The Legacy (12 page)

“Because you lock yourself up in his house. The bay is out there and the bridge is out there. Get out. Walk. Ride the cable cars. Go into the shops.”

Smiling, Jean nodded. “Doctors are wonderful.”

“Shall I give you a prescription for the pills? A long walk would do you more good.”

“No, forget the pills. You'd worry too much.”

Jean let him out, closed the door behind him, and then faced the mirror in the foyer. She peered closely at the wrinkles around her eyes and lips, straightened a bit of hair, drew her shoulders back. “What would you say, Danny?” she whispered. “A fine figure of a woman? Well, not really, and you'd choose your words more carefully, wouldn't you? Still a touch of piss and vinegar in the old broad — yes, that's more like it. Suppose we give it a try.”

She went upstairs and changed into a suit of brown tweed, the jacket over a cashmere sweater, combed her hair, toyed with the thought of dyeing it, and tied it at the back of her neck in a manner she decided was at least thirty years too young for her.

The hell with it, she thought. I like it that way, and there's more points from old Dan. And calling out to her housekeeper, “Mrs. Bendler, I'm going out!”

“Shall I have them bring the car around?”

“No. No car.”

“Will you be back for dinner?”

“I don't know. You can go home. I'll probably have a bite somewhere and go to the movies.”

Outside, the sun was shining and the wind was blowing. “It's seven months,” she said to herself as she started down the hill, “seven long, rotten months. Time to stop weeping.”

The reason Barbara almost missed the hotel ferry from Ischia to the mainland was that she had stopped in the village to buy a silk scarf. The street of smart shops that lifted up from the harbor of Ischia always made her uncomfortable; it had a most unlikely resemblance to Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, and the prices were equally outrageous. She mulled over the scarves too long, glanced at her watch, paid for the one in her hand, pale blue, and then raced down to the pier. The handsome, yacht-like ferry had just parted company with the dock, and at the stern, a tall, gray-haired man grinned at her and shouted, “You can make it if you're a jumper.”

The space was four feet and widening, and without pausing to think or slacken her pace, Barbara jumped. The man reached out and caught her arm as she teetered on the edge, and once she had regained her balance and her breath, she thanked him and told him he had saved her from an unwanted bath.

“You do swim?”

“Very well.”

“Then I haven't saved your life, have I?” He had an Italian accent, and he was studying her with amusement and interest. He was quite tall, well over six feet, perhaps in his middle fifties, sparely built, pale blue eyes under shaggy brows. He had a pleasant, lined face, a reserved yet ingratiating manner.

He was vaguely familiar, and Barbara had a feeling she had seen him at the hotel. “Not my life — not even my scarf,” she said, pointing to where the blue scarf floated, receding. “But I do thank you — we haven't met, I don't think.”

“I'm at the hotel. No, we haven't met. I saw you with that handsome young man — your husband?”

“Yes. I'm Barbara Devron.”

“And I am enchanted. My name is Umberto Leone, and since I saved neither your life nor your scarf, perhaps I can make up for my ineptness with a cappuccino or a brandy.”

Barbara saw no reason to refuse. The trip from Ischia to Naples took over an hour, and it was more pleasant to sit on the upper deck sipping coffee and talking to a charming Italian than to be alone and stare at the gulls; and aside from Umberto Leone, the only other passengers were four stout German ladies whom Barbara was happy to avoid.

And Leone was charming. He had that Italian gift of making a woman feel very important without assaulting her in any way. He informed Barbara that he was married, that he had four children, and that he was president of a small automobile manufacturing company in Milan. “But once a year,” he said, “I have my two weeks at Ischia. It is still the most wonderful place I know of — for the moment. In a few years, conceivably, it will be another Capri, but not yet. And with this lovely ship, one has Naples across the bay. I adore Naples. It is true Italy. Yes, it has poverty and thieves and beggars, but it also has the Neapolitans.”

“I've felt that,” Barbara agreed. “I find it more exciting than Rome, and more colorful. My husband doesn't agree with me. The poverty repels him.”

“Understandably, since you are from California.”

“Oh? I don't follow you.”

“I have been there only twice, but I always think of it as a place that has no knowledge of poverty.”

“I don't know whether that's a compliment or not.” Barbara laughed. “But you are wrong, Mr. Leone. We have our poverty — too much of it, from our point of view.”

“Perhaps. A tourist sees what he is supposed to see. But tell me — why this trip to Naples alone? For most Americans, the shops on Ischia are preferable.”

“I'm not off to shop. I'm going back to Pompeii. I was there with my husband last week, but only for a few hours. The place fascinated me, so I decided to go back alone and spend a whole day there.”

“Your husband did not enjoy it?”

“He did. He feels that once is enough. He's going fishing, and I'm not enamored of fishing, and we both felt that a day apart from each other would be beneficial.”

“It can be. Have you been married long?”

“A few weeks. We're on our honeymoon.” He was regarding her curiously, and Barbara added, “It's the second marriage for both of us, if you were wondering.”

“I would not be so impolite as to wonder. You make a very handsome couple, so naturally people notice you and things are said. Your husband is a newspaper publisher?”

“Yes, the Los Angeles
World.
Your English is excellent. Did you live in England or America?”

“I travel a good deal. And during the war, I was with your forces. I was not an automobile manufacturer then. I despised Mussolini.”

“But since I am a rich American, you think I might have admired him?”

He spread his hands. “Possibly. But I doubt it.”

“I didn't admire him, not in the slightest. And since we're into personal matters, doesn't your wife object to your vacationing alone?”

“Why should she? She's a sensible woman, and this is a safety valve. You see, we are happily married, but I am also a man. I am not a prisoner. Neither is she.”

“That's very enlightened,” Barbara said, smiling slightly, “for —”

“You were going to say, for an Italian.”

“Was I? Then forgive me.”

“No need. Why should you know more about Italians than I know about Americans?”

“Because I'm half Italian, for one thing.”

“No? Truly?”

“Truly. Two grandparents were Italian. I never knew them. They died before I was born. The other two were dyed-in-the-wool white Protestant Americans. So, you see, I should have a rounded knowledge. But I'm afraid I don't.”

“You're an interesting woman, Mrs. Devron. How were you planning to go to Pompeii?”

“There are cabs at the dock. I'll hire one for the day.”

“I have my car at the dock. I don't want to press you or give you the feeling that I am making advances. I have no motives except to look forward to a pleasant few hours. But I will be absolutely delighted to drive you to Pompeii.”

“No — no, really, it's not necessary. It's very kind of you —”

“It's not kind of me. Instead of spending the day alone, I would have delightful company. I am reasonably civilized, so I am sure you would have no — well, how would I say it in English? — no uncomfortable moments. Also, being Italian, I speak Italian. But perhaps you do?”

“No, I don't.”

“Ah, then I would be useful? Please accept my invitation. And if it would embarrass you to tell your husband that you rode to Pompeii with a man you knew only slightly, then my lips will be sealed.”

“No, if we should drive down together, there's no reason to make a secret of it. I'm married. I am not enslaved.”

“Bravo! Then you accept?”

“No. It's very kind of you, but I don't think I should.”

Yet by the time the ferry docked at Naples, Barbara had accepted Leone's offer. The truth was that she was bored, that while she wanted to see Pompeii again, she did not relish the thought of a day alone; yet she could not face the knowledge that possibly she had been bored on other days of this honeymoon, that something inside of her had been turned off or turned around or changed, that she had entered into a marriage with a thread of misgiving stitched through her mind. She loved Carson; when she asked herself whether she truly loved him, she always replied in an affirmative, uncomplicated way; she loved her husband.

Leone's car, parked at the pier, was a low-slung, sleek sports model, black and beautifully crafted. “It's a Carlotta — my wife's name — my own. I mean, this is what I make,” he explained, but diffidently, almost as an apology. “We are a small company — between two and three hundred cars a year, but each is a work of art. I don't mean to be boastful. Truly, I dislike people who make a fetish of automobiles. But building them is my way of life …” His voice trailed off. He was embarrassed. Barbara found herself liking him, his openness, his treatment of her as an intelligent equal.

“It's a beautiful car,” she said. “And I come from a place where cars are an ideology and a fetish, so please don't apologize. Anyone who builds something so graceful should not apologize.”

“But you yourself are indifferent, indifferent to cars, indifferent to clothes —”

“Is that a charming way to say I dress wretchedly?”

“You dress wonderfully but indifferently. You look good enough in what you wear not to care? Am I not correct? You shop for a scarf in Ischia and then when you lose it jumping, you never mention it again.”

“The arrogance of a rich woman.”

“Perhaps not.”

They drove through Naples. On the road south, Leone said, “Have you ever been to Vesuvius?”

“The volcano? No.”

“Then should you go to Pompeii without seeing the monster that caused it to be embalmed in ashes? I think not. It will only take an hour to look into Vesuvius, and it's something you will never forget.”

The way the black sports car roared up the twisting road to Vesuvius made Barbara think that Leone had once been a racing driver, but since he had not mentioned it, she did not bring it up. She was full of guilts and mental reservations, yet she was enjoying herself immensely. Leone had taken down the top of the car, and the wind in her face and her hair made Barbara feel more alive, more aware than she had felt in all the months since her father's death. The whole tight world of the Devrons and the Lavettes was for the moment forgotten. They parked and rode the cable car almost to the lip of the great volcano, and then they climbed to the lip itself. When Barbara leaned far over, the better to see the smoking interior, Leone caught her around the waist and then quickly begged her pardon. “It's dangerous,” he explained. “Don't you ever think of danger?”

“No, not very often.”

“I noticed. Better to be a little afraid. Then I would drive more carefully.” Then he went on to speak about racing cars when he was younger, but with distaste. “To throw a life away for that — it is stupid!”

“Yet you build cars that go a hundred and twenty miles an hour.”

“Because people want them. No, that's a foolish excuse. Because the machine itself is beautiful.”

They lunched at the tourist restaurant at Pompeii on excellent red wine and poor pasta. “The spaghetti in the south is not the best, except perhaps in one place on Capri,” he apologized.

“I know the place.”

“Do you?”

“Have you ever heard of Richard Halliburton?” He shook his head. “No, you wouldn't. He was an American writer who went all over the world looking for adventure, old-fashioned adventure like swimming the Bosporus and climbing the Alps, and anyway, he was a girlhood hero of mine and a million other girls, and one of the things he did was to swim in the Blue Lagoon. Well, I told Carson about it, and nothing would do but for him to rent a rowboat and go into the Blue Lagoon and swim. I sort of spoiled it for him because I swam there too, and then we saw this iron stairway, and there at the top of the cliff was this little restaurant, with the tables outside and overlooking the bay.”

“I know the place, yes.” Leone smiled.

“We had spaghetti with sweet butter sauce and red wine. It was the food of the gods.”

“And your Carson — did he enjoy it as much as you did?”

“More.”

They went on into Pompeii. Leone watched Barbara as she stood in the forum, her chin lifted, shoulders thrown back, as if by some spell she could cast time away and make the city live again.

“I have resisted telling you how beautiful you are. I am sure you heard it too many times.”

“I am forty-five years old, Mr. Leone,” she answered dryly.

“Does that cancel it? I will call you Barbara if you will call me Bert. We've not been properly introduced, but we've been together five hours.”

Barbara studied him thoughtfully before she replied. “If you wish.”

“I do wish. I am ten years older than you, Barbara. Mrs. Devron. Mr. Leone. Ridiculous. I have not even taken your arm. We are friends — I trust. Why do all American women consider Italians to be unnaturally amorous?” His manner robbed his words of any sting.

“I would hope they are naturally amorous.”

“Ah. Touché. I find it hard to believe that you are half Italian. You are too American, which I find delightful.”

“The way silly children are delightful? But I don't want to stand here and chatter. There's half the city I haven't seen, and I won't get back here a third time.”