Overture in Venice

by Hester Rowan

  He snorted inelegantly. ‘Dignity my eye! Oh, I agree that it’ll be difficult for her to adjust to town life. She has very mixed feelings about the move. But will it be any less dignified for her to live in a modern flat, with a bedroom of her own and electricity and plumbing, than it has been to share that one-roomed hovel with a large family and an assortment of livestock? For goodness’ sake don’t sentimentalize other people’s poverty!’

  I swung myself crossly into the Haflinger. ‘All right, there’s no need to lecture me. I just think that she’ll be unhappy in a town, that’s all.’

  He shrugged. ‘You may be right at that,’ he said mildly. ‘Let’s just agree to hope not, for her sake.’ He settled in the driving seat, looked at me and grinned. ‘And now, before we go back to civilization, hadn’t you better do something about your face?’

  ‘My face?’ I snatched a compact out of my bag and looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks and forehead were streaked with dust from their close contact with the valley floor. ‘Honestly, why on earth didn’t you tell me …?’ I searched for a sachet of cologne-soaked tissue and applied it vigorously. ‘What an impression I must have made on Maddalena!’

  He chuckled. ‘A very good impression, I assure you. A bit of honest dirt on your face was exactly what was needed to break the ice with her. She’d have been too terrified to speak to you otherwise.’

  I paused in the vigorous act of combing dust out of my hair. ‘I didn’t hear them – or you – using any words that I recognized. I hope they’re not the people Alberto was afraid for, the ones he thought were in danger.’

  ‘I can’t think why they should be. They’ll be in real trouble, though, if Giorgio shoots anyone with that old army rifle of his.’

  ‘What’s he trying to do, defy anyone to move him out?’

  ‘That’s it exactly. Last stand at Trevalle. If I didn’t know for a fact that he’s never seen television in his life, I’d suspect him of watching too many old cowboy films.’

  ‘It’s serious though, isn’t it? Someone could get killed.’

  ‘I tried to explain all that. I asked him to let me have his rifle, but that upset him so much that I had to drop the idea. I’ve suggested to Maddalena that it would be a good thing to hide the shells, but she doesn’t know where the crafty old wretch keeps them.’

  The Haflinger lurched up the track towards the pumping station and then chugged along the new road that ran the length of the middle valley. I had tied my scarf over my hair again as a precaution against dust, but all was peaceful; the giant machines had retreated, their work done, leaving only a few trucks and yellow-helmeted engineers on the retaining wall.

  ‘I can’t help sympathizing with Giorgio,’ I said. ‘All right, the valley isn’t Arcadia – but it’s still his home.’

  ‘I sympathize with him too,’ said Guy. ‘Don’t imagine that I don’t. He’s far too old to be uprooted. But part of his reluctance to leave is on account of his son’s grave. Did you see it?’

  ‘A grave? That shrine at the bottom of the cliff?’

  ‘Yes. Pietro was the old man’s youngest child. He was a nice lad, but a bit of a tearaway. Left home, of course, as they all did except poor Maddalena, but he didn’t take kindly to the idea of working for a living.’

  ‘Like Alberto.’

  ‘Yes – except that Pietro didn’t have a wartime background as an excuse. He wandered off to Milan and then eventually to Rome, picking up easy money wherever he could find it. I don’t think that he became an out-and-out criminal but he did a lot of driving, helping the real villains to get away. Anyway, he came home occasionally, driving big cars that he said he’d borrowed and cadging off his father and sister – who both spoiled him rotten, incidentally. He came here last year and went poking about in the cave behind the farm. He’d been in there often enough as a boy and no one thought it was dangerous, but he got trapped by a rock fall.’

  ‘Poor fellow. How old was he?’

  ‘Twenty-three or -four, I think. He wasn’t far inside the cave, they could even see him but he was pinned down by a boulder and they couldn’t get him out. Maddalena ran all the way to the construction site for help while the old man tore at the rocks with his bare hands, but by the time the men arrived Pietro was dead. It would have been so difficult to get the body out that they left it in the cave. And now it isn’t the prospect of leaving the valley that upsets Giorgio so much as the idea of abandoning his son’s grave. That’s why he won’t let any stranger near. He says that men have been coming – surveyors, I imagine, but he takes it for granted that anyone who approaches is trying to winkle him out and he’s determined to stay.’

  ‘But he’s got no choice, I suppose?’

  ‘None at all. As I said, the valley will be cut off from the outside world so he can’t possibly stay. The local police will have to get him out if he won’t go voluntarily, and if Giorgio insists on a shoot-up they’ll probably bring in the carabinieri, the armed police.’

  ‘Heavens, that would be terrible! Surely there must be some way of persuading him out? What about the people who used to live in the valleys, couldn’t they do it?’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons why we’re going down to Trevalle now. Giorgio has relatives there, and I’m sure they’ll have made plans. But I’d like to know what the plans are, for my own peace of mind. And I’ll be glad if you’ll listen to what’s said, because we still don’t know what Alberto was alarmed about.’

  We had passed the junction with the steep unmade road that had brought us down from the mountain and were approaching the gleaming white concrete retaining wall of the reservoir when a large saloon car cruised past, coming from the direction of the town. I was too busy peering down into the empty depths of the reservoir to take any notice of the car, but I heard Guy give a sudden sharp intake of breath.

  ‘That was Zecchini! Driven by Belugi – I’m sure of it!’

  He did an emergency stop and swung round in his seat to watch the car accelerating up the smooth empty road towards the pumping station. ‘Yes, that’s the car they had down by Lake Garda. How the devil –’

  My mouth had gone suddenly dry. ‘But they couldn’t possibly have followed me!’

  He seized the wheel again. ‘Let’s not just sit discussing it, let’s get you out of here,’ he muttered between his teeth, working his way up through the gears again to get into top speed.

  I was still craning round to watch the car. It had stopped at the pumping station and I knew without question that only a four-wheel-drive vehicle – or a mule – could attempt the rough track that lay beyond.

  ‘They’ve turned,’ I reported. ‘Oh no – they’re coming back!’

  Guy was sitting forward in his seat as if to urge the Haflinger on. The little two-cylinder engine howled in protest as he tried to increase the revs. ‘It’s no good,’ he fumed. ‘It’s not meant for speed and there’s a cut-out that keeps it below fifty. We can’t hope to get away from them.’

  ‘Can’t we go back up the mountain road – they’d never be able to follow us up there?’

  ‘Too late. Well, there’s only one thing for it.’ He eased the little open vehicle to the side of the road, switched off the engine, glanced back at the approaching car and gave me a quizzical look. ‘They’re going to pass us again, and if we don’t want them to see our faces we’ll have to revert to the amorous couple act we used down at the lake. We’re out for a drive and I’ve stopped to kiss you – right?’

  ‘Well … won’t it be a bit unconvincing?’ I objected, gesturing at the view of concrete and bare earth. ‘You’d hardly bring a girl-friend to a place like this.’

  ‘Who’s looking at the landscape? An Italian out with an attractive girl has other things on his mind.’ He curved one hand round the back of my neck and drew me to him. ‘Stop arguing, Clare, and let’s get your face hidden. Sorry I hadn’t time to ask Owen’s permission first.’

  I opened my lips to make an indignant protest that I was not
Owen’s property, and then hastily closed them as Guy’s mouth came down on mine. His arms encircled me, holding me close against his denim jacket. Our bodies were tense, our hearts thudding, our breath loud in our own ears as we listened to the sound of Zecchini’s car.

  It approached, had almost passed – and then we heard a squeal of rubber on concrete as the brakes were applied, hard.

  Chapter Nine

  We both held our breath. Guy’s arms tightened round me and his chin scraped against my cheek as he turned his head cautiously to look.

  A car door slammed. A voice shouted – a dark thick voice that I was sure was Zecchini’s – and another lighter voice shouted back. Belugi, shouting at Zecchini? Unlikely. And then another voice cut in, and another, and in a moment a full-scale Italian altercation was in progress a few yards from where we sat.

  Guy’s grip relaxed and I peered over his shoulder. An engineer’s truck had apparently come along the road on top of the dam from the right, and the driver had exercised the Continental rule of priority. Zecchini had slammed on his brakes not because he recognized us, but because the truck driver had shot out straight into his path, preferring to be right rather than reasonable.

  We both breathed out. Guy released me with more speed than gallantry. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, starting the engine, turning the little Haflinger on a new penny and rattling back at top speed towards the steep road that led up the mountain. As we turned on to it, I risked a backward glance. The group was still there, vehicles nose to nose, men’s arms waving. Just one of them was staring after us; I couldn’t be sure from that distance which he was, but he certainly wasn’t one of the men in safety helmets.

  ‘They couldn’t have recognized us,’ said Guy with conviction.

  ‘One of them wondered why we left so sharply, though.’

  He shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t know the vehicle. Besides, it would seem natural enough for us to clear out – they’d spoiled our privacy, and we might have been afraid we’d be dragged into their row if we’d stayed.’

  ‘But how did Zecchini come to be here?’ I said. ‘We know that they didn’t follow us to the villa, or over these mountains. What on earth are they doing here at all?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering about that. I’d assumed that Alberto had given you his message, and that Zecchini had followed you to find out what it was. Knowing his reputation, that put you in real danger. But on second thoughts, it seems a bit unlikely.‘

  ‘You mean – a man with Zecchini’s reputation would get the message out of Alberto himself?’

  ‘Can you doubt it? Once Zecchini knew that Alberto had information about something of great value, he’d have no scruples about wringing it out of him before getting rid of him. So Zecchini almost certainly knows more about Alberto’s message than we do – and you must be right about Alberto’s reference to Trevalle, otherwise the two of them wouldn’t be here. They may have followed you to Lake Garda, but I don’t think they’re following you now.’

  ‘Perhaps they just wanted to make sure that I was a tourist,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘When they saw Alberto talking to me, they probably thought I was some kind of contact, and followed me to find out exactly who I was.’

  Guy nodded agreement. ‘For all we know there may be other people after this mysterious thing of great value. That was why Zecchini wanted to keep an eye on you, in case you were working with someone else. But now that he’s convinced himself that you’re simply on holiday, there’s no reason why he should be concerned with you any longer.’

  The Haflinger had snorted its way up the mountainside and Guy stopped it at the point where we had looked down into the valley on our arrival. We looked again. There was no sign of either vehicles or people. The mountains had begun to cast their shadow over the valley, and the engineers had packed up and gone home.

  Guy scanned the area through his binoculars. ‘I wonder what Zecchini was up to – whether he was searching for something or just reconnoitring. And I wonder who Alberto thought was in danger down there …’

  ‘Do you think that he meant someone in the valleys or in the town?’

  ‘It could be either. The name means literally Three Valleys, but now that the last of the rural population has been moved to the town – apart from old Giorgio and his family – I think the town is where I’ll find the answer. I’ll go down there tomorrow morning.’

  ‘All right, I’ll come with you to listen for clues.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ he said authoritatively without even bothering to lower his binoculars. ‘Not with Zecchini around.’

  ‘But we’ve just agreed that Zecchini isn’t interested in me any longer.’

  This time he looked at me with disapproval. ‘My dear girl, use your intelligence. Zecchini lost interest in you when he discovered that you were an English holidaymaker sunning yourself down by Lake Garda. The moment he sees you with me asking questions in Trevalle, you’re in danger again.’

  ‘What about you, then?’ I demanded, nettled. ‘He saw you with me in Venice – what’ll he think when he finds you in Trevalle?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll never notice me,’ said Guy confidently. ‘It’s your cornfield hair that’s the problem.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But at least you had the sense to wear your scarf this afternoon, to cover it. And the love scene was a good idea, don’t you think?’ he went on blandly. ‘Mind you, I’d have appreciated a little more co-operation – but then, of course, there’s Owen to think about. I’ll confess to him that I tried to kiss you, but I’ll report that you behaved with perfect propriety and refused to respond.’

  ‘It wasn’t for his benefit that I didn’t respond,’ I said stiffly, trying to recall Owen’s face and the touch of his hand but conscious that my skin was still tingling from the pressure of Guy’s kiss. ‘What I do or don’t do is no concern of Owen’s.’

  Guy raised his eyebrows in infuriating mock surprise. ‘Really? That wasn’t the impression that he gave me in Venice …’

  By the time I’d thought of a suitably disdainful reply, it seemed more dignified not to make it at all.

  Guy’s half-brother Vincente was at the villa when we returned, having dragged himself away from his printing works in order to greet the expected guests from Brazil. Vincente was in his late forties, shorter than Guy and smaller-boned, with a receding hairline, a sleek moustache, excellent teeth, a small paunch and neat, almost delicate hands and feet. His English was slow and careful, and as we sat on the terrace sipping drinks while we waited for Dr Lang and his daughter to arrive, Vincente entertained me with a résumé of current problems in the Italian printing industry.

  ‘Tell us about Dr Lang, my dear,’ Caterina intervened. ‘I’ve forgotten how you came to know of him.’

  Vincente reluctantly broke off his disquisition on labour relations. ‘As I told you, I did not know of him until he telephoned me at the office from long distance. He said that he had known my father during the war. Our father,’ he amended, nodding cordially to Guy who had pushed aside some climbing roses in order to lean on the balustrade. ‘He was coming to Italy and as he would be in this district he wished to pay his respects.’

  ‘But how did he find your office?’ Caterina asked.

  ‘Is not difficult – the firm still bears our father’s name.’

  ‘A useful invention, the telephone,’ Guy agreed. ‘I must say, Dr Lang seemed very pleasant when I met him in Venice. I think you’ll like him, Caterina. And his daughter’s stunning.’

  ‘So you have told us before,’ said his sister-in-law indulgently.

  ‘How did a Brazilian come to meet your father during the war?’ I asked Guy. ‘He was a partisan, I think you said.’

  ‘That’s right – but Dr Lang obviously doesn’t originate from Brazil. Somewhere in Central Europe, wouldn’t you say, Vincente?’

  ‘From his accent, yes.’ Vincente turned to me to explain: ‘There were many nationalities in Italy during the war. S
ides were taken, things were done … after so many years we do not enquire too close how people met.’

  ‘And this is his first visit here since then?’ Caterina asked.

  ‘I got the impression that he’d been to Italy since, but not to this district,’ said Guy. ‘Still, I gave him a map and detailed instructions for finding the villa, so I hope he’ll get here without too much trouble.’

  ‘It is very agreeable of him to want to visit his old friend’s sons,’ said Caterina. ‘I shall be happy to welcome him and his daughter. But now, a difficulty. Maria’s mother cannot come to help me this evening. I have cooked only a simple dinner but Maria is young and unused to serving, and is afraid of shaming our hospitality by dropping something. So you are all please to help her as much as possible. You too, Clare – like your nice Owen, you are one of the family.’

  Guy gave me a fraternal wink. I ignored him. Caterina disappeared to the kitchen and Vincente drew me aside to reveal in confidential detail his plans for revitalizing his printing works.

  By the time Dr Lang and his daughter arrived the evening sun had faded from the terrace. We gathered in the marble-floored salotto, and Guy immediately manoeuvred himself to Isabel Lang’s side.

  There was no doubt why; as he’d said, she was stunning. In her late twenties, a year or two older than me, dark-haired with widely-set dark eyes above high cheekbones and an enviable deep velvet voice. Her personality radiated warmth and Guy was understandably anxious to bask in it.

  For my part, I was fascinated by her father. Henry Lang had the looks of a veteran film actor: tall, lean, bronzed, with well-groomed thick grey hair and deep lines that gave a handsome maturity to his face. Whereas his daughter’s soft slow English, learned she told us in the Southern States, hinted of the Portuguese that would have been her mother tongue in Brazil, Dr Lang’s own American-English had a strong Middle European undertone.