Read Online Italian Fever by Valerie Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Valerie Martin
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about, and a delicious aroma of roasting poultry and herbs issued from within—that much, at least, was promising.
“May I offer you something to drink?” Antonio said at last. “Wine or an aperitivo ? We have many things Americans like, Ithink. We have gin and whiskey and beer. There isn’t much ice. Americans are very fond of ice, isn’t that correct?”
Stanton and Lucy chose red wine, which Antonio poured out from an unlabeled bottle he designated as “our own.” Massimo wanted nothing but an ashtray. Antonio poured something red into a crystal glass and gestured to a set of carved double doors at the end of the room. “Let us sit out on the loggia,” he suggested. “Unless you think it is too cool.”
To Lucy’s surprise, Massimo, who had been complaining of being cold all afternoon, consented with the same alacrity he had shown for the idea of this dinner party, an idea that obliged him to drive nearly two hours down winding country roads at some hour after midnight. Antonio threw open the heavy doors and the chilly air poured in. Lucy followed the others out onto the wide stone balcony. It was a lovely though uncomfortable arrangement. The only seats were of wrought iron, gathered around a table that was unsteady on the cracked flagstones of the floor. She pulled her cashmere shawl close about her, congratulating herself on having thought to pack it, and took the chair Antonio indicated. He leaned against the cold stones of the outer wall, framed by an open semicircle, beyond which the glitter of stars and the cries of night birds announced the natural world.
Lucy had recognized the house at once: It was Malcolm Manx’s villa. The entry foyer, with its twin statues, the dour portraits brooding over the dining room, the enormous dark wooden table, the sideboard where Antonio had poured their drinks, and now this, the loggia, from which Malcolm Manx first spied the ghost of the dead partisan. DV had exaggerated everything, of course. In his novel it was all massive, ancient, crumbling, and evil, whereas in reality it was more dreary than sinister, and though the rooms were very large and thewalls undoubtedly remarkably thick, it bore the crude prints of many centuries of modernizations and had been altered through some curious vicissitudes of judgment and taste. The light fixtures in the loggia, for example, small, bare, flame-shaped bulbs gleaming on the ends of exposed electrical cord at the upper corners of the room, were neither practical nor aesthetically pleasing. The ceiling, dimly illuminated thereby, was frescoed with a delicate, lighthearted scene including dancing ladies holding garlands aloft and, at the center, a trompe l’oeil cupola opening into an eternally blue sky. Lucy leaned back in her chair to examine this marvel while Stanton introduced the subject of DV’s funeral, which he thanked Antonio for attending. “Did you know him very well?” he asked.
“Hardly at all,” Antonio replied.
Lucy, bending forward to release the tension caused by craning her neck at the ceiling, said, “He was here, though.”
“I beg your pardon?” Antonio said.
Lucy glanced at Stanton Cutler, who returned her look attentively. “He was in this house,” she continued. “It’s in his book.”
Antonio moved slightly. Perhaps he only straightened his spine or squared his shoulders toward his visitors; it was a subtle motion and completed in an instant, but they all felt it. It was, Lucy decided later, a declaration of the commencement of hostilities. “He has written a book about my house?” he said.
“He started one, but he didn’t finish it. At least we don’t know if he finished it. Stanton thinks he may have, but we can’t find the last half.”
“It may be in the mail,” Stanton suggested. This was his hopeful theory.
“It may be,” Lucy agreed. “I’ve seen only the first part. Butit takes place here, no doubt about it. This room is in it.” She looked appreciatively about
“May I offer you something to drink?” Antonio said at last. “Wine or an aperitivo ? We have many things Americans like, Ithink. We have gin and whiskey and beer. There isn’t much ice. Americans are very fond of ice, isn’t that correct?”
Stanton and Lucy chose red wine, which Antonio poured out from an unlabeled bottle he designated as “our own.” Massimo wanted nothing but an ashtray. Antonio poured something red into a crystal glass and gestured to a set of carved double doors at the end of the room. “Let us sit out on the loggia,” he suggested. “Unless you think it is too cool.”
To Lucy’s surprise, Massimo, who had been complaining of being cold all afternoon, consented with the same alacrity he had shown for the idea of this dinner party, an idea that obliged him to drive nearly two hours down winding country roads at some hour after midnight. Antonio threw open the heavy doors and the chilly air poured in. Lucy followed the others out onto the wide stone balcony. It was a lovely though uncomfortable arrangement. The only seats were of wrought iron, gathered around a table that was unsteady on the cracked flagstones of the floor. She pulled her cashmere shawl close about her, congratulating herself on having thought to pack it, and took the chair Antonio indicated. He leaned against the cold stones of the outer wall, framed by an open semicircle, beyond which the glitter of stars and the cries of night birds announced the natural world.
Lucy had recognized the house at once: It was Malcolm Manx’s villa. The entry foyer, with its twin statues, the dour portraits brooding over the dining room, the enormous dark wooden table, the sideboard where Antonio had poured their drinks, and now this, the loggia, from which Malcolm Manx first spied the ghost of the dead partisan. DV had exaggerated everything, of course. In his novel it was all massive, ancient, crumbling, and evil, whereas in reality it was more dreary than sinister, and though the rooms were very large and thewalls undoubtedly remarkably thick, it bore the crude prints of many centuries of modernizations and had been altered through some curious vicissitudes of judgment and taste. The light fixtures in the loggia, for example, small, bare, flame-shaped bulbs gleaming on the ends of exposed electrical cord at the upper corners of the room, were neither practical nor aesthetically pleasing. The ceiling, dimly illuminated thereby, was frescoed with a delicate, lighthearted scene including dancing ladies holding garlands aloft and, at the center, a trompe l’oeil cupola opening into an eternally blue sky. Lucy leaned back in her chair to examine this marvel while Stanton introduced the subject of DV’s funeral, which he thanked Antonio for attending. “Did you know him very well?” he asked.
“Hardly at all,” Antonio replied.
Lucy, bending forward to release the tension caused by craning her neck at the ceiling, said, “He was here, though.”
“I beg your pardon?” Antonio said.
Lucy glanced at Stanton Cutler, who returned her look attentively. “He was in this house,” she continued. “It’s in his book.”
Antonio moved slightly. Perhaps he only straightened his spine or squared his shoulders toward his visitors; it was a subtle motion and completed in an instant, but they all felt it. It was, Lucy decided later, a declaration of the commencement of hostilities. “He has written a book about my house?” he said.
“He started one, but he didn’t finish it. At least we don’t know if he finished it. Stanton thinks he may have, but we can’t find the last half.”
“It may be in the mail,” Stanton suggested. This was his hopeful theory.
“It may be,” Lucy agreed. “I’ve seen only the first part. Butit takes place here, no doubt about it. This room is in it.” She looked appreciatively about
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