by Judy Nunn
The chalet was by far the largest building Caterina had ever seen. Far larger than the town hall in Ridanna and far taller than the church steeple. Made of timber, the magnificent building stood four storeys high, and that was not counting the attic with its windows jutting out from the steeply sloped slate roof. Each floor was surrounded by wide wooden balconies onto which the shuttered doors of the seventy-two guest rooms opened.
The pine-finished interior was as impressive as the exterior. On the ground level was the bar and lounge with its huge armchairs and heavy rugs. On the first floor, the dining room, its long trestle tables covered in bright red checked tablecloths. On the third floor, the music lounge, complete with piano; and on the fourth the writing room and library with desks, hardback chairs and oak shelves heavily laden with books. And in every communal area was a huge open granite fireplace where giant logs burned day and night.
There were several other timber buildings further down the slope but only one was residential—the keeper’s cottage where the chalet manager and his family lived. The staff and servants, like the guests, were accommodated in the chalet itself. Not far from the keeper’s cottage was the storage cabin for the ski equipment, where early each morning a queue would form as guests lined up to collect their skis and toboggans. A little further down the slope were the stables and adjoining barn where the sleighs, sledges, harnesses and tackle were housed.
Around the chalet complex the snow-capped Alps reared into the sky, dwarfing all beneath them. But the chalet, with its scarred and weathered timber face, stood undaunted. A haven amongst the elements, a safe house for the cold and weary, it stood as it had for two centuries past and as it would for centuries to come.
Caterina loved the chalet. She worked hard and the hours were long but she was accustomed to that. On her father’s farm she was up at dawn to milk the two cows and tend to the house goats and feed the chickens. By the time she returned to help her mother and her younger sister in the kitchen her father and three older brothers had left to work the small property until dusk.
Caterina’s day at the chalet also started at dawn. She began by helping with the preparation of breakfast, then throughout the day she cleaned and serviced the guest rooms. Only the experienced girls were allocated duties serving in the dining room or working in the bar but, on occasion, Caterina was sent to wait on rooms when a specific service was requested—cigars here, a newspaper there—and she enjoyed the personal contact with the guests.
‘Thank you for your trouble.’ The young American exchanged the newspaper for some coins and she slipped them into the pocket of her apron. It was in poor taste to look at one’s tip but she could tell that it was substantial.
Although the young Americans had been there for only several days, she had seen them many times as she went about her duties. There were four of them, probably in their early twenties, students on a six-week vacation, she was told. They were very attractive and very confident and very loud. Well, three of them were. The one they called Paul was much quieter, often preferring to look at the view rather than join in the boisterous conversation of his friends. Caterina found the Americans dazzling and sophisticated and was in awe of them.
‘Thank you, sir.’ She turned to go.
‘Just a minute.’ He stopped her. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Little.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Much little.’
‘Much little.’ His laughter was without scorn. ‘That’s about as much as I speak Italian. You are Italian, aren’t you?’
‘Italian, si.’ In the two weeks that Caterina had been at the chalet she had tried hard to learn as much English as she could but even with the help of her new friend Mary, the Welsh girl who worked in the bar lounge, she found it a very confusing language.
‘Stay and talk to me for a while,’ the American said.
Even as Paul said it, he wondered why. Unlike his friends, he was not given to flirtation. He had no ulterior motive in asking the maid to stay. No motive except for the fact that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, with her thick auburn hair and her dancing blue eyes.
Caterina stood for a moment, confused. Was there something else the American wished her to fetch?
He gestured to one of the two chairs by the table in the centre of the room. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Talk … um … parlez … no, that’s French … um …’ He made a chattering gesture with his hand.
She realised what he wanted so she smiled and sat tentatively on the edge of the chair. The servants were ordered not to initiate contact with the guests but, should a guest wish to engage in conversation, then they were to be as polite and helpful as possible. Caterina was not sure whether this included being alone in a male guest’s bedroom, however. She had heard several stories of men pressing their attentions upon some of the girls. She had also heard that, should any girl reciprocate, she would be immediately dismissed. The young American seemed harmless enough, though. Besides, the door was open.
‘My name is Paul,’ he said, pointing to his chest. ‘Paul.’
‘Caterina,’ she answered. ‘Io mi chiamo Caterina.’
‘America,’ he said, still pointing to his chest.
‘Si,’ she nodded.
‘Boston, Massachusetts,’ still pointing. ‘You?’ Now he pointed at her. ‘Caterina?’
‘Ridanna,’ she answered. ‘Una campagna vicino Ridanna’.
‘Ah, Ridanna.’ He had a map of the area and he knew that Ridanna was a small village over the border. ‘Yes,’ he nodded.
Caterina felt frustrated. She wanted the American to know she came from a property near Ridanna, that her father was a farmer. She was proud of her father—his was the largest of all the Panuzzi family farms and there were many.
‘Panuzzi,’ she said. ‘Caterina Panuzzi.’
The American smiled. ‘Dunleavy. Paul Dunleavy.’
‘No Ridanna,’ she insisted. ‘Mio padre è contadino.’ What was the English word for contadino? Try as she might Caterina could not remember. Mary, the Welsh girl, had told her but then there had been so many words and phrases that Caterina had become confused. ‘F …’ she said. ‘F …’ Suddenly she remembered. ‘Former,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Former.’
‘Former?’ Paul looked confused.
Caterina bent over in her chair and mimed drawing milk from a cow’s udders. ‘Former,’ she insisted. ‘Former.’ He still looked confused so she put her hands to each side of her head, forefingers extended. ‘Mooo,’ she said.
Paul burst out laughing. ‘Farmer! You come from a farm.’
Caterina laughed with him. ‘Farmer, si. Mio padre è … farmer.’
Yes, she looked like a farm girl, Paul thought. Fresh and healthy, with her full, ripe body and those thick auburn curls. But now, as the laughter bubbled from her, Paul was captivated by far more than her beauty. She was so vital, so effervescent, so unaffected.
‘A farm near Ridanna,’ he said, trying not to stare at her.
‘Si. Ridanna. Dieci chilometri.’
‘Dieci. Ten, yes? The farm is ten kilometres from Ridanna.’
‘Si. Farm, Ridanna, ten kilometre.’ Caterina was delighted with herself. She was speaking English. And the young American was interested in what she was saying. He had a way of brushing his straight fair hair back from his brow as he concentrated upon their communication that was very attractive. And she liked his kind, grey eyes.
The two of them managed to struggle a little further with their conversation. Turning the pages of an imaginary book and scribbling with an imaginary pen, Paul told her that he was a student.
‘Sì, studente.’ That was an easy one. But ‘mining engineer’ was too difficult and, several minutes later, rather than appear stupid, Caterina decided it was time to take her leave. Besides, she might get into trouble if she stayed talking for too long.
‘I go,’ she said, rising abruptly.
‘Of course.’ He rose also and accompanied her to the door. ‘It was good
talking to you.’
‘Sì,’ she said. ‘Good. Buono.’
‘We must talk again some time.’
She did not understand him but his smile was warm and friendly so she smiled and nodded back.
LATE THE FOLLOWING afternoon the young American was waiting for Caterina as she left the staff quarters.
‘Coffee?’ he asked. And she agreed.
She agreed the following day. And the day after that. She told herself that it was good for her English, which was improving rapidly, and she bore the brunt of the other girls’ teasing with good humour. But, underneath, Caterina was confused. She knew she was falling in love and it frightened her. She should say no when he asked her to drink coffee with him, but she could not. And at night, when she thought of him, she knew she wanted him to touch her. It was a sin, she told herself, she must not think of it.
Paul was also teased by his friends, but in a far more lascivious fashion. One of the young Americans was having an affair with the Welsh girl who worked in the lounge and he teased Paul mercilessly about Caterina.
‘You’re a fool,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Why are you wasting your time drinking coffee with her, for God’s sake? Hurry up and get her into your bed—we’re only here for another month.’ At twenty-three Geoffrey was two years older than the others, in the final year of his engineering course, and the self-appointed leader of the group.
‘I had not intended trying to get her into my bed at all,’ Paul replied stiffly. ‘She is pleasing company.’
Geoffrey scoffed at him. ‘Oh sure. Sure I believe you. Breasts like hers make very pleasing company.’
Barry and Chris burst out laughing. Geoff always amused them. Besides which, they agreed with him. If they could possibly attract the attention of a girl as beautiful as Caterina, they certainly would not be wasting time having coffee with her.
Paul refused to listen. Finally he snapped at them all. Their remarks were offensive, he told them, and until they ceased their teasing he would avoid their company.
‘Take it easy,’ Geoffrey placated. ‘It was meant in good humour.’ Geoffrey had not intended to offend his friend. He was particularly fond and protective of Paul They both came from Boston and their families knew each other. When Paul had enrolled at Harvard, Geoffrey had immediately taken him under his wing.
The teasing ceased and Paul was thankful. He had found it insulting to Caterina, of course, but he had also found it confronting. He had lied to Geoffrey. He most certainly did want to make love to Caterina. He wanted to make love to her so desperately that he wondered she could be so unaware of his lust.
‘Milk?’ she would ask, jug poised. And when he nodded, she would add milk to his coffee. ‘Sugar? Two?’ she would ask and when he nodded again she would carefully measure two teaspoons of sugar into his cup. It was a ritual which charmed him. She was so proud of her English. Laughing delightedly, she would clasp his hand. ‘Mine English good, Paolo, yes?’ He loved the way she called him Paolo.
‘My English,’ he would automatically correct her as his hand tingled. ‘Yes, very good.’
And the laughter would bubble from her again. ‘Is you. Is you make mine English good. My English.’
Caterina was unaware of Paul’s lust only because she was too busy struggling with her own. She clasped his hand on any pretext simply to feel his skin. She delighted in him, she loved him and, mortal sin as it was, she wanted him to make love to her.
‘I can show you some English words in books,’ Paul said one late afternoon. He had pointed out the words milk and chocolate and coffee on the menu in front of them.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘The books are in my room. Would you like that?’ He knew that Geoffrey would not be there. He and the others had left to spend the evening in Steinach.
‘Yes,’ she nodded.
Paul closed the door behind them and picked up a book from one of the bedside tables. He sat on the bed, the open book on his knees, and she sat beside him. He pointed to a word and, as she placed her hand next to his on the page, her wrist rested on his thigh. He said nothing, but covered her hand with his own and he could feel her trembling. When he looked at her she remained staring down at the book, not seeing the page before her. Her eyes were fixed upon their hands and, as he watched her, she turned her wrist so that their palms touched and gently she entwined her fingers with his.
The kiss was soft and tender. Her lips were only slightly parted and they felt like velvet. The book fell from his knees as he drew her to him. Her body was warm and pliable and seemed to meld to his, and he could feel the fullness of her breasts against his chest. The kiss became more urgent, her lips parted a little more and he could feel the moistness of her mouth. Her breathing became heavier and she was quivering. Just as he was. She wanted him, he realised. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Gently, he placed his hand upon her breast. There was a sharp intake of breath, as if she was going to resist. But she did not. And then they were lying on the bed together. Still kissing. Yet more urgently. And touching and stroking and caressing each other. He started to fumble with his belt, trying to unfasten his trousers without breaking the kiss.
Suddenly Caterina pulled away from him and sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘Io sono vergine,’ she said breathlessly. She turned to him and her eyes were wide, not with fear—she was not frightened of him, he knew that. But she was troubled, uncertain.
‘Caterina,’ he said and he sat beside her on the edge of the bed. ‘Caterina, please.’ He pushed her hair gently away from her face. ‘I will not have you do something you do not wish. We can stop this.’
She looked back at him for what seemed a very long time and the uncertainty left her eyes. ‘No stop,’ she said. She took his hand in hers and softly kissed his palm. ‘Fai l’amore con me,’ she whispered. ‘Fai l’amore con me, Paolo.’
IT WAS A week before anyone knew of the affair between Caterina and Paul. Feigning illness, Paul did not join his friends on the slopes and, each morning, in between her duties, Caterina slipped into his room. Although she dared stay no longer than half an hour, and although their meetings were furtive and hurried, the two fell very much in love.
Geoffrey was suspicious but Paul refused any comment and, surprisingly, it was Caterina who first confided of their love. She simply had to tell someone. Someone who would understand. The priest had not. She had made her trip to Steinach and the village church on Sunday and the priest had been quick to tell her she would be damned forever if she did not cease her abhorrent carnal activities immediately. ‘Govern your lust, my child,’ he had said. ‘It is the devil coming to you in this man.’
Caterina suffered guilt and confusion. She knew she was committing a sin but how could Paolo be the devil? The love he felt for her was as deep and pure as the love she felt for him, she knew it was.
The only person to whom she could turn was Mary. For a week now she had carefully avoided Teresa and the other girls from Santa Lena. But Mary would understand. Mary was not only worldly but she, too, was in love.
Mary was indeed worldly. ‘Oh, Catie,’ she said. ‘Oh Catie, do you think this is wise?’ Caterina loved the way Mary called her Catie; it made her sound like a strani. A foreigner. Mysterious. Aloof and reserved like the English women who stayed at the chalet.
‘Wise? But I love him, Mary, just as you love Geoffrey.’
Catie was so young, Mary thought. Not only in years. Emotionally the girl was very immature. Mary remembered when she too had believed the sincerity of a man’s love. It was only four years ago, although now it seemed like a lifetime away. She had been twenty-two when she had become engaged to the German ski instructor she’d met during a holiday in northern Scotland. She had surrendered her virginity to her fiancé and accompanied him to Austria, severing all ties with her family and friends who strongly disapproved.
The ski instructor left her six months later. He had probably never intended to marry her, she realised. Unable to face her family, Mary had
remained in Europe. She had hardened since then, but she was not bitter. Mary enjoyed her life. She also enjoyed men and there had been a number of affairs. But she had no illusions—they were holiday romances, just like her present relationship with Geoffrey. She avoided at all costs the major pitfall of pregnancy—the German had taught her that much.
‘You must be careful, Catie,’ she warned. She knew it would be useless to warn the girl of imminent heartbreak—Caterina was too convinced of Paul’s undying affection.
‘He is going to remain with me when his friends return to America,’ Caterina said. ‘He is going to remain with me and he is going to meet my family and then …’
Although Mary was silent, Caterina was aware of her disbelief so she said nothing more of Paul’s plans. ‘When you return to your farm,’ he had said, ‘I will come with you. I will ask your Papa if I may marry you and he will say yes and then we will go to America. On a big, big ship. Una grande nave. A ship as big as the chalet.’ In the fragmented Italian she had taught him and in the simple English he knew she would understand, he always spoke to her as if she were a child. ‘And we will be happy, Caterina. We will be happy forever.’
‘You must be very careful, Catie,’ Mary repeated.
Caterina pretended to listen as Mary told her how to avoid pregnancy. Her lover must withdraw at the peak of his passion, Mary said; she must insist upon it. But Caterina was fully aware of the risk she was taking. As she feigned interest in Mary’s well-meaning but unattractively clinical advice she knew that, even now, she could well be with child. But pregnancy held no fear for her. Caterina was infected with a sort of madness. She felt gloriously liberated. She exulted in their love-making, her body freed of all inhibition. But her freedom went far beyond sexual liberation. So all-consuming was her love that she was prepared to abandon even Church and family. She was convinced that God saw their love for what it was. Pure and unadulterated. Of course God understood. God was love, was he not? And if her family were to disapprove as the priest did—and she was sure they would—then she would live without their blessing, just as she would live without the Church’s blessing, until she was married. When she and Paul were wed they would be accepted back into the fold and, until then, she would pray to God and God alone. And if it were God’s will she become with child then she and Paul would simply marry sooner.
