“It’s a bit of a false friend.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Is a palazzo a palace or not?”
“Back home,” he said, “palace makes us think of the king’s residence. Like Buckingham Palace. Here, a palazzo is a beautiful residence, but not necessarily quite as grand as the queen’s house.”
Vicky frowned. Bernie sighed.
“Never mind,” he said. “It sounds like a nice palace.”
“It is. Max took me there once. It’s eighteenth century. That’s the 1700s. So romantic.” She gushed, pronouncing the words with relish, as if you scored points for having been debauched in eighteenth-century palazzi by married men thirty years your senior. “Che cosa romantico!”
Bernie looked confused, Giuliana snorted, and Lucio broke another string. A G-string, this time.
“That’s not quite right,” said Bernie, and I cringed for him. She was never going to get this. “You can say Che romantico,’ to mean ‘how romantic,’ but not ‘che cosa romantico.’ Unless, of course, you make the adjective feminine, too, as in ‘Che cosa romantica!’ That means ‘What a romantic thing!’ Otherwise, ‘che cosa’ is for questions only.”
Vicky looked skeptical. Surely she’d lost confidence in Bernie’s knowledge of Italian after the palace-palazzo fiasco. In fact she proceeded to argue her usage with a man holding a doctorate in Italian language and literature.
“I had a lesson yesterday with that nice Professor Crocetti in Florence. He’s an excellent teacher and quite expensive. Max says he’s the best. He taught me ‘che cosa romantico.’”
“No, no, no,” said Giuliana, shaking her head. “I’m sure your Professor Crocetti never taught you that. Bernie is right.”
“Eh, sì,” added Lucio. Then Tato agreed as well.
Vicky pouted. “Italian is so hard. Why do I have to learn it? Everyone speaks English. At least they should.”
Franco comforted her with an indulgent smile and told her, “No to worry. You speak much cutely.”
“Anyway the palazzo in Lugano is romantic,” said Vicky, ignoring his praise. “Bigger and even nicer than this place.”
She excused herself on the pretext that Max would be needing her any moment.
“I don’t know about the palace in Lugano,” I said to Bernie, “but this place’ll do.”
“No, El, ‘palace’ isn’t really . . .”
“Get yourself a sense of humor, Bernie.”
Before too long, Lucio had restrung his guitar, this time using a B-string— called si in Italian—to replace the G (sol) he’d snapped.
“Will that work?” asked Bernie.
“Not ideal, but a little less tight, and voilà. The si becomes sol.”
“Play us a song, Lucio,” said Giuliana. “Una bella canzone.” Then with a glance to the salone door, she made a request. “Play ‘Bella ciao.’”
At first Lucio resisted, doubting our host would approve. I asked what was objectionable about it and, again, it fell to Bernie to explain.
“Bella ciao’ is an old song, dating back to the last century. It was adopted by the partisans during the war as an anti-fascist anthem of sorts. It has strong leftist connotations.”
“It’s a fine song,” added Franco. “Part of our struggle to liberate Italy from the foreign occupiers.” He paused. “But perhaps better not to sing it here.”
“Why not?” asked Tato.
After some more prodding, Lucio finally relented and produced a real song from his guitar, jury-rigged G-string and all. Everyone, save Franco Sannino and me, sang along. I didn’t know the words, and he probably worried he’d lose his seat in the first pew in church if he did. The chorus was simple and catchy, and I was able to join in before too long.
The first verse tells of a young man who wakes one morning to find the invader in his land. He bids farewell to his lovely girl, “bella ciao.”
Una mattina mi son alzato
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao
Una mattina mi son alzato
E ho trovato l’invasor
The second verse is a plea for the partisan to take him away with him to fight.
O partigiano, portami via
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao
Opartigiano, portami via
Ché mi sento di morir
The next verse begs the girl to bury him in the shadow of a flower on the mountain should he die. The song ends with an evocation of the flower of the partisan who died for freedom.
Questo è il fiore del partigiano,
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao,
Questo è il fiore del partigiano
Morto per la libertà
But Lucio never quite finished the song, which hardly surprised anyone. Achille arrived at a gallop waving his hands to silence the music. He said nothing, only gestured. Behind him Berenice was frowning at Giuliana and Lucio. A spirited if half-whispered argument ensued, with hand gestures, red faces, and pointing to the house. Achille remained silent, watching intently as Berenice lectured the singers. Giuliana took the lead for the young people, insisting that there was nothing wrong with singing a patriotic song. Tato stood at her side though, in truth, I doubt she even noticed he was there. She was incensed, making no attempts to lower her voice, as Berenice had done to avoid alerting the master to the fuss in the garden.
But just as she’d shouted something about fascists and oppression, a pair of shutters on the second floor opened and Max Locanda leaned out.
“Berenice,” he barked. His voice sailed through the garden and, I fancied, bounced off a hill about five hundred yards away and echoed back. We all stared up at him, no one daring to speak.
“Sissignore?” she answered.
““Lasciali stare. They may sing whatever songs they like.”
And, with that, he disappeared back inside the window and pulled the shutters closed again. Berenice apologized for the interruption and, smoothing her apron, cleared her throat before grabbing Achille by the elbow and shuffling back into the house.
“Again,” said Giuliana to Lucio. “Come on. Play it.”
His lips curled into a grimace. “Non lo so . . . I’d rather not. I’ll play something else,” he said without looking anyone in the eye.
Then he started strumming “Volare” and everyone groaned. Giuliana threw her hands into the air and, muttering to herself, stomped off into the house. Tato followed.
“That was awkward,” I told Bernie once Lucio had abandoned his version of “Volare.” We’d grabbed a far corner of the terrace for ourselves and were engaged in a private powwow over fresh drinks.
“I’ll say. Giuliana takes no prisoners. Locanda did the right thing under the circumstances. It would be rude of a host to dictate what guests can and can’t sing.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But what kind of host do we have here? I mean his servant feels the need to silence a song that celebrates the defeat of foreign invaders.”
Bernie nodded. “And don’t forget he married the contessa or marchesa—whatever she is. Maybe she has real reasons not to come back to Italy. Besides her title, that is.”
“What kind of reasons?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she was the president of the Mussolini Fan Club or something.”
“I’m curious about her, the wife. Did you say she was older than Locanda?”
“That’s what I heard. But why would you be interested in her?”
“It’s just the way I am, Bernie. Since I’m curious about Locanda, I’m doubly curious about his wife. And her late husband, for that matter. He’s the one who provided this place after all.”
“Good luck,” he said. “I’ve got more important things to do. Like finish this book I’m reading.”
We sat in silence for a long moment. Then I interrupted Bernie again.
“Why would he marry her?”
“Sorry?”
“Why would a handsome young man like Max Locanda marry som
e old widow?”
Bernie chuckled. “Locanda? A young man?”
“Back when,” I said. “When he married her.”
“I don’t know. Maybe because she was rich, owned this little pied-à-terre, as well as an eighteenth-century palace in Switzerland.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bel Soggiorno was an idyllic spot to be sure, but tension had already surfaced among the guests and hosts. And, of course, the lingering grief for the passing of Bondinelli was never far from our thoughts. Not that anyone was weeping over his demise, but an ever-present sadness lurked in the corners and empty moments of the villa.
And there was something unsettling about Bondinelli himself. Something that didn’t quite make sense. I’d heard of his good works, his generosity, but of a dark side as well. Questions about his past. The contradictions and intrigue. His parish priest clearly loved him. Giuliana suspected something sinister in his war story, and Locanda was playing his cards close to the vest. Then there were his devotees, Veronica and Teresa, the most unlikely of companions for a fifty-something professor. Living in his household, they certainly would have known him better than the others, yet they seemed distant. Admiring and grateful perhaps, but not intimates. I wanted to know more about this man I’d never met. This man who’d died mysteriously, practically in broad daylight in a bustling city full of tourists.
It was nearly nine, and I was freshening up before dinner when Giuliana knocked at my door. I expected a repeat performance of insinuations against the late professor. But, instead, she’d come to tell me Veronica was quite ill. Franco happened to be passing through the corridor on his way down to dinner at that moment. He asked us what was wrong.
“It’s Veronica,” said Giuliana. “Sta molto male.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Veronica,” repeated Giuliana. “The girl on the back of your Vespa this morning. The one with the rash.”
“Oddio,” said Franco, practically gasping. He touched his brow as if to take his temperature. “What’s wrong with her? Is she contagious?”
Giuliana didn’t know anything except that she had a fever and a rash on her neck.
“Go find Achille and ask him for some aspirin,” she told Franco. “Ellie and I will go check on her.”
We found Veronica in a small, hot room on the third floor. Lying on her back, bathed in sweat, half out of her nightclothes, she scratched her neck with what was left of her gnawed-off fingernails.
“Veronica,” I said, rushing to her side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m hot,” she moaned.
I poured her a glass of water from the bottle near her bed. She sat up and managed a few sips. I asked if she was hungry, but she shook her head.
“I’ll be all right. It’s just this heat.”
Achille arrived with a small box of Bayer aspirin. “Ecco, signorina,” he said, dispensing three tablets into Veronica’s hand.
“Take these compresse,” said Giuliana. “You’ll feel better.”
Perhaps feeling guilty about their indifference to Veronica’s illness, Franco, Vicky, Tato, and Lucio—still carrying his guitar, by the way—appeared at the door to inquire after her health.
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Lucio.
“We don’t need a song, thanks all the same,” I said without turning. I was concentrating on Veronica’s ferocious itching. “Please, Veronica, don’t scratch. It only makes it worse.”
Giuliana urged the others to wait downstairs on the terrace. “Poverina. She doesn’t need an audience.”
“Leave us Lucio,” I said. “Giuliana and I will move Veronica to my room where it’s cooler. Lucio, put down the guitar and pack her things back into her suitcase, please.”
Veronica looked confused, and I wondered if it was my Italian or some kind of delirium. I repeated myself in English this time, and she practically sprang from the bed. I lent her a gentle hand on the elbow to guide her, even as I sensed the worst had passed. She jumped at my touch. This girl doesn’t have a fever, I thought. She’s got sunburn.
Achille herded the others out the door. I called after him but he didn’t stop. Stepping into the hallway, I shouted again, but he ignored me.
“What’s wrong?” asked Giuliana once I’d returned to the room.
“It’s that porter. I wanted to ask him to inform Locanda and call for a doctor. But he won’t even acknowledge me when I speak to him.”
“You’re joking, right?” she said. “He’s completely deaf, you know.”
Once in my room, Giuliana and I soaked a towel in water and took turns applying it to Veronica’s forehead, neck, and arms. After five minutes, she asked us to use something called amamelide instead.
“It’s soothing, and I like the smell.”
We started over with a new towel doused in the substance, which I recognized immediately as witch hazel. I’d never liked the odor, even less so under the present circumstances. But, coupled with the wind roaring from the ceiling fan on the highest setting, it seemed to give her some temporary relief from the heat. The room, in fact, felt easily fifteen degrees cooler than the steam bath she’d been occupying upstairs. Despite our most diligent attention and the anti-inflammatory properties of the liniment, Veronica continued to complain of the itching rash on her neck and another one on her arm. Berenice, summoned by Achille, arrived with something called borotalco, advising that we should clean and dry the rash then apply the powder, which, after a sniff, I realized was nothing more than talcum. Giuliana and I handled the ministrations, and, twenty minutes later, Veronica, powdered like a freshly diapered baby, felt well enough to eat some panzanella Berenice had prepared for dinner. We gave her another aspirin and lots of water.
After a short while, Achille returned with a young man wearing a rumpled black suit. He introduced himself as Dottor Pellegrini, the junior associate of Locanda’s physician, Francesco Gherardi. Achille had informed the signore after all, even without my suggestion. We learned that Dottor Gherardi was visiting relatives in Arezzo for the week, so the house call fell to young Pellegrini. He might have looked like a schoolboy, but he came highly recommended, this according to Vicky, who’d shown up at the door to get an update on Veronica’s condition.
Pellegrini shooed us all out of the room—my room—so he could check on the patient, who kept insisting she was feeling better thanks to the cooler temperature.
Dinner was on hold until the young doctor had finished his examination, so we all waited downstairs in the salone, fortified with another round of aperitivi, which threatened to send Franco to the showers early. He wasn’t much good after two glasses of wine, and he’d already downed three. I hoped he wasn’t gunning for a rematch with me after his performance of Wednesday night. Two out of three falls, as it were. Bernie was staying close, and I took the opportunity to remind him to keep an eye on Franco’s alcohol intake and his designs on me.
After about ten minutes, Achille announced that dinner would be served shortly. Locanda sauntered into the room and poured himself a bit of the Certosa. I screwed up my nerve and asked him if the doctor had gone.
“Yes,” he said. “He’ll telephone me in the morning with his diagnosis. Your friend is resting comfortably.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
By the time we sat down to eat, dinner had been delayed more than an hour and, as it was past ten thirty, we were famished. Still, despite the scare of Veronica’s illness, coming on the heels of Bondinelli’s sudden demise, the mood was surprisingly lighthearted, the way mourners take comfort in each other’s company after the catharsis of a wake or funeral. We all managed to smile. Even laugh.
The place settings were laid out on an ancient refractory table that measured about twenty feet in length. Our host sat at the head of the table, a heavy cudgel that resembled a sledgehammer stood on its head by his side. I risked a peek and saw that the hammer was resting on a block of wood. I couldn’t fathom what that was for.
When pressed to share the histor
y of the table, Locanda claimed he’d rescued it from a monastery near Avignon. And, in spite of its rough texture and well-worn edges—or perhaps because of them—the table inspired both a healthy respect for the functional simplicity of the piece, as well as a curiosity of what conversations, intrigues, and meals had been consumed on its planks over the centuries.
I studied the rest of the room. The bare floors, tiled in an ornate antique pattern, suggested a huge bordered carpet with eight-pointed stars and smaller flowers inside. A dappled mirror, its glass heavy and dark, hung on the north wall above a battered filigreed credenza. Sconces on either side illuminated the area with a faint, flickering electric light. Bright lighting, I was coming to realize, was not a prized feature in old Italian homes. An octopus of a crystal chandelier overhead provided little more than a glow from ten of the twelve working bulbs. Completing the picture was a gothic triptych that may or may not have been wildly valuable, depending on its provenance. Still, the lack of guile in the room’s trimmings led me to believe everything was genuine. They exuded sincerity and plain honesty while showing their age and wear.
In fact, all of Villa Bel Soggiorno presented itself in an unselfconscious manner, indifferent to the changing styles and tastes of passing time. Beyond the electric lights, powered by occasional cloth wires climbing the walls like veins carrying blood—and of course the ceiling fan in my room—the house looked as it must have done two or three hundred years before. It showed its share of warts, for sure, the antiquated, dripping bathrooms, rambling somewhat desultory architecture, and occasional musty zones for starters. But in its entirety—the gardens, views, ancient stone, and worn furnishings—Bel Soggiorno was the most genuinely elegant home I’d ever seen.
Now at the refractory table, for reasons unclear to me, Locanda lifted the sledgehammer to his right with both hands and let it drop hard on the block of wood, producing a minor seism that shook the room. The thud silenced everyone.
“Don’t mind that,” said Vicky. “It’s to call the servant. He can’t hear but he can feel that.”
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