He galloped off, back across the field to the river. She followed him. He was a good rider, she saw, in tune with his horse.
They split up and rode in two directions along the riverfront. It was rocky and muddy, and she had to slow down, make sure her horse was looking where she put her feet.
She was circling a thicket of rushes when she heard a yell. She turned and saw Carlo. His horse was halfway out in the river, water up to the stirrups, and struggling on the rocks. Carlo had a rope around the weanling, who was swimming, but the colt’s weight on the rope was throwing Carlo’s gelding off balance. Disregarding the footing, she dug her heels into the mare and galloped as close as she could get. Carlo’s horse was in danger of being pulled over. The weanling was already bobbing.
“Get out of there!”
She saw he wouldn’t. You’re going to drown for a horse, she thought.
“Drop the rope,” she called. “I’ll get the colt.”
Carlo’s horse staggered, not finding footing in the slippery rocks under water, and he let go of the rope as his horse dropped down underneath him.
Scottie watched them disappear into the roiling water.
She raced downstream, below the rapids, found a sandy spot and rode the mare as far out into the water as she could safely go. The colt appeared first, still dragging the rope. Seeing her horse, it swam toward her, wide-eyed.
She saw Carlo and his horse appear, swimming. Good. Carlo was holding the horse’s tail, and they were heading for shore. When she looked back at the colt, it had stopped and was splashing, exhausted, in the middle of the river. She realized the rope had caught in some brush.
She had to get the rope off its head or it would drown. She rode out as far as her mare would go. The mare stopped, threw her head.
“I know,” said Scottie to the mare. They were so close. She turned sideways in the saddle, pulled off her boots, tossed them to shore, jumped off the mare and swam.
Raised with the ugly currents of the Pacific Ocean and California’s turbulent spring runoff, she knew the danger in what she was doing, and swam hard. She calculated the current right and landed against the stuck colt, barely avoiding its thrashing hoofs. She grabbed the half-submerged tree the rope was stuck on and slipped the rope over the colt’s head.
“Swim!” she said. Its eyes were dull, and for a moment it did nothing but start to float away. Then instinct won out, and the colt swam to shore.
Carlo was now out of the river.
She was clinging to the half-submerged tree in the middle of the river, exhausted and getting colder by the minute. This was the danger. You lost your nerve, and fatigue set in.
“Rope!” he yelled, and threw it at her. She grabbed it, and he towed her to shore. They collapsed on the shore, exhausted, the horses standing nearby, all catching their breath.
“Scottie,” he said. “My darling.”
* * *
Ecco was leaping up and down and barking hysterically when they opened the front door to the villa, his pent-up energy a sharp contrast to their exhaustion. She thought he looked disapproving of her wet, muddy clothes. The horses were safely put away, and the rain was lessening. The sun had the temerity to peek through the clouds, as if it were innocently asking, “Did anything happen while I was gone?”
Carlo put water on to boil and handed her dry clothes. Men’s pants. A shirt. She saw his monogram on the cuff.
Gordon had failed to deliver the message last night that Carlo had had to take Franca home. He had asked Gordon to arrange a ride for Scottie. Carlo was mortified, begging Scottie’s pardon, asking how she made her way home.
“My husband came for me.”
All we have in this life are the things we are true to, she thought.
“I had to help Franca. I will always love her.” He was really saying something else, though, she knew, and it scared her. She wanted to run out the door. She went and sat on the other side of the kitchen table, a mass of books and papers safely between them.
“I love my husband, too.”
He also sat down at the table, shifting so that a large ceramic candelabra didn’t block his view of her. “We are both lucky, then. To have a great love, no matter the difficulties, no matter the heartbreak that comes, this is life’s finest gift.”
She couldn’t think of a single American man who would have said that, or even agreed. Yes, she knew men who adored their wives, but their first loves were always their careers. “My husband is very hardworking.”
“With the tractors.”
“Yes. I’m very proud of him.” Outside the French doors, a cat meowed to get in. Ecco stood on alert, nose to nose, the glass between them, but the cat did not back away.
“This is modern life,” said Carlo. “Trying to make the world a better place. Progress.”
She nodded.
“Sometimes I dream that Franca finds the right herb that will erase her memory and that she is healed, that she comes back to me happy as she once was. I dream that we grow old together, side by side.”
Sunlight streamed through the windows. She smiled and sipped her tea.
“I need to ask you about Tenente Pisano.”
“Piccione? That’s what we called him at school. His fondest wish is to see Umberto back on the throne as king of Italy. What about him?”
“He owns a horse that disappeared from the stable just after Robertino did. Apparently they fought about the way Pisano treated the horse. I can’t help but worry that he’s not the man to be looking for Robertino. He may be the reason the boy’s on the run.”
Carlo frowned and squeezed more lemon into his tea. A clock ticked in the next room. “If Piccione has a sin it’s pride. That’s how he got his nickname, Pigeon—from having a puffed-up chest. He had a thing with that horse. I saw him ride her. He came by here once and made an excuse about not getting off to say hello. I knew it was because he was fairly sure he’d never get her to stand still to mount again. I reached up to straighten his saddle pad where it was slipping, and—bam!” Carlo’s fist shot out. “She whirled around and tried to kick me. Bestiaccia di merda.”
“It was a warning,” Scottie said. “If she had intended to hit you, you’d be dead.”
He shook his head, reliving the memory. “I don’t like dangerous horses. Here we have a job to do. No time for trouble. Life sends us enough of that already.”
For a moment a lump rose in her throat and she couldn’t speak. “Yes,” she said at last. “Pisano must have known, before he bought her. Why did he?”
“I told you, she was beautiful. He thought he could save her.”
“Save her?”
“Anyone else had bought that horse, she’d be dead in a week.”
Hmm. She tried not to soften her view of Pisano. “But he gave up on the mare? I heard he called the butcher.”
“She wore out his patience, I guess. I wasn’t there when he fell off in the show. I heard she sent him headfirst into the water jump.”
“Sounds like his pride got the better of his compassion.”
Carlo frowned. “I’d like to know the whole story.”
“Why don’t you ask him? He’s a friend, isn’t he?”
He smiled a sad smile. “I don’t have friends in Siena.”
“Why?” She was prying, but she wanted to know.
“I was in the cavalry, as I told you. My father was a high-ranking Fascist. That put me on the wrong side of history.”
“But you were just doing your duty.”
“Yes. But just by wearing that uniform, I was a part of something … very ugly.”
It hit her suddenly, what it would mean to be with a man like Carlo. He would never lie to her. Would she lie to him? She had always lied: to her father about riding without a helmet, about how high the jumps she jumped were; to Leona about her parents, her class, about why she was marrying Michael; to Michael about nearly everything. She couldn’t tell whether it would be a relief to finally tell someone the truth, or a loss of
power. Her secrets were woven into the fabric of her being, protection against an unfriendly, unjust world. Maybe she and Michael were meant to be together.
“I think you should try again with Franca,” she said. “I think…” She looked outside. It was once again a beautiful afternoon. “I think you should try.”
“Thank you,” he said. “For the horses. That colt would be dead without you, and maybe me, too.”
“Sometimes it’s better to let go of the rope,” she said, then, remembering that he had in turn saved her, “And sometimes it’s better to grab it.”
She didn’t kiss him good-bye, or even shake his hand, because she was afraid that if she did, she would never leave.
PART THREE
TERZO DI SAN MARTINO
The State Department has discharged 126 homosexuals since Jan. 1, 1951, and is determined to remove any others from the department … “There is no doubt in our minds that homosexuals are security risks,” and “we have resolved that we are going to clean them up.”
—“126 Perverts Discharged,” The New York Times, March 26, 1952, quoting Carlisle H. Humelsine, Deputy Under Secretary of State for Administration, U.S. Department of State
THIRTEEN
IL LEOCORNO, THE UNICORN
“IT SMITES AND HEALS, THE HORN I WEAR ON MY FOREHEAD.”
1.
“Congratulations. You’ve been hired,” Michael told her as she came through the front door of their apartment in rolled-up men’s pants and an ex-Fascist’s dress shirt.
“Hired?” She was holding her wet, muddy clothes, poised to give a nervous explanation, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Are you okay?” she asked. “I thought you were going to stay over in Rome.”
He pointed at the light fixture overhead. He was always worried about bugs. “I’ll explain it to you over dinner,” he said. “I’m taking you out.”
She nodded and went into the bedroom. Put her dirty clothes in the hamper. Picked something nice to wear—the white dress with the strawberries, she decided. She ran a few inches of water in the bath. There didn’t seem to be any hot water, but she sat in it anyway, shivering and scrubbing.
No more secrets.
She got as much mud out of her hair as she could and put it under a pretty hat, shaped like a turban with a little velvet bird on top. She put on dangling earrings that gave her a slightly gypsy look, and sprayed herself with Chanel No. 5.
Over branzino with lemon and capers at Papei, Michael explained that the Agency (he said “Ford,” but she knew what he meant) had authorized him to hire her. “It’s called a contract wife position,” he said. “It’s just secretarial,” he added. “Paperwork.”
She leaned in close. “What do we know about Tenente Pisano?” she asked quietly.
Michael frowned. “Why?”
She told him that Robertino’s disappearance might be connected to the disappearance of Pisano’s horse Camelia.
Michael nodded. “I think it’s best if we steer clear of Pisano, unfortunately,” he said. “If I promise you I’ll do what I can, will you please let me handle it?”
She nodded.
“I really need you in the office,” he said. “I’m away a lot, and there’s no one there to answer the phone. You’re the only one I trust. Which reminds me, I’ll need to administer the loyalty oath.”
“Michael,” she said, then paused to steady her voice.
“What is it?”
“When I married you, I let you … assume things. Things that weren’t true. I’m not from a highbrow family. I’m not rich.”
“I don’t mind those things. I’m not either. You knew that and you still married me. I love you for that.”
“That’s just it. I—”
“What is it, darling?”
“Darling” made it worse.
“I—I got too close to Carlo. I—” She stopped.
He frowned, then put his hand over hers. “Whatever happened, it’s because I left you alone too much. I should have defied orders, told you right from the start what I was doing here. It’s my fault you were lonely.”
Could he really be understanding her and forgiving her so quickly? “I—I just feel terrible. I—”
“Shhh. Don’t say anything more. We’re here, we’re together. Whatever happened before this doesn’t matter, does it?”
He leaned across the table to kiss her. He was ready to forgive her and move on. Her marriage could begin again, fresh and new. It could be the marriage she had hoped for, longed for. It was … incredible.
She put her hands up. “Wait.”
He stared at her.
She put her face in her hands for a second, then gathered her courage. If they were to have a real marriage, he had to know everything.
2.
MARCH 1956, VASSAR COLLEGE
Winds as penetrating as any x-ray whipped through Poughkeepsie. Scottie was summoned to a meeting with her religion professor. The creaking skeletal trees she passed as she crossed the campus seemed to be screaming in agony.
She made her way to the lower level of the fantastically Gothic Thompson Library, a cathedral-like vision of battlements, pinnacles, stained glass and buttresses, its lower levels a warren of shelves shrouded in cold and darkness. You had to start a timer to turn on the lights, and it was dim even when they were on. The librarian said it had something to do with preserving the oldest volumes, which were stored down here. Some girls brought flashlights with them when they had to hunt down books on this level, Nancy Drews in Shetland sweaters, plaid Bermuda shorts and wool kneesocks. It was also where her professor had his office, which turned out to be more of a carrel. She had put on a houndstooth skirt, shiny black loafers and a cashmere twinset, trying to look like an A student instead of a barely C. All the girls had crushes on Professor Redd, including Scottie. He was married to a former Vassar girl, and had two little boys his wife would sometimes bring to campus to show off in their little plaid coats with velvet collars.
“I wish they’d give me a real office,” he apologized. He had wavy, thick salt-and-pepper hair, a short beard that was going gray and gray eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. A tweed jacket with suede elbow patches and a pipe. “I guess this is better than a snowbank, right?”
She smiled, but she was anxious. It had been hard to get through the readings for the course, “The Genesis of Genesis: How the Old Testament Evolved.” Religion was a requirement, and she needed to pass this class to graduate.
“I know I’m not one of the best students,” she told her professor. “But I do love the subject, and I’m already working on my final paper for the class. It’s on Noah, about God’s decision to save the animals but not the people.”
“That’s wonderful,” he said. “I thought if we went over your midterm together, it might be helpful.” He patted the chair next to his.
“Yes,” she said eagerly. “I could really use some extra help. All those ‘begats’—I will admit, I got a little lost.”
“Happens to the best of us. Now here, where you talk about Bathsheba—”
She leaned forward, and their heads came close as he read her answer aloud. She felt a tingle of energy in the air, and then felt his hand on her back.
“Yes, I uh, see what you’re saying,” she said. His hand was warm through her soft sweater.
“Do you know the Song of Songs?” He moved his head one inch closer to hers, and she could smell pipe tobacco and tweed damp from snowflakes. “It’s one of the most beautiful passages in the Old Testament. Behold, you are comely, my beloved; behold, you are comely; your eyes are like doves. Isn’t that some really lovely writing?” She nodded. His hand was moving in circles on her back. In a friendly way? Or more? She wasn’t sure whether to run out of the room or not. She didn’t want to misunderstand and seem dim, or silly.
“I really appreciate your help,” she said. “I can probably figure it out now.”
“Let me just read you a little more. It’s so wonderful and sensuous. Not what
most people think of as ‘the Bible’ at all. I wrote my PhD thesis on this. It’s my own translation. Feed me with flagons of wine, spread my bed with red ripe apples, for I am lovesick. His left hand strayed beneath my head, and his right hand encircled me. I warn you, O daughters of Jersusalem, by the gazelles or the deer of the meadow, that you neither awaken nor arouse the love unless you return it.”
He leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “You smell so good,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. I can’t help myself.”
His beard tickled her. He did smell good. Underneath her fear, she could feel a desire growing in her. He likes me, she thought.
“You’re so unbelievably beautiful.” He kissed her ear. His hand had strayed to her thigh, was rubbing the tweed of her skirt between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve been watching you in class all semester. I can’t take my eyes off you.” He now had one hand around her back, and was rubbing his way toward her left breast, while his right hand was working its way under her skirt. Nor arouse the love unless you return it.
She wanted to run, but also, she didn’t. It seemed disrespectful somehow.
“I—should probably go,” she said.
“You don’t like me?”
“No, no, I do.”
“I like you so much,” he said. “I wish you liked me, too.”
“I do.”
“Please just kiss me once,” he said. “One kiss and I’ll let you go.”
It seemed rude not to give him one kiss.
She stood up, surrounded by shelves of books, and went to peck his cheek, but he put his arms around her, leaned in and kissed her long and hard on the mouth, shoving his tongue in. His hands went under her sweater and up her belly, then were on her behind, pulling her close. She felt something give way inside her, and suddenly he was pressing her up against Botany A–G, his hand finding its way under her skirt and then under her underpants and she was ashamed because it was wet there. He stopped kissing her for a second. “That’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever felt,” he said. “That makes a man feel like a man.”
He kissed her again, and pressed his erection against her. She knew she was supposed to run away, to stop, but she had been told it was wrong to make a man feel this way and then deny him. It was her fault. She hadn’t meant this to happen, was confused, but her body wasn’t. She let him undo her bra and rub her breasts. If he were a boy, and this were a date, she would stop him there, but it seemed bad manners to run out on her professor, and what would she say when she saw him next? What grade would she get? She heard footsteps in the stairwell, and they froze. Part of her wanted to cry out, but another part liked the hiding, the secrecy. He likes me. Then the footsteps continued down to the next level. He turned her around and held her from behind, kissing her neck.
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