A chorus of approval rose from the whole table. Signor Silvani wiped his mouth and pushed back his chair.
“You know what they are saying at the prefettura?” he observed. “That the whole university is getting too big for its boots. A plague on all your Faculties, and we’d do better to be shot of the lot of you and turn the city into a nice big tourist center with spas and swimming pools on either hill.”
This put an end to the argument. I was permitted to finish my lunch without drawing further fire. Before returning to the library I found that a note had been left for me in the entrance of No. 24, and I recognized the looped handwriting of Carla Raspa.
“I have not forgotten our date this evening,” I read, “and I suggest that instead of your taking me to the Hotel dei Duchi we pool our resources and try out the magnificence of the Hotel Panorama. A big dinner is being given there by the Director of the Arts Council, and we can tuck ourselves away in a corner and watch the splendor. Call for me at seven.”
Her persistence was untiring, but I doubted if it would win her admission to No. 2, via dei Sogni. The nearest she could get to Aldo was in the public restaurant of a hotel. I scribbled a note in answer, accepting the challenge, and left it in the doorway of her house.
The afternoon at the library passed without incident, and strangely enough without gossip either. The C and E bully who had sought to douse me in the fountain the day before had been right about the dust in the library. The shelves that Toni and I were now engaged upon were coated with it, and the books we removed could not have been taken out for years. One collection, right at the top, bore a name upon it that struck a chord in memory. Luigi Speca. Where had I lately heard or seen the name Luigi Speca?… I paused, and shrugged my shoulders. I could not remember. Anyway, the collection proved uninteresting. Uniform editions of Dante’s Divina Commedia, Poems of Leopardi, Sonnets of Petrarca, all lumped together with other miscellaneous works. “Donated to the University of Ruffano by Luigi Speca.” This proved possession, and they could go to the new university library. I packed them in one of the crates and left the box of papers for another time. Giuseppe Fossi was already becoming restive, with one eye on the clock.
“I can’t afford to be late,” he said shortly after six. “The dinner at the Panorama is at eight-fifteen for a quarter to nine. Dinner jacket optional, but I shall dress, of course.”
I doubt whether, if he could have exchanged his date with mine, he would have done so. He stalked from the library with all the bombast of a minor cleric bidden to partake of a papal feast. I followed him about twenty minutes later. Since I had no tuxedo with which to impress Carla Raspa, my one and only dark suit must suffice.
“Going to watch the fun at the Panorama?” asked Toni. “All Ruffano will turn out, so the boys are saying down in the town.”
“I might do just that,” I answered. “Look out for me.”
Washed, changed and sleek, I arrived at No. 5 as the campanile struck seven. I climbed the stairs to the first floor and, seeing the card “Carla Raspa” inserted neatly in a slot beside the door, knocked upon it. It was opened immediately and my date for the evening stood there, immaculate in black and white—white top, low-cut, contrasting with the stiff black skirt—hair shining, drawn smoothly back behind her ears, lips bloodless. A vampire, before swooping to feed upon its victim, could not have looked more dangerous.
“I’m overwhelmed,” I said, bowing. “The trouble is, if you set foot in the streets you’ll be mobbed. We’ll never get as far as the Hotel Panorama.”
“Don’t worry,” she answered, drawing me inside the apartment. “I’ve looked after that. Did you see the car outside?”
I had noticed a Fiat 600 parked by the curbside as I entered the building. “Yes,” I said. “Is it yours?”
“Mine for the evening,” she smiled, “borrowed from an obliging neighbor on the floor above. Have a drink. Cinzano from your hometown of Turin.”
She handed me a glass and took one for herself. I glanced about me. The furnishings, which I supposed were standard, the apartment being let furnished, had been embellished with accessories of the tenant’s choice. Bright and enormous cushions splayed upon the divan-bed. A wrought-iron lampstand—made in Ruffano?—stood beside it, the light subdued by a deep parchment shade. The small kitchenette beyond had a scarlet floor, and a corner of the room was set for dining, with a table and two chairs, all black. This was where Giuseppe Fossi must indulge himself before seeking satiation on the divan-bed.
“You seem very well installed,” I said. “My congratulations, signorina.”
“I like my comforts,” she replied, “and so do the few friends who visit me. If you count yourself one, call me Carla.”
I lifted my glass and drank to this distinction. She lit a cigarette and moved about the room, the aromatic perfume that exuded from her person too pungent for my taste. No doubt it was intended to whet the appetite and heat the blood. My vitals remained unmoved. She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall and pouted. It was a reflex action, signifying pleasure.
“What’s the excitement,” I asked, “of watching a formal party of professors and their wives?”
“You don’t realize,” she said. “It will be a sight in a million. They say Professor Rizzio and Professor Elia haven’t spoken for a year. I want to see the impact. Besides, any party given by Aldo Donati is worth watching. Just to hover on the fringe will be a stimulant.”
Her nostrils quivered in anticipation like a brood mare prior to stud. I expected her at any moment to paw the ground.
“You know,” I told her, “that Giuseppe Fossi and his wife have been invited. What if he sees us? Will it spoil your delightful friendship?”
She laughed, shrugging her shoulders. “He must take what’s offered,” she said. “Besides, he’ll be so blown-up with pride that he won’t have eyes for us. Shall we be going?”
It was barely a quarter-past seven. Giuseppe Fossi had said something in the library about the party assembling at a quarter-past eight. I told this to Carla Raspa.
“I know,” she said, “but my idea is this. That we ourselves should feed early, and then, when Donati’s party assembles in the hall for drinks, slip out of the restaurant and join them. No one will realize we aren’t among the invited until afterwards, when they go in to dinner.”
It had been my function before now to arrange similar small deceptions for the pleasure of my touring clients. It made their entire evening if they could stand about in the proximity of film-actors or diplomats and indulge, even for five minutes, the fantasy of belonging to another stratum.
“Anything you wish,” I said to my companion. “My only stipulation is that we do not follow the invited into the restaurant and then endure the humiliation of being turned from the big table.”
“I promise to behave,” she said. “But you never know. The numbers might be wrong, and if there should be vacant places I’d seize one without a qualm.”
I doubted Aldo’s party being so disorganized, but left her hope unchallenged. We descended to the street, and at Carla Raspa’s suggestion I took the wheel of the borrowed car. We shot away down the street, and passing the church of San Cipriano climbed the northern hill towards the piazza del Duca Carlo, drawing up some two hundred yards short of it before the imposing Hotel Panorama.
We were too early for the city sightseers promised by Toni, but our arrival did not pass unnoticed. A doorman in uniform rushed to help us out of the car. Another, equally resplendent, swung the revolving doors. I thought with compassion of my old friend Signor Longhi at the Hotel dei Duchi.
The vestibule was large, stone-floored and pillared, set about with orange trees in tubs and dripping fountains. Windows in the rear gave onto a terrace where during the hot weather, so my companion told me, the clientele would lounge and also dine. The hotel, now in its second season, was run by a syndicate. Professor Elia, Director of Commerce and Economics, was said to be a member. I was not surprised.
“Don’t worry,” murmured Carla Raspa, “about the bill. I’ve plenty if you run short. The charges are staggering. It’s intended, of course, for American and German tourists. No one else can afford it, except the Milanese.”
We passed through to the restaurant, empty at the moment except for ourselves. The enormous table in the center, ready for the dinner-party later, reminded me of the setup so frequently ordered by myself for Sunshine Tours. Only the flags were missing. The headwaiter, with minions at his elbow, bowed us to the table which Carla Raspa had reserved beforehand, and handed us menus the size of proclamations. I studied mine in silence, thinking of my pocket. Carla Raspa, showing bravado, ordered for us both; the dish, a marriage-after-death of eel and octopus, presaged insomnia. Perhaps this was her intention.
“I should like,” she said, “to live like this always. It won’t happen as long as I remain a lecturer on the staff here.”
I asked her the alternative. She shrugged her shoulders.
“A rich man somewhere,” she answered, “preferably with a wife at home. Unmarried men tire sooner. They have so large a choice.”
“You won’t find one in Ruffano,” I told her.
“I don’t know,” she said, “I live in hopes. Professor Elia has a wife who never emerges from Ancona. She won’t be here tonight.”
“I thought,” I said, nodding at her ensemble, “all this was to attract Donati?”
“What’s wrong with catching both?” she answered. “Donati is the more elusive. But they tell me Elia has a larger appetite.”
Her frankness was disarming, and I felt myself secure. The table for two in the kitchenette and the divan-bed were not for me.
“Of course,” she continued, “if a shrimp came along and offered marriage I’d accept him. But only if his bank balance were considerable.” I got the message and affected a deep sigh. She patted my hand kindly. “As an escort you couldn’t be better,” she said. “Should I catch my fish and you stay on in Ruffano, you can share the pickings.”
I professed myself obliged. We both of us became a little lit with a bottle of Verdicchio to smooth the passage of the eel and octopus. I found myself smiling for no reason. The walls of the Hotel Panorama receded. The headwaiter became less attentive, and kept peering out of the door towards the pillared vestibule.
“Have you had enough?” asked Carla Raspa. “If so, I think we’d better move. They’re beginning to arrive—I can tell from the noise outside. Ask for the bill.”
The bill was ready, folded upon a plate. We had eaten the one dish only, but from the figures I could tell we needed the support of that bank balance already discussed. I drew out my pocketbook, while my companion slipped assistance onto my knee beneath the cover of the tablecloth.
Haughtily, like a god who has eaten his fill before the arrival of lesser mortals, I paid, and escorted my companion from the restaurant. We entered the vestibule to find it already filling with the invited guests. Waiters were buzzing about proffering trays laden with glasses. The men, as Giuseppe had warned me, were in dinner jackets, the women in every variety of evening dress. The hairdressers of Ruffano had been working overtime.
Carla Raspa unblushingly seized a glass from the tray that the nearest waiter offered her. I did the same.
“There he is,” said my companion in dishonor. “He looks even more alluring in a tuxedo. I’d like to eat him!”
Aldo was standing with his back to us, but despite the babble of voices the rather clear tone of Carla Raspa, pitched in a key more suitable to the lecture rooms she was used to than this formal gathering, reached his ears. He turned, and saw us both. For a moment he looked nonplussed, a rare thing for my brother. I imagined his lightning thought—had two of the invitations gone astray? My look of embarrassment must have reassured him, and my attempt to back away. He cut me dead, but nodded civilly enough to my companion. Then he moved forward to greet another arrival, Professor Rizzio, alone, without his sister. The Deputy Rector of the university looked weary and very strained. He shook hands with Aldo, and murmured something I could not catch in answer to my brother’s solicitous inquiry as to his sister’s health. His haggard appearance troubled me, and I could barely look at him. Discreetly I moved out of earshot and watched the other new arrivals, none of them known to me. Only Giuseppe Fossi, bursting out of his over-tight dinner jacket, was recognizable amid a hub of strangers, with his wife, more like an eager hen than ever, pecking and clucking at his side.
I squinted through the entrance to the line of cars outside, and beyond them to the chattering, gaping crowd. Not all Ruffano, certainly, but a fair proportion strolling to take the air, both city folk and students. I turned back to the hall. Giuseppe Fossi had noticed Carla Raspa, and was busy directing his wife in the opposite direction. Aldo, still engaged with Professor Rizzio, glanced frowning at his watch. My companion edged towards me.
“The other guest of honor is late,” she said. “It’s almost ten to nine. He’s done it on purpose, naturally. To make a greater stir than Rizzio.”
I had forgotten Professor Elia. The purpose of the party, of course, was to effect a public reconciliation. Aldo’s triumph was to bring the two men together.
The voices rose deafeningly. Glasses clinked. I shook my head when offered a third martini.
“Can’t we go?” I whispered to Carla Raspa.
“And miss the meeting of the giants? Not on your life,” she answered.
The minutes dragged like hours. The hands of the hotel clock stood at three minutes to nine. Aldo had ceased talking to Professor Rizzio and was tapping an impatient foot.
“Does he have far to come?” I asked my companion.
“Three minutes in a car,” she said. “You know the big house at the corner of the piazza del Duca Carlo? Oh no, it’s obvious. This is his method of making the rest look small.”
The telephone rang at the reception desk. I happened to hear it because I stood between it and the guests. I saw the reception clerk answer, listen, then reach for a memo pad and scribble a message. He looked bewildered. Waving aside the page who stood beside him, he hurried from the desk across the crowded floor towards my brother, and handed him the message. I watched Aldo’s face. He read the message, then turned rapidly to the receptionist and questioned him. The man, troubled, obviously repeated what he had just heard on the telephone. Aldo raised both his hands and called for silence. There was an immediate hush. Faces swung towards him.
“I’m afraid something has happened to Professor Elia,” he said. “A message had just come over the telephone from an anonymous caller suggesting that I should go to the Professor’s house immediately. It could be a hoax, but very possibly not. If you’ll all excuse me I’ll drive there instantly. If all is well, I’ll report back at once.”
A gasp of consternation came from the assembled guests. Professor Rizzio, looking more drawn than ever, plucked Aldo by the sleeve. He was evidently asking to go with him. Aldo nodded, already moving swiftly through the crowded room. Professor Rizzio followed. Others also broke away from their wives and turned towards the entrance. Carla Raspa, taking my hand, pulled me after them.
“Come on,” she said. “It may be serious, it may be nothing. But whatever it is, we’re not going to miss it.”
I followed her through the swing-doors of the hotel. Already I could hear the roar of Aldo’s Alfa-Romeo as it turned and spun away uphill towards the piazza del Duca Carlo.
14
We followed closely in our borrowed car, but others had the same idea. Those guests whose cars, like ours and Aldo’s, had been parked in the space reserved for the hotel were soonest off. The crowd of watching students and city folk, realizing from the confusion that something was wrong, started running up the hill in their turn. Horns hooted wildly and there was a grinding and clashing of gears and much excited jabbering.
“That’s Elia’s house, there at the corner,” pointed Carla Raspa. “The lights are on.”
The Alfa-
Romeo had already drawn up beside the house, which stood in its own garden on the right of the piazza del Duca Carlo. I saw Aldo spring from the car and dash inside, followed more slowly by Professor Rizzio. I slowed down, wondering what to do. We could not very well draw up behind Aldo’s car. Cars hooted impatiently behind me.
“I’ll circle the piazza,” I said, “and come round again.”
I shot ahead, but Carla Raspa, craning to look out of the window, said, “They’re coming out again. He can’t be there.”
Chaos was piling up in my immediate rear, close to the house. I could see the lights of cars flashing in my mirror. People shouted.
“Donati’s getting back into his car,” said Carla Raspa. “No, he’s not. Wait, Armino, wait. Park across to the right there, by the public gardens.”
The piazza del Duca Carlo terminated in the formal municipal gardens laid out with gravel paths and trees and shrubs, with the statue of Duke Carlo dominating the scene. I parked the car close to some trees and we got out.
“Why the floodlights?” I asked.
“They are always switched on for the week of the Festival,” said my companion. “Didn’t you notice them last night? My God…”
She clutched my arm and pointed to the statue of Duke Carlo, who, serene and magnificent on his marble pedestal, gazed benignly down upon the gravel path below. Floodlit, he was an imposing figure, but not so imposing was the man who sat immediately beneath him on the stone steps leading to the base. Sat, or rather straddled, for his hands and widely separated feet were bound to heavy weights, preventing movement. He was stark naked. Even from the distance where I stood, about twenty-five yards, I had no difficulty in recognizing the powerful build, the shock of black hair, of Professor Elia.
As we stared, my companion choking back a cry half-frightened, half-hysterical, we saw Aldo, followed by some half-dozen men, run across the piazza towards the statue. In a moment the wretched victim was surrounded, masked from view by those who bent over him to set him free. I saw Aldo break away and wave his hand, shouting for a car. Another figure darted back across the piazza. Meanwhile more cars were approaching, drawing up, parking. The first of the running students swarmed up the hill. Everywhere people were calling, “What is it? Who is it? What’s happened?”
The Flight of the Falcon Page 19
