Anne Weale

by Terrace in the Sun [HR-1067] (epub)

  "And Monsieur Cassano?" Justine asked.

  "He is dining on board his yacht tonight," Sophia told her. "No doubt Monsieur Julien will join him later. They do not keep such early hours as we do."

  So Justine and her father had their evening meal alone together, as they had done every night before the arrival yesterday of the sleek white yacht. The only difference was that tonight, instead of discussing the results of their day's work, they ate in a strained silence. As soon as he had drunk his coffee, the Professor retired to his room to work on his notes.

  This prolonged estrangement between them made Justine deeply unhappy, but somehow she could not bring herself to go after him and try to heal the breach.

  Presently, she poured herself some more coffee and took it across to the balustrade. Resting her forearms on the warm stone, she looked down at the Kalliste lying at anchor in the bay below the headland.

  She knew that Kalliste was the name given to Corsica by the ancient Greeks. It meant 'the most beautiful', and it seemed to her typical of Cassano that he should adopt the title for his yacht

  "She is beautiful—yes? I wished she belonged to me," Julien said enviously, from behind her.

  "Oh. you startled me!" Justine exclaimed, turning to face him.

  "I am sorry," he apologised, smiling. Then, leaning against the parapet beside her, he looked down at the yacht again. "But I shall never have the richesse to possess a boat like Kalliste," he went on, with a rueful shrug. "It is for me a dream only. And you, Justine? You also dream of a voyage to far places?"

  Justine shook her head. "I doubt if any places are more beautiful than Pisano, and they are probably overrun with tourists."

  He gave her a curious glance. "You do not like people? You prefer always to be alone?"

  "I don't like crowds, and noise, and hideous modern hotels which ruin lovely views," she replied.

  Julien grinned. "You must tell this to David," he said, with a gleam of mischief. "As you know, it is from hotels that he has made much of his fortune."

  "Oh, really?" she said, without expression. "I wondered what his business was."

  Julien lifted an eyebrow. "You are saying you have not heard of him? His reputation is unknown to you?"

  "I can't remember hearing of him. Should I have done?" she asked casually.

  He clapped a palm to his forehead. "But this is incroyable! I think perhaps you are joking with me. In a moment, you tell me you know nothing of Stavros Niarchos."

  She considered the name for a moment. "Yes, I have heard of him," she conceded. "But what has he to do with Monsieur Cassano?"

  "David is also a very rich man—not only from hotels, you understand, but also from many other enterprises," Julien explained. "I am astonished you have not heard of him. Everyone knows the name Cassano."

  Justine said dryly, "Well, I'm afraid I'm not as impressed by money as you seem to be. And I know as little about big business as I imagine you do about the Romans."

  He said, on a puzzled note, "You do not admire a man who is born with nothing and who becomes a great financier?"

  "Was he born with nothing?" she asked sceptically.

  "You don't believe me? It is true, I assure you. His father was like the men of our village—a fisherman."

  "Where? Not here on Pisano?"

  "No, no—on the mainland at Propriano."

  "So he is a Corsican," she murmured, half to herself. "I wonder why they christened him David? I thought perhaps—"

  "Ah, that was his mother's wish," Julien cut in. "She was a foreigner, and it is from her family that he inherits his gift for making money. It happened many years ago, and such things were forgotten when the war came. But at the time it was a great sensation, and all Corsica talked of it"

  "Talked of what? I don't understand?" said Justine.

  "David's mother was English," Juilen explained. "She was of a very distinguished family. There was a young brother who was an invalid. He had a weakness here"— he thumped his chest—"which made the English climate dangerous for him. The doctors said he must live in the sun, or he would die. So the family engaged a house not far from Ajaccio and, with his sister and an older person, he came to Corsica. I do not know how the sister met Guido Cassano—but it happened, and they fell in love. Naturally, when this was discovered, her father was very angry and ordered her to return to England immediately. But she refused to obey and, when she married Guido, they would not forgive her. They had—how do you say it?—nothing more to say to her."

  "What happened then? Was she happy with Guido?"

  Julien shrugged. "The marriage lasted only three years. There were two children, a boy and a girl. Then Guido was drowned in a storm."

  "Surely her people forgave her then ... a widow with two babies to support?"

  "No, she never saw them again. She stayed in Corsica all her life, and her husband's family helped her to feed the children," said Julien. "But it must have been very hard for her."

  "How incredibly cruel ... to cut her off like that I mean," Justine commented indignantly. "It's the most heartless thing I've ever heard. When did she die, poor thing? From what you say, I gather she is dead, now."

  "Yes, she died a few years after the war."

  "And the sister? Where is she?"

  "That I do not know," said Julien. "This is a matter which David had never discussed with me, you understand. Until Grandmere told me of it, I knew only of his connection with my father. And even that I did not know until he came to my assistance at the casino."

  After this last remark, he flushed and looked rather uncomfortable, as if he had made a gaffe.

  Then, apparently deciding that, having gone so far, he might as well tell all, he gave her a sheepish grin, and said, "We met at the tables in Cannes. It was foolish of me to play—this I admit. But at first my luck was good, and I thought I might win enough to buy a new car. Then, unhappily, the luck changed, and soon I had lost everything—even the money to pay my hotel bill.

  "Fortunately, David was also at the tables that night. He recognised my likeness to my father, and asked my name. When he heard of my situation, he lent me the money for my bill, and asked me to be his guest on Kalliste. We stayed at Cannes for two weeks—he had some business there—and then he said he would like to visit Pisano and meet Grand'mere."

  "You mean you've only known him for a fortnight?" Justine asked, taken aback.

  "Yes—and now I'm hoping that perhaps he will offer me a place in his organisation," the young man confided.

  "I see. What exactly was his connection with your father?" she asked.

  "They were together in the Resistance movement during the war."

  "Oh, but surely they can't have been, Julien," she objected. "The war ended twenty years ago. Unless Monsieur Cassano is very much older than he looks, he would have been only a schoolboy then."

  "David is thirty-six. In 1943, the year my father was killed, he was fourteen—old enough to live in hiding in the maquis, and to carry messages between the villages," he assured her.

  She said, "How do you know this, Julien? Who told you?"

  "David told me. It is the reason he helped me at Cannes. My father was good to him, and he feels an obligation to our family."

  "And does your grandmother confirm his story?"

  Julien looked puzzled. "Grand'mere was not in the Resistance. She was here on Pisano. The last time she heard from my father was more than one year before his death. He would not have mentioned his confreres. I do not understand why you ask this question."

  Justine realised that she was treading on thin ice. She said carfully, "Last night, after dinner, your grandmother , told Monsieur Cassano it was a privilege to have him here. I just wondered what she meant, that's all."

  "But certainly it is a privilege. He is a remarkable man. You don't feel there is something special about him?"

  Justine had never learned to dissemble, She said candidly, "Perhaps ... but I like you better."

  Julien wa
tched her finish her coffee. He recognised that there had been no trace of coquetry in her answer, and her honesty amused and intrigued him. In any other circumstances, he would not have interested himself in her. But, as it was impossible to engage in casual relationships with any of the local girls without incurring the wrath of their fathers, this strangely naive femme savante was the only female on the island to whom he could safely give his attention.

  He said, "There is dancing in the village tonight. Would you like to go?"

  Until that moment she had forgotten her resolve to avoid him as much as possible. But now, remembering the mortifying confrontation with her father before breakfast, she said hurriedly, "Oh, no, I can't. Thank you—but I can't"

  "Why not?" he asked. "I think you would find it amusing."

  "No, really . . . it's very kind of you, but I would rather not. I—I have some work to do."

  Julien was not used to having his invitations turned down. He felt sure she did not mean her refusal. "But you have been working all day," he persisted. "Now it is time to play a little. Please come, Justine."

  She shook her head. "I don't know how to dance. I've never learnt."

  "It is not difficult I will teach you."

  "What about Monsieur Cassano? Isn't he expecting you to join him on the yacht?"

  Julien thought she was weakening. He said, "David is affairé tonight. The yacht has a telephone and each even-he receives reports from his agents in Paris and Marseilles."

  "Where is his home?" she asked. "Or has he several houses?"

  "The Kalliste in his home," said Julien. "Always he likes to be near the sea. But we have talked enough of David. I want to talk about you."

  Again Justine shook her head. "I'm sorry, I must go in now. Goodnight Julien." And before he could press her further, she gave him an apologetic smile, and went quickly indoors.

  In her room, she undressed and put on her cotton kimono. Then she let down her hair, and went to the window to open the shutters. She had been standing there for some minutes, thoughtfully brushing her hair, when she saw Julien rowing out to the yacht. An involuntary sigh escaped her. It would have been fun to go to the dancing with him.

  A great wave of loneliness swept over her and, feeling she could not bear to spend the hours till bedtime alone in the quiet room, she tied her hair back with a ribbon, and went along the corridor to her father's room in another part of the house.

  Professor Field responded to her knock, but he did not look up from his writing as she opened and closed the door, and approached the table where he was working.

  "Father . . . I—" She stopped short, twisting an end of her sash between nervous fingers, uncertain how to express what she wanted to say. Please don't be angry any more sounded so childish.

  At last Richard Field laid down his pen, and looked at her.

  "Well?—What is it?" he asked impatiently. Justine stared at him, shocked. His face had a queer greyish tinge, and there was a film of moisture on his forehead and upper lip.

  Instinctively, she took a step closer. "Are you all right? You don't look well."

  "I'm perfectly well, thank you," he replied repressively.

  "Oh, Father, I can see you aren't!" she exclaimed, in loving concern. For the sight of his drawn face had instantly dispelled her own troubles. "You should have gone to see a doctor yesterday."

  "I believe I am the best judge of that What is it you wished to speak to me about?"

  "Nothing important Father, why don't you go to bed? It's absurd to try to work when you're ill."

  "I am not ill," the Professor said very distinctly, in a tone of intense irritation.

  But no sooner had he spoken than his breath hissed between his teeth, and he pressed both hands against his stomach, in unmistakable pain.

  Justine flew round the table and dropped on her knees beside him, her grey eyes wide and frightened. As the spasm passed, and his body relaxed, she said, "This is more than indigestion, Father. I think it's appendicitis. We must get you to Ajaccio at once."

  Her father's colour was even worse now, and his whole face was beaded with sweat. With a visible effort he forced himself to sit up straight, and to speak with his usual authority.

  "Nonsense!" he said abruptly. "I had my appendix removed thirty years ago. This is merely a rather severe attack of colic. Please return to your room, and leave me in peace. I dislike being fussed over—particularly when it is quite unnecessary."

  "Oh, Father, how can you be so stubborn! You're ill. You're as white as a sheet. You must see a doctor—you must!"

  "You're being hysterical, Justine. If I continue to feel unwell, I shall certainly take medical advice. But I have no intention of allowing you to make a ridiculous melodrama out of what is very likely nothing more than a temporary digestive disorder. You may fetch me a glass of water and the bottle of tablets by the carafe."

  Justine did as he bade her, and watched him swallow two of the small white pills which probably contained a few grains of magnesium hydroxide.

  "Goodnight," he said coldly, dismissing her.

  For a moment she hesitated, torn between the ingrained habit of obedience and the conviction that whatever was the matter with him was something much more serious than colic. Then, with a subdued "Goodnight," she turned and left the room.

  But she did not go back to her own bedroom. Instead, she went down to the kitchen to find Sophia.

  The housekeeper saw at once that she was distraite. She said kindly, "You look tired, mademoiselle. I think perhaps you work too hard. I will make a tisane for you. The water is already hot, and the infusion takes only a few minutes."

  Justine had not come downstairs with the conscious intention of confiding in Sophia. But, as they sat at the long scrubbed deal table and sipped the aromatic lime-blossom tea, the need to share her anxiety overcame her usual reserve.

  The old woman listened in silence while Justine unburdened herself. "Yes, I have noticed that your papa does not seem in such good health as when he arrived here," she said, at length. "But surely such a learned nan would not be so foolish as to neglect a serious disorder?"

  "I don't know," Justine said distractedly. "I don't know what to think."

  "Perhaps you should ask Monsieur Cassano to speak to him," the housekeeper suggested. "Men do not listen to women as they do to another man."

  "Oh, no, I couldn't do that," Justine said, taken aback. "He's the last person ... I mean we hardly know him. My father would be furious." And he would be equally annoyed if he knew she was discussing him with Sophia, she realised guiltily.

  "It is better for him to be angry than for you to be anxious," the housekeeper pointed out wisely. "It is not good to have worries."

  Justine braced her shoulders and mustered a more cheerful expression. "I'll see how he is in the morning. 'Perhaps, if he still isn't well, he'll change his mind about seeing a doctor. Thank you for the tisane, Sophia. Goodnight."

  Next morning Justine woke up too late to have time for her usual bathe before breakfast After she had washed and dressed, she went along to her father's room, and tapped on the door. When there was no reply, and no sound of movement from within, she supposed he must already have gone downstairs. But something made her open the door and look in.

  Professor Field was still in bed. He was lying on his side, with his back to her, only the top of his grizzled head showing above the bedclothes.

  She tiptoed across to the far side of the bed, and looked down at his unconscious face. She had never known him to oversleep, and he was lying so very still that, for one terrifying moment, she thought he was dead.

  When he stirred and made a slight sound, her relief was so great that she could not help crouching down and pressing her cheek against the back of his hand where it lay on the edge of the bed. It was a gesture she would not have dared to make had he been awake.

  Judging by the rumpled state of the bedclothes, he had passed a restless night before falling into his present deep sleep. She decidd
not to wake him, and went downstairs, hoping to finish her breakfast before either Julien or David Cassano put in an appearance.

  But Julien was already at the table under the orange tree when she walked out on to the terrace.

  "Good morning," he said with a smile, rising to pull out a chair for her. "You do not swim today?"

  "Good morning. No, not today."

  "Sophia tells me the Professor is not well. Does this mean you will not work today?"

  "I don't know. Father isn't up yet."

  "If you do not work, perhaps you would like to come with me to Ajaccio?" Julien suggested. "I am to meet Diane at the airport. The plane from Nice arrives late in the afternoon, but we could go early and have lunch at U Fucone. David has said I may take his motorboat."

  "I didn't know your sister was coming home," Justine said, in surprise.

  "It was arranged last night when I spoke to her on the telephone from the yacht" he explained. "You will come with me to meet her?"

  She shook her head. "I can't, Julien. Even if Father doesn't work today, he'll want me to get on."

  He saw that she was not to be persuaded, and gave a resigned shrug. "I do not understand this passion for work," he said wryly. "One sees that the past is very interesting. But, for me, the present also is exciting. Life is short. Who can say what is in the future? There may be no future for us."

  "People have been saying that for two thousand years," Justine pointed out "The world is still turning."

  Nevertheless, his words stayed in her mind for some time after he had finished his breakfast and gone indoors to see his grandmother.

  Presently, she went upstairs to make her bed and tidy her room. She was polishing her sandals when she heard footsteps in the corridor and was surprised to see her father appear in the open doorway.

  "I thought you were still asleep. How are you feeling?" she asked.

  "I'm quite fit again, thank you. You should have woken me. We can't afford to waste any time," the Professor said briskly. "I take it you've had your breakfast. It wont take me long to have mine. We'll leave in fifteen minutes. Don't forget our lunch today, my dear."