spent so much money on it that his heirs soon went bankrupt. By the end of World War II it had been derelict for years. However, it had been built of stone on good foundations, and in the fifties a Parisian banker bought it together with two hectares of land giving access to a beach. An architect was brought in to restore the house adding bathrooms and other modern amenities, and a landscape gardener set to work on the surroundings. When they had finished the place was a luxury winter villa. The banker and his family now spend January and February there. For the rest of the year, when tenants able to pay an exorbitant rent can be found, the villa is leased. The only all-year-round occupants are the servants.
I had been there once before, by ambulance on an emergency case. All I can remember from that occasion was a magnificent view from the terrace and a kidney-shaped swimming pool. It was the latter which had caused theemergency. A gardener, trying to scrub the tiling when the pool was almost empty, had fallen in and broken a leg. We had had a job getting him out.
The track became an asphalt drive which descended into a paved courtyard. There was a portico over the entrance and two big shade trees so that visitors were protected from both sun and rain. A three-car garage to one side housed a Citroën DS (the banker’s?) swathed in a protective cocoon of plastic, a small Renault and a speedboat on a trailer. I left the moto beside them.
A black butler in a wasp-striped waistcoat opened one of the mahogany double-doors and held out a silver tray for my card. When I told him that I had no card and gave my name, he bowed and led me across marble flooring to a sort of alcove separated by jalousies from the main drawing-room and the terrace beyond.
‘You wait please,’ the butler said. ‘I tell Madame.’
To one side there was a wrought-iron table with a glass top, neat rows of bottles and a grouping of ice-bucket, martini mixer and drinking glasses of various sizes. On shelving built along the inner wall was an array of hi-fi equipment and a record library. Since there was nothing there on which to sit down I looked at the records. Arranged carefully in alphabetical order were Bach, Bartok, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, Debussy, Mozart, Scarlatti, Schumann, Stravinsky and Wagner. On top of the small pile by the turntable was
An Evening with Cole Porter.
I was about to take a look at the next record on the pile when I heard approaching footsteps on the marble.
I had seen photographs of Villegas’ wife, Doña Julia, and heard that she was a handsome woman, but, allowing for the usual flattery of studio portraits, had not expected her to look so handsome in the flesh. For one of my country-women she was of above average height and although she was in her late forties and had borne three children her figure was surprisingly youthful. Her pale, aquiline features were somewhat lined about the eyes – though the lightlytinted glasses she wore almost concealed this – but her sleeveless blouse revealed smooth, firm arms. Her sleek black hair looked untouched by age.
The Uncle Paco who introduced us I scarcely recognized.
He had always, since I had known him anyway, had narrow shoulders, a big belly and pigeon toes; but in the old days those defects had been relatively unobtrusive. With the belly restrained by a corset and the shoulders modified by suits from expensive tailors he had achieved an appearance which, though chubby, had been somehow dapper. Now, he was an ovoid hulk of a man, bald with tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears and large crimson dewlaps which quivered with every movement he made. The patterned Mexican shirt he wore, creased horizontally from sternum to crotch, did not help. Only the odd blue eyes, peeping out from their puffy surroundings through heavy-rimmed glasses, were the same – amused, wary and ever ready to twinkle with malice.
They twinkled now as he watched Doña Julia uttering
I had been there once before, by ambulance on an emergency case. All I can remember from that occasion was a magnificent view from the terrace and a kidney-shaped swimming pool. It was the latter which had caused theemergency. A gardener, trying to scrub the tiling when the pool was almost empty, had fallen in and broken a leg. We had had a job getting him out.
The track became an asphalt drive which descended into a paved courtyard. There was a portico over the entrance and two big shade trees so that visitors were protected from both sun and rain. A three-car garage to one side housed a Citroën DS (the banker’s?) swathed in a protective cocoon of plastic, a small Renault and a speedboat on a trailer. I left the moto beside them.
A black butler in a wasp-striped waistcoat opened one of the mahogany double-doors and held out a silver tray for my card. When I told him that I had no card and gave my name, he bowed and led me across marble flooring to a sort of alcove separated by jalousies from the main drawing-room and the terrace beyond.
‘You wait please,’ the butler said. ‘I tell Madame.’
To one side there was a wrought-iron table with a glass top, neat rows of bottles and a grouping of ice-bucket, martini mixer and drinking glasses of various sizes. On shelving built along the inner wall was an array of hi-fi equipment and a record library. Since there was nothing there on which to sit down I looked at the records. Arranged carefully in alphabetical order were Bach, Bartok, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, Debussy, Mozart, Scarlatti, Schumann, Stravinsky and Wagner. On top of the small pile by the turntable was
An Evening with Cole Porter.
I was about to take a look at the next record on the pile when I heard approaching footsteps on the marble.
I had seen photographs of Villegas’ wife, Doña Julia, and heard that she was a handsome woman, but, allowing for the usual flattery of studio portraits, had not expected her to look so handsome in the flesh. For one of my country-women she was of above average height and although she was in her late forties and had borne three children her figure was surprisingly youthful. Her pale, aquiline features were somewhat lined about the eyes – though the lightlytinted glasses she wore almost concealed this – but her sleeveless blouse revealed smooth, firm arms. Her sleek black hair looked untouched by age.
The Uncle Paco who introduced us I scarcely recognized.
He had always, since I had known him anyway, had narrow shoulders, a big belly and pigeon toes; but in the old days those defects had been relatively unobtrusive. With the belly restrained by a corset and the shoulders modified by suits from expensive tailors he had achieved an appearance which, though chubby, had been somehow dapper. Now, he was an ovoid hulk of a man, bald with tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears and large crimson dewlaps which quivered with every movement he made. The patterned Mexican shirt he wore, creased horizontally from sternum to crotch, did not help. Only the odd blue eyes, peeping out from their puffy surroundings through heavy-rimmed glasses, were the same – amused, wary and ever ready to twinkle with malice.
They twinkled now as he watched Doña Julia uttering
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