Nectar, page 14
Immacolata Metrofano no longer seemed to take pride in her cooking. She sent ducks to the table with their feathers still on and their entrails intact. Stale bread became a staple. Puddings lost their feathery lightness and became surly, weighty things that stuck like glue to the innards of those foolish enough to eat them. Pastry crusts on pies broke teeth on an unprecedented scale.
The sauces were full of lumps, and Ramona Drottoveo actually sent one back to the kitchens from the high table where she now took her meals. What ignominy! All the servants watched anxiously, not liking to imagine how the head cook would respond to such an insult. But even in the face of this shame, Immacolata Metrofano didn’t emerge from her depression.
Nobody could believe what had got into Immacolata Metrofano, and her new husband was terribly worried about her. After the Signor was served a live lobster that attacked his nose with its claws, Semprebene Metrofano knew he had to take a firm hand with his wife or they would be served their notice. After this, matters in the kitchen did improve, but Immacolata’s spirit was crushed, and she never fully recovered.
Despair manifested itself all over the estate. In the gardens, fountains played the sound of weeping. The topiaries developed strange swellings. Cheeky greenflies infested the rose garden, causing Ernesto Conticello a heartache he had never previously known. Moles burrowed up, creating bumps on the perfect lawns. The buffalos dried up and stopped giving milk, and nothing could be done to get them lactating again. In the dairy, cheeses curdled, butter went rancid. The lemon crop shriveled. Turnips grew into bizarre shapes, which indicated the presence of the devil. A swarm of angry hornets attacked a band of men working in the cherry orchard, with horrific consequences. Discontented laborers grew lazy and spent all their time complaining, and Semprebene Metrofano had to work day and night to hold things together. It reminded everybody of the terrible time of the beekeeper’s death. What a scourge was Ramona Drottoveo. Would they never be free of her curse?
Some of the younger, more idealistic servants talked of resigning all at once, thereby showing the Signor what they thought of his choice. But having no other place to go, they would be the only ones to suffer from a mass walkout. There had to be another way. But nobody could think what it was.
The arrival of the Signor’s married sister, the lady Margherita, from Potenza, inspired a glimmer of hope. She told her brother he was making a huge mistake, but the Signor wouldn’t listen. Instead he blew up into a rage, and obeying the instructions of the voices, he threw her down the steps from the grand entrance. The cracked ribs and broken nose she sustained encouraged his other relatives to keep their lips firmly closed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Wedding
The day of the wedding dawned with smoke-colored clouds scudding across the sky. There was sure to be a storm, and the villagers scurried along to bag a space in the chiesa, clutching their umbrellas. At the hour of the nuptials, the little church was straining at the seams with the weight of invited guests and gawping gate-crashers.
The pews were, of course, reserved for the persons of quality, and the common folk were obliged to squeeze in where they could. Trofimo Barile had managed somehow to get in between the Contessa Magina and the honorable lady Lydia, the Signor’s third cousin once removed. He was entertaining them with the story of the royal wedding he had once attended in the principality of Liechtenstein and the ladies were spellbound. The others, even such luminaries as Immacolata and Semprebene Metrofano, had to content themselves with standing at the back, and the likes of Stiliano Mamiliano and Virna Fuga, who were not pushy enough, got stuck behind the pillars.
The Signor stood at the high altar awaiting his bride, dressed in the uniform of the Hussars in which he had served the nation during the last war. The bullet holes had been expertly mended so that they hardly showed, and the right leg of the pants that had been ripped off by the explosion was matched seamlessly, so that even he was unsure of where the tear had been. The array of medals on his chest glittered brighter than the gold of the great cross on the altar.
The Signor paid no attention to the glorious gilt-and-marble tomb to his first wife, which he passed on the way in. It towered above the nave, looking slightly incongruous in the surroundings, which were uniformly faded, ramshackle, and moth-eaten. His only thought was of Ramona, or more precisely, of the aroma, to which he would shortly be joined in matrimony.
While the guests waited, they were entertained by Blandina, who sang for them the “Panis Angelicus” and the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin. She now resembled a child of seven, and was arrayed in a gown of white lace like a miniature bride. It was the Signor’s idea. He was a passionate music lover, and was enchanted by his new stepdaughter’s voice. Ramona was less delighted by Blandina’s vocal gift, although she knew it did not rival her own. Nevertheless, Ramona was irate that the child had inveigled her way into her special day. Still, she gritted her teeth and said nothing. She knew it would be unwise to start contradicting the Signor until after the ceremony.
At last Ramona Drottoveo arrived, fashionably late. As she stepped from the carriage she slipped on her train and almost fell onto the empty grave of her first husband, who, as a suicide, had been given the meanest spot in the churchyard. Perched on the decayed tombstones, on the porch, and on the gargoyles, were crows that gabbled in strange tongues at her approach. A streak of lightning cut open the sky that was now almost black. Vittorino Broschi, Ramona’s onetime lover, the former postilion who had been elevated to the position of third assistant coachman, shivered. Ramona, however, was totally preoccupied with her own beauty and grandeur and was oblivious to these terrible portents.
When she made her grand entrance into the chiesa, the individual gulps of the congregation formed one massive gasp of disbelief. Ramona considered this a sign of her incredible beauty, yet beauty was not how most people would have described it. The guests had never seen anything like it: the enormous crinoline, the immodest décolletage, the towering headdress adorned with swans’ feathers and tinkling bells, the bizarre goggles studded with rubies. The overall effect was monstrous. It was too much for the Signor’s ancient aunt Crispina, who collapsed in shock and died in the vestry before the conclusion of the service.
Ramona paraded down the aisle, which had been not only swept but polished in honor of the occasion, followed by a train a hundred meters long, embellished with fifty thousand seed pearls sewn by seventy seamstresses who had worked around the clock in order to finish it in time.
Waiting for her, by the holy altar, was the Signor, who felt himself the luckiest man alive. As his friends sneered at his bride, the Signor mistook their disgust for the uncontrolled lust she used to arouse, and he felt an overpowering smugness that he had carried off the prize every other man in the world wanted.
Ramona was in heaven. At that defining moment all her dreams came true. She was indeed a fairy queen. No, not a fairy, a goddess. An empress, even. She was beautiful. She was about to be declared the Signora. All these fancy people were looking upon her with love and awe.
The Signor’s friends were incredulous. He had been behaving strangely since the accident, but marrying this hideous and vulgar upstart confirmed that he had gone completely mad. His oldest friend, the Duc’d’Alba, considered calling a halt on the grounds of insanity, especially as the Signor continued to speak out to the voices in his head throughout the ceremony. But in the event, il duca said nothing. Although many hoped the spectacle would yet turn out to be an elaborate hoax, it was not to be. The nuptials were conducted according to the holy law.
Later, at the wedding breakfast, there was enough food to feed five thousand guests. In her greed, Ramona ordered this excess to be prepared, and although Immacolata Metrofano complained to the Signor, he told her to obey her new mistress, and involve him no more in the running of the household.
In the servants’ hall the feasting was halfhearted, for all were worried about what the future held.
“You’ll be first to be whipped, Dalinda Scandone,” said Ugo Rossi, who now wore a cap indoors to hide his deformity. “Ramona Drottoveo never could stand the sight of you.”
Dalinda Scandone slipped quietly into a fit as Beata Viola, swathed in crepe bandages, toyed miserably with an artichoke.
“You’ll be dismissed, Ugo,” she said. “I’ve heard she’s replacing all the under-butlers with young, handsome ones.”
“I’m young and handsome,” replied Ugo bravely, but he knew with the third ear he didn’t stand a chance.
In the salon, where the persons of quality took light refreshments, Ramona alone retained her appetite, and did justice to the caviar canapés, the champagne sherbets, the truffle tartlettes that Immacolata Metrofano and her team had spent all night preparing.
How Ramona loved to be waited upon by her former fellow servants! As they circulated among the guests, weighed down by the best silver salvers loaded with delicacies, she barked out her orders:
“You there, bring me more champagne. More of those little pastries. More cake.”
And the quaking footmen hurried to obey her. How wonderful it was to be the Signora.
The only minor irritant in an otherwise perfect day was Blandina. The guests petted her and made a fuss over her and kept asking her to sing. The girl reveled in their attention, and with sneering looks at her mother was not slow to put herself forward.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Wedding Journey
The wedding journey to Paris was the flimsy stuff of Ramona’s dreams made real. Every morning when she opened her eyes in their sumptuously appointed suite in the Hotel de Crillon she was filled with joy that she hadn’t awoken to her old life.
How wonderful was Paris! How much more beautiful than Napoli, where she once lived, and which she then imagined the most sparkling place in the world. Why, it was a mere village in comparison to Paris. Paris!
The newlyweds were deliriously happy. They shopped for gowns in the finest stores along the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré; for shoes and hats in the arcades of the Palais-Royal; for furs in the Avenue Montaigne; for jewels in the Rue de la Paix. Ramona’s greedy eyes, framed now by a pair of fancy eyeglasses, fixed upon the finest fripperies and the Signor happily indulged her every whim. The sorority of chic salesladies looked down upon the odd-looking whore, and the horribly scarred old fellow who talked to himself, but when word circulated about the Signor’s wealth and position in his own country, they could not have been more charming.
Gowns were ordered, each style in every color of the rainbow. The same for shoes and hats. The finest furs that could be trapped and subject to the furrier’s arts were commissioned by the dozen. And jewels so magnificent they required the presence of an armed bodyguard, who walked alongside the page carrying the packages.
When they finished shopping, they would dine at Le Grand Véfour, at Bofinger, or Les Ambassadeurs, where Ramona’s unusual table manners, the loud slurping noises, and the gnawing of bones mesmerized the other diners with a revulsion that was compelling. They would take a stroll along the grands boulevards or a carriage ride out to the Bois de Boulogne. In the evening, they frequented the cabaret at the Folies Bergère or visited the Opéra Garnier.
The opera! How Ramona loved the opera. Had her life turned out differently it could have been her down there on the stage. What a Mimi she would make! What a Carmen! Why, the roles could have been written for her. Bewigged, powdered, rouged, and dressed in a way that would have outshone Marie-Antoinette, Ramona sat in her box, hypnotized by the performance, oblivious to the fact that the rest of the audience had forgotten the production, and the lorgnettes of the entire opera house were turned toward her in utter disbelief.
The Signor, however, was not oblivious to this, far from it. The general astonishment he took for admiration, and congratulated himself wholeheartedly on securing the new Signora over every other man. She, who could have had anybody! She had preferred him, even to those who were firm in body as well as mind, and were not afflicted with his many disorders. During this phase in his life, the voices in his head were at their most benevolent, and they too congratulated him on his choice. The terrible tic that sometimes seized hold of his scarred face and would not let go was dormant throughout the honeymoon, and after their frenzied lovemaking he slept the sleep of the dead: his insomnia had vanished. He felt good for the first time since the accident. And he never tired of thanking the scent for it. He loved more than anything to bury his head in Ramona’s bosom and take great, gasping gulps of the phantom fragrance. He could feel it restoring him, and Ramona, who was happier than she had ever been, was delighted to indulge him.
The only fly in Ramona’s ointment was that she no longer had her aroma. If she had it now, the whole of the glittering city of Paris would be at her feet. The princes and the emperors and all the handsome, foppish Frenchmen would be fighting duels over her. If only she hadn’t had the child, she would have it still. Blandina had, of course, been left on the estate in the care of Milvia Lucentini. Another of the many benefits of being the Signora was that she didn’t have to bother about the girl anymore. In fact, she had almost succeeded in forgetting all about her.
Yet all too soon Ramona was calling upon the Holy Virgin to bless her new union with offspring. One evening as they strolled along the Seine, the Signor, in a rare moment of lucidity, explained what would happen if he remained childless. An entailment gave him the estate for his lifetime only, and on his death without issue, it would pass back into the hands of his first wife’s family, to whom it rightfully belonged and who had owned it for generations.
At this news Ramona was ready to collapse. Her new and wonderful life was in jeopardy! Why, the Signor was old. He was as rickety in body as in mind. He could be carried off at any moment. Every morning she half expected to find his corpse curled up beside her in the bed. Then the fairy-tale life she had worked so hard for would be snatched away, and she would be ruthlessly cast out. She knew the old Signora’s brother at Roccamonfina would lose no time in stripping her of her finery and shutting his doors in her face. She saw in her mind’s eye the servants’ jubilation at her ignominious expulsion from the estate. There was no time to lose.
Immediately, she rushed the Signor back to the suite. There she ripped off his clothes and hurried to enervate his flaccid penis. She had to conceive. Each day without a child was a day lived in danger. The Signor was delighted by the newfound ardor of his bride, and with the help of medication and a small rubber pump he was able to acquit himself creditably for a man his age. His happiness increased. She loved him. There was no doubt of that. He was the luckiest man alive.
For the remainder of the wedding journey Ramona forsook the shops and confined the Signor to the suite, where she employed all her arts and made completely unreasonable demands upon him. They were the happiest days of his life. But when the time came to return home, there was no baby; it was the only cloud in an otherwise dazzling sky.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Homecoming
Ramona returned to the estate with fifty trunks of gowns, twenty-seven of shoes, eleven of hats, five of furs, and an oversize strongbox containing the finest jewels Paris had to offer. All hands were required to assist with the carrying in, and in doing so Ugo Rossi sustained a hernia that added to the general rancor.
Blandina danced down the steps as soon as the carriage came into view. She had grown much taller since the wedding, and was graceful and slender and lovely. She could now pass for a child of ten or twelve. Blandina ignored her mother completely, but threw herself into the arms of the Signor, who kissed her fondly. He had bought her some special gifts in Paris and was anxious to give them to her.
The porters were amazed at the way the Signor bounded up the steps holding his stepdaughter’s hand. In the past, he had to be carried. The months away had a restorative effect on him, and he was looking ten years younger than he had before the marriage. Ramona Drottoveo really was good for him—even the most bitter of the servants had to admit that.
The new Signora, indignant at her daughter, oversaw the unpacking with much fussiness and faultfinding. She then conducted an inspection of the grounds that were now hers, and which had gradually recovered from the disorder they had fallen into following her reappearance at La Casa. How far had she come from the days when she was banned from the gardens by the old Signora, and although she had persisted in getting in, she had to be furtive about it.
Now, resplendent in a gown of Versailles lace, she paraded around beneath a matching parasol held up for her by Ovidio Gondulfo, the head gardener, who had once been so in love with her that he licked the place where her feet had walked. There was no trace of that emotion now, however, and the head gardener bristled like one of his prize cacti at being made to carry her umbrella.
Ramona revisited all her old haunts. She strolled along the manicured parterres where the perfect grass perfumed the air with the smell of mint, and was as springy as a trampoline.
The rose garden was back in finest form, and not a single greenfly could be found among the three thousand varieties tended with such love by Ernesto Conticello and his team. Ovidio Gondulfo bristled more at the ignominy of being seen by his subordinates holding a sunshade over Ramona Drottoveo, and he noted with a narrow eye those unwise enough to allow a smirk to contort their faces.
