Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  ‘Come with us,’ says Cecile again. ‘We can’t leave you here.’

  But the woman who was once Livia has closed her ears, turning her face to the wall.

  As she pulls the bundle towards her, Cecile sees again the tiny face, with its open, upturned lips. Not a baby, but a doll.

  * * *

  ‘I will tell you all I know. But not here,’ says Lucrezia. ‘In the garden.’

  How long ago it seems, that first day, when Cecile explored the fragrant terraces, and delighted in the cascading of lush blooms.

  They close the door, returning to the light.

  ‘You told me that she’d died,’ admonishes Cecile, as they hurry down the steps. ‘But you knew all along… knew she was here.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you all of the truth,’ Lucrezia admits. ‘What good would it have done for you to know everything?’

  ‘I might have married him,’ says Cecile, ‘Not knowing what he’d done!’

  Lucrezia looks behind them, as if to check they are unheard and not followed.

  ‘I told you most of the story. You remember that Livia had a baby? It was Camillo who visited her in the night, her own father. It’s no wonder that she began to lose her wits. Lorenzo tells me he remembers hearing her crying, often. She would never speak of it.’

  Lucrezia looks again over Cecile’s shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps Isabella never knew. They say that mothers do not always, or that they cannot allow themselves to believe.’

  Cecile looks out at the sea, upon which the sun catches brightly.

  It seems so cruel that we feel the warmth and light, while one who might sit with us, had life treated her more kindly, remains in darkness.

  ‘They hid her away, in the asylum, not just for the wild behaviour she began to exhibit, but to conceal the pregnancy. The baby died, but she did not, and whatever remaining sanity she possessed ebbed away. Through grief I suppose, and being put in such a place. I’m sure that we’d lose our reason too, under those circumstances.’

  ‘It’s too barbarous,’ says Cecile.

  ‘When Lorenzo first brought me here, he showed me her tower. Her room was simply furnished but she had a window, and Vittoria would sit with her. I believe him that, when he claimed her from the asylum, he’d hoped to offer her a life of some comfort. He was brave in some respects, for his own mother believes Livia to be dead. Lorenzo could have lived with the same lie. Instead, he found her, and returned her to her family home.’

  Cecile cannot help but frown.

  ‘And what now? She’s too inconvenient, so is parted from all humanity, confined in that dark, dreadful place. This I cannot forgive him.’

  ‘I agree that we cannot leave her there,’ concedes Lucrezia. ‘But I don’t know what we may do. The strings of the mind, like those of a violin or piano, easily run out of order, and I fear Livia can never be mended.’

  Lucrezia takes Cecile’s hands in hers.

  ‘I’ll speak with Magdalena. It may be that we can take her from the crypt. There’s a passageway from that chamber, which runs under the sand, to Scogliera. A relative of Magdalena may agree to look after Livia. Money can always be found. Lorenzo is generous in the purse he allows the kitchen. We might say that she escaped and drowned, if we leave her clothes upon the rocks.’

  ‘Yes…’ says Cecile, wiping a tear from her eye.

  ‘And then we too must disappear, mia cara. We aren’t safe here. Despite these plans of marriage, my brother is not content. I fear that, as his wife, he does not intend to do kindly to you, and that, soon, his spite will turn on us.’

  The sun is warm, yet Cecile cannot help but shiver.

  ‘Mia bella,’ says Lucrezia, placing her arm about Cecile’s shoulders. ‘I’ve been wandering in the dark but I’ve found you. Let’s leave this place. It’s too full of others’ history, reaching into the present. We should make our own history now.’

  Consumed

  Lorenzo has been drinking for many hours, having begun before dinner: a solemn affair, in which neither his bride-to-be, nor Lucrezia were able to return his conversation.

  Hell take them!

  Lorenzo is tired of waiting. In the morning, the padre will come, early, as soon as the tide recedes and his horse may cross the sands.

  They’ll speak their vows in the chapel, without guests, or wedding gown, or flowers. He’ll drag her from her bed if necessary and hold her upon her knees before the altar, but he’ll have his way.

  She’s of the age of consent. Once we’re joined in the eyes of God, no one shall have the power to challenge our union. She’ll do as she’s bidden, and her brother may gnash his teeth all he likes, without authority to interfere.

  He raises the decanter once more, but it’s empty.

  How long has he been plagued by this hopeless longing? He’s yearned for something, but known not what, wasting time and energy in pursuit of endless distractions. Now, he knows what he wants. An heir! She’ll bear him fine children, he’s certain, and they’ll be his legacy. Sons! This is what he wants.

  The seas are eternal, as are the wind, and thunder and all elementals, but not human flesh. It withers and fades. The body is finite. Even the brightest light may be extinguished, and he is weary to the bone.

  Is it the curse of the White Contessa, bringing down her ill-wished prophecies on the men of his line, or is it his own wickedness, that leads him on devilish paths?

  His heart is a night garden of buried deeds, in which virtue has been strangled by rambling, venomous creepers, poisoned by the serpent’s fang.

  His head is growing heavy, nodding to rest on his chest. His cigar droops from his fingers.

  Quietly, the shelving in the wall slides open. Someone is standing silently, watching, having emerged from the darkness.

  Lorenzo dozes, and dreams that the crushing hand of mortality is at his throat. He wonders, as he has on other nights, who or what may await him when he crosses from this world to the next.

  It’s Livia who grips his neck, her eyes alight as she squeezes her brother’s last breaths from his chest.

  The cigar is still glowing, its heat catching easily at the papers on the desk. How beautifully they flare, curling to ash at her touch. Such a little thing, but look what it can do. She holds it to a newspaper folded on the table, to a book lying open, to the curtains.

  Flames lick upwards.

  Death

  A room full of paper makes a feast for crimson tongues. Hot and hungrily, they consume. The flames are undiscerning. All volumes are to their taste.

  The leering devils carved into the shelves find they dance more merrily in the heat of fire. Swooping down the chimney, the wind blows encouragement on the blaze.

  Livia drops the cigar onto Lorenzo’s lap and runs from the room, her bare feet taking her up the stairs. It’s dark, but she knows the way. Along the corridor and up to her tower room. It looks larger, without her bed. She takes a cushion from the armchair and hunches behind.

  Best to hide, she thinks. Hide where no one will find me.

  * * *

  Cecile wakes to the smell of smoke, and a fist beating upon her door.

  ‘Quickly!’ Lucrezia implores. ‘We’ll take the servants’ stair, down to the kitchen.’

  Agatha stands beside her, holding an oil lamp, looking frailer than usual, her face grey with fear, coughing at the fumes drifting around them.

  Holding her between them, Cecile and Lucrezia have almost reached the end of the passage when they hear a long and melancholy keening.

  ‘It’s the wind,’ says Lucrezia, but Cecile knows better.

  ‘Not the wind,’ she says. ‘It’s her!’

  A sorrowful, spiralling note drifts down the corridor, from the direction of the tower.

  ‘We must leave,’ insists Lucrezia.

  But Cecile is already turning back the way they’ve come.

  ‘Take Agatha to safety. I’ll try to find Livia.’

  Lucrezia calls Cecile’s name, but
she’s already gone, feeling her way through the dark, her fingers keeping contact with the wall, following the wailing lament, until she reaches the door to the tower.

  It’s open.

  Lifting the hem of her nightdress, she takes the stairs as quickly as she can, groping for the edge of each step above her. The air clears as she ascends, the smoke being yet to reach this part of the castle.

  The room appears empty, but for a chair that’s seen better days, its rose-brocade faded, threads loose and puckered. Tattered braiding trails from dusty curtains, hanging forlornly from their crooked rail. A simple chandelier, empty of candles, moves in the draught, its few glass beads tinkling faintly.

  Apart from this, the room is silent.

  There is little enough light. The moon, barely at half-strength, shines weakly through the window.

  ‘Livia,’ urges Cecile. ‘We must go. Come with me.’

  There’s a mirror on the wall, mottled with age. Cecile sees herself in its dingy reflection. For a moment, it’s as if she’s the occupant of this pitiful room; she the one who must be saved. Then, behind her, something moves. The mirror shows her a crouching figure. A ghost from the past, with a face bone-white, and eyes beetle-dark.

  She is whimpering.

  ‘It’s me. You’re safe,’ coaxes Cecile.

  I’ll never be safe, thinks Livia.

  She almost knocks Cecile to the floor as she rushes past and takes the stairs again. Not down but up.

  ‘Livia!’ Cecile calls, following close behind.

  Lorenzo’s warning had some truth, for the steps have deteriorated badly. Her feet are small, yet twice she slips, grazing her shin.

  Smoke has begun to enter, rising, the smell acrid, but at last, having climbed the curving spiral, doing her best to judge the distance from one step to the next, Cecile reaches the upper door. It is cast open, the brisk night air sweeping in, with refreshing coolness.

  Coming out onto the flat of the roof, Cecile sees, ahead of her, the wind whisking Livia’s long hair. Torn strips of cloud are streaming across the moon. Livia runs, climbing onto the battlements.

  ‘Wait!’ Cecile’s voice is taken by the swiftness of the breeze.

  She races to her, placing her own foot on the stone’s edge.

  They stand, nightdresses billowing, looking down at the tumbling froth, and the straining sinew of the sea.

  There is the sound of glass shattering, and flames begin to leap from the windows, fumes belching out from the fiery belly of the library.

  Cecile reaches for Livia, who hugs her bundle closer to her chest. The small face is visible, the face of the doll who is not a baby, but represents the baby who might have been.

  For a moment, Cecile imagines how easy it would be to hold hands, and step into the air together.

  There is the sound of coughing behind them, as Lucrezia stumbles onto the roof.

  ‘Quickly! You must come now!’ she exhorts, her voice rasping.

  Cecile looks towards the sloping gardens, where the leaves shimmer, wild, on the whipping arms of dark branches. From this corner point, she can see both the harbour and the open sea, the terrace on one side of the library — where she crouched, eavesdropping on Lorenzo — and the castle wall, sheer beneath them, upon its granite plinth.

  As she turns, she sees the flutter of white fabric.

  Livia di Cavour has flown free, down, to the welcoming glow in the darkness.

  She disappears into the night. Into the sea.

  * * *

  The White Contessa watches over the two young women as they flee through walls of billowing smoke and blazing cinders. As they pass, through crack and spit and roar, she blows back the flames and fumes, that would scorch and choke them. In their wake, the fire leaps once more, fuelled by her molten anger. She watches the demise of the ancestral home of the di Cavours, who made each other what they were, and are.

  Cecile and Lucrezia stumble, at last, from the kitchen door, faces blackened with soot, clutching one another. Their feet take them to safety, where Agatha and the loyal servants of the household stand, beneath overhanging oleanders, faces raised in awe, and fear, and lit by the fierce heat.

  The castle remembers, as it burns.

  Awakening

  Henry had long dreamed of unravelling the mysteries of the universe, as if they were a puzzle to solve. To this end, he has studied the classics of Greek and Roman literature, attended dissections of the human body, and wandered the streets of London, seeking to understand human nature through the observation of each face. He has believed that time will bring ultimate wisdom. Now, he realizes that these mysteries will only ever be partially understood. They are not to be solved, only to be experienced, and the greatest mystery of all is our ability to love another more than our own self.

  Certain forces drive us through this life: hunger, the need for comfort and shelter, for warmth, and curiosity for learning, but one drives more forcefully than all the rest: the desire for love, the desire to find a kindred spirit.

  Why did he marry? What did he hope for?

  He’d long realized that perfection, as the world defined it, bored him. Instead, he has chosen a wife who’s unbiddable, unfathomable. She possesses elegance and manners but demonstrates them not for the benefit of others, as much as for her own ease.

  They are husband and wife, yet she remains a mystery to him in many ways. How far do her kisses reveal her thoughts? He thinks of his hands sliding over her body, his body sliding into her. What does he learn from the small, indefinable sounds that escape her, that he listens for?

  She is like the sea, the depths of which are inscrutable. He sees what she allows him to see, reading the small clues that float occasionally to the surface.

  And how much he loves her, not just with passion but with steadfast love. What happiness he feels at the sight of her, the sound of her voice, and the scent of her body.

  Maud’s eyes are closed in sleep beside him, her breathing regular. The fever has passed. It’s been many days since her kidnapping, and the fire at the Castello. What fearsome alignment of the stars there must have been. He might have lost two, dearest to him in all the world. His Cecile, and his Maud. Both are safe now.

  She shifts beneath the sheets, stirs, and sighs, and wakes. Her eyes are moist with tears.

  ‘My darling,’ he whispers. ‘There’s only you and me. Nothing bad. Nothing to harm you.’

  Maud’s eyes meet his for a long, sorrowful moment, and her lips attempt to form words. She is a scorched moth, drawn to the deadly flame. Fragile. Mortal. The soft beauty of her body will be its downfall.

  Her mouth on Henry’s is soft and compliant, opening to him. Her body, too, wishing to be taken charge of, and cherished. She takes his musk-scented strength inside herself.

  ‘I love you,’ he tells her, and she knows that he speaks the truth.

  His love is not for an idea of what she might be but for herself, in spite of all that she is, and because of it.

  New Beginnings

  ‘Oh! Scappa!’ cries Lucrezia, startled by a plump and hairy caterpillar investigating the crook of her elbow. ‘What a vile thing!’

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ says Maud, lifting it from her arm and placing it upon a nearby leaf. ‘From the unpromising caterpillar comes the butterfly. It retreats temporarily into its cocoon and transforms, born to beauty, and the freedom of the air.’

  ‘I like the idea of freedom,’ muses Cecile. ‘Maud, can one marry and be free do you think?’

  ‘History tends to show us otherwise,’ Maud replies, with a half-smile. ‘But, it’s up to us to write new rules. Perhaps it can be done…’

  ‘Of course, there’s no need for you to wed yourselves to men and the predictability that entails,’ asserts Agatha, lifting the teapot. ‘I am deeply sorry, my dears, for your loss, and I cannot begin to imagine how Isabella will take the news of her son’s death. I shall travel to London, I think, to spend some time with her. She will be distraught. Though
Lorenzo’s behaviour was not always as she would have wished, the bonds of blood cannot be denied. The loss of a child is inevitably painful.’

  She visits each cup.

  ‘I shall not presume to probe your heart Cecile, but I hope that any wound may soon be mended. The Conte, I fear, would never have made you happy.’

  Cecile, her eyes upon the honeysuckle pattern of her teacup, finds that her heart is strangely untouched, and the realization shames her.

  ‘If you do decide to marry, one day,’ Agatha continues, ‘There will be other suitors. Meanwhile, you may be whatever you choose and, my darlings, you’ll always have a home here, at the Villa Scogliera.’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Agatha,’ answers Lucrezia. ‘I may well be in need of your hospitality.’

  Cecile rises to give the old lady a kiss upon the cheek.

  ‘I shall write to Isabella,’ says Maud, ‘Offering my condolences. She was very good to me, during my stay with her in London.’

  ‘She thinks of you with great fondness, my dear,’ says Agatha. ‘There was a daughter, but she died. A frail girl, I heard. No doubt, Isabella found great comfort in your company.’

  Cecile and Lucrezia’s eyes meet, but they say nothing.

  ‘Such a terrible tragedy,’ remarks Maud, ‘For that ancient castle to be left in ruins. I visited often, as a child. The gardens are beautiful, I recall.’

  She takes a sip of hot tea.

  ‘I never met Lorenzo there. He was always away: at university, and then travelling, or residing in Siena, I believe.’

  ‘Did you not meet in London?’ asks Lucrezia, ‘Not so long ago…?’

  Maud’s eyes flash, but she composes herself. The question goes unanswered.

  ‘And sad, also, to lose one’s home. I understand that there’s little provision for you, Lucrezia, in your brother’s will, and some distant cousin inherits the title...’

  ‘We were only half-siblings,’ admits Lucrezia, ‘However, my jewels were in my pockets when we fled. My brother was generous in his gifts. The gems are real… as far as I know.’