The Italian Matchmaker (7 page)

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, turning the key in the rusty old lock. ‘A lovers’ hideaway perhaps.’ The door creaked open, revealing a harmonious square room with terracotta walls and a domed ceiling painted with a fresco of fat little cherubs in a pale blue sky. In the centre was a four-poster bed with heavy silk drapes that were once green. In front of one window stood a pretty walnut desk; before the other, a dressing-table. The walls were covered with paintings of nude boys, the bookshelves full of erotica. In an alcove stood a replica statue of Donatello’s David.

‘The previous owner clearly loved sex,’ said Luca in amusement. ‘Who was he?’

‘We don’t know. The sale was done through solicitors. I think the man must be very old. He didn’t take anything with him. The
palazzo
was built by the Montelimone family about four hundred years ago. A famously grand family. I gather the late
Marchese
was quite a character because whenever I mention him people raise their eyebrows. After he died I don’t know who bought it. No one wants to elaborate. Perhaps they don’t even know. Anyway, when we found it it was a ruin and completely empty but for an old leather chair and a bed, which we burned. But
this
was beautifully preserved. It didn’t feel right to change it. It’s rather beautiful, don’t you think?’

‘Have you been sleeping in here?’ Luca asked, pointing at the unmade bed.

‘No,’ said Romina, pursing her lips irritably. ‘I think your father must have been coming in here for a nap. The only place to get a little peace. I don’t allow our guests to come in here. I keep it locked.’

‘I don’t blame him, the bed looks very comfortable.’

‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ she agreed, placing her hands on her hips. ‘Still, I don’t like anyone to use it, not even your father. There’s something rather sad about its state of neglect. Now you’re here to translate, I’ll send the professor off to find out about the previous owner. Give the old man something to do, he’s such a character. And I’m rather intrigued, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Luca replied, his curiosity mounting. ‘Why would someone leave without taking their belongings with them?’

That afternoon he lay beside the pool reading a Wilbur Smith novel. The sun was warm on his skin, a silky breeze keeping him pleasantly cool. He forgot about the professor. Later, he borrowed his mother’s car and drove into town, parking the car in the square that was dominated by the church of San Pasquale with its white walls and mosaic dome. In the centre there was a little park with palm trees and benches where women sat gossiping in the shade while children played around a fountain, giggling, with excitement. Luca recognised one little boy as the child on the beach. He was the only one not wearing a school smock. He looked around for the boy’s mother, but she was nowhere to be seen.

It was pleasant not having to talk to anyone or explain himself. He wandered over to a
caffè
and ordered an
espresso
, then sat back and smoked languidly. It wasn’t long before he had company. ‘
Buona sera
.’ The woman was slim and olive-skinned with curly brown hair and the confident gaze of a sophisticated manipulator. ‘Do you have a light?’ Her full lips curled into a smile, her eyes promised more.

‘Sure.’

She leaned forward and puffed on the flame. ‘You’re not from here.’

‘No, just visiting.’

‘You’re a tourist?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sound Italian, but with a hint of something else. Where are you from?’

‘London.’

‘An Italian living in London. Why ever would you want to do that when you could remain here in God’s own country?’

He laughed. ‘I’m beginning to wonder myself.’

She let the smoke float out between her lips. ‘May I join you?’

‘Sure,’ he replied, finding it hard to resist when she was offering herself on a plate.

‘I’ll have an
espresso
. My name is Maria Fiscobaldi.’

‘Luca,’ he said.

‘The coffee here is good. But if you want a tip, the best coffee is at Fiorelli’s. Down on the quay. You should give it a try.’

‘I will.’

‘How long are you staying?’

‘I have no idea.’

She grinned. ‘Long enough to see the best view in Incantellaria?’

‘Sure. Where’s that?’

‘I’ll show you after coffee. I assure you, you won’t see better.’ She had mischief in her eyes.

Luca summoned the waiter and ordered two coffees. He was going to be buzzing on so much caffeine. Maria sat back on her chair and appraised him. He knew that look well: the sleepy eyes, the knowing expression, the flush of admiration on her cheeks, the naked lust vibrating in the invisible space between them. He knew sex could follow, but he wasn’t in the mood. He hadn’t come for that, even though she was beautiful. Their coffees arrived and they chatted. She told him about her life and he was content to listen, weary of talking about himself. After an hour, he paid the bill and got up to leave.

‘You’re not coming to see the view?’ she asked, disappointed.

‘Another time, perhaps.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Then it’s my loss.’

‘Thank you for the coffee.’

‘It’s a pleasure.’

She smiled suggestively. ‘On the contrary, the pleasure is all mine.’

Luca returned to the
palazzo
. His mother was talking to Ventura and another maid in the hall. ‘My darling, where have you been?’

‘Into town,’ he replied.

‘Isn’t it pretty?’

‘Prettier than I expected,’ he said with a grin.

‘Come out and have a drink. Dinner is at nine.’

‘I think I’ll go and take a shower.’

‘Don’t be long. The professor was asking after you.’

Luca rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t want to have to talk to that old codger. I’m here on holiday.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to and that’s that.’

Luca retreated upstairs. When he finally stepped on to the terrace, Dizzy was sitting talking to his mother. Bristling with irritation, he joined them. ‘So, how was your afternoon?’ he asked Dizzy.

She smiled sweetly, tossing her blonde hair. ‘I had a very relaxing time lying in the sun and reading my book. Then Max and I slunk off for a little nuggy bunny.’

‘Nuggy bunny?’ Luca repeated.

‘Yes, when you cuddle up in bed together like two little bunnies.’ She pulled a face of mock guilt. ‘So indulgent, but the bed is so comfortable one doesn’t want to get out.’

‘I’m so pleased. I bought the very best Frette sheets,’ said Romina.

‘We’re going to Capri tomorrow. Why don’t you come with us?’ Dizzy asked Luca.

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll hang around here and play nuggy bunny all by myself.’

His mother shot him a look. ‘Luca’s very tired. He needs to rest.’

Luca conversed in monosyllables during dinner and didn’t stick around for coffee. Romina made excuses for him. ‘He’s going through a very difficult time. He’s quit the City, divorced his wife and doesn’t know what he wants to do. I need to find him a nice girl.’

‘There are plenty of girls in town,’ Caradoc suggested. ‘Italian girls are very easy on the eye.’

‘Not a local girl,’ Romina scoffed. ‘Gracious no! I’d hope for a girl with a bit more class.’

‘I don’t think marriage is high on Luca’s agenda,’ cautioned his father.

‘It’s very high on mine. Men are better when they’re married. Look at Nanni,’ she said, referring to her brother. ‘He’s a disaster!’

‘I wouldn’t wish Nanni on anyone,’ said Bill.

‘On second thoughts, neither would I!’ Romina agreed.

For the next few days, Luca managed to make himself scarce. He was polite but aloof. He spent most of his time reading by the pool or walking along the stony beach, lost in thought. In spite of the beauty of Incantellaria he was unable to lift the heaviness in his soul. He considered Maria and felt his heart sink. Maria, like so many other women he had encountered, was like a delicious honey pot. After eating all the honey there was nothing left but the empty pot. His spirit yearned for something more. A pot that remained always full. A honey that lasted. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for long relationships, but destined to flit like a bee from flower to flower, never settling for long.

He had managed to decline the professor’s invitations to accompany him into town for almost a week, but he couldn’t decline them for ever. At lunch, when Dizzy suggested a trip to Positano he decided that the professor was the lesser of two evils. He didn’t think much of the idea of spending the day with a pair of nuggy bunnies.

The professor enjoyed a long siesta, waking at four to go into town. Romina lent Luca her car and waved them off. The air was thick with the scent of pine and eucalyptus, the light twittering of birds ringing out from the branches. ‘I believe the
palazzo
has a tragic history,’ said Caradoc. ‘I can feel it in the rooms. They are beautiful but the atmosphere is melancholy with something I can’t quite put my finger on. I’ve felt it before in ancient Greek temples and palaces. The energy of the events that took place there imprints itself into the stone. If those events are tragic, it is as if the very walls are draped with sadness. I want to get to the bottom of it. Two minds are better than one. Are you in, boy?’

Luca couldn’t help smiling at the old man’s enthusiasm. ‘I’m in, Professor. Where do you want to start?’

‘In the centre of town. In the church.’

‘What do you hope to find there?’
Apart from a weeping statue of Christ
, he thought cynically.

‘Old people,’ said the professor. ‘Old people spend a lot of time in churches. Old people know things. And old people love to talk about the past.’

Luca helped the professor out of the car, handing him his stick. ‘Give me a minute to find my legs,’ said Caradoc, giving each one a little shake. ‘I’m lucky to have them. Jolly nearly got them blown off in the war.’ He chuckled as they walked slowly along the road towards the church. There were boutiques, a pharmacy, a butcher’s, a barber shop, a bakery, all open for business after the siesta. Luca noticed the little boy he had seen a few days before, roaming aimlessly among the trees like a lost dog.

The church was cool and dim inside the enclosure of its thick stone walls. There was no sound but the echo of silent prayer. At the end, where the altar stood in a large alcove, were tables of candles flickering eerily through the gloom, illuminating the marble statue of Christ on the cross. Luca didn’t think for a minute that that statue had ever wept blood. Some clever person with red paint and a penchant for theatricals was no doubt responsible. He followed Caradoc down the aisle, not quite sure what they were looking for. The place smelt of warm wax and incense. He swept his eyes over the frescoes of the Nativity and Crucifixion, and the iconography decorated with gold leaf that glittered in the candlelight. It was a charming chapel and no doubt well attended, which wasn’t a surprise in a place such as this, where Catholicism was at the core of the community.

There were people either side of the aisle: an old lady with her rosary beads, an elderly man in a black hat kneeling in prayer, a young woman in a black veil lighting a candle, closing her eyes and making an impossible wish. Caradoc leaned on his walking stick. ‘What now?’ Luca hissed, putting his hands in his pockets. How on earth had he got himself involved in the professor’s mad quest?

‘I’m looking for the oldest person here.’ He chortled. ‘Someone as old as me. Ah, there he is.’ The man kneeling in prayer was so still he might already have been dead had it not been for the sudden twitch of his foot, like the tail of a dozing cat.

‘You can’t interrupt his prayers.’

‘Of course not. I’ll wait until he’s finished.’

‘He might take all evening.’

‘I’m in no hurry. I have one or two things I can tell the good Lord while I’m waiting,’ said Caradoc, shuffling over to take a seat near him.

As he sat down to wait, Luca noticed the woman by the candles turn and walk up the aisle towards him. It was the woman he had seen on the beach, the mother of the child playing outside. He recognised her immediately by the way her hips gently swayed with each step. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he whispered to Caradoc, then followed her out into the
piazza
. She was dressed in black, her veil reaching down to her waist. He noticed her bouncing hair and the fine curve of her hips and bottom, her slender ankles and calves. Before he had thought about what to say, he found himself greeting her in Italian. She turned, startled.

‘I’m sorry if I surprised you,’ he said, trying to make out her features behind the embroidered lace. ‘I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’ve just arrived in Incantellaria from England. My parents live up at the Palazzo Montelimone.’ The mention of that place grabbed her attention. She looked less timid than curious.
Good
, he thought,
I’ll have this all wrapped up before the old man is even half way through his prayers
. ‘We’re trying to find out a little of the history of the place. Who lived there, what he was like, you know, it’s natural that one would want to know about the past. It’s such a beautiful
palazzo
.’

‘I know nothing,’ she said. Her voice was soft and low like a reedy flute. She turned away and walked on through the square.

‘Perhaps you have a grandmother who might know something?’ he continued, hurrying after her.

‘No,’ she replied, quickening her pace. ‘No one has lived there for decades. It was a ruin.’

‘It’s not a ruin now. It’s glorious. Is there someone you can recommend? A local historian perhaps? Is there a library?’