I reached for the light switch, but Bernie stayed my hand.
“Leave it off or someone will see the light. Why did you drag me in here anyway?”
“I wanted to discuss that painful dinner we just sat through.”
“It was uncomfortable, I’ll grant you that.”
“Why would Locanda say those things about Bondinelli?”
“He’s a strange one. Sour and tight, like a lemon. And without any sentimentality that I can detect. It’s odd that he chose to tell that story at dinner. About his old friend who’d just been fished out of the river.”
“Maybe they didn’t like each other after all.”
“Yet he offered his home to him for this weekend jamboree.”
We both shrugged.
“He is a little spooky,” I said after a short moment had passed. “But he’s got some kind of charm.”
“Yeah, like a cobra.”
“Vicky seems to like him. She must be a third his age.”
“A third? Really?”
“Okay,” I said. “That’s an exaggeration. More like . . . thirty-eight percent his age.”
Bernie shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s a gorgeous girl like her doing with a fossil like him?”
“Lots of American girls find Italians sexy.”
“I get that. But usually the newer models. Not old jalopies like Locanda.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call him a jalopy. He’s quite attractive in a debauched, blackened-soul, Don Juan kind of way. You’re jealous, Bernie. Don’t worry, you’ll be old and used up one day soon.”
I glanced around at our surroundings for the first time. Books crammed into shelving along the walls; a mammoth desk, piled with folios and correspondence, squatted like a bull in the center of the room; and a long secretary overflowing with documents and sundry papers loomed large against the opposite wall. A marble bust surveyed all from its vantage point in the corner. I couldn’t rightly say in the semi-darkness, but it looked like a Roman emperor or senator.
“This must be Locanda’s study,” I said, wading deeper into the room.
“Wait, El. What are you doing? You can’t go snooping around in here.”
“Why not? We’re alone. For all the others know, I dragged you into a dark corner because I couldn’t resist your charms.”
“Come on. Be reasonable. We’ll get caught.”
“Don’t worry, Bernie. I won’t touch anything,” I said as I wandered over to the secretary. “I’ll bet he’s got all sorts of secrets squirreled away in here.”
Bernie stuck close to the doorway, a sentry, listening for any approaching footsteps as I peered at the items lying in plain view. Old files, some with official stamps and ribbons, and stuffed folders occupied the space alongside various knickknacks and photos. There were small cast-iron statuettes of dogs, horses, and even a Leaning Tower of Pisa. It was all dry stuff, but I shuffled through a couple of old letters, which were addressed to someone named Rodolfo Locanda, Ing. The long-winded Italian sentences were indecipherable, and not because of the dark.
I gathered up a few photos lying loose on top of some recent newspapers. The first one showed a group of men in suits meeting around a long table. Another was a blown-up shot of a balding man making a point at a lectern. Then there was an old torn envelope, the kind studios used to send photographs. The tear showed a black-and-white picture inside. I drew it out to have a look. Four people—three men and a young woman—sitting in a café. One of the men bore a strong resemblance to the bald lecturer in the other photo. And, come to think of it, the bust in the corner, too. The last picture was of a pretty young blonde woman in a stylish studio portrait with the name Fotografie F.lli Manfredi Firenze stamped in fancy script in the lower left-hand corner. I compared her to the young woman in the café. Looked like a match to me, but she was wearing a hat in the group photo, so I couldn’t be certain.
I held the café picture up to catch a faint light coming through the window. Hard to see much of anything. Whoever had snapped the photo must have been a few feet away from the terrace where the four people were seated. A photo like so many others. Just people smiling vaguely at a camera. It reminded me of the picture Lucio had described. The one in Bondinelli’s office. Could it possibly be a print of the same one?
Bernie screamed my name in a whisper from his post near the door. “Someone’s coming!”
I ditched the photos where I’d found them and darted across the room. Throwing my body against Bernie’s with a thwack that nearly knocked the wind out of him, I wrapped my arms around his neck, and— standing on my tiptoes—planted a sloppy, wet kiss on his lips just as the door opened and the lights flickered to life.
“Cosa fate qui?” It was Locanda. He wanted to know what we were doing in there. And he didn’t look his usual jovial self.
I released Bernie from my embrace, noting the smudge of red lipstick I’d made sure to leave on his mouth, chin, and half his cheek, and assumed a shamed expression. I could only assume I was sporting similarly clownish maquillage on my own face. Hastily adjusting my brassiere, which didn’t need adjusting, I smoothed my skirt and croaked an apology.
“We took a wrong turn,” I lied, knowing it was ridiculous but altogether understandable under the circumstances. Who wants to admit to getting caught petting heavily in someone else’s study? “We were looking for the salone.”
Locanda’s fierce gaze ranged from me to Bernie, who stood frozen, flattened against the wall in terror, then back to me. At length, he had the good manners to blush. Or perhaps the redness was the result of the extreme pique setting his blood aboil. A moment later, his glare softened into an uncomfortable frown. He grunted that the salone was at the end of the hallway. Then, choking out a half cough, he excused himself for the interruption and stepped back into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him.
“That was close,” I said, exhaling the breath I’d been holding since Locanda burst into the room. I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief I’d retrieved from the pocket of my skirt, then turned to my partner in crime. “Here, let me clean you up.”
I squared up in front of Bernie, took stock of the state of his appearance, then set about scrubbing my offending lipstick from his face. He complied, standing there motionless as I performed my ministrations. I realized he hadn’t uttered a word since Locanda’s inopportune appearance.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “I didn’t break your ribs or anything, did I?”
He shook his head and moistened his lips with a dab of his tongue. Then another, as if the first attempt hadn’t sufficed. His eyes, saucer-sized, peered back at me from behind his smudged glasses. Blinded by wonton abandon, I must have mashed my forehead against the lenses, leaving them a clouded mess. He removed his specs and, squinting, polished them on his shirttail.
He finally managed speech. “That was . . . um . . .”
“Unexpected?” I asked.
“I was going to say nice. Really nice.”
Uh-oh. That hadn’t been the idea at all. I kicked myself now for using Bernie’s lips to deflect the suspicion that rightly should have fallen on me for snooping through Locanda’s things.
“Don’t get any ideas, Bernie,” I said. “We’re pals. You know that. I was just trying to throw Locanda off the scent.”
“I know that,” he said, replacing his glasses on his nose and assuming an indifferent attitude. “It’s just that it was more pleasant than that dinner we just sat through.”
“Agreed. And speaking of that, what did you make of Giuliana’s outburst? She left little doubt of what she thinks of Bondinelli.”
“She a feisty one.”
“I saw you chatting with her last night at the reception. I think she likes you. Maybe it’s the Jewish thing.”
“I think she’s taken by Tato.”
“I have my doubts. He’s her little lapdog for now, but I don’t see her settling for someone without her convictions. And, again, I mention the Jewish
thing.”
“I’m not interested,” announced Bernie, his eyes sparkling at me in the low light.
I knew I had to tread carefully after throwing myself—literally—at him. I asked him for a favor.
“Do you think you might corner her at some point and find out what she knows about Bondinelli? Why does she hate him so?”
“I can try. But what is it exactly that you suspect, El? Do you think she had some grudge against Bondinelli strong enough to do him harm? If not, I don’t know why you’re snooping. The same goes for rifling through Locanda’s stuff in here.”
“It’s not something I can easily describe, but I’ll tell you that I’m curious by nature. And thorough. Nosy. And obsessed with sharp corners and fully explained answers. I cannot abide unfinished business or loose threads.”
Bernie aimed his freshly cleaned glasses at me, one lens catching a flicker of light from the window as he did. “You think someone murdered Bondinelli, don’t you?”
“Not sure. We’ll have to see about that.”
“Okay,” he said, pushing the door open and inviting me to pass first. “For you, El, I’ll do it. But I can’t help wondering what the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into with this weekend in the country.”
I peered into the hallway, checking that no one else was lurking, and, finding all clear, stepped outside. Bernie followed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In Italy, it’s common to enjoy a digestivo after dinner, dessert, and coffee. By the time Bernie and I had repaired to the salone to join the others, it was past midnight. Everyone was there, including our host, the keeper of our dirty little secret—at least for the time being—as it was clear the others suspected nothing. They’d already fortified themselves with fresh drinks and were engaged in their post-prandial colloquies and cigarettes. Despite my best efforts to appear casual about the recent smudge I’d applied to my own honor in Locanda’s eyes, I’m sure I came across as on edge.
I chanced a glance at him to gauge how he intended to handle the embarrassing indiscretion he’d witnessed. A cool customer, he was seated at the periphery of the circle, the beautiful Vicky on one side and another sledgehammer on the other. His paramour looked bored. She stared at the opposite wall and its imposing fresco, which had a crack down the center. The colors had faded, but one could make out a bucolic setting populated by fat little cherubim and three nymphs bathing in a stream. Nearby three hunters stalked a stag, the implications being that they might well stumble upon the naked maidens. Enchantment and romance were in the offing to be sure. I conferred quietly with Bernie and, after a moment’s debate, we agreed that, given the age of the house, the painting was probably sixteenth-century and of pedestrian authorship at that. Still, it was a remarkable work to have in one’s drawing room.
With that detail settled, I turned my attention back to Locanda. His cigarette fumed in the ashtray on the table to his right, as he thumbed through a slim tome that, for all I knew, might have been poetry, a bartender’s guide, or even a pocket book version of the Kama Sutra. From time to time, he reached for the glass next to the ashtray, raised it to his lips, and took a sip. Whatever was absorbing his attention, it was clear that he wasn’t interested in making eye contact with me or my partner in crime.
Bernie and I were seated on one of the divans, opposite Lucio who was, as always, toying with his guitar. Giuliana remarked that it was late and that the dinner had lasted too long. No one challenged her assertion except Lucio, who felt we’d rushed through the delightful meal due to the late start caused by Veronica’s illness. He maintained that anything less than three hours at the table was uncivilized.
Achille had placed a tray of liqueurs, mixers, and even some watery ice cubes in the center of the room. At Locanda’s urging—no more than a distracted wave of his hand in the direction of the drinks, really—Bernie and I stood to help ourselves. I returned to the divan and sank into the worn cushions and pillows with my Fernet Branca. Bernie, on the other hand, was interested in an ancient bottle of cognac, but his courage didn’t go so far as to pour himself any, especially in light of recent developments. He settled instead for some moscato. Making polite conversation, I asked Lucio what he was drinking. He said it was grappa and held his glass out to me.
“No thanks,” I said. “Maybe later if my lighter runs out of fluid.”
He offered a suit-yourself grin and took a swig that twisted his face into a grimace.
“Buono,” he announced in a hoarse voice, his eyes watering. Then he resumed tuning his guitar.
Giuliana was drinking water. Tato had some white wine, while Locanda and Vicky were enjoying what I believe was genepì, a botanical liqueur related to absinthe. Now, with the late arrivals armed with beverages and seated comfortably, everyone was present and accounted for. Except, of course, Veronica, whom no one seemed to miss. As if on cue, Lucio decided to serenade me with another love song.
I didn’t dare look, but I felt Locanda’s eyes on me as Lucio crooned, “Tu sei sempre nel mio cuor.” What must my host have been thinking of my morals? First he’d found me affixed to Bernie’s lips with more suction than a primed toilet plunger could manage, and now another young man was, by all appearances, seducing me with Italian love ballads.
In the end, Lucio held to form and, having strummed the barest beginnings of an actual song on the guitar, he stopped, apologized for the pitch of his B-string, and set about tuning the instrument again. I sensed it would be hours before he was satisfied.
With the plinking of his guitar tuning, Lucio effectively strangled all conversation in the room. Giuliana yawned and announced she was turning in. Tato begged her to stay up a little longer.
“The weekend is short,” he said. “Let’s enjoy it to the fullest.”
“How do you propose we do that?” I asked.
He racked his brain for a short moment, searching for some acceptable activity that everyone might enjoy.
“What if Lucio sings us another song?”
A groan rose from the assembled, and Giuliana pointed out that the guitar player didn’t seem to know any songs. Lucio said nothing to contradict her. In fact, he just kept plinking away, tuning and plinking, plinking and tuning.
“E la radio?” said Franco.
“Off the air,” answered Giuliana. “And there’s no television either.”
“Then I’ll tell you all a story.”
More groans with less effort to disguise the disappointment.
“Va bene,” he conceded. “I’ll save my story for another time. Tonight Lucio will put down his guitar and entertain us with a tale of his own devising. Each evening, one of us shall be king—or queen, as the case may be—of our little group and tell a story. We must obey and listen attentively to our sovereign’s tale.”
While the gang didn’t exactly cheer and hoist Lucio onto their shoulders, there seemed to be a willingness to grant him a chance. He was quick with a joke, after all, and quite handy with words, if not songs. He agreed to take on the challenge with one proviso.
“Amici, I will keep my guitar,” he announced with a playful air that suggested feigned offense. “And you will see that I hold in store for you a wonderful surprise. I shall make my guitar sing to add beauty and drama to the story I am about to tell.”
Someone groaned again. Lucio ignored the affront. Instead he chewed his lip for a moment, searching his memory for a good story to tell. Soon enough, his face lit up, and we knew he’d found one.
“Tonight I shall recount a parable that will give you cause to consider your own actions in life and the meaning of redemption in the afterlife,” he said. “Your hearts will be gladdened by the power and generosity of God.”
“Uffa, I’m going to bed,” said Giuliana. “There is no God, and I have no desire to listen to your bourgeois fables. Religion keeps the worker in ignorance of his oppression.”
“Come on, Giulià” whined Lucio. “You know I’m a Communist like you. Siamo tutti comunisti qui. It was just
for fun that I introduced the story that way.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Franco, throwing a glance in Locanda’s direction. “I am not a Communist. And I doubt our host is either. Or our American friends.”
Locanda, who’d remained aloof and silent throughout the discussion, offered a languid blink. “I no longer concern myself with politics. There’s no need.” He indicated the house around us all with a lazy wandering gaze. “But, vi prego, no political arguments here.”
The motion passed unanimously. And the idea of Lucio recounting an amusing story was preferable to his incessant tuning of the guitar, so everyone climbed onboard. Everyone except Vicky, who showed little enthusiasm for the exercise, as she understood practically nothing of Lucio’s—or anyone else’s—Italian.
We all refreshed our drinks and adjusted our seats to give Lucio a proper audience, and he, having taken another gulp of grappa and cleared his throat, settled into a large armchair and began strumming an ancient air on the guitar. Something out of a medieval village fair. Despite a slight slurring of his speech and the occasional suppressed belch, he turned out to be a fine raconteur. Basing my translation on memory, I believe I’ve managed to reconstruct the tone of his tale here. He began.
“There once lived in France a pair of moneylending brothers by the name of Francese.” He paused to wink at Giuliana. “Vedi? My villains are capitalists.” Then he returned to his story. “Although small in physical stature, the Franceses were known far and wide as hard businessmen and unscrupulous usurers, who showed little sympathy for their clients, no matter the misfortunes that may have driven them to seek loans at exorbitant rates. Following a particularly cruel drought that wiped out the harvest and led to hardships throughout the land, many townsfolk found themselves in dire need of money to survive the winter. With great reluctance, the distressed citizens approached the brothers, hat in hand, to make a bargain with the devil.
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