Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (76 page)

I ate my breakfast with appetite. I was alone, without protection or any face I knew, but it didn’t throw me; I felt, instead, a sense of high adventure. I was, in fact, feeling my oats and, making my preparations for the day, looked interestedly at myself in the mirror over the washstand, told myself I was a fairly striking-looking gal, and brushed my hair briskly. When I went down to the lobby, armed with lira-stuffed wallet, traveler’s checks and camera, I greeted the desk clerk jauntily.

“Buon giorno, come sta?”

He smiled back, pleased.
“Buon giorno, signorina. Molto bene, grazie. E lei?”

“Molto bene.”

“Le piace stare qui?”

“Si, mi piace moltissima, grazie.”

He laughed, appreciative of my efforts to commune with him in his language, and asked if I was bound for the Uffizzi. I said not today, that I had some business to attend to this morning, but that this afternoon I hoped to be able to go to the Villa Paradiso. “Do you know where it is?” I asked him.

“Oh yes. A very fine, old villa. Not far. About twenty minutes by car.” He was curious. “You know someone there, signorina?”

“In a way. Could I ask you to make a telephone call for me?”

“Certainly.”

I gave him the number of Predelli and Pineider and, after speaking to a receptionist, explaining who I was, I was switched to one of the lawyers.

It was Signore Predelli and, in moderately-accented English he said warmly, “Hello, how are you? Your letter reached us last week, saying that you would be in Florence and would like to stop in. By all means, signorina. We would be charmed. Where are you staying?”

“At the Continentale.”

“We are very nearby. Our office is located, as you know, on the Via Tornabuoni, just across the street from Cook’s. Take the lift up to the third floor; you will see our name on the door. Can I expect you this morning?”

“Thank you, I could be there in a short while.”

“Wonderful. I will look forward to seeing you.”

• • •

Signore Predelli was tall for an Italian, and solidly built, with a fleshy face. Rather sportily dressed, in a glen plaid suit and expensive necktie, with gold cufflinks gleaming as he held out a hand, he wore his thinning hair in violin strings in an attempt to hide the advancing baldness. He was natty, immaculate, and about fifty.

The fact that he was also fond of women showed in the dark eyes that looked me up and down, and as we walked back to his office there was a hand lightly on my arm. He offered me a chair and then sat down himself at a large, impressive desk.

“My partner, unfortunately, had to see some people outside the office,” he told me. “But you can meet him another time. I am glad that
I
was not called out on business, for you are very pretty, and Italian men like pretty girls.”

He leaned forward. “So you want to know about your aunt.”

“Well, I’m naturally curious. I didn’t even know of her existence until this happened. Apparently she lived most of her life in Italy.”

“She was an interesting woman. Yes, Italy was her home, she became
very
Italian. A brilliant woman, a fine conversationalist. I miss her very much.”

“Why do you suppose she left me money?”

“She probably was sorry not to have any children of her own. Sometimes, in these old families, the blood gets tired, used up. No strength for breeding. In this case it was like that. Who can say why? But it was so. But they were very happy together, so devoted. Well, signorina, there you were, in the country she left, a child of her family … and so she wanted to remember you in that way. And by the way, congratulations. I can imagine that you feel deeply grateful.”

“I certainly do. And touched.”

“Yes. You know she was a very rich woman. Very rich. It’s nice, the amount you were left, and I am sure you will put it to good use. But she had a fortune and she left a fortune. We are still not sure of the exact amount, because some of her holdings are in the United States. But believe me, it is staggering. The villa is old and in some disrepair; however it is a good, solid structure and enduring. She lived a very frugal life these last years. A little bit eccentric, you understand? Clothing? She was not a fashion plate.”

He smiled torerantly. “Well, she was
far
from a fashion plate. Food? She ate like a bird, except that when either my partner or I took her to Doney’s. But on the other hand, when we were invited out there to the villa, I assure you that we came away hungry. She husbanded her money, as many old people do no matter how much there is of it. And so she left a huge nest egg for Elizabeth, who simply has no idea what to do with it. She doesn’t even realize.”

“Elizabeth?” I asked.

“Her companion of many years, Elizabeth Wadley, an Englishwoman. I believe they were girls together, when Mrs. Wadley lived for a few years in America … her father held some ambassadorial post. When they were both widowed, they met again and decided to make their home together. Mrs. Wadley was in a poor financial position, so it was a good arrangement for them. Poor Elizabeth, she must be heartbreakingly lonely.”

“Did my aunt make any other bequests? Aside from me and this Mrs. Wadley?”

“Oh yes, of course … to people who worked for her, quite generous amounts. Otherwise Elizabeth Wadley inherits it all. But of course it is very nice, because when
she
dies, the estate, in toto, passes on to the former owners, the family.”

“Who is the family?” I asked curiously. “The former owners you speak of?”

“By that I mean the Monteverdis. It’s an old name, signorina, dating back to the earliest centuries. A great composer comes from that branch, Claudio Monteverdi, 1567 to 1643. His was the first great name in operatic history. Orfee, L’incoronazione di Poppea, Tancredi e Clorinda. The Monteverdis are very poor, but still they live very well on their estate, thanks to the Contessa.”

“They live at the Villa Paradiso?”

A small smile crossed signore Predelli’s face. He pushed ashes back and forth in a tray with a burnt-out match and at last confessed the reason for his mirth. “The Villa Paradiso,” he repeated, still smiling. “Well, I don’t think they like that name, you see. It was the Villa Monteverdi, but when the Contessa bought it she renamed it. And it is not a very imaginative name, you must agree. Even if she had called it the Villa Sciaccapensieri … which is like the French Sans Souci … it might not have offended quite so much. Perhaps she had read Feydeau — THE HOTEL PAPRADISO — and was thinking of that, though that has a comic connotation. At any rate, when the Monteverdis come into their own again, there will be a change of name for the villa. The old, rightful name.”

He leaned forward. “But don’t mistake me,” he said. “They were enormously fond of your aunt. And she of them. There are two wings to the villa … in one of them the Monteverdis live. There is a stone wall at the back of the house, separating the gardens, but the gate of it is never closed. There was always privacy without familiarity.”

He looked at me shrewdly. “You can’t wait to see the villa, I’m sure.”

“I’m very eager to see it.”

He picked up a desk pad and wrote on it. “Here’s the telephone number of your aunt. Mrs. Wadley will be most happy. And how to get there. It’s only about six kilometers, not at all far out from the city. She’ll certainly introduce you to the Monteverdis. You’ll find them very simpatico. The Principe and Principessa will not be called by their titles. Simply address them as signore and signora.”

“You mean they’re — ”

“It doesn’t mean anything any more. It’s considered vulgar, except in jet set circles, to use titles as a form of address. You see, signorina, in Italy it is the same as anywhere else. The best people don’t — ”

He smiled again. “We have a saying.
La genie semplice e la migliore. Quella che si da le arie ci fa ridere …”

“I know some Italian,” I said. “But I can’t translate
that.
”

“Roughly,” he said, “it means ‘people of quality don’t put on airs’.”

“ ‘Ridere’
means to laugh, doesn’t it?”

“Ah hah! You
do
know some Italian! All right, what I said was this, and it is a good thing to remember. ‘Simple people are the best … they laugh at those who put on airs.’ You don’t want to be laughed at, signorina? No, of course not. Address them as signore and signora. They will respect you for it.”

I called the Villa Paradiso after I left the attorney’s office. The desk clerk obliged again, but there was such a long wait before the ringing stopped that I was sure my aunt’s companion was not at home. But at last a brisk, very British voice said, “Hello, hello.”

“Mrs. Wadley?”

“Speaking.”

I introduced myself. “I’m Barbara Loomis, the Contessa d’Albiensi was my great-aunt. She left me an inheritance. I’m here in Florence, and of course I’d like to see the villa, Mrs. Wadley … and meet you.”

“I beg your pardon?” There was a loud throat-clearing. “Who’d you say this was?”

“It’s Barbara Loomis,” I repeated patiently, enunciating clearly. She was well on in years, was perhaps hard of hearing. “Mercedes d’Albiensi was an aunt of mine. She left me some money in her will. I’m here, in Italy. In Florence. Would it be possible for me to pay you a visit, Mrs. Wadley?”

“Why, my word!” There was a booming laugh. “This is little Barbara? You mean — ”

“This is little Barbara,” I agreed. “Except that I’m not so little. I’m twenty-four.”

“You don’t say!”

I started all over again. “I’m here in Florence. I’d love to see the villa. I wondered about this afternoon.”

“
Indeed
this afternoon. What a delightful surprise. Hello, my dear. Yes, do come out. I shall be at home all the afternoon and evening. You’ll have dinner with me.”

“Oh, thank you, but I wouldn’t dream of — ”

“Oh, but you must. It will be like old times, to sit at table with someone else. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“It’s extraordinarily kind of you, Mrs. Wadley. But you must tell me what to bring. A little steak? Lamb chops? I can get something at the markets here.”

“Oh, I have provisions,” she said largely. “Don’t fret yourself. What time will you be here, dear?”

“I thought about — ”

“Then shall we say at around six?” she said, interrupting me. “Good, I’ll see you then. How jolly! It will be
such
a diversion for me. We shall have a splendid time. There’s a television. The reception’s poor, but no matter. There’s a hair dryer too; you’ll like that. Young people are so fond of washing their hair every two or three days. So then I shall see you about sixish.”

“Well, fine,” I said, a little dazed at mention of TV and a hair dryer. “But please tell me what to bring. I could pick up some meat … or fish …”

“I have everything like that,” she insisted and then, in a rush, avidly, “You might get some cheese sticks and those lovely salted almonds. And the vol au vents. I do so like them. On the Via Parione, the British shop. It’s not hard to find; it has the crest of the Empire on the glass door.”

There was a kind of buzzing, as if she had faded away, and then she said, “Sorry, I dropped the phone, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Good-bye, then. The taxi will be about four hundred lira, with another hundred for a tip. Don’t give him more than that, no matter how threatening he becomes. They see a foreigner coming, but don’t let him bully you.
Capisco?”

“Capisco,”
I said, but she had already rung off.

• • •

I found the British shop Mrs. Wadley had mentioned, and she was right … their wares were mouth-watering. I bought the vol au vents and the cheese croutons and a pound of “those lovely salted almonds,” and went in search of a taxi. There was a stand in the Piazza di Trinita nearby; I had only a few minutes’ wait. Inside, I told the driver the Villa Paradiso. He knew instantly, gave me a respectful and rather inquisitive look in the rear view mirror and pulled away with a snarl of wild rev of the motor.

We went through narrow streets, passed through an austere Roman gate and the remains of an ancient city wall, and then started to climb. The road was steep, as narrow as a needle, and serpentine. At every dangerous curve my driver leaned on his horn, but he was going at a fast clip and driving, essentially, blind … you had no way of knowing what was just round the bend. I found my fingers whitening as they clung to the leather of the seat; finally, I said,
“Per favore, troppo veloce … lentamente, per piacere …”

“Si,”
he said indifferently, and slowed up not a whit. It was horrendous … at any moment I expected a collision … the scream and wrench of metal against metal. But nothing of the sort happened, though when the cab finally screeched to a stop, I was shaking as with the ague.

“Quanto costa?”
I asked, taking out my wallet.

He looked at me, in the mirror over the dashboard, consideringly. Then said, “One thousand lira, signorina.”

“No,” I answered, my chin out. “The people here told me it would be four hundred. Here’s five hundred. I won’t be cheated, particularly after that awful, frightening ride.
Capisco?”

There was no argument. He took the five hundred lira, smiled pleasantly, wished me a fine evening and, jerking a thumb in the direction of the villa at our right, said,
“Bellissima
, that. Old, old. The family Monteverdi. Good people, a good name, old, old.”

He backed up, gunned his motor, and was off in a cloud of dust. I stood in the roadway, watching him disappear into the distance. It was just a little before six o’clock and would not be dark for another two hours, but just the same there was the violet foreshadowing of the evening slowly coming on. The earth smells were everywhere, warm and beautiful and primal … and the aroma of a thousand flowers enriched the dying day. The sun still scorched, but a vagrant breeze had sprung up, whispering the leaves in the trees. There was the busy twittering of bird life, and a cuckoo sang its song. A cow lowed, in the distance, wanting to be milked, and six solemn notes bonged from some nearby belltower.