Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  “Looks like you got the wedding suite,” he said.

  “Is yours not as nice?”

  “Mine’s a closet under the eaves with only a tiny window.”

  “I’ve got to share the bathroom with Giuliana and Franco, if that’s any consolation.”

  “Cry me a river. Maybe you’ll tell me later there’s a pea under your mattress. And I’m sharing the bathroom with Lucio, Tato, and Veronica upstairs. The bathtub’s about the size of a gravy boat.”

  “Sorry.”

  Bernie gazed around the room some more. Then he noticed the fan. His face lit up. “Say, you’ve got two beds and a ceiling fan . . .”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Come on, El. Share the wealth with a proletarian. I’m a perfect gentleman and I don’t snore.”

  “I’m not in the habit of sharing rooms with perfect gentlemen. You can visit, but no slumber parties.”

  “Eccovi! What took you all so long?” It was Franco. The late-afternoon sun cast its rays through the oak trees, dappling the right side of his face.

  Having unpacked and freshened up, Bernie and I returned to the shade of the terrazza behind the house where we sat and admired the large park. Interspersed among the boxwood alleys and walkways, various pieces of statuary—satyrs, Dianas, Pans, Apollos, and Daphnes— populated the garden. The stone sitting benches, strategically placed in the shade of a long pergola, promised peaceful spots for lazy afternoon reading. And if books weren’t your speed, there were rows of ancient, twisted, grapevines that would surely afford hours of enchanting passeggiate, accompanied by wistful speculation of the enjoyment their fermented harvests had once provided. Flowering plants and trees—oaks mainly—but elms and more pines, too, shaded the sun and made the temperature bearable, especially when a breeze blew. Not far off, a circular fountain, featuring a bathing nymph, bubbled happily. There was a labyrinth of shrubs laid out with a geometric precision that begged to be explored, and a gazebo perfect for a cool drink in the evening. I knew straightaway where I was going to be at seven with a sweating glass of something strong in my hand.

  “We stopped at San Domenico for a ristoro (refreshment),” said Bernie.

  “A ristoro for the car,” I mumbled.

  Franco didn’t hear me. “I understand Berenice fixed you something to eat. Ottimo. What’s her name, Veronica, isn’t feeling well. She’s in her room. I had a nap and a bath. Very refreshing. I hope you’re all happy with the accommodations.”

  Franco was acting as if he owned the place. With Locanda out of the country for the weekend, I suppose Franco outranked the rest of us, but I still considered him a guest, as were we all. I was about to ask for some more towels, just to give him a small measure of comeuppance, when Vicky Hodges appeared. Looking like Venus emerging from the sea in a diaphanous cover-up over a halter top and white Capris, she shimmered through the open door onto the terrace to join us. She truly was a beauty.

  “Hello,” she said, though her heart was hardly in it.

  Franco greeted her with a buonasera, then launched into his obsequious pigeon mating dance. He offered her a drink as if he were the maître d’hôtel. Clicking heels, hand-kissing, and perhaps even a curtsy were surely in the offing.

  “I thought you were in Switzerland for the weekend,” I said.

  She pouted and told us the trip had been canceled, thanks to that awful policeman. The short one with white hair and thick glasses.

  “Inspector Peruzzi?”

  “I suppose that’s his name. He asked Max not to leave until this drowning thing has been settled.”

  If Vicky had been spoiling for sympathy, she’d misjudged her audience. With the exception of Franco, who affected a positively heartbroken expression for her benefit, no one else cared. In fact, I’d say that Bernie was overjoyed to have the entire weekend to admire her beauty at his leisure.

  “Remember our pact,” I whispered to him. “No abandoning me. And, since Franco is besotted with Vicky and has forgotten me, will you get me a drink?”

  “Too bad about your plans,” I said, sidling up to Vicky as Franco and Bernie delivered our drinks. Two Campari and sodas with ice, if you please. “But at least you get to spend the weekend with Max.”

  “Here he is now.”

  I reeled around to see who had just arrived. Tanned, handsome, if somewhat dissipated, with a longish shock of silvering hair slicked back with pomade, the man looked to be in his mid-fifties. Dressed in a navy blazer and open-collared white shirt and linen trousers, he held a smoldering cigarette between his right middle and forefinger in what was surely a practiced pose, aimed at creating the very picture of the cosmopolitan sophisticate. The paisley ascot around his neck was the cherry on top.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said slowly in English, extending his right hand for me to take. “I am Massimiliano Locanda.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I had a beloved elderly cousin named Max. He carried himself with the air of an aging matinee idol, though a lifetime of indulgence and sloth had robbed him of his good looks. Massimiliano Locanda, younger by at least twenty years, still had some time left to seduce young lovelies like Victoria Hodges.

  After a round of introductions, we all took seats on the terrace. Everyone except for our host and his lover. Locanda remained standing as he explained that the good inspector had ruined his plans for the weekend in Switzerland. He told the tale with resignation. His speech, slow and precise without being tiresome, rumbled a deep baritone that had ripened with the years, wine, and tobacco. He was of average height and weight and had the athletic build of an erstwhile tennis player. I found him terribly attractive. He commanded attention without demanding it. No one else spoke while he was holding forth. I sensed he was bored with us and wanted to leave.

  He pronounced his Rs as the erre moscia, or soft -r-. Sounding more like a French -r- than the rolled Italian, the erre moscia is common among Italians of noble provenance. It’s also considered a pretentious affectation by those whose sympathies lie on the opposite end of the political spectrum, to wit—I was sure—Giuliana, Tato, and Lucio. But they weren’t present and hadn’t met him yet. Franco, social climber that he appeared to be, was surely drooling over Locanda’s pronunciation. It was ironic, to me at least, that whenever the erre moscia manifested itself in a person of low birth, it was considered a speech defect, not unlike a lisp, and was corrected by therapy. But for me, the distinctive -r- carried more personal significance. The torrid affair of mine that Bernie had alluded to on the terrace of the Giubbe Rosse two days earlier. The divinely handsome Luigi “Gigi” Lucchesi had also spoken with the erre moscia. And its resurfacing now only served to confuse my emotions about our severe but attractive host. That soft, guttural, rolling -r- was calling to me like a cooing dove.

  I returned to the present, smoothed my skirt over my thighs and knees, and drew a restorative breath. Behave, Ellie, and get your mind out of the past.

  “I hope Achille and Berenice took good care of you while we were out,” said Vicky in English.

  She poured a glass of fluorescent yellow liqueur from a service tray and handed it to Locanda. He accepted it without a word or any form of acknowledgement. Certosa Gialla—the liquid in his glass—was lovingly made by the monks in a monastery in Galuzzo, on the opposite end of Florence, I learned later.

  Vicky had assumed the role of lady of the house. She raised her glass to welcome us to Villa Bel Soggiorno. “Are your rooms all right? Max wanted me to make sure you have everything you need.”

  Bernie and I nodded yes. Franco, on the other hand, went farther, giving enthusiastic voice to his approval, lavishing praise in awkward English about how satisfied he was.

  “Max and I wanted to wait for you for lunch,” she continued, not sure what to make of Franco’s odd accent and even more peculiar turns of phrase.

  Locanda slipped into the chair next to mine and crossed his right leg over the left. He sipped his drink and, with an elegant brush of hi
s tanned fingers, flicked a spot of nothing off his white linen trousers.

  “We ate at a little place past Piazza San Domenico,” she said. “Nothing fancy, but the food and wine are good.”

  “You must have just missed us,” I said. “We stopped at the alimentari on the corner.”

  “Max doesn’t patronize that place.” She informed me in a theatrical whisper that he didn’t get along with the proprietor. “Uno uomo malo.”

  “Ti prego, Vicky,” said Locanda, unable to bear any more. “Don’t speak, please. You don’t know three words of Italian.”

  Vicky’s Italian vocabulary, it seemed, was limited to voglio, per piacere, and grazie. And perhaps some anatomical terminology learned at the knee of her lover, Max.

  I wanted to hear from him so I asked what he disliked about the proprietor of the alimentari.

  He dismissed my question as unimportant. “Local politics,” he said in a low voice. “Nothing serious.”

  The other guests—Lucio, Giuliana, and Tato—wandered out onto the terrace, a little timid upon noticing our elegant if unsmiling host.

  More introductions were made. Lucio, hair flattened and eyes still full of sleep—surely he’d just emerged from a nap—plopped himself down on a bench and began tuning his guitar. The magical one that, heretofore, hadn’t managed to produce a single song. He plucked and tightened, plucked and tightened, plucked and tightened the E-string, searching for the perfect pitch. Then he plucked and tightened one turn too far, and the string snapped, its recoil delivering a stinging bite to his left hand. He yelped, waggled his injured fingers vigorously, and treated us all to more of his unvarnished vocabulary. “Porca Mad . . .”

  Giuliana, Tato, and I chuckled at Lucio’s expense for a few moments before Franco lectured him to watch his language in front of the ladies. And our host.

  “It’s a very bad oath,” he said, turning to me. “The worst swear words in Italian invoke the Madonna. Not like in English where you find sex and scatology more scandalous. A very prudish race the Anglo-Saxons.”

  “I’m not an Anglo-Saxon,” I told him. “I’m Jewish,”

  He was nonplussed. “Of course you are. Your father was a famous man in academic circles. Everyone knows he was a Jew.”

  “Even Professor Bondinelli?”

  “Of course.”

  “And he didn’t mind? I mean since he was a devout Catholic?”

  “My dear Ellie, what are you saying? Alberto loved all people and all races. He was a true Christian. Like me.”

  Perhaps it was time to change the subject. I cracked a nervous smile and turned to Locanda to ask what leisure activities he would recommend at Bel Soggiorno. He seemed confused by my question, and Vicky rode to the rescue. Despite my better instincts and intentions, I was disappointed that he’d opted out of engaging in conversation with me, no matter how insipid my request had been.

  “There’s no television here. Max won’t have it,” she said. “I have some pencils if you like to draw. I tried to learn, but I’m no good at it.”

  ?“I saw a bocce court on the side of the house,” said Franco in Italian. “The balls are in the little shed next to it. And there’s an archery kit near the limonaia. That might be fun.”

  “What need do you have for bow and arrows here?” I asked.

  Franco shrugged. “For target practice. Or sport.”

  “And the occasional boar,” added Vicky, ever a font of information.

  “Are there boars on the property?”

  “You find them everywhere in Tuscany. They’re quite nasty and can be dangerous. The horns, you know.”

  “Tusks?” I asked.

  She blushed and corrected herself. “Tusks, right. It’s just that they’re so long and sharp, they look more like horns.”

  “What is this tuskses?” asked Franco, showing off some of his lubberly English.

  Though my Italian had improved greatly over the past months and during my brief stay in Florence, I certainly didn’t know the word for tusks. And I doubted any of my Italian friends would know the English word either. So I looked to Bernie for help. He was reading his German book at the far end of the terrace, ignoring the rest of us.

  “Bernie,” I called. “How do you say ‘tusks’ in Italian?”

  “What? Tusks?” he asked. “Like elephants, walruses, boars?”

  “Yes, boars.”

  “They’re called zanne. Zanna in the singular.”

  “Of course, tuskses, zanne,” said Franco, tapping his forehead as if the word had been rolling around inside his cranium like a stray marble all along.

  I thanked Bernie, called him a human encyclopedia, then turned back to Vicky. I asked again if there were really boars on the property.

  “Lots of them,” she said.

  I must have looked terrified, because our host finally chimed in to reassure me in flawless English. “Do not worry, signorina. Boars are mostly nocturnal. But one must always be careful not to disturb them when they’re sleeping during the day.”

  “Where do they sleep?” I asked, not quite sure if I’d batted my eyelashes or not. Those -r-s would be the ruin of me.

  “In the leaves, tall grass, wherever it’s cool and quiet.”

  Franco was hanging on our every word. Not that he understood even half of what we were saying. Certainly not the parts in English. Nevertheless he hovered above us, reacting with rubbery facial expressions, nodding when appropriate—or inappropriate—and throwing his head back with exaggerated mirth whenever he sensed an attempt at humor had been made.

  “Try not to step on one,” said Locanda dryly. “But if you were to cross paths with a full-grown boar, you would be glad to have a bow and arrow handy.”

  “How about pallavolo?” asked Franco from left field. “Do you like pallavolo?” I assumed he was asking me, as I was the one inquiring about leisure activities on the property, but I quickly realized he was more interested Locanda’s thoughts than mine. I felt like a distant also-ran in Franco’s estimation, what with Max’s leather moccasins needing licking. But whether the question had been addressed to me or to our host, I didn’t know the word anyway. After ten or fifteen seconds of charades all around to arrive at the meaning, Franco finally—reluctantly—looked away, searching for a capable translator. We all turned to Bernie, whose nose was still planted in his book.

  “Bernardo,” called Franco, “Come si dice ‘pallavolo’ in inglese?”

  “Volleyball,” he answered without looking up.

  Everyone was suitably impressed, with the exception of Massimiliano Locanda. He’d taken advantage of the diversion to rise from his chair and vanish in a puff of smoke. Franco asked Vicky where he was going.

  “Probably to take care of some important business,” she said. “He’s very private. Doesn’t like to socialize much.”

  Besides Franco, the others didn’t seem to mind that he’d left. I, however, was curious. Locanda had never signed on for a weekend of entertaining us. Indeed, he was supposed to be in Switzerland. He’d only agreed to lend the place to his friend Bondinelli. I imagined that a group as unremarkable as ours paled in comparison to the people he might have rubbed elbows with in Lugano. Still, despite his lack of manners, he was attractive in a brooding way. Like the hero in a gothic romance. I wondered if his insane wife might not be locked in the attic above our rooms at the villa.

  “Your boyfriend’s a smart one,” said Vicky, grinning at me. “And kind of cute in an eggheaded way. Hold onto him.”

  “Do you mean Bernie? Oh, no. We’re not together. He’s just an old friend. He was my father’s student.”

  Her conspiratorial smile faded. “Then you’re with that guy?” She indicated Tato with a bob of her head.

  “What? No.”

  “That one? What’s his name?”

  “Lucio? No. I’m not with anyone. I’m with me.”

  “Really? After our talk the other day, I thought you might be interested in a fling on your Italian holiday. You sh
ould loosen up, Ellie. You might just find a rich guy.”

  “Sorry,” I said, surely blushing at the suggestion. “I’m not here in Italy looking for Rossano Brazzi.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a sniff. “But remember, Max is mine.”

  She turned on her heel, crossed the terrace, and took a seat near Bernie, who—what do you know—put down his book and engaged her in conversation.

  “La Vicky is very beautiful. Bellissima,” said Franco from behind me. I wondered how much he’d overheard. Or understood.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The Vicky,” he explained in English. “Is a very beautiful female.”

  I’m sure I frowned despite my best efforts to refrain. “Do you mean to say woman?”

  “Yes. Una femmina. A female. A woman.”

  Lucio had threaded a new string into his guitar and resumed tuning it, still stubbornly refusing to play anything that resembled an actual song. While I chatted with Franco, Bernie was keeping Vicky busy, quizzing her on everything from her hometown to her canceled weekend in Switzerland. His interest was as transparent as Franco’s sycophancy toward Locanda. Men. They claim women are the foolish sex, but they’re the ones who lose their heads at the bat of an eyelash, abandon their dignity whenever a shapely figure walks by trailing a river of perfume. Predictable and pathetic. Except, of course, when I’m the subject of their foolishness.

  “It’s a shame you’re stuck here with us,” I heard Bernie say to Vicky. “I’m sure you wanted to see Max’s place in Lugano.”

  “Oh, I’ve been there before,” she insisted. “It’s an eighteenth-century palace.”

  Bernie’s eyes shifted nervously. “Do you mean a palazzo?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  With great difficulty, Bernie tried to explain that while palace was technically the correct translation, the connotation in English was more regal and grandiose than the Italian word, at least when describing noble houses.