Season of Storms

by Susanna Kearsley

  Last night’s rain had left a litter of sodden leaves across the garden path, and a scattering of forsythia, and above us the leaves of the olive trees glistened like silver. The water droplets hung in the thick hedges and on the splayed palm fronds where, caught by the breeze and the sunlight, they glimmered like diamonds.

  Songbirds flitted everywhere among the cypresses and weeping pines, and over their small joyful voices we heard, now and then, church bells pealing below in the town to remind us that today was Easter Sunday.

  “A beautiful morning,” said Rupert, with typical understatement. “You see what people miss when they sleep late?”

  I didn’t answer him straight off. I’d spotted a familiar-looking turning in the path ahead and was trying to gather enough breath to speak. When I finally did manage it, the words came out in a rush: “Have you been to the Peacock Pool, yet?”

  “To the where?”

  I slowed my pace purposely, drawing in air. “Oh, you have to see this, Roo. You’ll love it,” I promised. I led him up the winding path, more convinced with every step that I was headed in the right direction, although I wasn’t really sure until I came upon the avenue of cypresses. “Edwina showed me just before she left. It’s really something. There,” I said, a few steps on.

  The peacocks looked a little less forlorn this morning, standing in the sunlight that reflected where it could along the surface of the water, in between the choking reeds.

  Rupert agreed with me that the Peacock Pool looked like a miniature Taj Mahal. “But the mausoleum here is very Western, very classical. It’s not the least bit Indian.”

  “It’s not a mausoleum,” I corrected him as he wandered ahead of me, mounting the steps of the pale marble temple and peering round the columns. There were seated stone greyhounds that guarded the steps, carved no doubt by the same sculptor who’d created the peacocks. I touched the head of one as I passed. “Edwina said that there used to be dances here. I think it’s more of a tea house. You know, for the dancers to rest in.”

  Standing with his back to me, hands clasped behind him in the manner of someone patrolling a portrait gallery, he said, “You haven’t looked closely enough.”

  The open-fronted temple blocked the breeze but I still felt a chill when I joined him. Here in the half-light, deprived of the sun’s warmth, the marble walls dripped with green stains, breathing damp. Fighting off a shiver, my nose wrinkling slightly at the sharp dank smell of stone, I moved up close to Rupert’s shoulder, following his contemplative gaze towards the row of age-tarnished brass plaques set into the wall.

  “ ‘Brutus,’ ” I read the names, “ ‘Jango. Napoleon.’ What are those, dogs?”

  “I would hope so. They’d be unfortunate names for children.”

  “They must be dogs,” I said. “Besides, Galeazzo only had the one son, didn’t he? Alex’s father. And I don’t see his name here, anywhere.” Looking down the wall I started counting the plaques, but gave up when I’d reached thirty. “Do you suppose they’re all actually buried here?”

  Rupert thought it possible. “There must be a crypt of some sort, underneath, though I can’t see how one gains access . . .”

  The answer came from several feet behind us. As always, I hadn’t heard Alex approach. He told Rupert, “My father had the crypt sealed off. He thought it much too dangerous, because I played here as a child.”

  Rupert, turning, smiled a welcome. “Good morning, Alex. Happy Easter.”

  “And to you.”

  “We’re not trespassing somewhere we shouldn’t be, are we? Not risking the wrath of Pietro?”

  His mouth curved. “No, there’s nowhere in the gardens that you may not go. And if Pietro gives you trouble you must tell me, I will talk to him.” There was a rustling from the path behind him and the dogs came bounding out to join us, apparently enjoying a last run in the garden before Alex left for Sirmione. Max came straight to me, tail wagging, and as I petted his head I could feel Alex watching.

  “We’ve been looking at the dogs,” I said, diverting his attention to the row of tarnished plaques. “At least, we assumed that’s what they are . . . or rather, were.”

  “Yes, my grandfather’s greyhounds. He was a sentimental man.” Alex didn’t climb the steps to join us in the little mausoleum. He stayed down beside the pool itself, hands deep in the pockets of the dark jacket that he’d thrown on over shirt and jeans since last I’d seen him. “He wanted to be buried here himself; had his artisans build him a marble sarcophagus, a huge thing, it’s down in the crypt, but it’s empty—my father wouldn’t hear of such a burial. He was very devout, my father. And a practical man, not the least bit romantic. He didn’t bury any of his own dogs here.”

  I looked at Max and Nero, wondering what would happen to them when their time came, whether Alex would lay them to rest with the bones of their ancestors, down in the crypt with Galeazzo’s empty sarcophagus.

  Alex asked, “So, where are the two of you going today?”

  I turned to Rupert, hoping he would answer that. He did, though not exactly in the way that I’d intended. “Actually,” he said, and smiled, “there’s been a change of plan. I have some work I need to do with Den.” He met the accusation in my eyes with innocence, and smiled.

  Alex looked at me. “Then you are free to come to Sirmione.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Go ahead, my dear,” said Rupert, waving me on as though giving permission. “Enjoy yourself. We’ll do our thing another time.” And leaning close he brushed me with a Judas kiss.

  “Another time,” I promised, and gave him a glare, but he didn’t look at all concerned. He looked, in fact, rather insufferably pleased with his cleverness.

  Left with no polite option, I turned to face Alex. “Thank you, I’d love to come. When were you wanting to leave?”

  vii

  SEEN from the water, the hotels and houses of Mira del Garda formed a long, unbroken sweep of ochre walls and red tile roofs along the lakeshore, while behind that line a smaller scattering of rooftops climbed the darkly wooded hillside, growing sparser till they hardly showed at all amid the lush green trees and cypress spears. And higher still, I glimpsed the sprawling splendour of Il Piacere—here a patch of roof tile, there a flash of yellow wall, a slice of terraced garden, and the chimneys of the Villa delle Tempeste.

  For the first time I could see the mountains looming up beyond our own steep hill, too far back for me to see them from the windows of my room, massive grey stone mountains etched with white and capped with snow, like the more imposing peak of Mount Baldo that now lay behind us.

  My view of the opposite shore was less clear. A haze had settled over it, blending the speckle of towns and the rolling green hills into one smudge of colour, washed pale by the sun. And between that shore and me lay Lake Garda, deeply blue and roughed with tiny rippling waves that mirrored back a million fragments of the sunlight overhead and, dancing, slapped and rolled the boat whenever Alex slowed the motor.

  I’d expected that his boat would be expensive. I was right. It had looked modest enough in the boathouse, surrounded by the larger craft, but here on its own on the lake it commanded attention, a twenty-foot-odd sleekly tapered motorboat, long-nosed and gleaming red, with leather seats and streamlined windscreen and a spoiler rising wing-like at the back that I presumed was meant to hold us on the water at high speed.

  I’d expected to feel seasick, too, but I didn’t—likely because we were moving so fast that my body hadn’t time to feel the motion. I’d only ridden in boats a few times, and Alex hadn’t helped my confidence any by handing me a life-jacket when I’d climbed on board, but now that we were underway, with the boat kicking up a cold three-cornered spray to our rear and the lake spread before us, both shorelines in sight, I’d begun to relax.

  It helped that the noise of the motor made conversation difficult; impossible at times. If Alex felt the need to point a bit of scenery out to me he throttled back so I could hear him and then
turned away again without requiring me to answer. Which was fine by me. The less I spoke the better, went my thinking. I’d been working at looking the part of a casual cosmopolitan to whom boat rides like this one were commonplace, and I didn’t want to spoil it all by opening my mouth and coming out with something stupid.

  So when Alex asked me, “Are you cold?” I simply shook my head and smiled and leaned back in the leather seat, adjusting my sunglasses, looking away. I wished I’d thought to change my clothes before we’d left, not so much for warmth’s sake as for style, but I was stuck with the rather plain outfit I’d put on this morning. I wished, too, I’d taken the time to eat breakfast. My stomach was starting to rumble. But I knew I could hold out till lunchtime, I’d done it before.

  To distract my mind from thoughts of food I watched the passing shoreline. We went by a few towns that were smaller imitations of Mira, each one strung along the water’s edge with stately promenades and harbours, porticoed buildings and villas-turned-hotels that looked like elaborate stacked wedding-cakes, painted in holiday colours of yellow and deep pink and white. And round them rose the everpresent cypresses and lacy silver olive trees and palm trees, and the trailing mounds of flowered vines and shrubs that gave the whole western side of the lake the appearance of one giant tropical garden.

  I wasn’t sure which I liked better—my view from the bus on that first day, with the lake spread beneath me, or what I saw now from this lower perspective, encircled and made to feel small by the mountains and hills. Both vistas held beauty.

  Alex, turning, throttled back and pointed ahead to a finger of land jutting out from the distant flat shore at the base of the lake. I couldn’t see much detail, only a ridge of high cliff at the finger’s tip, facing us, and greenery on top. “That’s Sirmione,” he informed me. “Not too far, now.”

  We swung wide on our approach, giving me a slightly better look at the peninsula. It snaked out very narrow from the mainland, growing wider at its tip, and all along the shore on our side narrow jetties marked the spas and hotels tucked among the trees. The main port, roughly halfway down the strip of land, called attention to itself with a row of tall flagpoles set into the low harbour wall, flying multicoloured flags of many nations as a welcome.

  Alex steered our boat towards it, manouevring expertly through the narrow entrance and around the other vessels to an empty mooring place. Having taken off my life-jacket, I thought it best to wait and let him help me up onto the quayside. I was not a practised sailor and my feet weren’t very steady on the slickly painted surface of the boat.

  This was only the second time Alex and I had actually touched since the handshake we’d exchanged when I’d arrived at Il Piacere, and I was unprepared for the wash of awareness that swept through my system as his fingers closed around mine, firmly, warmly, without hesitation. For an instant when he let me go I felt that I might still be on the boat, the ground beneath my feet seemed less than stable, and I was grateful for the sunglasses that hid my reaction.

  Alex said, “I’m afraid the crowds will be a bit thick—this is one of our busiest holiday weekends.”

  The quay, I thought, wasn’t too crowded, but off to the one side a bustling car park appeared to be spouting out tourists in one steady stream. They passed beneath shade trees, paused by the vendors offering lemons and oranges from stalls beneath gaily striped awnings, then carried on over a little stone bridge, disappearing at last through a massive medieval stone gateway.

  We pressed ourselves into the chattering, laughing procession and passed in our turn over the bridge, which spanned what looked to be a stone-walled canal or a moat running out of the harbour . . . moat, I decided, as having passed through the great gateway I found myself standing in a large and spacious square before a castle, squat and angular with crenellated towers. Detaching myself from the crowd, I crossed to have a closer look, leaning my elbows on the waist-high wall protecting the moat, that I now saw ran right round the castle.

  “This is the Rocca Scagliera,” Alex said, behind my shoulder. “In the thirteenth century, Lake Garda was under the rule of Verona and the della Scala family. They built fortresses, or rocche, all round the lake, to defend it.”

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know. Anyone who wanted to invade, I suppose.”

  The only invaders that I could see now were a motley assortment of ducks paddling round in the moat, above the darker, darting forms of giant carp-like fish who rose now and then to the clear water’s surface to battle the ducks for a breadcrumb tossed down by a tourist. Still, the castle could, I thought, have held its own against all comers. Baked a blinding yellow-white beneath the late morning sun, it loomed solid and sure overhead, dwarfing everything close to it, even the towering palms in the square.

  Alex looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough time before my meeting to take you through the Rocca Scagliera, but perhaps after lunch?”

  I agreed, settling in the meantime for a quick stroll round the shops. Letting him lead me away from the castle, I followed the flow of people into the tight narrow streets of the town.

  This part of Sirmione reminded me of Venice’s commercial promenade—both seemed in some ways artificial, made for show. Oh, the setting might be real enough, the town’s antiquity quite evident, but in spite of its castle and its cobbled streets and all the olde-world atmosphere, Sirmione was very much part of the present. It shouldn’t have been, but it was. It was too slick, too fast-moving, too full of tourists; and well-heeled tourists at that, if the number of people emerging from shop doors with carrier bags was anything to go by.

  The holiday weekend had brought out the foreigners, mostly Germans from what I could catch of their conversation, travelling in pairs, or pairs of pairs, cheerfully intent on enjoying themselves in spite of the still-cool weather. Laughing often and loudly, they passed us in a mix of ages—older couples, quartets in their thirties, and one couple who didn’t look old enough to be out on their own, a true Romeo and Juliet, their wedding bands still shining new on their clasped hands. There were Italians, too, in family groupings, with babies in pushchairs and toddlers who pulled on their mothers’ arms; and I heard French spoken now and then, but not English.

  Only once, and that was by Americans—a middle-aged woman buying a cuddly toy dog the size of a real-life Alsatian for her daughter, a girl of about Poppy’s age. Which made me think maybe I ought to buy Poppy a trinket or something, a small souvenir. She was ill, after all, and could do with some cheering up.

  I chose a little necklace of delicate seashells, and Alex stood beside me while the shopkeeper wrapped up my parcel in bright coloured tissue-paper, tying it with ribbon.

  “And this is for Poppy?” he asked, in a curious tone.

  “Yes. It always makes you feel better, getting gifts when you’re ill, don’t you find?”

  “I wouldn’t know. No one ever gave me gifts when I was ill.”

  “Oh,” I said. Rupert and Bryan had brought me things all the time—chocolates and story-books, puzzles and games. When I’d had the chicken-pox, Bryan had bought me a book every night on his way home from work, and we’d read it together at bed-time. “Well, take it from me, it does make you feel better. And anyway, it’s not expensive jewellery, or anything. If she doesn’t like it, she can always throw it in the bin.” Picking up the parcel, I turned to face him. “I haven’t made you late for your appointment, I hope?”

  He cast a glance down at his watch. “No, I have a minute left. Come, let me show you the road to take to the Grotto of Catullus.” Outside, he pointed me in the right direction. “You can’t miss it, really. You just go up there, up the via Catullo. The gate to the grotto is right at the end.”

  I nodded. “If you’ll give me a time and a place where you’d like me to meet you . . .”

  “I’ll find you,” he assured me. He likely only meant he knew the grotto well, and so would have no problem finding someone in it, but the certainty with which he made the
statement made me feel a little fluttery inside. I watched him walk off through the jostle of tourists. His fair head blended easily with those of the Germans, and yet I had no trouble at all in singling it out, as though it were already so familiar that my mind retained its imprint.

  My stomach grumbled. It had actually been making noises for the past hour or so, but now the rumblings grew insistent, to the point where I was sure they would be audible above the chatterings of passersby. Temporarily postponing my visit to the ruined Roman grotto, I began a search for food, a search that led me to an open square that fronted on the lake, ringed round with restaurants and cafés and tables set out on the pavement.

  I didn’t even bother to compare the menus—I simply took a seat at the first outdoor table I found and waited for service. It was still a little early for a proper lunch, but a small sandwich and a cold drink filled the void. I would have enjoyed the food more if it hadn’t been for the man sitting two tables over, a suave-looking man in a bright red shirt, who seemed always to be staring at me when I raised my head. His stare was rather more appraising than malevolent, and he might have been the sort of man who looked at all women that way, but I found it uncomfortable.

  I purposely waited until he had gone before I paid my bill and headed out again in the direction that Alex had shown me.

  Not that I really needed direction—I simply had to follow along in the wake of the crowd and I found myself swept from the narrow claustrophobic streets of the old town and into the via Catullo, surrounded by others making the same gradual ascent up the wider, tree-lined road, as though I’d somehow joined a pilgrimage in progress.