The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘I was setting things up, that is all.’

  ‘And?’ He caught hold of her before she could slip away.

  ‘And I’ll tell you later.’ She looked meaningfully at the arm restraining her. Because no one was going to stop her carrying this through. She had enough money in their joint account to pay the young man – at least for his initial sketches. And after that – allora, who knew . . .

  CHAPTER 24

  Chiara

  Chiara looked up as her granddaughter burst into the office.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Nonna . . .’ She seemed flustered.

  ‘What is it, Bella?’ She thought immediately of their guest, this Ferdinand Bauer who seemed to be having such an effect on Isabella. Had he upset her? Perhaps Chiara should have done more, said more to warn her, but . . .

  Isabella looked behind her and pulled the door to. ‘There’s a woman in reception.’ She shook her head as if she was unable to convey more in words.

  ‘A woman?’ Chiara’s thoughts did a rapid turnaround.

  ‘She is asking for Nonno.’

  ‘Do we know her?’

  ‘Madonna – no.’

  Chiara put down her pen. ‘What sort of a woman?’ she asked. It might be a strange question, but from the way Isabella was acting, she was already getting a bad feeling about this.

  Isabella shrugged. ‘She is wearing very bright orange lipstick,’ she said.

  Chiara raised an eyebrow. That was hardly unusual.

  ‘Tatty clothes, greasy hair, down-at-heel. Let’s say she doesn’t look like any of our guests, Nonna.’

  ‘I see.’ She was getting the gist. And yet this woman knew Alonzo? She hoped to God it wasn’t some woman of his from Pisa or who knows where. Their marriage might have lost its intimacy, and God knows she had forfeited any right for him to be loyal to her, but that didn’t mean she wanted the evidence thrust in her face.

  Isabella hesitated. ‘Shall I bring her in here?’ She seemed worried. ‘I could stay around in case you need me.’ She bent closer towards Chiara. ‘She’s very loud, Nonna,’ she warned.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bella. I’ll deal with this.’ Chiara got to her feet. She had expected to feel so different after Dante’s departure from her life, after that talk with Alonzo about how their marriage would be from now on, after her decision to separate herself from her husband even though it would not be apparent to the world outside that anything had changed. But she didn’t feel very different at all. Things with Alonzo were much as before – a cold body in bed was not so different to no body in bed – Elene had kept Chiara’s secret, but seemed almost as distant as ever, and Dante . . . Allora. At least she knew that there was a little more truth in her life.

  Chiara opened the door, took a deep breath to muster all the dignity she possessed, and swept out into the lobby.

  The woman standing by the desk did indeed not look like any of their usual guests. She couldn’t have been more out of place if she’d tried. She was dressed in a short black skirt and a pink blouse slightly stained under the armpits, and was wearing high-heeled gold sandals that unfortunately emphasised the skinny muscularity of her legs. Her dark hair was drawn back from her thin face, and she wore not only the orange lipstick Isabella had mentioned, but also thick and poorly-applied black eyeliner and an awful lot of bright coral blusher. She was gazing around her at the wide looping staircase, the pale walls and shadowy niches as if The Lemon Tree Hotel was another world.

  Chiara didn’t waste any time. ‘Buon giorno, Signora. You are looking for my husband Alonzo, I understand?’ She kept her voice brisk and efficient, but polite. Over the years there had been many problems to deal with – both personal and concerning the hotel. Chiara had found that it was best to remain as cool and unemotional as possible. Practical issues could always be solved with thought, money, and time; everything else she had little energy for. ‘He’s not here at the moment. Perhaps I can help, Signora . . .?’ She made it into a question – it was always better to know who you were dealing with.

  ‘Conti.’ The woman looked Chiara up and down.

  What was she thinking? And could her husband really be involved with a woman like this? Chiara realised that she simply had no idea. She didn’t know her husband at all.

  ‘And you are?’ She might look out of place here, but the woman didn’t seem fazed in the least. Chiara felt a grudging respect for her.

  ‘Chiara Mazzone – co-owner and general manager of this hotel.’ Chiara stood straight and tall. This woman was a few years younger than her perhaps – in her mid-fifties, Chiara would guess, but she was too old for the clothes and make-up she was wearing. It was not just a question of money, surely, it was a question of style.

  ‘His wife, eh?’ The woman laughed – it was not a pleasant sound.

  ‘Yes.’ The bad feeling was getting stronger. Chiara was unwilling to stand in reception with this woman any longer. There were guests around, and she might make a scene. Allora. It was time to deal with whatever she had come for. ‘Perhaps we could go into the office to discuss this matter?’ she suggested. ‘Or the bar?’ Why was she here? Did she want money, or revenge – or both perhaps?

  The woman smoothed the fabric of her skirt. ‘Am I creating a bad impression for your charming hotel?’ she said loudly.

  So, she was aware of this? Interesting. Chiara shrugged as if it was of no importance. ‘We can be more private in the bar, Signora, that’s all.’

  ‘Va bene.’ The woman looked around her. ‘Very nice, very nice. The bar then.’

  Chiara shot a swift and despairing look at her granddaughter and proceeded to lead the way.

  She headed for the far end of the cloisters. She didn’t want to take the woman outside; it was far too tranquil out in the courtyard, and several guests were lounging with drinks and a book – she wouldn’t want to disturb them. The young Australian couple were out there too – it was their last day and they were finally relaxing.

  Chiara paused at the bar to order espressos for them both on the way. God knows she could do with one.

  ‘You know my husband then, Signora?’ she asked, as they sat facing one another. She may as well cut straight to the chase.

  ‘I certainly do.’ The woman was taking her time now. She sat back, taking stock of her surroundings, nodding occasionally as if everything was exactly as she’d pictured it: the graceful crumbling arches of pale stone, the narrow brickwork, the hand-painted decorative tiles set into a nearby niche. ‘It’s all so perfect,’ she said. ‘So peaceful.’

  ‘We like to think so.’ And for the first time, Chiara felt herself warm to the woman slightly. She wasn’t so bad. She appreciated beauty and tranquillity at least. Chiara just hoped she wasn’t out to try to destroy it in some way.

  The coffee arrived and Chiara took a grateful sip. ‘And so, what can we do for you, Signora?’ she asked.

  The woman drank her coffee in one gulp. When she replaced her cup on the table, the white porcelain was stained with the orange imprint of her lips. ‘Do you know what things are like in Pisa, Signora?’ she asked.

  Chiara was taken aback. That wasn’t quite what she had been expecting. ‘Pisa?’

  ‘In the apartment block your husband owns. Do you know how different it is from this place?’ She gestured angrily towards the peaceful courtyard with its grey stone flags, gently dribbling fountain, and old stone well.

  The apartment block. Of course. Chiara was beginning to understand what had brought the woman here. That was why she was so interested in this building, its appearance and atmosphere. She was comparing it to where she herself lived. She wasn’t involved with Alonzo at all – certo, he would not look at a woman like this; he was much too fastidious. This woman lived in Pisa. She was here to complain about her landlord. ‘You live in one of Alonzo’s apartments?’ She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

  ‘I don’t.’ The woman frowned. ‘God forbid.’

  Chiara raised an eyebrow. Go
d forbid? ‘Then . . .’

  ‘But my mother does – and that’s why I am here today.’

  ‘I see.’ Though she didn’t. At least not yet. ‘But I don’t understand how I can help you. I’m sorry.’ She wasn’t sorry either, mind – just angry with Alonzo for allowing this to happen, for the serene atmosphere of The Lemon Tree Hotel to be shattered in this way. ‘You see, I have nothing to do with my husband’s business, and so I’m unable to discuss it with you. You’ll have to phone him direct. Or make an appointment to go and see him at his apartment in the city—’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been there, don’t you worry.’ She leaned forwards, and Chiara winced from the smell of the woman – a mixture of cheap perfume and stale body odour. It wasn’t her fault perhaps, but anyone could achieve personal hygiene – it cost almost nothing.

  ‘And he wasn’t there?’ Chiara took another sip of her coffee. If he wasn’t in Pisa, then she had absolutely no idea where he might be. She could phone him perhaps, but not at this precise moment, not with this woman sitting here in her hotel, expecting her to do something about a situation she knew nothing about.

  ‘Sometimes he’s there and sometimes he’s not – but when he is there he won’t see me.’

  ‘Really? Is this true?’ Chiara was surprised. Alonzo had always seemed so on top of things; it didn’t sound like him at all.

  ‘As true as I’m sitting here right now in your delightful hotel, Signora.’

  Chiara didn’t know what to say to this. What did the woman expect her to say? ‘So, you came here.’ Alonzo could be avoiding the woman for a very good reason. Perhaps she was unstable, crazy even. Perhaps she had created problems for him in the past, he might even have called in the police to deal with her. She could be a stalker or an arsonist or anything. What did Chiara know? Alonzo told her nothing (which was ridiculous, of course). She could be dangerous, and Chiara would have no idea.

  ‘I found out his other address, didn’t I?’ The woman looked pleased with herself, but Chiara had to admit that she didn’t appear dangerous – at least not yet.

  ‘That was enterprising of you, Signora.’ She hoped this didn’t sound sarcastic. But the woman’s words were fuelling her fears. How did she find out exactly? ‘But if you have a problem with your mother’s accommodation . . .’ She spread her hands. Subtext: what was Chiara supposed to do about it?

  The woman stared at her. ‘Have you ever seen it?’ Her eyeshadow had creased and the eyeliner smudged in the heat. But the clownish look seemed sad somehow.

  ‘Seen it?’

  ‘The apartment block.’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Actually, no.’ Chiara finished her coffee and pushed the cup to one side. She had never had any interest in the place. Why should she? It was Alonzo’s business, and Pisa was his domain. She had visited her husband’s apartment – the one he lived in whilst in the city – but not the places he rented out. She didn’t even know the address.

  ‘Then perhaps you should.’

  Chiara blinked at her. ‘May I ask why, Signora?’

  The woman rolled up her sleeve and scratched her arm. ‘Because it’s a dump, Signora Mazzone. Because it’s unhealthy.’ Her voice rose. ‘Because your husband doesn’t give a fuck about any of his tenants—’

  ‘Basta! That’s enough now.’ Chiara made to get up. She had tried to be polite. She had given this woman a chance to voice her grievance. But she certainly wasn’t willing to sit and listen to her making these claims against her husband, using that sort of language in the Cloisters Bar.

  ‘Go there.’ The woman reached into her bag and grabbed a notebook and pen. ‘This is the address.’ She scribbled it down. ‘Here.’

  Chiara sank back into her seat.

  ‘Just go and look. Please?’ The woman looked so earnest, so forlorn.

  Chiara began to feel sorry for her. It must have taken some nerve to come here to the hotel, to walk into the lobby, to take control of the situation in the way she had. But she didn’t seem to understand that none of this was Chiara’s concern. It was Alonzo’s. ‘I’ll talk to my husband,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Talk to some of the tenants instead, I would. They’ll tell you what kind of a place it is.’ She handed her the piece of paper.

  Chiara took it. What else could she do?

  ‘Though you might find out a lot more than you ever wanted to know.’

  Perhaps that was what she was afraid of. ‘And your mother?’ Chiara asked.

  ‘She’s elderly and frail.’ Signora Conti picked up her bag, which Chiara could see was made of a cheap imitation leather. Clearly, she was finished here. She’d said her piece and now she was expecting Chiara to sort the problem out.

  ‘And what is the problem exactly? Does her apartment need redecorating or some maintenance done – is that it?’ Because perhaps she could get Silvio to go there and help. He was so practical, and he’d always got on well enough with Alonzo. Perhaps Alonzo couldn’t find anyone to do the necessary work in Pisa and simply hadn’t mentioned it?

  Signora Conti eyed her with pity. ‘Yes, but that’s not the issue. She’s a long-term tenant. Your husband’s given her notice so that he can get a higher rent. And she’s got nowhere to go. Nowhere. She can’t stay with me – we’re already overcrowded.’ The woman got to her feet and put her hands on her skinny hips. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ she said. ‘To ask him to reconsider.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ Chiara was still trying to take it all in. Some scummy apartment block? An elderly woman being evicted? Things that she wouldn’t want to know? Was this the kind of place Alonzo ran in Pisa? She felt a flush of shame creep over her.

  ‘Thank you for listening,’ her visitor said. ‘Grazie mille. I’m grateful for that. Grateful for being allowed in here really.’ She laughed her harsh laugh once more, but this time Chiara heard it differently. She heard the brashness, but also the vulnerability it was trying to hide. ‘Even if nothing comes of it – at least I’ve tried.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him,’ Chiara said again. She steeled herself. ‘And I’ll go there.’

  ‘You will?’ She looked pathetically grateful and, once again, Chiara felt ashamed. Just as she had told Dante – she had so much. And lifestyles could be decided on the toss of a dice.

  ‘I certainly will.’

  ‘Arrivederci then, Signora.’ She held out her hand, and Chiara took it. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Signora. All I can tell you is that I will do my best.’ She hesitated. ‘Can you add your number here?’ She held out the paper. ‘I could let you know how I’ve got on.’

  ‘Grazie.’ She was clearly surprised at this, and her eyes filled with tears. She bent to write her phone number. ‘My mother is Beatrice Gavino. Apartment 5.’

  Chiara nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She couldn’t promise anything. But at least she could find out for herself how bad things really were.

  ‘All this . . .’ As Signora Conti went to walk away, she paused. She looked through the cloisters, into the courtyard where the vivid blue agapanthus flowers and the shiny lemon tree were gently glimmering in the sunlight. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how your husband can live with himself, that’s all.’

  CHAPTER 25

  Isabella

  Isabella was doing some last-minute checks in the Cloisters Bar before they shut down for the night. Emanuele was pretty efficient – he’d wiped down all the tables and washed all the glasses, even given the hand-rail a quick polish before going home. The marble counter gleamed in the soft amber light, and the bottles lined on the shelves under the ornate narrow brickwork shone out their warm promises for tomorrow. Isabella moved a couple of chairs back into position. She didn’t want to hang around. She could do with an early night – she was due to meet Ferdinand Bauer at 7 a.m. in reception for their walk up to the sanctuary, she reminded herself. As if she could forget – it had been playing on her mind all evening.

  Because it was against her bet
ter judgement? Isabella paused in the doorway. She switched off the lights. Everything was in order in the Cloisters Bar. They kept a few lamps burning in the courtyard all night long; there was no one out there now, but the lamps still cast their blanket of golden light over the high walls, the stone flags, the ancient lemon tree, and the spiky agapanthus flowers. She took a few steps forward, leaned on a pillar, and breathed in the night air. It tasted softer than daytime air. Could darkness make it less abrasive? Or was it something to do with synaesthesia – that confusion between the senses, that blurring of certain signals to the brain?

  Which was rather like the blurring of signals when it came to Ferdinand Bauer. Isabella yawned. It had been another eventful day, and now the prospect of tomorrow’s hike was giving her a not unpleasant fluttering in the stomach. Would she sleep tonight? Could she sleep? Ferdinand’s invitation had been unexpected, but she had been pleased nonetheless. It was, as her grandmother might say, an unresolved situation – half-kisses often were, she supposed. Giovanna had said she should give him a chance, Nonna had told her to be careful. What was the answer then? She supposed she would have to decide that herself.

  Thinking of her grandmother made Isabella’s mind jump to what had happened earlier today when that woman had walked into the hotel lobby and demanded to see her grandfather. She shook her head and retraced her steps to the door. What was that all about? Her grandmother had dealt with the matter with her customary efficiency and calm – but she had been very quiet afterwards when Isabella had taken her some cold sparkling water at the end of her stint on reception. And then earlier this evening she’d taken Isabella aside and told her she was going to Pisa.

  ‘Is something wrong, Nonna?’ Her grandmother looked very serious. ‘Is it something to do with my grandfather?’

  She had sighed – and oh, she had looked so weary at that moment, that Isabella had wanted to gather her up in a protective hug and tell her to go and lie down for the rest of the evening. She probably would have done it as well if there hadn’t been so many guests around – poor Nonna would not have appreciated such a public gesture drawing attention to her tiredness.