Perhaps Creasy was getting old. Mellowing, even.
Or maybe the whisky was addling his brain. Anyway, so far, so good.
Pinta had reached an impasse. She was conscious that to move on to the next step in obtaining Creasy's friendship she needed a device. It was not enough to keep drawing him out with questions on subjects that interested him. It was not really a dialogue. She wanted to learn more about him personally-about his own life. They had reached the point when almost every day she could get him to talk-about politics or places or people. But he always remained remote himself, and she was wary of asking him personal questions.
She had quizzed her mother about his past and had learned the simple facts of his career. Rika had been reluctant at first because of the association with violence, but Pinta was adept at handling either of her parents and she extracted the information easily. Besides, Rika was proud of their bodyguard. She would tell Ettore that none of their friends had anyone who could compare. After all, Creasy had the Croix de Guerre, and many campaign medals and lots of scars and was an ex-paratrooper. Undoubtedly, Creasy was a feather in her social cap, and she was not shy about telling her friends of his past.
As a result of this, Vico brought up the subject when he next lunched with Ettore.
"How did you get him so cheap?"
"He drinks. He's an alcoholic."
Vico nodded in understanding.
"He hides it well."
"That's true, he drinks only at night, but he told me himself it affects him badly. Meanwhile, he can drive a car alright, and from outside appearances he looks competent enough." He smiled complacently and said, "It was a good investment. He's also a handyman. He likes fixing things." He told Vico about the fence repairing and other odd jobs Creasy did about the grounds and house.
Vico grinned.
"You would have to pay a carpenter more than you pay him. And Rika is happy. I saw her in Granelli's the other day and she joined me for a cocktail afterward. She's much happier now."
"Yes," agreed Ettore, "and it shows in other ways. She spends less. With her, being unhappy leads to a lot of extravagance-I suppose to compensate. She still comes into Milan to shop quite a lot but she doesn't buy too much."
Vico nodded wisely.
"Probably spends more time window-shopping."
The two men went on to discuss business matters, Vico doing most of the talking.
So Pinta knew about Creasy's past and tried to get him to talk about it.
She had taken to dropping into the kitchen after dinner even when her parents were home, and one evening she asked about the Foreign Legion. There had been an article in the newspaper about the Legion being sent to Shaba Province in Zaire.
He told her about the Legion, how it was formed and some of its history. She decided to press a little.
"Weren't you in the Legion once?"
He looked at her sharply.
"How did you know?"
She answered innocently. "I heard my mother telling a friend on the phone, just after you arrived."
Bruno looked up from the television.
"I was in the Army once-in the war. I was captured by Montgomery in North Africa."
It was said with a touch of pride, as if Montgomery had effected the capture personally. Creasy nodded briefly and went back to his newspaper.
Bruno said, "If you were in the Legion, that makes us both old soldiers." Creasy looked up at him and a trace of a smile touched his lips.
"Yes both old soldiers." Then he stood up and went to his room.
Later, lying in bed, Pinta decided that a direct approach to resurrect old memories was not going to work. She could hear the music coming faintly from his room and she knew that before long she would recognize the song he always played. She knew what it was now. One afternoon while he was working on the fence she had slipped into his room and looked at the tape in the cassette player. It was always the last one he played at night. Linda Ronstadt's "Blue Bayou."
The breakthrough, when it came, was an accident, literally. Her parents were in London for a week and she was in the kitchen when Bruno came in and announced that a nightingale had nested in a bush behind the house. There were two chicks in the nest. It was barely light but she begged him to show her. The nest was high up the steep slope and, as she scrambled eagerly up, she stepped on a stone, turned her ankle and fell heavily against an outcrop of rock. Creasy was off to the left, just packing up his tools, when he heard her cry out.
She lay on her back, holding on to her side, her face twisted in pain. Bruno had scrambled down and was cushioning her head.
Creasy felt her ankle, his thick fingers surprisingly gentle. It was swelling, but he judged it was just a sprain. Then he took her hand from her side and pulled up her T-shirt. There was an abrasion just below the ribs. He carefully put his fingers on the ribs and probed very gently. She winced.
"Does it hurt badly?" he asked.
"Not so bad. It hurts more lower down."
She pointed with her chin. "I hit the rocks there." Her voice quivered as she tried not to cry.
"I think you've just bruised yourself," he said. "At least you haven't damaged your ribs."
Maria arrived, puffing up the hill in a state of high anxiety. Creasy stopped her fussing and calmed her down. He decided to take Pinta into Como for an X-ray just to be sure. Maria was to stay in the house in case her parents called. He told Bruno to stay with her, as the old man's agitation would not help calm the girl.
Then, being careful not to put pressure on her side, he picked her up and carried her down to the car.
Later Maria was to remember how gentle he had been, how reassuring. He could not be such a man, she thought, not as uncaring as he seemed. But in fact Creasy's attitude had been an automatic one. In his life he had frequently dealt with wounded people, often terribly wounded. The first criterion was to calm them and reassure them.
The X-rays confirmed that nothing was broken, and the doctor bound up the ankle and gave her some pills for the pain. He agreed with Creasy that she probably had some internal bruising under her ribs, but nothing serious.
Back at the house he reassured Maria and Bruno, carried the girl up to her bedroom, and left while Maria put her to bed. Then he put a call through to the Savoy Hotel in London just in case Rika or Ettore phoned while he was out of the house. Maria would certainly overdramatize.
Rika answered and he told her of Pinta's fall. No, she needn't rush back. It was only a sprain and a bruise. The child could probably go to school in the morning as usual. Yes, he could give her their love. He hung up, and then went upstairs to see that the girl was comfortable. She was sitting propped up against two pillows. Beside her was a stuffed brown bear, very battered. He sat at the foot of the bed.
"You feel alright?"
She nodded shyly.
He looked at the bear.
"Do you always sleep with that?"
She nodded again.
"What do you call him?"
"He has no name," she replied.
Her hair was jet black against the pillow, her face very pale. The huge eyes looked at him solemnly. There was a long silence, and then he abruptly stood up. "The pills will make you sleepy. If you wake up with any pain in the night, take two more."
He reached the door and turned.
"I spoke to your mother on the phone. They send their love."
"Thank you. Good night, Creasy."
"Good night, Pinta," he said gruffly.
The pills made her feel drowsy. She switched off the light and hugged the bear and was soon asleep. She had lied to him. It did have a name.
In London, when Ettore returned to the hotel Rika told him of the phone call. He was in a rush to get ready for dinner with his agent and she stood at the bathroom door while he showered.
"You don't want to go back?" he asked. "There's a night flight to Milan."
She shook her head. "Creasy said she's alright."
His hand groped fo
r the shampoo and she moved to give him the bottle.
"It's nice, isn't it," she said.
"What's nice?" he asked, lathering his hair.
"Having a man like that in the house while we're away. Maria would have panicked and I would have felt obliged to hurry back. And tonight's dinner is important, no?"
He turned up his face to the wide stream of water pouring down from the huge, old-fashioned shower head. It was one of the reasons he liked the Savoy. Their bathrooms were bigger than most hotels' bedrooms, and the fittings matched the size.
"Yes," he agreed, stepping out and enveloping himself in a huge white heated towel. "Very important. Roy Haynes is excited about the new range, and if he decides to promote it we could have a very good season here." He moved to the basin and started to shave, draped in the towel like a Roman senator. She moved behind him and rubbed the towel against his back and shoulders.
"Promote it how?"
"In the press and at shows. They do it very well. But it costs a lot and he has to have confidence. I will press at dinner tonight." He looked at her face in the mirror and she smiled at him.
"Leave the pressing to me. I'll be very subtle."
He smiled back and continued shaving. Yes, Creasy was a good investment.
They ate in Parkes, in Beauchamp Place. Ettore refused to eat Italian food in London. Not that there was a lack of good Italian restaurants, but, when he traveled, he liked to vary his diet.
Also, Parkes with its fresh flowers on the huge plates was a favorite of Rika's.
Roy Haynes was another favorite, the kind of Englishman she liked. Big and bluff and well-traveled. It was no hardship turning her full powers of persuasion on him. He sat, eating and smiling, fully aware of her motives. He had already decided to give Balletto's line a big promotion and tomorrow he would give Ettore a large order, almost twice the value of last season's. In the meantime he kept his counsel and let the lovely woman opposite flatter and charm him. After dinner he would take them to one of London's elegant gambling clubs, and before they left for their hotel he would be won over and give them the good news.
For Rika, such evenings were what life was all about. She felt useful and appreciated.
In the early hours of the next morning, lying in bed between the crisp, starched, linen sheets, she looked back on a well-spent day, shopping at Harrod's in the morning and on Bond Street in the afternoon. Her hair done at Sassoon's, followed by tea and ridiculously thin cucumber sandwiches at the hotel. Then Creasy's phone call of reassurance, the delicious dinner and good company, and the gambling afterward. Even that had gone well, her favorite roulette numbers, 17 and 20, favoring her in turn. Finally Roy Haynes saying good night and, as an afterthought, mentioning to Ettore that at tomorrow afternoon's meeting he would be greatly increasing his order and would fully promote the new line.
She stretched languorously. Yes, a day and a night well spent, the only slight cloud being that Ettore had drunk a little too much, and had not been up to the lovemaking that had just ended. Never mind. Before he got up in the morning, that would be remedied. At the thought of the morning, her mind clicked awake.
With Creasy's phone call and everything else, she had forgotten. She turned and shook Ettore, who was almost asleep.
"Caro-I forgot. A man called you about an appointment tomorrow. He said eleven a.m. in his office." She snuggled up against him. "What's it about?"
"Just a financial matter," he answered sleepily. "He's a friend of Vico's."
"Is it important?'
He mumbled something inaudible and moments later was asleep.
Pinta hobbled down the front steps to the car and Creasy opened the back door. She hesitated and said, "I think I'll sit in the front. There's more room for my foot."
As they drove out the gates, he asked, "Did you sleep alright?"
"Yes. Those pills did make me sleepy. I only woke up once, when I turned over."
"Does the ankle hurt? Can you put your weight on it?"
"It's not bad," she answered. "Will it take long before it's better?-School sports day is in five weeks and I want to run in the hundred meters."
"There should be time," he said. "Don't favor it too much. Put as much weight on it as you can. In a week or two, you won't notice it."
When they reached the main Milan road he asked, "Are you fast?"
She nodded. "But I'm no good at starts. By the time I catch up, it's too late."
"You should practice more."
She nodded. "I will."
Creasy didn't know much about the technique of sprint starts, but he knew all about coordination and reaction time. He knew that he could teach her, but then he caught himself. Enough was enough.
"Well, just walk on that foot as much as you can. Even if it hurts a bit."
They lapsed into silence.
The girl's attitude had changed. It was no longer just a game trying to get Creasy's friendship. She desperately wanted it. There was an accumulated effect. With her natural curiosity and awareness, she had caught tiny glimpses of the man inside. She wanted to see more and to give something. She had never seen him smile. Always stern always remote. She believed that, if he opened up, something wonderful would appear. It was no longer just curiosity. She felt a link with him, tenuous but definite. She desperately wanted to build on that link.
In fact, the impetus had already shifted. It was Creasy now who would let it happen. Not consciously, but not fighting it. He too felt the link. It disturbed him, because he couldn't understand it. The idea of him with an eleven-year-old girl as a friend was about as likely as a rabbit getting on with a fox. He couldn't accept it, so tried not to think about it. But he couldn't banish her from his mind and found himself not wanting to.
That afternoon, driving home, she asked him about the discovery of America. They had been learning about it in school and she was fascinated that an Italian had discovered it first.
"Not necessarily," he told her. "Some people believe that the Vikings came first, or even an Irish monk."
This started a discussion about explorers and he told her of Marco Polo and his journeys to China. She knew a little but was avidly interested to learn more, and this prompted Creasy to do something totally out of character. A couple of days later he brought a package down to dinner and passed it to her across the kitchen table. It was a book describing Marco Polo's journeys.
"I noticed it in a shop in Milan," he said.
In fact he had searched an hour before finding it.
"For me? It's a present?" Her eyes were shining in excitement.
"Well, it's for you." He was uncomfortable, and it showed. "You seemed interested. He's Italy's most famous explorer-you should know about him."
'Thank you, Creasy," she said softly. She guessed she had broken through.
But it was not until the following Sunday that she knew for certain.
"He brought her to lunch."
"He did what?"
"Brought her to lunch. At the house-today. They just left."
Guido held the phone away from his ear and looked at Pietro across the kitchen and slowly shook his head.
"What is it?" asked the boy, smiling at his boss's startled expression.
Guido ignored him and said into the phone, "Just like that-just turned up."
Elio laughed at the other end.
"No, he was supposed to come anyway, but he rang up this morning and said that her parents had been delayed getting back from London, so he had to cancel. Felicia suggested he bring her along and he said OK. Felicia almost passed out!"
"What's she like?" asked Guido.
There was a long pause while Elio considered.
"She's full of life," he said. "A beautiful child, polite and intelligent, and she worships that big, ugly friend of yours."
"And him-how does he react?"
There was another pause, and then Elio said, "It's very strange. He's sort of stern and gruff with her. He doesn't show much-you know what he's like-bu
t it's more than just toleration. Of course, Felicia, being a woman, thinks that he sees her as the child he never had."
"He talks to her?" Guido asked, full of curiosity.
Elio laughed. "Certainly, he explains things, she's full of questions about everything. She sees him as a sort of oracle. Wait a minute, here's Felicia, she's been putting the kids to bed."
Felicia talked to Guido for a long time. Creasy had changed, she told him. He was definitely fond of the child. Bemused, perhaps, and not really understanding, but she thought he liked it. Anyway, the girl was adorable. With anyone else it would be natural. They were surprised only because it was Creasy.
Guido agreed. It was totally unexpected. After all the years they had been together, he found it hard to believe that a child could break through that crust. There had never been an indication. But later, after ringing off, Guido thought about it some more. Perhaps Creasy had finally lowered his guard.
Guido was happy for his friend. He wondered where it would lead. Whether the mellowing would continue.
Chapter 7
"Creasy-what's a concubine?"
He took his eyes off the road and glanced at her, no longer surprised by the content of her questions.
"A sort of wife."
She was astonished. "A sort of wife! But the Emperor of China had over one thousand. How can that be?"
He found that it was not a delicate subject. In spite of her youth, she was mentally mature. The book he had given her on Marco Polo had prompted several similar questions. She did not giggle and act girlish when he explained that many cultures were not monogamous. He told her of the religions of Islam and the Mormons, and was quietly amused that her sympathies lay with the man.
"It must be difficult, having a lot of wives," she said thoughtfully. Perhaps she was thinking of her mother. One of Rika was as much as any man could comfortably handle. The thought of her multiplied a thousandfold staggered the mind.
Creasy always answered her questions fully and spoke as he would to an adult. He didn't have the artifice to talk down to her. He often found her responses provocative. It was his first exposure to a fresh and unconditioned mind. He found himself viewing controversial issues through her eyes, and it was stimulating. She didn't like to watch political broadcasts on television because the politicians talked too much and didn't smile naturally. Religion was good, but the priests were always right and enjoyed it too much. She loved school, but was only good at the subjects when she liked the teachers. She was fond of Maria and Bruno, but they exasperated her because they weren't interested in things.
Man on Fire Page 9
