“He didn’t even ask us why we were here,” said Scottie. “And how did he know I was an American?”
Carlo shrugged. They followed Gordon into the garden, their feet crunching on the gravel. Ecco, on his leash, lunged ahead of Scottie.
The man was so … theatrical. She didn’t know what to make of him.
“Just a few friends,” Gordon said as they caught up to him, waving to a scattered group of forty or fifty people spread out around a pool and gardens.
Scottie heard a quick “Carlo! Amore mio!” and saw Franca coming toward them. Oh God, she thought. How can I face her? Franca was in a long pale green gown. Her red hair was undone, and wild. She swayed a little, drunk, and stared hard at Scottie in a way that chilled her, then put her arm through Carlo’s. “I must speak with you,” she said to him. “You don’t mind?” she said to Scottie in English, her eyes dark and fiery. She seemed agitated.
“Of course not,” said Scottie, backing away. It was all, all, all wrong.
As Scottie watched them go into the villa, Gordon took her hand and stared into her eyes. “Gorgeous,” he went on. “Just stunning. My God, you’re a Neroccio in the flesh.”
“A what?”
“Neroccio di Bartolomeo de’ Landi,” said Lord Sebastian. “You must go straight to the Pinacoteca in Siena and see the Madonna and Child Between St. Jerome and St. Bernard. It will be like looking in a mirror, my dear. Now make yourself at home.”
“Wait,” said Scottie before he could disappear like the Cheshire Cat again. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I understand you know the boy who’s been teaching me Italian, Robertino Banchi.”
“Very upsetting,” he said smoothly. “I was in England and have just returned to hear how he’s simply disappeared into thin air. This country is sinking into anarchy. I’m afraid it’s up to us to find him. The police are hopeless.”
“Yes,” she said, surprised. “I completely agree.” It was such a relief to meet someone who didn’t tell her to back off or not to worry, even though this man was downright odd.
“Must mingle,” he said. “Let’s talk more later, shall we?”
12.
Michael debated with himself as he headed back to the office. He definitely didn’t want Scottie embroiling Ambassador Luce’s friends in this mess. It was unnerving to think Gordon knew the boy. But that was Italy. Everyone knew each other.
And then, out of the blue, Gordon himself called, introducing himself as a friend of Luce’s. Michael was unnerved by the coincidence—in the Agency, they taught you there are no coincidences. The phone cord stretched as he reached for his box of Benzedrine.
To Michael’s surprise, Gordon invited him to the villa for a party. “Lots of people you should meet,” he said casually. “All the expats worth knowing. A very pretty girl I think you’ll like.” A good spy would go, Michael thought, though Gordon’s unctuous tone gave him the creeps. He half wondered if the Brit had Robertino tied up with heavy velvet rope in some upstairs bedroom, drugged with opium perhaps, a party game gone wrong. These decadent Brits, he wouldn’t put anything past them. At least the Americans saw other nations as potential markets to exploit. The Brits saw them as animals.
13.
Carlo had completely disappeared with Franca. Scottie felt stung and unreasonably angry. God, it was all so fraught, so tangled with the past. Italy was not carefree and sexy like they made it seem in Roman Holiday. It was dense and mysterious and dangerous and confusing. Scottie had dived into an azure sea on a sunny day, only to find her feet caught in a centuries-old fishing net that was pulling her down into cold, dark depths.
Cicadas hummed. She felt self-conscious at the sight of people talking and laughing in small groups around a long pool with floating candles in it. Even though the sun was down, the heat was still stifling, yet everyone looked crisp and cool and stylish. She was dripping with sweat. How did they do it, she wondered. There was some trick she had never learned. People turned to look at her as she wandered through the crowd with Ecco, but no one introduced themselves. She could hear English, and Spanish, and French.
A very handsome liveried waiter with huge dark eyes and curly black hair handed her a martini. Scottie took one sip and felt faint.
“Let’s walk around a little,” she said to Ecco.
What had once been formal gardens were overgrown. Stones were falling out of the walls, and large clusters of caper plants had filled the gaps. At the far end of the garden was an entrance to what looked like a cave. A grotto, she remembered they were called.
She rounded another corner and came upon a huge bronze fountain of a leering man. Neptune, she decided, from the ocean motif. Neptune was large and vulgar, covered with moss and waving his trident over carved little boys with fishtails who were spitting water. But the worst of it was a mermaid, sitting, her back against Neptune’s leg, gazing down at herself as she cupped each breast in a firm hand, water spouting from the nipples. The statue was leaning back—her fishtail was split in two, and she sat astride a dolphin, a clamshell covering her private parts.
“Gives new meaning to the word ‘brazen.’” She turned, and there was Gordon again, now followed by a waiter carrying a tray with glasses of Campari and soda. Gordon nodded at the mermaid. “The Medicis were a very naughty bunch. They shared the favors of poor little Simonetta Vespucci, then rewarded her by having her body paraded through the streets of Florence after her death, with a proclamation that read ‘Beauty is dead.’ And of course she was the model for Botticelli’s Venus. I do prefer a natural beauty,” he said, examining her much more closely than she would have liked. “It shows real confidence to face the world as you are, doesn’t it?” Scottie could hardly absorb this before he was taking her by the arm. “I must introduce you to everyone.”
“Robertino—”
“Yes, utterly delightful young lad. Though hard to get him to sit still. My painting of him as Hermes is rather a blur.”
“You said you were away, but you do know he’s been missing for a week now? I’m very worried. His mother is dead.”
“Worrisome indeed. I talked to the police myself this morning about the boy. They seemed to have no clue where he’s gone. I dearly hope his disappearance is not connected to his mother’s death. Her lifestyle was both risqué and risky, after all. And then there’s all this business about the horse.”
“What horse? From the contrada? Ondina?”
“No. Someone at the stable where he worked was mistreating a horse.”
“Camelia?”
“I don’t know the horse’s name. Robertino didn’t like it, and told the man off. The chap didn’t take it very well, and continued to beat the horse, and now the horse has disappeared.”
“Before or after Robertino did?”
“Same time, I think.”
“But that’s wonderful!” said Scottie, Ecco pricking his ears and wagging his tail at her change in tone. “He’s not kidnapped or dead, he’s run off with the horse!” She could see him in her mind, galloping across the countryside.
“I thought so, too. But if he’s stolen the horse, he could go to jail. He might be wiser to stay hidden, or go somewhere else and start over.”
“He wouldn’t leave his grandfather,” said Scottie. “And it’s awfully strange that he’d miss the Palio. You’d think he’d have stashed the horse and reappeared, acting innocent. That’s what I’d do.”
Gordon smiled at her. “Yes. Well, he’s a resourceful young fellow, and I’m hoping for the best.”
“Have you seen Carlo Chigi Piccolomini?” she asked Gordon. “He’s my ride and I’ve lost track of him.” She didn’t mention Franca, couldn’t say her name out loud.
Instead of answering, Gordon waved over a woman. “Julie, darling, come meet a fellow American.”
The elegantly dressed woman came closer. “Oh yes,” she said. “I remember you. You’re Michael Messina’s wife.”
The night before the Palio. “Of course,” said Scottie. “
I’m sorry. You’re married to a friend of Michael’s from Yale, right?”
“Yale. Hmmm.” said Julie. “We do have a lot in common, don’t we? Good-bye, Sebastian.”
Scottie heard Gordon chuckle as he moved off.
“You came with Carlo Chigi Piccolomini,” said Julie.
“He’s our landlord,” said Scottie.
“Quite the dark history there.” Julie gave her a knowing smile as Gordon melted into the boxwood labyrinth.
“You mean about their son? Yes. So sad.” Scottie was cautious.
“I don’t know about you,” Julie said, “but I’ve been shopping in Florence all day and I’m exhausted.” She waved to a waiter and directed him to move a couple of chairs together. “I need a drink with ice, and I bet you do, too. Due, per favore,” she barked at the waiter. “Con ghiaccio.”
“Ice, really? I haven’t seen any since leaving New York,” Scottie sighed, sinking down into the flamingo pink chair. “Are you visiting Italy? Your Italian is good.”
“My husband and I live in Rome. We met Sebastian there. He’s such a sweetie. I love those old queers, don’t you?”
Scottie was a little shocked at this, but now that she thought about it, it made sense that Gordon was a homosexual. That would explain the theatrical behavior. She suspected her riding coach Mr. Perry was a homosexual, though she had never said that to anyone. Mostly it was based on the fact that unlike the other men she had met, he was not predatory, and his interest in her felt nonsexual. Occasionally at Vassar the girls described certain men as “light in the loafers” or “fairies,” and some of the female professors were, yes, rather exceptionally close friends, but despite her perspicuity about animals, Scottie was oddly uncurious about her fellow humans’ private lives, and she disliked idle gossip of the sort this woman Julie clearly traded in. Still, it was nice to talk to an American.
“Gordon has blocks of ice delivered from Florence,” Julie said, nimbly lighting a cigarette and offering Scottie one, which she declined. “I think a poor little donkey carries it the whole way.”
“Is your husband here, too?”
“No,” Julie laughed. “Though he’d fit right in. He’s always working. Michael, too, I bet?”
“Yes.”
“We learn to get by on our own, don’t we? And to make friends.” She gave the word a special emphasis that Scottie ignored.
“Yes.”
Julie petted Ecco. “You’re smart to have a dog. He’s adorable. You should let him go. I’m sure he won’t run off.”
Scottie unleashed Ecco, who promptly dived into the pool, climbed out again, and shook himself, making two women standing near the steps screech.
“Oh goodness,” said Scottie, cringing and sinking down in her chair, though really she enjoyed shaking things up a little, and seeing Ecco have fun. She hoped this wasn’t the moment when Carlo reappeared, or Franca.
Julie laughed. “Being good gets you nowhere in Italy, and he knows it. In this culture they value furbizia.”
“Furbo, like ‘sly’?”
“Very good. You’ve seen this already, I’m sure, or you will soon. Italians are always looking for the shortcut, and they admire the one who finds it, not the one who follows ‘proper channels.’”
“Probably because things were so hard during the war.”
“Maybe, but I think it goes back further than that. Don’t you think it’s their character?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I like Italians.” The way she said it, she was saying more than that. “Italy has been ruled by so many people: the German tribes, the Bourbons, Napoleon, the Austrians, even before Il Duce and his pal Adolf came along. Someone is always trying to tell them what to do, so they find ways to smile and smile but also to do exactly as they please. And now they’re the unofficial western front of the Cold War, a chessboard for two empires. Look,” she said, pointing to where the dog was being petted and hand-fed shrimp by the same women he had just splashed. “All is forgiven.”
“You know a lot about Italy.”
“I have a lot of time on my hands.”
Scottie nodded. “Me, too. Does your husband also work for Ford?”
Julie smiled. “He’s at the State Department.”
“Oh. How exciting. So he works with Ambassador Luce?”
“Yes. Clare’s quite an interesting woman.”
“I wish Michael would take me to Rome with him sometimes. He’s always there and I’m stuck here. I like Siena, but … Rome.”
“You really must press him harder on that. He and Duncan are such pals. They’re always out together.”
Scottie was surprised to hear this. Michael always said his trips to Rome were all business.
“I should probably look for Carlo. And Franca,” she said.
“I hear he’s such a nice man, for a Fascist.”
Scottie paused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, people don’t like to talk about the war, but given his age and position you must have figured out that Carlo was in the army, of course.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t hold that against him.”
“No, of course not. And what’s done is done.”
There were things Julie was not saying, and Scottie felt irritated with her. “Do you miss home?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Desperately,” said Julie. “I can’t wait to get pregnant again so I have an excuse to abandon Duncan and go home for a long stretch.”
“You have children?”
“Yes. Two. And you—” Julie looked at her appraisingly. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not thinking of delivering here, I hope?”
“Children are born here every day.”
“Yes, but it’s such a good excuse to get away.”
“I don’t think I want to get away. I like it here. And Michael would miss me.”
Julie looked at her, took a drag on her cigarette and put it out. “Yes, of course,” she said.
“And there’s a boy, a friend of mine who’s gone missing. I’m looking for him.”
Julie raised her eyebrows and said nothing. Her makeup was done like Scottie’s, in the latest style. Seeing it on another face, Scottie saw how hard and cruel it made her look, the black-edged eyes, the blood red lips. She looked around at the partygoers.
“You’re watching everyone,” said Julie at last.
Scottie laughed. “A bad habit.” She had learned to evaluate people at age fourteen as an outsider from the West arriving at boarding school. Tonight she was watching for Carlo, of course, but also making a list in her head, assessing the party guests the way she did a paddock full of horses at an auction, imagining Robertino in their midst. Most people couldn’t see more than the color of a horse, and barely noticed what sex it was. She had known a polo player who referred to his “gelding” for six months before Scottie pointed out it was a mare. Scottie could tell from the flick of an ear, the twitch of a shoulder muscle, the slant of a haunch exactly what a horse was thinking, and what it was capable of. Humans weren’t all that different when you bothered to look closely. She pointed out for Julie the two screeching women, Americans, mid-twenties, insecure, standing up to show off their figures. “Actresses, don’t you think?” Julie laughed and agreed. Three men smoking in the corner.
“Furtive,” said Julie.
“Businessmen.”
They spotted a couple of teens with greased-up hair, looking for sex. An older overweight couple in expensive clothing: Scottie described the woman as an “alpha mare,” while Julie said her submissive husband was perhaps a poet. A small flock of blank-eyed, gazelle-like women: models, definitely models. A man in dark glasses smoking a cigar. Sex again, they both declared. A Frenchwoman and her younger escort, talking loudly. Artists.
They were giggling together like schoolgirls.
“I’ve missed this,” Scottie said. “Having a girlfriend to talk to.”
“Me, too,” said Julie.
Scottie reached for another Campari from a passing tray and held the glass to her cheek. I can’t lose focus, she thought.
She kicked off her shoes and rolled down her stockings. She sat on the edge of the pool and put her feet in the green water. No one seemed to care. Everyone was talking a little louder, leaning a little closer, smoking a little faster. Scottie saw the Frenchwoman head toward the grotto. A cloud of cigarette smoke formed coils over the pool.
She felt a movement inside her belly. It startled her until she realized what it was.
“My baby just moved,” she said in wonder.
Julie slid down next to her, put her hand on Scottie’s belly. “A kicker,” she said. “Fasten your seat belt.”
A large orange carp surfaced and nibbled at Scottie’s painted pink toes.
In that moment, she decided that whatever this was with Carlo, it should end before it went any further. The appearance of Franca, no matter how malevolent she acted toward Scottie, was a blessing. And Julie—an American breath of fresh air, of good sense, a reminder of who she was. What Scottie wanted wasn’t an affair with Carlo, it was a happy marriage to Michael. She wanted Michael to love her. She wanted them to be a family, to love each other and raise the child together. Things had gone terribly astray, but she could put them right again.
“Come with me,” Julie said, getting to her feet. “This might shock you. But I think you should see it anyway.”
“I’m pretty unshockable,” she said.
“That’s what I thought. But I didn’t have me there for moral support.”
The Italian Party Page 20
