Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  ‘Well, that’s jolly handy,’ says Cecile. ‘These gardens must need a lot of watering.’

  ‘Yes, lots… Every day is ideal. Twice sometimes,’ sighs Lucrezia, rolling on her side.

  The two fall into quiet contemplation, although their thoughts do not, perhaps, follow quite the same path.

  ‘You know,’ says Lucrezia, raising herself upon her elbow, and choosing her next arrow with care. ‘I do wonder what it must be like to be with a man.’

  ‘Lucrezia!’ exclaims Cecile, sitting up in surprise.

  ‘Not Raphael of course,’ adds her Italian friend, rolling once more upon her back. ‘That wouldn’t do at all, would it?’

  ‘I should think not,’ answers Cecile, although, from the corner of her eye, she is looking at the strong arms of that young man, who is wielding his saw with great mastery.

  ‘I mean that I wonder what it must be like when you’re married,’ says Lucrezia.

  ‘Well,’ admits Cecile. ‘I do know a little.’

  ‘Do you truly, Cecile?’ asks Lucrezia, giving her all her attention. ‘Then, I must beg you to share your knowledge with me. It would shame me to admit the extent of my innocence.’

  Cecile’s eyes lower in modesty.

  ‘I’ve heard that, when a wife embraces her husband, there’s a little bell inside of her that starts to ring, just like the one inside a church tower,’ says Cecile, ‘But smaller of course.’

  ‘A bell?’ says Lucrezia, ‘Well, I suppose anything’s possible…’

  She begins to laugh, which becomes a sneeze.

  ‘Scusami! It’s the pollen, mia cara. Only the pollen.’

  ‘Oh!’ says Cecile, ‘Hang on, I’ve a handkerchief in my pocket. I found it in the drawer beside my bed. It may be a little dusty, I’m afraid. Perhaps it’s one of yours?’

  The linen, when Lucrezia unfolds it, bears an elaborately embroidered monogram of the letter ‘L’.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she remarks. ‘Possibly. Though the castle has seen many guests in its time. It could belong to… anyone.’

  The Curse of the Di Cavours

  ‘I hope you find yourself comfortable, Lady McCaulay,’ the Conte enquires, as they sit to dine. ‘And that our little piece of Italy agrees with you.’

  ‘Oh yes! It’s wonderfully peaceful here, and most kind of you to have me,’ Cecile answers.

  The Conte is older than his sister, but just as handsome, his features pronounced, and carried in that manner which comes naturally to all of noble blood.

  His waistcoat, of purple silk, embroidered in gold, and the billowing sleeves of his shirt, like poured cream, would make a dandy of him, but for the dark tunnel of his gaze. Lucrezia has changed into a dress of scarlet hue, though her belt of emerald snakes is still about her waist. Cecile suddenly feels her own gown, in palest apricot, to be rather gauche.

  Dishes of soup are laid before them, vibrantly orange. Tomato, Cecile guesses, lifting her spoon.

  ‘It’s our delight to share our home with you,’ adds Lucrezia, passing Cecile butter for the warm bread rolls.

  ‘I’m sure that I’ll have far more fun with you, than with Maud and Henry,’ Cecile replies, passing on the butter to Agatha.

  Under the Conte’s penetrating eye, Cecile finds herself gushing, saying what she will later find ridiculous.

  ‘My brother will think of nothing but birds while we’re in Italy.’

  ‘Is that so!’ Lucrezia laughs.

  ‘Oh yes!’ asserts Cecile, wishing now to explain herself. ‘He took me once on a trip to the Norfolk flats, near Cley, to see the curlew sandpipers on their migratory path to warmer climes. I stood in the briskest of winds, a mist of drizzle descending, while Henry peered through field glasses for the longest time. He passed them to me at intervals, with a look of suppressed ecstasy, indicating some remote creature paddling through water.’

  ‘His wife, I’m sure, can divert him to other pastimes,’ muses Lucrezia, her lips twitching.

  The room falls quiet for a moment, in contemplative mastication, before Lorenzo turns once more to his guest.

  ‘We enjoy the isolated splendour of our island, but we sadly lack many of the modern comforts of this age. We do without electricity, we wrap ourselves against draughts, and live with floors which creak as if we were at sea.’

  Lorenzo shrugs in acceptance.

  ‘However, the causeway is open for some hours each day, so you may venture into the village, though there is little there to amuse a young lady from London, I would think.’

  ‘Please do call me Cecile, and I’m so pleased to be here. City life, while exciting in its way, is filled with multitudes of people. Here, I feel I can breathe, and that something special is waiting for me. Although, I admit, the castle looked intimidating when I saw it from afar, like Bluebeard’s fortress, or Thornfield, except surrounded by water, rather than forest, or moors.’

  Lucrezia smiles. ‘And who is your Bluebeard? Who your Mr. Rochester?’

  Seeing Cecile blush, Agatha pats her hand.

  ‘She’s only teasing, my dear. Castles such as this make everyone feel that way, as if there are secrets in the walls. Real life is not generally made of the stuff of sensational novels, but I fear this place, perched between civilisation and the vastness of Neptune’s empire, has history enough to fuel an entire library of sordid tales.’

  Lorenzo’s eyes have been upon his knife, the pad of his thumb pressed lightly on the blade. He looks up; not at his aunt, but at Cecile.

  ‘And would you wish to find danger here?

  ‘No… no! Of course not,’ says Cecile, her tongue too fat and clumsy for her mouth. He must think me very silly, she berates herself. She so wants him to find her other than a simpering schoolgirl.

  A magnificent dish of hot spaghetti is brought to the table, steaming, and slippery with oil, and the Conte nods for a little more Chianti to be poured into Cecile’s glass. His man, Serpico, does so without spilling a drop onto the crisp tablecloth, though, Cecile notices, he lingers perhaps a little too long over her shoulder.

  ‘May I say how much I admire your costume, Lady Cecile. The floral decoration at your neckline is most becoming.’

  Lorenzo makes no pretence of hiding the direction of his gaze, which rests upon the generous swell of her bosom beneath delicate fabric: shimmering lilac, trimmed with rosebuds.

  ‘The flower is a symbol of awakening nature, of renewal, and youth,’ remarks the Conte. ‘In Japan, the cherry trees blossom for just one week of the year, inspiring admiration not only for their flowers’ beauty but for their very transience. In beholding them, we’re reminded of the brevity of human life, of our own fragility.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ replies Cecile, glad for the change of subject. ‘Have you travelled to the Orient?’

  ‘I have,’ says Lorenzo, his eyes capturing those of his sister for a moment. ‘Though the greatest mysteries, and joys, are often close at hand, rather than in places far abroad. The wisest among us appreciate what is right in front of them.’

  At this, his gaze moves from Lucrezia, and fixes so intensely on Cecile that she is quite taken aback, unable to manifest a suitable response.

  ‘My goodness, Cecile, you’re feeling the full charm of my nephew this evening,’ remarks Agatha. ‘I hope you know enough of men to take such effusions of admiration with the pinch of salt they deserve — although it’s true that you deserve the compliment.’

  ‘Brava, Agatha,’ declares Lucrezia. ‘Cecile, I’m sure, is not so foolish as to believe every word she hears from men.’

  She shoots Lorenzo a look of great smugness, but he continues, unabashed.

  ‘My sister, as you see, is wearing scarlet: a colour which suits her well, representing the wilder aspects of her nature, and serving to warn the unwary. She is a work of human artifice, carefully cultivated, in ways you cannot imagine, while you, Cecile, are truly nature’s creation, pure and simple.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re too harsh upon Lucrezi
a,’ asserts Cecile. ‘Meanwhile, I’ve no wish to be worshipped as anything other than I am.’

  ‘How sensible you are, dear one,’ agrees Lucrezia, giving her brother a sharp look. ‘Men, I fear, are quite the opposite, wishing to be adored regardless of morals or prowess or intellect. It’s enough, in their eyes, to be a man!’

  ‘Now, children! No arguments, please. You’ll spoil our enjoyment of Magdalena’s cooking,’ reprimands Agatha. ‘Lorenzo, you must allow us to defend our sex and, in so doing, be somewhat hard upon yours.’

  Lucrezia leans across the table to touch her wine glass against Agatha’s, her eyes bright with mischief.

  ‘You see, brother. You’re outnumbered. We women are taught from birth to follow rules. To smile just enough, but not too much, to look a certain way, and behave a certain way. Really, you cannot be surprised that, on occasion, we rebel.’

  ‘In that, dear sister, you seem to excel,’ answers Lorenzo, retaining a tone of amusement rather than chagrin.

  Cecile finds herself looking at him more closely. He’s old enough to be my father, except that, I’m certain my own father was nothing like the Conte.

  She has, before sleeping, let her thoughts wander to Lance, her Texan, from the train. If she has imagined anyone’s arms about her, they have been his. Now, she feels the stirring of something different altogether. A feeling of dread and excitement as she looks at the Conte’s thin lips, beneath his moustache, and the small, white, even teeth revealed to her in his half-smile.

  She searches for some topic of conversation. Something to say that will make him look at her again. Except that, she now sees, he is looking at her, without her having said a word, and her own eyes, which should lower, in modesty, look back at him.

  ‘Although,’ adds Lucrezia. ‘I recall, on his last birthday, my brother dressing as Marie Antoinette, chest hair curling above his bodice. How was that, brother? Did it enlighten you to the disposition of women, to be corseted, struggling for every breath, as society insists we must?’

  ‘Indeed it did!’ answers Lorenzo. ‘I wouldn’t for all the world be born a woman, knowing the indignities to which your sex is subject.’

  Lucrezia leans towards Cecile, speaking in a confiding whisper. ‘His skirts were lifted more times than the French Queen’s ever were.’

  ‘Really, Lucrezia!’ admonishes Agatha, whose hearing is still acute. ‘Too crude!’

  Cecile is most shocked, but finds herself, nonetheless, disposed to giggle. She cannot meet Lucrezia’s eye.

  ‘Not that I disapprove of people having their fun,’ adds Agatha. ‘I had suitors enough in my time, and my husband was not the first man to kiss me, nor the last… A good lover can make you sing, even when you believe you have no more songs in you.’

  ‘True enough,’ remarks Lorenzo, ‘Virtues carried to excess become vices, I believe.’

  ‘The saddest part of aging is the setting aside of vices we no longer have the energy to pursue,’ sighs Agatha. ‘These days, I content myself with novels.’

  ‘Ah, the cheese!’ declares Lucrezia, as Violetta brings in a large platter. ‘The grapes are from the vines in the garden, Cecile. And we have formaggio di capra — cheese from goat’s milk. You must try some.’

  ‘Indeed you must, Lady Cecile,’ agrees the Conte. ‘It’s made to an ancient recipe, such as was enjoyed by my great-great grandfather, and probably long before that.’

  ‘How long have your family lived here?’ asks Cecile.

  ‘The castle was built in the thirteenth century. The original cannon remains upon the roof, directed out to sea, through the battlements.’

  ‘However,’ his face takes on a sudden sternness, ‘I advise that you do not venture there, since I believe the roof is no longer sound, and the tower staircase which leads to it is certainly dangerous. Several of the steps are crumbling. Better to avoid it altogether.’

  ‘No one uses that staircase,’ adds Lucrezia, for once in agreement with her brother. ‘Far too gloomy, and full of dust and cobwebs. Cecile shall admire the sea from the garden. No need to make herself dizzy on the roof.’

  ‘Besides which,’ the Conte continues, pouring himself more port. ‘There is the White Contessa, who walks the upper corridor by night, and climbs the tower.’

  ‘A ghost?’ exclaims Cecile.

  ‘There are many, but she is the only one who haunts that part of the house. You may hear her, perhaps, in the dead of night, sobbing for her lover. Her husband had him flayed before her, then hung his body from the window of the tower room, a rope about his neck, his flesh for the gulls to peck.’

  Oh! The horror! A strangled gasp escapes Cecile.

  ‘It’s said that the Contessa cursed him, and all males of the di Cavour line, before slicing her own wrists. She was found the next morning.’

  Lucrezia dips her finger into the camembert upon her plate.

  ‘Every time he recounts the tale, the details become more obscene. But, I suppose we must all be allowed our little fantasies.’

  ‘The di Cavour blood is strong,’ answers Lorenzo. ‘Dark, and furious, and sublime.’

  ‘And not without a hint of madness,’ adds Lucrezia quietly.

  ‘In the light, there is always some darkness,’ he replies.

  ‘No doubt, extended bachelorhood produces an excessive imagination, and a tendency to the morbid, Lorenzo,’ chides Agatha.

  ‘Perhaps that’s part of the curse. I don’t believe the di Cavour men ever find true love, or true happiness,’ says Lucrezia, staring pointedly at her brother. ‘Isabella would enlighten us further, I expect.’

  ‘Least spoken on that subject is best,’ suggests Agatha.

  Lorenzo’s face has grown pale, as if mention of the curse has touched some place of sensitivity.

  ‘If Hell resides anywhere, it’s in the dark recesses of the mind. Perhaps this is a curse all men suffer, to live under ‘mind-forged manacles’, as Blake writes in his verse.’

  The candles upon the table have sunk low, but there is flame enough for Lorenzo to light a cigar.

  ‘Forgive me, ladies. Let us retire. Serpico shall walk with me in the gardens. Evening is the most beautiful time, when the divine eye is half closed. The blooms are different, by night, their scent more intense, more vivid. The night, we might say, brings a clarity impossible in the blaze of day.’

  The corners of the room flicker in shadow. The candles are guttering but what light there is illuminates Lorenzo, who is looking at Cecile, her blue eyes raised to him most prettily, her expression one of pleasing reverence.

  ‘You never can tell who you’ll meet by night. It’s a different realm… one in which we may wear a different face.’

  * * *

  As the women leave, Lucrezia walking arm in arm with Cecile, Lorenzo watches.

  His eye is upon Cecile’s neck, where blonde wisps curl against the soft whiteness of her skin, and upon the slope of her exposed shoulder.

  She is a canvas not merely unpainted, but newly stretched upon the frame, and his appetite, lacking of late, is awakened.

  Perhaps, this conquest will offer more than amusement. Might he, in her, find a woman worthy of bearing the next generation of di Cavours?

  In the dark hours, the cold fingers of mortality reach closer to him. Not yet, of course, but waiting. Waiting.

  He recalls his father’s skin, at the last, like the crust on cooling wax; his hands nobbled, age spots dappling the skin. Those hands, shaking as they held a glass. The hands of a dying creature, near bloodless, nails ridged and horny, pipe-yellowed. His eyes, clouded, caring no longer to see, nor his mind to remember.

  Will he, Lorenzo, end this way? He has memories enough to keep him company, but they do not soothe him.

  * * *

  Cecile stands at her window, listening to the sounds of the night: the rhythmic song of friction-legged crickets and the throb of toads, above the rising tide. Moonbeams ripple across the olive grove, shivering the trees, and a tiny golden glow
moves through the darkness. The glow of a cigar.

  It’s past midnight when she succumbs to sleep. The house is still, but for the scratching of mice, and the quarter-hour chime of the great clock.

  There are footsteps beyond her door, and the knob turns, slowly, opening enough for fingertips to curl around the heavy oak. A face, pale, eyes intent, looks long upon the sleeping figure.

  She and He

  Beside him, Maud is still asleep, her eyelids trembling, as if thoughts trouble beneath them.

  He pushes down the coverlet and takes the soft flesh of her exposed breast, finds her nipple with his mouth, squeezes it between tongue and teeth.

  She twists towards him, sighs.

  His cock is rigid, pressed to her belly, ready to slip into the ancient rhythms of skin on skin.

  He lifts her leg, and guides his hardness between her lips. Cupping the underside of her buttocks, he draws her closer, driving through all that separates them, until there is no divide.

  Even in sleep, she responds to his body, her pelvis tipping to his entry. His lips, against her ear, whisper his love, his promises.

  She wakes with a gasp, like a swimmer breaking through the surface. Waking to the heat of his palms, pulling her onto his thrusts, his stubble grazing her neck. His hipbone grinding hers.

  There is nowhere to go but within each other. No more he and she.

  * * *

  The room is as she remembers it: the walls painted pale green, the bedspread patterned with oranges and lemons.

  She watches as he dresses, pulling on his costume for bathing, towel over his shoulder.

  ‘Come and join me,’ he says. ‘Come and swim.’

  When he’s gone, she seats herself at the dressing table. Her musical box is where she left it.

  Someone is only dead when all who knew them are dead.

  That’s what people say.

  The musical box plays still, although the hand that once turned the key is no longer here to do so, or to touch her forehead, or stroke her hair.