The Long Weekend, page 18
Having drunk nearly the entire bottle, I was well and truly feeling the effects of the wine by now, and for the next ten minutes I loudly voiced my outrage about the ‘sick chef’ and the ‘special dishes’. So carried away was I that I forgot I was sitting with a drop-dead gorgeous thirty-something man who looked like an Italian movie star and had Ryan Gosling eyes. I even found myself leaping into Umberto impersonations.
‘“I create Umberto special for my very good friend Jane”.’ I closed my eyes in ecstasy, kissed the air with my fingers, wiggled my eyebrows and generally gave it the full performance. ‘“When you go back to your country, you say to everyone is the best meal you eat in the whole of Italy”.’
Stefano was laughing loudly, which only encouraged me all the more. ‘“Never will you taste such food! Ah, bella, bella, signorina Jane . . .”’ I noisily kissed my arm from hand to elbow.
Stefano applauded when I’d finished. ‘You are obviously an actress,’ he said.
‘He’s an appalling man,’ I insisted, trying to maintain my outrage, although by now I’d relaxed and so enjoyed my own performance that my anger was spent. Stefano merely smiled and shrugged.
‘He’s a liar and a conman, surely you agree?’ I demanded. I get a bit belligerent with a few drinks in me, or so Roland tells me, and I wanted Stefano to acknowledge I was right. ‘You said yourself, the food is terrible, and what about this wine? Is this honestly a ’98 Burgundy?’
He shrugged again. ‘I am no connoisseur . . .’
I knew he agreed with me but his refusal to join in my assassination of Umberto’s character only brought out my fighting spirit.
‘Well, I’m not going to let him get away with it,’ I said. ‘He has a menu and tomorrow I’m going to order a la carte, and I’m going to demand to see the wine list and –’
‘There is no wine list.’
Stefano laughed as I stared back at him, my tirade halted midstream. ‘Umberto has a cellar full of wine left him by his aunt. He sells bottles for whatever he thinks a guest might pay. Some are good and some are bad, but Umberto would not know – he drinks nothing but coffee.’
He took a sip of his wine. ‘You are right, this is terrible,’ but he drained the glass nevertheless. ‘It works both ways, however. Sometimes you will get a real bargain. Sometimes Umberto will sell a truly magnificent wine for very little.’
‘It wouldn’t be out of the goodness of his heart,’ I grumbled, ‘that’s for sure.’
‘Oh no, it is out of ignorance, I agree. But then that means he is not a true conman, surely.’
A rousing rendition of ‘O Sole Mio’ emanated from the dining room and, above the voices of Father Ralph and the women, I could hear Umberto giving it all it was worth.
‘If he was a good conman,’ Stefano insisted, finally forced into debate, ‘the Hotel Visconti would attract more than the odd cheap package tour. But Umberto knows nothing of business. He simply likes to play the host. Annita keeps the villa functioning on a basic level and Umberto pretends that he is running a five-star hotel.’
‘Exactly. He pretends. That makes him a conman.’
‘All right,’ Stefano said, acceding that ‘pretend’ was the wrong word. ‘He believes it. He believes that his Hotel Visconti is a grand hotel and that his food is special and his wine is special and that he is host extraordinaire.’
‘Well, he’s certainly that,’ I muttered.
I was intrigued. Had I misjudged Stefano? Was he one of those ‘good’ people who refused to think ill of anyone? No, he was too suave, too good-looking to be ‘nice’. Perhaps, like Rosella and Natale, he had simply fallen under Umberto’s spell. Surely not, he was far too intelligent. Perhaps, and this was the most likely scenario, I decided, Stefano was a conman himself, a conman who recognised another conman.
‘I have an excellent idea,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?’
‘Oh.’ I was jolted back to reality by the Ryan Gosling eyes.
‘At my parents’ place.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. (His parents?)
‘No, no,’ he laughed, my surprise at the suggestion was readable, ‘not their home. They have a little restaurant in Castel Gandalfo.’ He was waiting for me to say something but I didn’t. ‘The food is good,’ he added.
Still I was silent, my mind rapidly adding up the data. His mother is English, I thought. She’s married to an Italian. They have a restaurant in Castel Gandalfo. Oh my God . . .
‘The food really is very good,’ he promised again, ‘and there are lovely views of –’
‘The lake.’
‘What?’
‘The lake. You said there were lovely views.’
‘Yes. Of the lake. That’s correct.’
I was right. I had to be. Stefano was Wendy and Bruno’s son. ‘Um . . . that would be lovely, Stefano, but . . .’
I was curiously deflated. Stefano’s mystery was diminishing before my very eyes. His relationship with Wendy made him somehow ‘family’. Good God, if I went to the restaurant, not only would Bruno think I was freeloading again, we’d all end up talking about Roland and the good old London days, I could just see it. And much as I loved Roland . . .
‘No thank you,’ I said firmly. ‘I intend to eat at the Hotel Visconti.’ I was stubborn in order to hide my disappointment. ‘I’m determined to put Umberto to the test. I shall order a la carte, a huge steak, and I shall choose my own wine, which he will open at the table.’
Stefano looked at me for a moment and shook his head, either in admiration or exasperation, I wasn’t sure which. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘may I join you?’
What could I say? Disappointment flew out the window. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
A few minutes later, the Americans rounded off with ‘Quanto e Bella’ and Umberto raced into the bar.
‘Come, come,’ he said, grabbing my arm, ‘the Americans go to bed. You listen to Rosella. She sing.’
I was tired with travel, heady with wine and knew I should go to bed, but Stefano was following us into the dining room, so I decided to stay for a further half hour of his company.
As the last of the Americans trudged up the stairs, however (I noticed none of them used the lift), and as Umberto settled me back at my old table, Stefano made his apologies.
‘I must talk to Father Ralph about the morning’s itinerary, please excuse me. I shall see you tomorrow, Jane. Seven o’clock, in the bar?’ There was a wicked twinkle in his eyes – he knew he’d left me stranded.
‘Yes, fine.’ I glared back. ‘Seven o’clock’s fine.’
The indefatigable Sarina was scuttling in and out of the swinging doors, collecting the dishes that Annita was methodically and efficiently stacking. The night was clearly over and I longed to go to bed.
Rosella and Natale joined me at the table. ‘But I thought you were going to sing for us, Rosella,’ I said. The sooner we started, the sooner we could get it over with.
‘Yes, yes!’ Umberto exclaimed. He took a CD from his pocket and flourished it at me. ‘Here, she sing. You listen, you listen.’ He dashed over to the sound system.
‘They play this song on the radio,’ Rosella said, glowing with pride.
‘Umberto has friend in the radio.’ It was Natale. I was surprised to hear him speak at last. ‘He ask for his friend to play this song.’ Natale glowed with a pride that equalled Rosella’s. ‘He say he will make Rosella a star. Umberto is good to Rosella.’ The two of them nodded, held hands and smiled fondly at Umberto as he returned to the table.
The speakers started to hiss . . .Then came the sound of a third-rate band playing disco music . . . ‘Is good, si?’ Umberto pulled his chair up to the table. ‘I have friend with studio. He has band . . .’ Natale put his finger to his lips . . . Then, finally, there was Rosella, twittering faintly and prettily in the background:
‘Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Ah, ah, ah, ah . . .’
It took me a while to discern the fact that she was singing in English. When she wasn’t being drowned out by the ghastly backing, her accent was so appalling that it sounded like a different language altogether.
Rosella herself was leaning on the table, hands clasped beneath her chin, eyes staring radiantly up at the ceiling, lips mouthing the words of a song that had been a hit nearly forty years ago. Natale and Umberto were both beaming at me and I was left with nowhere to look. I fixed my sights on the nearest speaker, painted on a smile and nodded along to the rhythm, although even that part was difficult to discern every now and then.
The song seemed to last forever. Just when I thought it had finished, off she’d go again:
‘Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Ah, ah, ah, ah . . .’
And I’d have to go back to my nodding. Finally, the sounds faded to the hiss of the speakers and I realised that it was over.
I applauded. There was nothing else I could do, they were all waiting expectantly. ‘Very good, Rosella, what a pretty voice you have.’
‘You think?’ she asked, breathless with excitement.
‘Yes. Very pretty.’ The sound system was making some ugly noises and Umberto left to rescue the CD. ‘Do you sing songs in Italian?’ I asked, trying to make it sound innocent.
‘Oh no,’ the answer was most definite, ‘is not fashionable.’
‘You take this,’ Umberto was back, thrusting the CD into my hands. ‘You take this and you make Rosella a star in the Sydney radio, si?’
I looked into his beaming, asinine face. It was in full contortion, eyebrows and moustache working overtime and, again, I wanted to punch him. But then I looked at Rosella, the breathless expectation, the pathetic hope in her eyes. And I knew I couldn’t make a scene.
‘I’m going to London.’ I handed the CD back to Umberto.
‘You take it to London.’ He thrust it at me once again.
‘I don’t know anyone in London.’ This time I placed the CD on the table in front of Rosella. ‘I wish you every success with your career, Rosella.’ I knew I had to leave before my temper got the better of me and I let Umberto know what I thought of him in no uncertain terms. But, as I rose to leave, I saw the shadow of disappointment in Rosella’s eyes. I couldn’t leave her like that.
‘You have a very pretty voice, Rosella.’ The shadow departed, she glowed once more. ‘And you have the looks to go with it too.’ I smiled. ‘Goodnight.’ As I left, she radiated happiness, it was that easy. Bloody Umberto, I thought, how dare he delude her with such false hope?
I was still angry when I got to my room. A hot shower before bed, I decided.
Naked, I stepped into the bathroom and fumbled for the light switch. There it was. I flicked it on. But there was no light. Instead, an animal scream ripped the air. Dear God, what had I done? I groped about frantically in the dark, trying to turn off the hideous noise. I hit the light switch by mistake. Thank heavens, at least I could see. The noise was coming from above, a high-pitched, pig-like, angry squeal. Then I saw it. The extractor fan churning and screaming like something demented.
I found the switch and turned it off. I leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, heart pounding. Just the fan, that’s all, I told myself, just the fan. Then I pulled the shower curtain around me and turned on the taps.
The pressure was useless but at least the water was good and hot, and I must have stood there for a full ten minutes waiting for my shattered nerves to settle.
I was so tired that it was only when I turned off the shower that I realised I was standing ankle-deep in water. I pulled aside the curtain. The bathmat was floating. The whole bathroom was flooded and water was starting to seep over the doorstep into the bedroom.
Wet and desperate, I ran around collecting all the bath towels and handtowels I could find and, when I’d dammed up the bedroom door, I realised I hadn’t left one with which to dry myself.
The flannel. There was a dry flannel sitting beside the washbasin. I waded through the bathroom and back and, when I’d dried myself with the flannel, sat down on the bed and wondered whether to scream or sob.
I was tired and defeated and sick to death of the Hotel Visconti. I couldn’t take any more. I’d book out first thing in the morning, I had no other choice.
Then I thought of Stefano. I’d been so looking forward to tomorrow evening . . .
No, damn it! I wasn’t going to let Umberto and his rotten hotel win. I’d wait until everyone was at breakfast, then I’d sneak out and explore the town. I’d sit in a chic little outdoor cafe and have hot bread rolls and cafe latte and, by the time I got back to the hotel, if they hadn’t fixed my shower, I’d demand another room, Umberto’s ‘Venezia design’ suite if necessary.
Furthermore, I’d dress for dinner. My designer-label, pinstripe power suit that made my legs look fantastic, and I’d order my steak and my wine and . . .
Battle plans laid, I went to bed and slept like a baby.
A noise woke me. It reverberated through the room. Thunder? The floorboards seemed to be shuddering. A minor earthquake? Where was I? Morning light filtered through the wooden shutters. Yes, of course, I recollected, the insufferable Hotel Visconti. Then I heard the women’s voices and realised it was the Americans thundering down the stairs.
The bathroom had more or less drained itself during the night, but still I had to splash my way across to the basin in order to wash. I dressed and waited until I was sure they were all at breakfast, then quietly I stole downstairs.
There was no-one in sight. Good. The sounds of healthy eating from the dining room. The scrape of spoons in bowls, the clatter of cups on saucers. I halted momentarily at the reception area. Annita was there, but she was engrossed with her mobile phone and gave me only the briefest of nods as I walked purposefully out the main doors.
It was a grey day, not cold, but the threat of a storm imminent. I turned right and strode down the hill towards the town, spirits lifted, glad that I hadn’t succumbed to last night’s frustration. I was looking forward to exploring Genzano di Roma.
Not far from the Hotel Visconti I passed another villa. Beyond its huge wrought-iron gates was the stone statue of a woman, her strong, splendid face gazing up at something she was holding aloft in her right hand. As the hand itself was missing, one could only guess at the object of her attention. Weeds and wildflowers had successfully found their way through the many cracks in the paving stones of the circular driveway and, here and there, the outer layer of the villa’s walls had crumbled away to expose vulnerable patches of white plaster beneath the terracotta stain. The whole was surrounded by a tumble of overgrown gardens where the hardiest of weeds and vines vied for survival. There was no sign of human presence, all the windows were cracked or broken, and I presumed the place was derelict. The sight of such picturesque decay was somehow sad. This was once the grand part of town, I presumed. The nobility had lived in these wealthy villas on the hill.
As I neared the main town square, the shops and cafes I passed were drab and listless. Business was slow. It was now nine o’clock in the morning, but there were surprisingly few people in the street.
Then I arrived at the piazza, the hub of the town. Of course, I told myself, this was where the action was.
It was a big, open square surrounded by outdoor cafes, with public benches and tables in the centre, a gathering place for the people of Genzano di Roma. To the left, another main street, to the right a park, and ahead, the wide road that led up the rise to the church.
Half a dozen young people were lounging at the kerb side as I rounded the corner into the square. The boys wore leather jackets and leaned carelessly against lampposts. One of them sat astride his motorbike, nonchalant, arms crossed, the bike declaring him the alpha male. The girls, overly made-up, thrust their young breasts out under tight sweaters and, hands tucked in back pockets of tight jeans, shifted their weight from one high-heeled boot to the other, tough and cool, yet sexy and appealing. It seemed a complicated business to me, and very early in the day to be playing such games. They couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen – didn’t they have anything better to do?
People were sipping coffee in cafes, sitting chatting on benches and generally wandering about the piazza, but there was no bustle, no sense of the energy I’d come to expect from Italian meeting places. The town seemed languid, and I thought that perhaps, if there really was nothing better to do, the girls were right to play their image games. At least they had the stimulation of performance and flirtation.
I sat at a table observing the scene, had a very pleasant cafe latte and a hot bread roll with jam, and then set off up the road to the church. A slow, fine drizzle was starting to fall, but I refused to be daunted.
Although simple and basic in design, the church was attractive. Furthermore, it appeared to be the one building in town that didn’t need either major restoration or at least a spit and polish. It gleamed pristine white in the sunlight that filtered through the gathering grey clouds. The wide expanse of steps leading up to its front doors was fastidiously swept and, inside, the burnished wooden pews and railings glowed with the love of devoted parishioners.
Beyond the church was the old quarter of Genzano di Roma. A mass of little laneways, buildings crammed together, steps leading to mysterious places. For me, the backstreets of a town always beckoned, but after fifteen minutes or so I reluctantly decided against further exploration. The rain was more than a drizzle now, heavy weather was setting in. I must get back to the hotel.
Forty minutes later, when I arrived at the Hotel Visconti, I was soaked.
The main doors were closed and, I discovered, locked. I tried my room key. It didn’t fit. I rang the bell, which didn’t appear to work, and bashed on the doors for a full minute or so before giving up. Damn it, someone must be in there! I walked around the side of the house, through the gardens, to the terrace and tried the doors to the dining room. They too were locked. I peered through the glass, tapped loudly, yelled loudly, and still no-one appeared. I circled around to the rear of the house where I presumed I would find the servants’ and tradesmen’s entrance, not bothering to duck for cover – by now I was saturated – and found a door surrounded by garbage bins. It was unlocked. I sighed with relief, opened it and stepped into the kitchen.
