Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  Two ushers guide her through the arches and up the stairs into the palace. She hears the national anthem and glancing at her watch realizes she is late. ‘Check this for me please,’ she snaps at one of the ushers, and hands him her fur coat. Straightening her dress and fixing a smile, she walks straight-shouldered into the gallery.

  Chandeliers shining from above and candelabra glowing on the tables below dazzle her. She brushes aside a waiter offering champagne. The dinner has already started and there’s a symphony of clattering cutlery, clinking crystal and clipped conversations as she surveys the room.

  ‘Camilla!’ Brian walks towards her, elegant as ever in his diplomatic finery. As he kisses her on each cheek and whispers, ‘You look good enough to eat’, she can smell the faint hint of whisky on his breath.

  ‘That sounds more fun than dinner, caro,’ she whispers back and willingly takes his arm as he leads her to the official table in the centre of the room. The other guests look up as Brian places her in the chair next to his. The four other men at the table shuffle to their feet and she’s amused to see they include two of her lovers, Alfonso Galbatti and Umberto Dragorra. Three out of five seated together. ‘If only they knew,’ she thinks as she proffers her hand to each of them. ‘How pathetic they are! Pretending to be merely work colleagues, for the sake of their wives!’

  It’s a rare night out for Signora Galbatti, pale and piquish in lilac lace, and Signora Dragorra, flushed and fulsome in saffron silk. They greet her begrudgingly, having all crossed paths before and finding little in common. ‘Oh, how little they suspect of the common ground we share,’ Camilla thinks gleefully to herself. She doesn’t know the other two couples and doesn’t care that they pay her scant regard.

  Another woman is sitting on the other side of Brian, blonde bobbed hair and a flawless English rose complexion.

  ‘Camilla, I don’t believe you’ve met my wife? Natalie, darling, this is Professor Camilla Corsi. An expert on volcanoes and a genuine fiery academic!’ He chuckles at his own joke.

  ‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ his wife says. ‘So when do you think Vesuvius might erupt again?’

  Camilla glances from Brian to his wife and back again, furious at his deception and her ambush. ‘Unpredictable. Like the weather.’ She’s aware that all at the table are listening. ‘Or marriages,’ she adds, managing a smile.

  ‘You can say that again. I’m Brian’s third,’ his wife laughs.

  ‘Saved the best till last,’ he laughs. ‘Eat up, Camilla. The salmon’s fresh, flown in from Scotland this morning!’

  Alfonso is on her other side and she feels his leg pressing against her. ‘Did you receive the roses, cara?’ he says out of earshot of his wife, who is seated across the table, next to Umberto.

  She resists the urge to snarl at him. ‘Beautiful. Thank you, Alfonso.’

  ‘Did you see the so-called modern art in there?’ he whispers. ‘What a load of rubbish!’

  ‘Your tastes are conservative, Umberto. They’re all fine painters.’

  He’s still grumbling as he eats his meal.

  Camilla nibbles at the salmon and chews on a piece of watercress, but her appetite has deserted her.

  Umberto has turned away from Alfonso’s wife, who drums her fingers on the table. His voice is rising as he regales the other two men about government over-regulation and how it is limiting commercial development.

  ‘We agree, Umberto, on the need for free markets we agree. But we are always under pressure. Vesuvius is a major issue, not to mention Campi Flegrei,’ one of them says.

  She looks more closely and recognizes them as senior government ministers. ‘Professor! Professor Corsi.’ For a moment she doesn’t register that Umberto is addressing her. ‘Tell them your views on the Red Zone. Is it reasonable that all development should stop because of the tiny chance of an eruption? Surely people still need decent places to live and shop.’

  Camilla breathes in deeply. ‘Signor Dragorra, I am flattered that you value my opinion so highly. But tonight is for celebrating, not for such serious discussion. We can talk about this another time.’

  He glares at her pointedly, throwing his hands up in exasperation, his creased neck reminding her now more of a lizard than a toad. He is about to say something else but she taps Brian on the back and starts talking to him before he has the chance.

  The waiters clear away the plates and Brian springs to his feet. ‘Back soon. Talk among yourselves.’

  ‘You don’t seem yourself tonight, Camilla. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, Alfonso, I’m fine, I’m just a little tired. I’ve been working overtime on the Progetto Vulcano report.’

  ‘Well, don’t overdo it. And don’t let Umberto get the better of you.’

  She’s about to reply when Brian taps the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, signore et signori. A special treat tonight from our orchestra, which will perform the work of a British composer, Edward Elgar. He’s famous for our alternative national anthem, ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, but I thought that might not be so appropriate tonight. We still have a lot of hope but not so much glory these days.’

  The room titters politely at his attempted humour. Camilla has her back to the stage and strains to see the musicians, who are holding their instruments behind Brian. ‘Instead, a rarely performed piece, Elgar’s String Quartet in E Minor.’

  As the mellow sounds of the strings fill the gallery, Brian returns to the table and asks everyone to swap places. ‘So we can all learn a little more about each other.’

  Camilla finds herself next to Umberto and for once she is pleased his wife is close by. He leans towards her and, uncharacteristically, speaks in hushed tones. ‘The dress suits you.’

  ‘Thank you, Umberto.’

  ‘But you know I am worried about you, your attitude.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘I didn’t like the way you humiliated me in front of the others.’

  ‘No, no, caro, you misunderstand,’ she says soothingly. ‘I was trying to protect you. Discretion is always the best path and I don’t think tonight is…’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me. I’m starting to get impatient about that report, we have contracts waiting. And your foreign researcher—what’s her name? Frances? She’s here tonight and she was babbling about expanding the Red Zone. You’re going to have to rein her in.’

  Camilla squirms in her seat. The music’s tempo is increasing and the violinists play faster and faster, like bees swarming in the hot sunshine. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all in hand. Where did you say Frances Nelson is sitting?’

  ‘I didn’t. I saw her walking around before dinner. She dropped her drink on the floor like a stupid schoolgirl.’

  The orchestra is slowing, the last movement nostalgic and sad. Camilla glances around the room but can’t see Frances. The last notes fade as the room explodes in applause.

  The waiters return, placing large plates of food in front of them.

  ‘A traditional British feast.’ Brian is standing again. ‘The best rare roast of Angus beef, crispy baked potatoes, Brussels sprouts and, of course, Yorkshire pudding and horseradish sauce. He picks up a glass of red wine. ‘But the wine…luckily for you, not British.’ Everyone at the table is laughing. ‘We know you Italians beat us on that score. So fill your glasses with this beautiful 1990 Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. I selected it myself. And enjoy!’

  ‘Buon apettito, professor.’

  She turns to see the man on her other side, the government minister, holding up his glass to her. ‘Antonio Pane. Salute!’ She raises her glass to him and takes a large sip. The soft red is a rich antidote to the friction she’s feeling.

  ‘You’re right, this is a night to celebrate,’ he says. ‘Not for politics. But our friend Umberto is not a patient man.’ He’s a smooth-looking man in his fifties, silvering hair swept back off his tanned face. She can sense him trying to draw her out and for once, she has lost interest in the game. She merely raises her eyeb
rows and smiles.

  She drinks more then eats some of the beef. It’s tender and delicious. She pokes the small mound of cooked dough Brian called Yorkshire pudding, pushes it to one side and eats the potato instead. She tastes the green balls of vegetable and dispatches them to the side of the plate. ‘I need to powder my nose,’ she tells Umberto. He waves her away with his hand.

  She walks to the far end of the gallery and turns into a hallway. As she rounds a corner near the toilets, she collides with someone.

  ‘Professor Corsi, sorry.’ Frances Nelson steps back and grins. ‘Snap! I like your taste in evening wear!’

  Camilla is horrified. Her subordinate is wearing the same dress in black. So much for Umberto’s exclusive designs! ‘Yes, quite. What brings you here tonight? I didn’t know you knew the British Ambassador.’

  ‘I don’t. I’m here with the hired help. I’m with the band.’

  ‘They’re very good. Well, if you’ll excuse me.’ She starts to walk away then turns back again. ‘Frances. The volcano research we’re doing. You do realize it’s confidential, don’t you?’ Frances stammers something but she doesn’t wait to hear it.

  The night has not evolved as expected. Brian is clearly occupied, but she’s relieved that Umberto and Alfonso are as well. At least they won’t hound her. She washes her hands and carefully applies a fresh layer of powder. When she returns to the dining room, Frances is standing by the doorway looking towards the stage.

  ‘My friend is playing his solo.’

  Camilla stands with her as she recognizes the first notes of her favourite song filling the air: ‘O mio babbino caro, mi piace è bello, bello.’

  The cellist captures the intimacy of the human voice. It is achingly beautiful and Camilla whispers the words of the Puccini aria that was a part of her childhood. The memories of her village flood back and the man who changed her life. It nearly ripped her apart. ‘O my dearest daddy, He pleases me, and is handsome, handsome.’

  The tall musician is performing it with a passion she has never heard before. Yet he looks familiar and so is his music, which seems to flow out of him like water from a spring. With his extraordinary playing, he conjures up memories she has buried for decades. The ending of her love, the feuding, jealousies and double-dealing. And the loss.

  ‘Mi struggo e mi tormento! O Dio, vorrei morir! I am aching, I am tortured! Oh God, I’d like to die!’

  As the musician builds to the climax she recognizes the busker from Santa Lucia.

  ‘Babbo, pietà, pietà! Babbo, pietà, pietà! Father, have pity, have pity! Father, have pity, have pity!’

  The cellist stands and bows to a wave of applause. Brushing his soft hair back off his face, he looks across to where they’re standing and smiles at Frances. Camilla gasps as she sees his eyes, those unmistakable cloudy green-blue eyes.

  ‘Are you OK, professor? Would you like some water?’

  She looks down and realizes she is gripping Frances’ arm and quickly drops it. ‘No. I’ll be OK, I’m just a little overcome by the music. Who is the cellist?’

  ‘Pasquale, my neighbour. Would you like to meet him?’

  ‘Yes, please. That would be charming.’

  They reach the table at the same time as Pasquale. ‘Fantastic playing,’ Frances says kissing him. ‘This is Professor Camilla Corsi. She wants to meet you.’

  Camilla extends her hand and he shakes it gently. She doesn’t want to let it go. She feels as if everything is moving in slow motion and she has to call on every ounce of strength to stay standing.

  ‘Have we met before?’ His eyes gently engage hers.

  ‘I’ve heard you playing at Santa Lucia. You’re an exceptional busker.’

  He laughs. The laugh too is familiar. ‘Helps pay the bills, professor.’

  ‘Well, tonight you were brilliant. That song means a lot to me.’

  ‘I’m glad. It’s one of my favourites.’

  Camilla says goodnight and walks back to her own table. Brian and his wife are sitting alone and she sees the others mingling around the room. She puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘I have to go, Brian. I’m not feeling very well. Thank you for a wonderful evening.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it, Camilla—can I arrange an embassy car for you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Stumbling through the entrance she beckons the usher. ‘My coat, please, the mink.’ Camilla leans against the wall until he returns and helps her put it on, then walks carefully down the stairs, clinging to the banisters. Outside, the cold air cuts her face. She walks across the driveway to the grass, slips off her shoes and starts to run.

  She doesn’t stop until she reaches the woods deep inside the park and feels the evening dew soaking into her stockings. It is completely dark. Collapsing on the ground, Camilla lets out a howl like an animal. Then, for the first time in years, she weeps.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Wake up, princess. Wake up!’

  Frances opens her eyes and at the same time she hears Riccardo calling her she feels her head thumping. She clamps her hand to her forehead. How did she get home? She remembers drinking far too much, first at the dinner and then later at a bar with Pasquale and Satore. One of those trendy bars up the hill at Vomero. She reaches for the glass of water next to her bed. Empty. She pulls on a robe, notes crossly that she has tossed her new dress on the floor, and thumps out to the bathroom.

  ‘Uh oh,’ Riccardo says. ‘Where did you come from? Where did that beautiful princess go?’

  ‘Ha bloody ha!’

  She closes the door firmly, grimaces when she catches the reflection of her unwashed face blotched with eye make-up, and puts the shower taps on full. Today, full is a trickle, and she shivers in the lukewarm water as she splashes herself clean.

  Camilla. Of course. Her cryptic comment set her off drinking too much, that and the creepy threat from the chairman. And having to sit on her own for much of the night. Really it was all quite justifiable. Yeah, right!

  The water runs down her face and clears her head. She remembers taking a cab to the club and another one home around three in the morning, squashed in the back with Pasquale and his cello. That must explain the bruise at the top of her arm.

  She dries herself hurriedly and retreats to the sofa.

  ‘Café?’ Riccardo calls from the kitchen.

  ‘How did you guess? With lots of milk.’

  A few minutes later Riccardo appears with the coffee and a plate with two chocolate biscuits. ‘Tim Tams! My favourites from home—I thought you might need sustenance.’

  She crunches into one, the double layers of chocolate and cream and an odd spicy flavour fill her mouth. ‘This is the craziest hangover cure I’ve ever tried. What is it?’

  ‘From my personal stash of Australian goodies; these ones are chilli flavour. What do you think?’ His voice is muffled as he bites into the other biscuit.

  ‘Mmm. Seems to be working. And the coffee’s great, thanks.’

  ‘So how was it?’

  ‘Wonderful until I met the strongman and la stronza.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Umberto Dragorra. He told me to lay off the Red Zone. Then later on our esteemed professor tells me I should keep all our research confidential. By coincidence, they were sitting at the same table.’

  ‘Merda! Were they threatening you?’

  ‘Not in so many words. They just made me uncomfortable and drove me to drink.’

  ‘By the way, Marcello’s been trying to call you. He says your phone’s not working.’

  ‘Damn. I turned it off while Pasquale was playing. He was amazing, by the way. Even the stronza was impressed. Would you do me a favour and find my handbag?’

  He falls to his knees clutching his chest. ‘Yes, princess, anything else?’

  She throws a cushion at him and he collapses on the floor in mock pain.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to see you’ve recovered from your injuries.’ She fishes her phone out of the bag and switche
s it on. Immediately it beeps with messages and missed calls. Three from Marcello and one from an international number she doesn’t recognize.

  She listens to the messages. Marcello asks her to call him back. The next voice is one she hasn’t heard since she arrived in Italy. It’s Olivia, her work friend from Mt St Helens, telling her excitedly she may have some research work in the Aeolian Islands. She can’t help smiling when she hears her sign-off. ‘Hope you’re kicking arse there, Frankie. Or at least getting some!’

  The phone rings and it’s Marcello again. He’s free of his other work. Would she come with him in search of the Pliny manuscripts? He has a strong lead about their whereabouts. Her head has ceased throbbing and the idea of a drive and a treasure hunt with Marcello is very appealing.

  ‘I’ll be ready in a half an hour,’ she tells him.

  ‘So what are you and Marcello up to?’ Riccardo sits on the chair opposite, drinking his coffee and looking at her cagily.

  ‘Pursuing our investigations on wind patterns around Vesuvius.’

  He laughs. ‘You manage to make that sound quite boring. It must be the company that makes the task so interesting.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. You’ve known Marcello a long time. Is that wise?’

  ‘Wise? Probably not, but that never stopped anyone.’

  ‘Has he been involved with anyone else lately?’

  ‘I don’t follow him around. He’s been separated for a couple of years and there’s never a shortage of interested women, as far as I can tell.’ He leans closer to her. ‘But if you’re asking if he’s single, the answer is yes.’ He pauses as if trying to read her mind. ‘The question is, are you?’

  Frances shrugs her shoulders. She still hasn’t let go of Tori but maybe it’s time. Her uncertainty hovers in the air and she says nothing.

  ‘Ah, a woman who doesn’t know her own mind.’ Riccardo stands and reaches for his helmet. ‘Remember, a little amore doesn’t hurt anybody. Now I’m off to the laboratory. Have a good expedition, and make sure you tell Marcello about last night. We have to take any threat seriously.’

  She waits on the street for Marcello, knowing another tortuous drive through the city traffic lies ahead. But she’s looking forward to seeing him and her spirits lift when his four-wheel-drive spins around the corner. He peers over his sunglasses at her as she climbs in and she’s conscious of the bags under her eyes. ‘Big night on the town?’