Fault Line - Retail (16 page)

‘It’s amazing.’

‘Luisa told me I’d be a different person here. I didn’t know what she meant. I soon realized she was right.’

‘Different in what way?’

‘Tell me when it happens to you.’

Capri appeared ahead of us, growing slowly from a hazy blob to a looming chunk of cliff and greenery. The ferry closed in on the harbour at Marina Grande and the passengers, most of them tourists clutching cameras and guidebooks, began massing near the stern. We brought up the rear when they were released on to the jetty. I for one was in no hurry. I wanted to savour every step of my arrival.

Where the Villa Orchis was in relation to Marina Grande I had no idea, of course. As we ambled along the jetty, Vivien explained that it was on the other side of the island. ‘It’s quieter there and more peaceful.’ That was easy to believe. Ahead of us was a phalanx of crowded cafés and trinket shops. People were already queuing for the funicular up to the main town.

But for us transport was waiting in the form of Luisa’s car, an elegant old Alfa Romeo cabriolet with white-walled tyres, parked on the crowded harbourfront, where it seemed to occupy a bubble of tranquil privilege. Waiting also was Luisa’s chauffeur-cum-manservant, Paolo. He was the man I’d spoken to on the telephone – young for his trade, handsome and well-groomed, with a mane of dark hair and a dazzling smile. His deferential greeting carried with it a hint of narcissism. He appeared to have been admiring himself in the rear-view mirror as we approached and I didn’t doubt he thought himself superior to me in many important ways that only his employment prevented him from revealing.

The display of fast, expert driving that followed was as
impressive
as it was probably intended to be. We sped up the steep, winding road towards the heights above Marina Grande, a view of the harbour and the Sorrento peninsula opening up behind us as we climbed. The wind blew Vivien’s hair clear of her neck and, looking at her, I realized once again just how beautiful she was. I gave thanks for the tricks of chance and fate that had landed me there, beside her. With days of her company to look forward to on our very own island in the sun.

The Villa Orchis lay south-west of Capri town, in the foothills of Monte Solaro, the peak that reared above Marina Piccola, Marina Grande’s smaller, humbler sister on the southern side of the island. The villas hereabouts, viewed from the road, were bright white pockets in a lush green undulating sward, with little of the houses themselves visible behind high, creeper-draped walls.

But the stone pineapples on the gate pillars of the Villa Orchis symbolized welcome and my first impression was of comfort and homeliness rather than wealth and grandeur. The flagstoned drive carried us through a tunnel of dappled light formed by a fat-columned pergola of luxuriant wisteria to the foot of a short flight of steps that led up to a wicker-roofed terrace and the main body of the house: white-walled like its neighbours, terracotta-roofed, some windows shuttered against the sun, others standing open to the sweet-scented air.

Francis and Luisa were waiting for us on the terrace, where they were taking tea. I was greeted more warmly than I had any right to expect, like someone they knew well and were genuinely delighted to see again. As Paolo vanished with my bag a small, plump, elderly cook-cum-maid addressed as Patrizia brought out more tea and cakes. All was suddenly ease and good cheer. It was only when I was in the middle of recounting a mishap on the Paris Metro, to my audience’s gratifying amusement, that I was brought up short by a fleeting seriousness in Vivien’s eyes as she looked at her great-uncle. It reminded me of the real purpose of my journey to Capri – the real purpose, that was, from Vivien’s point of view.

*

I’d been given a room at the side of the house, opening on to a balcony from which the view was shared between an emerald-green flank of Monte Solaro and a sapphire-blue wedge of the Tyrrhenian Sea. I stepped out to admire my surroundings after unpacking and noticed that two other rooms also opened on to the balcony. Through the French windows of one, I glimpsed, folded over a chair, a candy-striped dress that was surely Vivien’s. We were close. And perhaps the rooms had been chosen in the knowledge that we might be closer still. A splash of sunlight illuminated the title of a paperback standing on her bedside cabinet:
Catch-22
. But there was no catch I could see.

A close neighbour and old friend of Luisa’s was joining us for dinner. But there was still time for Vivien and me to walk down into Marina Piccola for a drink at one of the seafront cafés, looking out over the bay dotted with yachts and small boats. Late-afternoon light sparkled on the wavetops and my moisture-beaded glass of beer and gilded the dark-skinned sunbathers on their loungers below us, drugged by the heat and the rhythmic plash of the surf.

‘You may have had a wasted journey,’ said Vivien, smiling at me apologetically with pursed lips, as she set down her glass.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘It’s just that I’ve been here a week and learnt nothing – absolutely nothing – to suggest Uncle Francis is harbouring some dark secret.’

‘No?’

‘I should be relieved, I suppose. I don’t want to think of him as anything more than the kindly old chap he’s always seemed.’

‘Well, I guess I’m relieved too. And don’t worry on my account. It’s smashing to be here … with you.’

‘Flatterer.’

‘It’s true, Vivien.’ I looked at her. ‘You must know that.’

She blushed slightly and waved the compliment aside. ‘It was nice of you to come, Jonathan. And it’s good to see you again. We can … try to put last year behind us.’

‘Sounds fine to me.’

‘But first prepare to be impressed. I was right about the Z on the pig’s egg. It is zeta. And it does stand for Francis.’

‘Really?’ I
was
impressed. And puzzled. Confirmation that the Z stood for Francis implied the existence of some kind of secret after all. ‘How did you find out?’

‘It’s marked on all the minerals in his collection. I asked to see them, which delighted him, and there it was. He stores the samples in a cabinet in his study. He’ll happily show you. You only have to ask.’

‘The Z – or zeta – is on all of them?’

‘Yes. I told him we’d found a pig’s egg with a Z on it in Oliver’s bedroom. I didn’t want to land you in it by saying where it was really found. Anyway, Uncle Francis wasn’t fazed or surprised. He said he’d given it to Oliver when we were both here two years ago.’

‘Which explains how Oliver came by it. But not why he hid it in my father’s car.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t want it to be lost in the lake. He couldn’t simply hand it over to you without giving a reason.’

‘And Uncle Francis’s reaction when I asked him about pigs’ eggs that night at the Carlyon Bay?’

‘He actually mentioned that without my needing to raise the subject. Apparently, he’d forgotten giving the sample to Oliver. His old noddle, as he called it, had let him down. Being reminded like that … threw him for a moment.’

I wasn’t as convinced as Vivien seemed to be. But I didn’t need to be. It was all about her. If she was happy to let sleeping dogs lie, so was I. Because in her happiness I saw the promise of my own.

‘I think there is a secret at the Villa Orchis, though,’ Vivien continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially. ‘But it has nothing to do with Oliver.’

‘What is it?’

‘Paolo, our chauffeur today. He lives in, you know. He has the room over the garage. A very vain fellow, our Paolo.’

‘I noticed that.’

‘He’s an addition to the establishment since I was here with Oliver and Aunt Harriet. When he’s not polishing the Alfa Romeo
and
racing it round the island, he’s supposed to be Luisa’s secretary, whatever that means.’

‘What
does
it mean?’

‘I think he attends to all her needs, not just secretarial ones.’

Catching her drift, I instinctively laughed. ‘You can’t be serious.’

But clearly she was. ‘I saw him coming out of her bedroom one afternoon when Uncle Francis was in town. I could tell from his self-satisfied smirk what had been going on.’

‘I must look out for it.’ I grinned. ‘His smirk, I mean.’

She failed to stifle a grin of her own. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Actually, I think Luisa may know I’m on to her. She gave me a little talk later that day. She described how trying retirement was for her. “I put so much passion into my performances and I received so much adoration,” she said. “It is hard to live without such things.”’

‘But you reckon she isn’t living without them.’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Well …’

‘Live and let live?’

‘Or love and let love.’

I let the ambiguities of that float in the air for a moment as I swallowed some beer. Sex in the afternoon, when the villa was quiet and the day at its hottest, took dreamy form in my mind. But it was a dream in which neither Luisa nor Paolo played any part.

I cleared my throat. ‘Does Francis know?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe, maybe not. But he’s no fool, so …’

‘He probably does.’

Vivien nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘They put on a good show, considering.’

‘They do, don’t they? And as their guests I suppose we should do our best to keep the show on the road. So, now I’ve told you, try to pretend I haven’t.’

‘All right. Any other … rules of the house?’

‘Not really. Pleasure seems to be the guiding principle of life at Villa Orchis.’

‘Uhuh. Well, I can see I’m going to have a hellish time of it, then.’ I raised my glass. ‘Here’s to pleasure.’

She giggled, more girlishly than usual. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Jonathan. I really am.’

‘So am I.’

And so I was.

Luisa’s friend and neighbour turned out to be a member of the Italian aristocracy, at least so her introduction to me as la contessa Margherita Covelli led me to believe. She certainly looked the part: tall, thin, velvet-gowned and discreetly bejewelled, her aquiline nose and keen eyes giving her a wonderfully predatory appearance, though her manner was actually all softness and gentility. Her grey hair made her look older than Luisa, though according to Vivien that was probably an illusion wrought by the beauty salon Luisa regularly patronized.

Countess Covelli gave the impression of being more contented than Luisa, less effusive but also more thoughtful. She was a widow of long standing, with a family in Milan and a wide circle of acquaintances, who nonetheless valued her solitary existence on Capri. ‘There is a rhythm to my life here that I have come to value,’ she said at one point, which was as much in the way of introspection as we had from her. She was altogether keener to hear Vivien recount the joys of punting and picnicking in Cambridge and insisted I give a blow-by-blow (and somewhat exaggerated) account of my part in the Grosvenor Square riot. She even wanted to know what I thought of the situation in Northern Ireland. And I somehow wasn’t surprised to discover she knew more about it than I did.

‘Margherita has a formidable intellect, don’t you think?’ asked Francis, after persuading me to join him in a brandy and a cigar following the countess’s departure and Luisa’s and Vivien’s retirement to bed. I hadn’t needed a lot of persuasion. It felt good to be treated as an equal by him: a fellow man of the world, as it were, even though I wasn’t. My spluttering debut as a cigar-smoker soon demonstrated that.

I agreed with him about Margherita, naturally, and asked how long she and Luisa had been friends.

‘More than thirty years. They met before the war, in Milan. Margherita’s late husband was a great admirer of Luisa’s singing.’

‘Did you know him yourself?’

‘Ah, no. Count Covelli’s story is rather tragic, I’m afraid. You’re familiar with the events that led up to Mussolini’s overthrow in 1943?’

I confessed I wasn’t.

‘Let me fill you in, then,’ said Francis, benignly unsurprised by my ignorance. ‘The Italians were sick of the war by the end of 1942. It had brought them nothing but disaster. Most of the generals and politicians wanted to renounce the alliance with Germany and make peace with the Allies. But Mussolini would have none of it. So, he had to go. The trigger was the Allied invasion of Sicily in July 1943. Not a cakewalk, let me tell you from personal experience, but ultimately decisive. The King, Victor Emmanuel, started secret talks through intermediaries with leading members of the Fascist Grand Council to have the Duce deposed. Count Covelli was one of those intermediaries. And the talks soon bore fruit. The Council voted to restore the King as commander-in-chief of the armed forces. Effectively, that was a vote to sue for peace. Mussolini was arrested on the King’s orders and held as a prisoner. Hitler had no intention of allowing Italy to surrender, of course. The Germans carried on fighting regardless. They rescued Mussolini and installed him as president of a puppet Italian republic. Those who’d betrayed him and were unlucky enough to find themselves in German-occupied territory were for the chop. And Covelli was one of the unlucky ones. He went into hiding, but was soon tracked down. In January 1944, he and five other prime movers in Mussolini’s deposition were given a show trial in Verona, then executed by firing squad.’

‘Poor man.’

‘Quite so. And poor Margherita. She loved him dearly, according to Luisa. At the end of the war, Mussolini tried to escape to Austria, but he was captured by partisans, along with his mistress,
Claretta
Petacci, and shot. Their bodies were strung upside down in the Piazzale Loreto in Milan – you probably know this bit – as a demonstration of what the partisans thought of their former Duce. Margherita once told me she went to the square that day to look at the man responsible for her husband’s death. She saw a woman beating Mussolini about the head with a stick and ranting about the loss of her son, killed serving in the army in Greece. Margherita said she was almost as horrified by the violence Mussolini inspired in his victims as she had been by the viciousness of his regime. When Luisa bought this villa, Margherita came to visit her and soon decided Capri was where she could find the peace she craved. I believe she’s succeeded, much to her credit.’