The Malaspiga Exit (11 page)

A sacristan in musty green soutane guided them through a side door, and down a flight of steep steps incongruously lit by bare electric bulbs in the wall. It seemed a long way down and the atmosphere grew colder. She shivered, and immediately he noticed. ‘Take my coat,' he said. ‘How stupid of me, I should have made you bring something to put on.'

‘No,' Katharine said quickly; she almost panicked as he tried to put it round her shoulders. She didn't want him to touch her, she didn't want to wear what he had worn. It was a light, silk jacket. It hung on her. ‘Please,' she said. ‘I don't need it. You've only got a shirt …' He didn't seem to listen; he led her down the stairs after the sacristan, who tripped with surprising agility down the steps, and opened a massive carved oak door at the bottom. More electric lights, but hidden in the roof; the walls were yellow stone blocks, the floor marble flags, and down each wall there were the arched recesses where the city's great families had been buried. There were eighteen Malaspiga tombs. The earliest ones, including two effigies of the crusaders, all wore armour. The faces were hard and alien under raised helmets, the heraldic dogs slept at their feet; their medieval wives and children lay beside them.

‘Now,' the Duke said, ‘look at this. This is what I wanted you to see. This is Alfredo di Malaspiga, the eighth Duke, modelled by Bernini. It's one of the greatest works of art in the world.'

The figure was life-size; it rose from a bier in coloured marbles, with bronze figures at each corner, so realistic and so beautiful they seemed alive.

‘Charity, Chastity, Prudence and Hope,' he translated the Latin for her. ‘Aren't they superb? But it's the figure of Alfredo that takes the breath away.'

He had died at the age of thirty-seven, having outlived three wives and leaving five children, all that remained of the eleven his wives had borne him. He lay slightly on one side, an elbow bent, his head resting on his palm as if he were peacefully contemplating, clothed in the rich costume of the early sixteenth century. It was an astonishing face, modelled in bronze; a tracery of veins showed at the temple, the mouth was so mobile that it could have moved; the neck ligaments stood out under the stress of the position of the head. In spite of the beard it was Alessandro di Malaspiga, dead and buried for five hundred years.

‘It's incredible,' Katharine said. ‘It's you!'

‘It's said to be very like me,' he answered. ‘But that's not important. It is the quality of the work that matters. It is a shame that so few people see it; commissioning this statue and hiding it away must have been the only unobtrusive action of his life. The final irony from a man who had always lived exactly as he pleased!'

‘He looks a bad man,' Katharine said quietly. There was a stillness around them; the air was colder than when she first came in.

‘It depends on what you mean by bad,' her cousin answered. ‘Certainly those four figures have no connection with the living man. He was certainly not prudent; he took, rather than gave; he didn't hope, because he was the master of his own destiny, and no one would have insulted him by suggesting he was chaste. But he was a man of his time. A true Renaissance prince, a lover of women and the arts, a warrior, a statesman—what has the modern man to offer by comparison?'

‘And that's what you admire?'

He looked down at her and gently laughed. ‘My dear cousin,' he said, ‘that's what I hope I am. In my own way. We'll go and have lunch now. This afternoon we'll drive out to Fiesole. It's a charming suburb and there is a church with some interesting thirteenth-century wall frescoes.' She followed him back and up the stairs. She saw him give money to the sacristan and say something that made the man smile and glance at her. He had spoken too low for her to hear. When they went outside into the brilliant sunshine she realized that she was trembling.

As if he knew that she was chilled and frightened, he flung an arm casually round her shoulders, drove her off in the Ferrari to a smart restaurant near the Piazzale Michelangelo where they were given a table in the garden, and set himself out to be gay. There were no more stories about their ancestors, no reference to the past. The sixteenth-century monument, with its beautiful, familiar face, seemed to have no connection with the amusing man who talked about his antique business, Italian politics and the coming American elections—who made every subject fascinating. She cast about in her mind for some comparison, some simile to describe him, and was defeated. She had never met anyone who had so many gifts: culture, humour, charm, extraordinary good looks, intelligence … And in that gloomy crypt, surrounded by the dead, he had revealed his cold philosophy of life. Pride, ambition, arrogance, power. At any cost. She looked at him, remembering the cost to her brother, and was afraid that he would see the hatred in her face. He had said it was expressive.

‘You've eaten very little,' he said. ‘I think the crypt depressed you. Why didn't you tell me you didn't like tombs?'

‘It's hot today,' she excused herself. ‘Of course I liked the crypt. It was most interesting. But I've been wondering—could we go to Fiesole another time? I'd really like to look through my grandmother's papers again.'

‘Why, yes—if you'd rather. We can go back and look at them together.' He gave a slow, confident smile, as if he knew that she was making an excuse to get back into the villa and into the library, to recover the little recording machine from behind the bookcase grill. She thought suddenly that if he had known what she was really doing in Florence he would have smiled in the same way.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, Katharine?' The question was so unexpected that she stammered for a moment, not knowing what to answer. When she did it sounded clumsy and false.

‘Of course—I'm having a wonderful time! Why do you ask me that?'

‘Because you look unhappy,' Alessandro said quietly. ‘I'm an impetuous man—perhaps I've forced you into coming out with me. Would you have preferred to spend the day alone?'

‘No.' She had recovered herself and she managed to smile at him. ‘I'd have been very lonely. You
are
impetuous, and maybe I'm not used to being rushed off my feet. But I've enjoyed it. I wouldn't have come otherwise.'

‘That's what I thought,' he said. ‘If I'm impetuous, you are the sort of woman who can say no, and mean it. I feel you've been unhappy. Is that true?'

She didn't want to answer him; she didn't want to discuss her life or expose her grief which he had inflicted, however indirectly. She hated him and she especially hated him when he was gentle. He reached across and took her hand. She felt her body stiffen.

‘Is it your brother's death?'

‘Yes,' she said slowly. ‘He suffered very much, and there was no cure for his disease. I shall never be able to forget it. We were very close.'

‘That's sad,' he said. ‘I had a younger sister; we felt the same. We were companions as children, there was no fighting, no jealousy, we just did everything together. After the war she caught meningitis and died. I was terribly upset; I can sympathize with your feelings. I suppose you could say she was the only person I have ever loved.' He offered her a cigarette.

‘That's an extraordinary thing to say,' Katharine said. ‘You must have loved your mother; and your father, what about him?'

‘My father also died after the war. I was very young, and he had never done anything to make me love him. He only knew how to make us all afraid. Even my mother feared him, and she had a genius for evading the unpleasant. My father was an autocrat; someone you want to see punished. When he died I was relieved. As for my mother—she was just beautiful,' he said. ‘A beautiful visitor who came to my nursery when I was a child, kissed me and went out again. She was already old even then; she had both of us in her forties, after a lot of miscarriages. She lived for her beauty and her love affairs. It wasn't possible to love a legend who belonged to other men. My sister was the only one.'

‘I thought Italian families were affectionate,' she said. ‘We were all very close—my mother doted on us.'

‘The Malaspigas are not typical,' he said. ‘We have a reputation for being without hearts. As you will see, when you read some of the letters today. I looked at them myself when I got them out for you. Your grandmother was very brave. I think you've inherited this quality.'

‘What makes you think that?' She slipped her hand under the table; she had a habit of clenching them in tension. Brave. Why should he say that? Brave. And foolish.

‘It's just a judgement I made when I first met you,' he said casually. ‘I watched you come into that room and find us all sitting there. My mother, Francesca, John and me. We were strangers, and in spite of our connection we had nothing about us to make you feel at home. You were nervous, my dear cousin; I saw your hand tremble and you have a trick of looking long and intently at people when you are not sure of them. As if to show that you don't care. It's very charming. Cowards cannot do it. That's how I know you're brave. Do you want more coffee?'

‘No thanks.'

‘You are certain you don't want to go to Fiesole instead of wasting the afternoon looking at those old letters? You've plenty of time to read them.'

‘I haven't really,' she said. ‘I can't stay here indefinitely. I've allowed myself a month away, and I've already spent two weeks of it. I'd like to go to Fiesole another time; if you'll take me.'

‘Whenever you want,' he said. ‘We will go home.'

When he took her back to the hotel it was dark. She had refused an invitation from the old Duchess to stay to dinner. It was obvious that good manners and not inclination prompted the suggestion. The dark eyes were cold, even while the mouth smiled. Katharine excused herself, saying she was tired. In the hotel lobby Alessandro paused. He took her hand and kissed it.

‘I have to go to the Castle tomorrow to look at some imports,' he said. ‘A big consignment has arrived for sorting and pricing before I send it to my shops. I will be away for two days making a list of the best things. When I come back will you have dinner with me?'

She didn't want to accept. She had the recording machine in her handbag and she wanted to go upstairs and play it over. A big consignment had arrived. If it was the consignment she imagined, then there might, there must, be some reference to it on that tape. She didn't want to go out to dinner with him and she hated him holding on to her hand.

‘Will you come?' he repeated.

‘Doesn't your wife mind?' It came out instinctively. She saw a flash of anger in his face. Then it was gone; smooth, beautiful as ivory.

‘Francesca wouldn't mind at all. She intends inviting you to dinner at the villa. She wants to give a party for you. I'm not suggesting anything improper.'

Katharine felt herself change colour. ‘I never thought you were. I just thought she might object to staving behind while you had dinner with me. I know I would. That's all.'

‘American women object to everything their husbands do,' he said softly. ‘Perhaps that's why there are so many divorces. I shall come about eight-thirty on Friday. John has promised to look after you while I'm away.'

The tape had run for an hour before she heard anything significant. There were conversations between the Duchess and Alessandro, inconsequential and rather formal; several telephone calls which didn't convey anything unusual, and then at last a call made by Alessandro himself.

The little machine had picked up every word and nuance with amazing fidelity. He could have been speaking in the room.

‘This is the Duke of Malaspiga. When can I expect the consignment of goods? On Wednesday—by the usual route—excellent. I shall go to the Castle myself and supervise the sorting. No, certainly not; this is our most important shipment so far. Arrange for Taylor to take delivery. Good; goodbye.'

She pressed the button and re-ran it.

The most important shipment so far. The one which concealed the heroin—the one for which Raphael had been waiting. This time there would be false compartments, secret places built into the furniture to carry the plastic bags filled with pure heroin from the laboratory. Carpenter had shown her a sample. It had looked like Epsom salts. It was processed from opium, by a means so simple that the equipment needed to boil it down and refine it could be packed up in the back of a small van. There were laboratories known to be operating in Naples, but their size and mobility made them difficult to track down. The heroin could have come from there. She reached for the telephone and asked for Raphael's number. A woman's voice answered, cool and brisk. Raphael was not available. ‘But I've got to talk to him! Where can he be reached?'

‘I'll pass on your message,' the woman said. The voice was flat, monotonous; Katharine could have shouted at her. ‘It's terribly important …'

‘If it's an emergency, please use the appropriate call sign.'

‘It's not an emergency,' Katharine said angrily. ‘But tell him to call me as soon as possible. It's very urgent.' She slammed down the receiver. She wondered whether the woman on the other end had answered Firelli's final desperate call.

She switched on the tape again while she was waiting and played it through. After the telephone call it clocked off. She looked at her watch. Nearly half an hour since she had telephoned and Raphael hadn't made contact. Then loud and clear on the machine she heard the Duchess Francesca's voice.

‘Sandro; Mama sent me to find you.' Katharine kept still. She had forgotten in her excitement that the tape might have longer to run.

‘I was telephoning. I'm coming in a moment' Alessandro's voice, cold and impatient.

‘I want to talk to you.'

‘Not now; I'm busy.'