into little compartments. Once the gardens must have been gorgeous. Even now, after years of neglect, there were signs of the features that had given each enclosure its special character—beds of roses, straggling and unpruned, in one; bulbs forcing brave emerald spears through the weeds in another; a crumbling fountain set in a mosaic-lined grotto in another. The bits of glittering mica and colored stone had been laid in concrete, but the roots of climbing vines had inserted steely fingers, and piles of fallen color littered the fountain’s floor. One garden had been walled with marble and adorned with a tiny circular columned temple that must have served as a gazebo. Two of the columns had fallen; I realized that they had been built that way, one of the artificial ruins popular with nineteenth-century landscape artists. And everywhere the untended grass and the weeds were growing, to smother flowers and crack stone.
A final gate of intricate but rusted wrought iron admitted me to the front grounds. They had been splendid in their heyday; the fountain spouting crystal streams from all the Tritons’ horns, the lawn like emerald velvet, the flower beds patches of bright color. A stooped figure bent over one of the beds. It must be the man Francesca had mentioned—Alberto’s assistant. I assumed he was weeding, though he didn’t appear to be working very hard. I hesitated, wondering whether to approach him. There wasn’t much I could say except “Buon giorno,” nor much I could do except smile. He might not care for my condescending attentions. As I watched he got painfully to his feet, and I realized, with a shock of pity, that the poor creature was physically handicapped. Limping, one shoulder higher than the other, he set off across the lawn away from me.
It was later than I had realized. A glance at my watch confirmed the time suggested by the height of the sun. I would have to shower and change. And, I promised myself, I would ask Francesca where she was hiding her grandson. She could exile the child from her presence if she chose, but there was no reason why I had to treat him like a leper.
However, when I came down to lunch, suitably attired in blouse and skirt, Francesca wasn’t there. Emilia poured the ritual glass of wine for me; when I indicated to her that I would wait for my hostess she produced a note from her pocket. The delicate handwriting informed me that I would be lunching alone. Francesca had an appointment she could not cancel. “I meant to tell you this morning at breakfast,” she wrote. “I hope you will excuse my rudeness.”
I could hardly blame her for forgetting, after the exhibition I had put on.
I waited until Emilia had poured my coffee before I asked about Pete. I called him Pietro, of course.
She repeated the key word. “School?”
“La scuola. Is il conte at the scuola today?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?” She looked blankly at me. I tried again. “Where is he?”
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. I suspected she would not have committed that vulgarity in Francesca’s presence, but vulgarity doesn’t bother me; what bothered me was the utter indifference the gesture implied. “You don’t know where he is?” I asked.
Another shrug. “In his room?”
I tossed my napkin onto the table with a gesture worthy of a contessa. “Where is his room?”
You’d have thought I had asked the way to the lion house. She didn’t try to prevent me or talk me out of it, she simply could not comprehend why I would voluntarily look for the boy.
We started up the stairs. I decided I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to find out the answers to some of the things I was curious about, so I peppered her with questions. Yes, she said, the contessa’s room was also on the second floor, at the far end of the same corridor on which my room was located, and near the door into the west wing, which was now unoccupied. Emilia’s fractured English became surprisingly fluent at this point, and she went on to explain that the west wing was in a ruinous condition—unsafe, unsanitary, and generally undesirable.
It was from this wing I had seen her come with her covered tray. I was tempted to ask if that was where they keep crazy old Uncle Giovanni, but I decided Emilia’s English wasn’t good enough for jokes. It was not a very funny joke anyway.
My room wasn’t the state bedchamber after all. The suite of the reigning count and his consort occupied the entire second-floor front of the villa.
But the present count was elsewhere. I had taken it for granted that the child’s room would be on the same floor as the other bedchambers; however, after I had stopped in my room to pick up the game I’d bought for him, Emilia led me up again. So Pete was in the attic, with the servants and the other junk. I was familiar with the old-fashioned custom of keeping the young as far from the adults as possible, but in this case it struck me as profoundly mistaken, not to say dangerous. That was when it dawned on me that Francesca had not mentioned a governess or nurserymaid. Who looked after him, then, especially at night?
When we reached the head of the stairs Emilia turned in the opposite direction from the one we had taken to reach the storeroom where David was working. Pete’s room was on a corridor paralleling the front of the house. It was not far from the stairs, but it was a long way from Francesca’s room, which was at the far end of another corridor on the floor below. She wouldn’t be able to hear him if he became ill during the night—and that was probably just the way she wanted it.
I asked Emilia where she slept. She gestured—near Francesca’s room. “And the tuttofare?” I persisted. This time her pointing finger indicated a door not far from the boy’s. She added, with a twisted smile, “When she is there. She sleeps away, very often.”
I didn’t ask any more questions. When I raised my hand to knock on Pete’s door, Emilia reached for the key. I had noticed it, but had not thought anything about it. The proper place for a key is in a keyhole. She said, “You wish to go in?”
Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded. Emilia turned the key. “When you come out, you…” She gestured, twisting her fingers. Lock him in again when you come out.
I stared at her. She shrugged, smiling insolently. “Bene, signora. As you desire.”
I waited till she was out of sight. I thought I had heard sounds of movement inside—soft, scuttling, surreptitious movements, like rats in the wall. Then I knocked and called out. “It’s me, Pete. Kathy. Can I come in?”
After a moment his voice said, “Please.”
The room had been furnished as a nursery, thirty years ago. It may have been pleasant then; there were shelves filled with toys and books, a fireplace with a fender and screen, a rocking horse, a little brass bed. There was nothing wrong with it now, except for its shabbiness and the fact that there was not one object in it that could have amused a ten-year-old boy. The window was barred.
Pete was in bed, a book open on his lap. He sat quite still, his eyes wide and watchful, his lips tight, until I closed the door.
“They didn’t tell me you were sick,” I said. “I’d have come to see you before if I had known.”
“You are alone, signora?”
“Yes.” I pulled up a chair and sat down. “How do you feel?”
“Well. I am well. I am not sick.”
“I was afraid you had caught something from me. I guess it wasn’t catching, though.”
The funniest expression spread over his face—sly, almost prurient. It was a horrid look, even worse than the shuttered wariness it had replaced.
I had not missed the significance of the way he had addressed me. He had called me “signorina” before. Someone must have told him part of the story and hinted at the rest. I said impulsively, “You know I was married to your…he’d be your cousin, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, signora.”
“I’m not pregnant, though.”
The sly little leer vanished in a flood of surprise. He knew the word; after all, he had spent some time in an American school, and there aren’t many words those kids haven’t heard. I went on casually, “You know, when a woman is going to have a baby, sometimes she gets sick at her stomach. I was sick yesterday. It was just one of those bugs people get when they travel. But I’m afraid someone may have jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
I don’t think he understood the last word, but the idea got through. His brow furrowed. “You are not—you do not…”
“Not pregnant, no. Did someone tell you I was?”
He was still flushed, but his expression was one of normal childish curiosity. He dropped the book and hugged his knees. “I heard them talk—Emilia and Rosa. When Emilia saw I was listening she said I was bad. It was not a thing for children….”
“Never mind, I can imagine what she said. She was wrong on all counts.” I smiled at him. “In a way I’m sorry I’m not pregnant. I’d like to have a child.”
“You like children?”
“Yes, of course. That’s what I do for a living—teach children.”
“Like me?”
“A little bit older than you. Junior high school. My students are between twelve and fifteen.”
“What do you teach?”
“History.”
His face fell. “Not football.”
“You know I’m not very good at football, Pete. Oh, that reminds me. I brought you something.”
He pounced on the game like a starving man on a bowl of soup. “I had it—like this—before. But it was not so—so—”
“Complicated?”
He tasted the word experimentally. “Complicated…Yes. Not so complicated. It was broken. Let us play this now.”
It didn’t take him long to get the hang of it. I had already accepted the humiliating fact that most of my students could beat the pants off me at any electronic game. He skinned me four games out of six, and he would have gone on playing all day if I hadn’t begged off.
“Let’s play something else. Darn it, I’d like to win for a change.”
“There is nothing else.”
“No games—Parcheesi, checkers?”
“Only baby games.” He swept the room with a scornful wave of his hand.
“What do you do all day?” I tried to keep my voice neutral. I don’t think I succeeded.
“I have a radio. Sometimes I listen to the music. And I am always to study.”
He indicated the book he had (not) been reading. It was a thick volume on Italian history, written for adults. There were a few black-and-white photographs.
I couldn’t continue the inquisition. I had completely lost my sense of perspective, and that was bad. I had only heard one side of the case. It was hard to imagine there could be another valid point of view, but I had learned through painful experience that one could easily go astray in one’s judgments, especially where a child was concerned.
