by Susan Lewis
‘Buona sera, signora,’ Deidre said. ‘Piacere di . . .’
‘We speak English, please,’ Sylvestra interrupted. ‘I want no one to hear.’
For the first time that day, a tremor of anxiety shook the resolve Deidre had so painfully built up throughout the night. ‘I was expecting to see Enrico,’ she said.
Sylvestra shook her head. ‘It is not my grandson Enrico you wish to see, it is my grandson Arsenio, but I am afraid that is not possible.’
Deidre was confused. ‘But . . .’ She stopped as Sylvestra raised a bony hand.
‘Enrico cannot help you, Deidre, only I can help you. Please, sit down.’
Deidre sat on the more comfortable chair at the other side of the immense marble fireplace and waited patiently until Sylvestra was ready to continue.
‘In my heart I always know this day will come,’ she began, and her opaque eyes were brimming with sadness. ‘I know I cannot protect him forever because it is wrong. What I have done is wrong. Very, very wrong. We are all to blame, maybe me most of all.’ She stopped; but understanding that, for the moment, Sylvestra was not with her, Deidre merely looked into the pale, haggard face and tried to swallow her trepidation.
Finally Sylvestra’s eyes focused again, and she continued in her thin, heavily accented voice. ‘In few days Enrico will bring his brother from the asylum,’ she said. ‘I will not know him, Enrico tells me, for he has become old. My beautiful Arsenio is old man at thirty. Sergio Rambaldi make him old man. I hate Sergio Rambaldi for what he do to my family, I hate him, yet once I love him as a son. Maybe still in my heart I love him, but he must pay, always I know that one day he must pay.’
‘But what has he done?’ Deidre pressed, when Sylvestra’s attention seemed to drift.
Her answering laugh was more of a croak. ‘You wish to know what has happened to Olivia, do you not?’
Deidre’s surprise showed. When she’d spoken to Enrico the night before, she had mentioned only that she wanted to talk to him about Sergio Rambaldi and the bottega.
‘Olivia.’ Sylvestra repeated. ‘Sergio, he tell me what she do in America, how she took the children to the men who wanted them, how she take the drugs they give her for doing this. She take the drugs, and the men, they take the children. Then someone find out what she does, and she must be taken away from New York before she tells what she knows. You understand, for the drugs she will do anything, she will even confess what she has done. So Rubin Meyer, he ask Sergio to take her. He ask Sergio, because he knows of the work Sergio does at the bottega.’ She paused. ‘Always Sergio wait for this, for one day a woman to come to him this way . . . He took her, but now she is not enough for him, he must have Madeleine too.’
‘Why? Why Madeleine?’
‘Because of Paul O’Connell, of course.’
‘Paul!’ Deidre cried. ‘Why because of Paul?’
Sylvestra’s eyes darted to hers and there was a puzzled frown on her face. ‘You do not know? Sergio did not tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’ Deidre was now more confused than ever.
Slowly Sylvestra’s expression changed from disbelief to resignation. ‘Then I shall tell you,’ she said flatly. ‘Paul O’Connell is Sergio’s brother.’
Deidre was dumbfounded. ‘Brother?’ she repeated at last. ‘But he can’t be. Sergio is Italian.’
‘They have the same mother, but not the same father. I know not who is the father of Sergio; Helen, she never told me. She give birth to Sergio when she is only a child, before she was even sixteen, and then she leave him in Galleno with the Rambaldi family. She knew them a little, but not well. They take her son because I ask them to, but I raise Sergio like he is my own son. Not until Sergio is ten years old does his mother come to see him, and then she tells him he has a brother and that she is married now, she wants him to go to live with her in England, but Sergio has come to love my family and will not leave. So she come sometimes to visit him – not so often – but when she does, she take him to Florence to see her husband and her son, Paul, but Sergio is upset by her visits and he asks her not to come again. But she does not listen, she still come though she leave her husband and son at home. Then slowly Sergio grow to love his mother. He was gifted even as a child, we all knew so, and his mother, she want to help him with his art. She tell him stories of the great Michelangelo and tell him he is genius just like him. For a while Sergio believes, because she tells him, that he is Michelangelo, the, how you say, reincarnazione. Then one day Helen, she says she is to leave her family in England to come and live with Sergio here in Italy, to help him with his work, and because Paul does not want her to leave, he kills her.’
‘What!’ Deidre gasped. ‘But this is insane. It’s . . .’
‘Yes, Deidre, they are all insane, Paul, Sergio and their mother. Paul and Sergio, they inherit her beauty and they also inherit her mind. But in the sons the mind is a dangerous thing. And now Sergio wants to take revenge on Paul, so that is why he wants Madeleine.’
Deidre could feel herself shrinking away from this woman, telling herself that Sylvesta was the one who was insane. Yet in her heart she knew that, despite the unbelievable horror of it all, there was an undeniable truth in what the old woman was saying. She remembered the way Sergio had reacted when she first mentioned Paul’s name, she remembered his insistence on knowing what Paul was doing, on making certain that Paul and Madeleine stayed together . . .
‘But first,’ Sylvestra said, ‘I shall tell you of Olivia.’
Again Deidre felt herself pulling away. She could tell from Sylvestra’s manner that the story was only going to get worse, and she didn’t want to hear any more.
‘Everyone, they do not know where she is,’ Sylvestra said. ‘They do not know if she lives . . .’
‘She lives. Sergio told me. I know that she’s alive.’
‘No, Deidre, Olivia is dead.’
Deidre stopped breathing. She stared at the old woman, a scream of denial ripping through her body. ‘But Dario . . . Dario and Sergio, they said . . . They said I would see her again.’
‘You will, but not the way you think. I know this because I know what happen at the bottega. That is why I see you now, not Enrico. I am very guilty woman, now I tell you why. You are in love with Sergio, no?’
Deidre nodded.
‘So you understand the way he, how you say, ipnotizzare?’
‘Hypnotise,’ Deidre mumbled automatically.
‘Sì, hypnotise with his eyes and with his charm. Everyone love Sergio and want to be with him because he is genius, all Italy knows. But like I say, he is matto. Insane. After his mother dies, Rosaria, Enrico’s wife, she try to persuade him that he is not Michelangelo, and he believes her, but still he work today how the great Michelangelo work yesterday. He do everything the same, and when he is at the bottega he even dress for the quattrocento. But he know there are many great artists and he want to be remembered. So, he is happy to take the daughter of very wealthy American man. Everyone know Olivia. And Madeleine he ask you to make her famous, sì?’
‘Yes,’ Deidre said, remembering the times when Sergio had insisted she do everything possible to put Madeleine in the public eye. ‘But he didn’t ask me to do it, I . . .’
‘It is no matter, she is the one Paul O’Connell loves, and that you make her famous is better for Sergio because not only does he have his revenge on Paul, but all the world will remember him because of what he do to Olivia and Madeleine. You see, he study them the way Michelangelo study the anatomy of man.’ She stopped, waiting for Deidre to grasp the magnitude of what she had just said. Then: ‘Do you understand what I am saying?’
Deidre’s voice was crushed by the horror of her knowledge. Yes, she understood what Sylvestra was saying.
‘Michelangelo, he sezionare, dissect, the bodies of men. Sergio Rambaldi, he dissect the bodies of women and then he make the great sculpture.’
‘No!’ Deidre was shaking her head. ‘No! You’re lying.’
Sy
lvestra continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘My grandson Arsenio, Sergio is his idol, he follow him he study with him, and when Olivia comes to Italy and the people in New York wish her to die, it is the chance Sergio has waited for to work as Michelangelo worked. The night before the bottega meets Arsenio is to give her the drugs – too many – so many they will kill her. But Arsenio, he fall in love with her and he want to save her. The night he give her the drugs he make love with her first, and then he give her too little of the drugs. She is unconscious but she is not dead. But he is afraid to tell Sergio, so that when the sezionare begin they hit the, how you say, arteria, and her blood pump from her heart. It goes in the eyes of my grandson and it blinds him – after, it is all he can see. He was in shock for many days, and then Enrico take him to the asylum because he cry out the name of Olivia. He should not be in the asylum, but I let Enrico put him there to protect Sergio. I protect him for the sake of Rosaria, because she love Sergio, but now Rosaria is dead and Sergio must pay for what he has done. And yes, you will see Olivia again, because she lives now in the marble that Sergio creates.’
Suddenly Deidre was on her feet. Her face was grey, her eyes burning with anguish. ‘Madeleine!’ she cried, and ran to the windows, rattling them, trying to get out. She twisted round. ‘Where is she? Tell me!’
Sylvestra too looked alarmed. ‘She is with Enrico,’ she answered. ‘They are in Firenze.’
For a moment Deidre seemed to relax, and then Sylvestra understood.
‘When does he want her, Deidre?’
‘Tonight.’
Sylvestra shook her head. ‘So soon. We must protect her and keep her with us. But there is not a way to reach Enrico. We must hope for him to bring her here before he return her to the village. You go to village and wait.’
‘Yes!’ Deidre gasped. ‘Yes, I’ll go to the village.’ And sweeping her bag from the chair, she ran out of the door.
At the very moment Deidre was driving through the gates of the Tarallo villa, Paul was pulling his car to a stop outside the café in Paesetto di Pittore. As he got out, it started to rain, but he felt nothing, not the cold, nor the wind, nor the wet. His only sensations were inside, locked in a ball of fury that burned hotter and more fiercely each time it was touched by the memory of Madeleine’s treachery. But despite the rage, despite the loathing and the gall, he felt pleasure – the kind of pleasure that comes when a decision has been made. Now, he had the solution to everything. He couldn’t imagine, now, why it had never occurred to him before, but then the Russian doll had never needed to be punished like this before.
He walked onto the terrace of the café, frowning as his memory stirred. It had been many years, but he remembered, he would always remember – and placing his foot on the edge of a table, he kicked it against the railings, revealing the trap door which led to the cellars. Before he opened it he looked around, casting his eyes over the mass of green foliage that clothed the mountains, the sorrowful cottages, deserted as always, the locked door of the café and the rain-spattered terrace on which he stood. A gust of wind suddenly lashed at his body, and he took a step back; but then, as if the wind had galvanised him, he tore open the hatch and lowered himself onto the ladder beneath.
He had not thought to bring a torch; and as he went lower he was engulfed in impenetrable blackness. But he knew that beyond the cellar, hidden behind the endless racks of dusty bottles, there was only one passage, one route which would lead him to his brother.
It took a long time, and many bottles smashed at his feet as he groped about in the darkness, but finally he found it, and pulling back the door, he walked into the tunnel beyond. His feet slithered in the mud, and once or twice he fell against the slime-covered walls, but he pressed on, knowing that soon he would reach daylight.
As he hauled himself from the bowels of the mountain and up into the seething mass of the forest, the rain slammed into his body, pushing him back to the ground; but using the gnarled fingers of tree roots, he dragged himself to his feet and plunged deeper into the forest. He had no more than ten yards to go, and the path was already cut. It was narrow, steep and winding, and lined with vicious brambles, but running alongside was a railing which he used to stop himself falling and to pull himself finally into the sheltered basin.
The cave was an old Etruscan tomb, the mouth concealed by nature, but he threw aside the heavy branches and walked inside.
Grotesque shadows roamed the candlelit walls as men in heavy cloaks paced about a marble slab that gleamed yellowy-white in the gloom, and on the floor and ceiling were strange, warped images of Roman gods. Damp oozed from the walls, dripping grime into a gully that ran along the floor. The smell was acrid, cold and earthy, and the wind outside whistled menacingly round the desecrated tomb. But Paul saw none of this, nor was he aware that the men had stopped and turned to look at him. His eyes were held by the magnificent sculpture at the rear of the cavern, which stood in a blaze of fiery torchlight. The rippling, golden glow animated the alabaster face in a way that made its beauty at once ethereal and demonic. The marble lips seemed to speak to him, coaxing him further into the cave, and her eyes looked upon him with blind adoration. He was spellbound, his breath trapped, but the ivory stone emanated such energy that it seemed to breathe for him; it was silently whispering to him, soundlessly threatening him. In his entire life he had never seen anything so sinister or so beautiful.
‘Olivia,’ he breathed.
‘That is right.’
The spell was broken, and as he turned to see Sergio standing beside him, a searing blade of emotion tore through his chest. Sergio, the son she had claimed to be a genius. The son she had wanted to be with, the son who had made him kill her – his own mother.
Sergio’s black eyes were soft and smiling, and as Paul studied that flawless face it was as though a soothing, icy hand was calming the fire of his rage. Slowly his eyes began to mirror his brother’s look of enquiry and the corner of his mouth lifted in a questioning, disdainful smile.
‘I thought you would never come again,’ Sergio said.
‘I was never invited.’
‘You have been invited now?’
Paul lifted his eyebrows and, turning away, walked further into the cave. ‘I need your help,’ he said, looking across the marble slab at a man whose sharp, close-set eyes were fixed on him unblinkingly.
‘I see.’ Sergio nodded towards the cloaked man, and he and the other figures withdrew beneath an arch into the dark recesses of the cave. Now Paul and Sergio were alone, facing one another across the grisly cavern; two men whose beauty was almost appalling in its perfection, whose features were so alike and yet so different. They were opposite faces of a single coin, cast in the same metal, shaped by the same hand, two works of breath-taking artistry that were part of a single mould. As they looked at one another the power which radiated from Sergio’s eyes was matched by the power in Paul’s – as if there were a wordless battle between them. In the end it was Sergio who first relinquished the stare, but his manner suggested not defeat but victory, as if he had voluntarily withdrawn from the contest. Smiling, he folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, indicating the slab of marble, and when Paul was seated he smiled again. ‘The last time you were here, you were little more than a child. You have done well to remember the way.’
Paul inclined his head, then lifted his eyes to the face of Olivia’s statue. ‘I should have known,’ he said, ‘that she would be here. Is this what you planned for Helen, if she had come?’
‘No.’ Sergio’s voice was flat.
‘Then what did you plan for her?’ Paul asked, still looking at the beautiful, evil face.
‘I had no plans, I wanted only to work. She wanted to be with me for that.’
‘So you did not need her. You carried on without her.’
‘Of course.’
Outside, the wind screamed through the trees, and the candles round the walls flickered in the chill air that broke
through the branches at the cave entrance.
Sergio said in a soft voice: ‘It is in the past now. You did what you felt you must and I bear you no grudge.’ When Paul said nothing, he continued: ‘You say you would like to ask for my help?’
Paul scrutinised his brother through narrowed, suspicious eyes, calculating Sergio’s susceptibility to shock; but of course, even if he were to feel it he would not let it show. ‘I want to stand trial for murder,’ Paul said, finally.
Sergio’s expression remained resolutely impassive. ‘So you are to confess?’ he said.
‘If I did, I would be imprisoned for a long time, and that I wish to avoid. No, I want you to hide someone here, let it be known that I have murdered her, then release her after the trial is over.’
‘Oh? And who is this person you wish me to hide?’
‘Her name is Madeleine Deacon. I see you’ve heard of her. I want you to hide her and to testify that you saw me murder her.’
‘But if she is merely hidden there will be no body.’
‘I know, but if I admit to killing her and refuse to say where the body is . . .’ He shrugged.
For a long time Sergio examined the face that was turned towards him, disguising his hatred with a look of amused interest as the sweet taste of revenge rose in his throat. In the end he said, ‘And when the trial is over you wish me to bring her back into the world so that you may go free? How can you be sure I will do this?’
‘I can’t. I’m trusting you. But remember that whatever you say in court, nothing will change the fact that I have not killed her, that she is still alive. I shall know where to tell the police to look, and I shall also be able to tell them about Olivia Hastings.’
Sergio nodded. ‘Of course.’ He sighed, then pushing himself away from the wall, he strolled round the slab to stand behind Paul. ‘I will do it,’ he said, ‘but I wish you to bring her here tonight. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘How will you get her here?’
‘I’ll think of something.’ He twisted his body round and peered up into his brother’s shadowy face. ‘You’re afraid she might remember later?’
