A ruling passion : a novel (68 page)

leave him behind again, Nick thought. I'll find a way to reschedule meetings. If I don't he might never do a hundredth of the things he wants to do.

At dawn they were over the Italian Alps. Frothy clouds, tinged pink and coral from the rising sun, nesded in the valleys between the snow-covered peaks; the sky was a burst of light. And when they landed in Rome and the Italian passengers gave an ovation of ecstatic applause, the sun was up, already hot, turning the city's umber brick buildings to deep red-gold.

Nick's room in the Hotel Hassler, at the top of the Spanish Steps, looked out over red tile rooftops and the domes of dozens of churches interspersed with the dark green of Cyprus, pine and plane trees. The cobblestone Piazza de Spagna, at the foot of the Spanish Steps, was a kaleidoscope of families, business people, tourists, and children climbing over the dolphins in the fountain of Barcacia. The steps themselves, broad and steep, with carts of bright flowers beneath picnic umbrellas, were densely populated with people of all ages who lounged in the sun, read, gossiped, held passionate discussions, climbed up and down, and photographed the panorama of Rome in the distance. The steps, Nick would discover, were never empty. They thinned out at dawn, but by late afternoon they were carpeted with people, shifting, wriggling, gesticulating, being part of the scene.

He took photographs for Chad, and then turned and photographed the other three sides of the piazza, bordered by ancient, peeling brick and plaster buildings separated by narrow streets that led into and out of the square like mysterious dark passageways drawing Nick to the heart of the city.

I want to see it all, he thought, standing beside a flower vendor in the square. And he smiled. Just like my son.

But he spent that afternoon in meetings, and the next day as well, working out the last of the details that led, finally, to signed agreements that allowed E8cN to set up an Italian news bureau, including satellite uplinks and studio and office space for a reporter, a cameraman, a technician and a bookkeeper/secretary.

When the agreements were signed, it was four o'clock in the afl:er-noon. He was in Rome, elated with what he had accomplished, wanting to celebrate, and his only plans were to have dinner in a few hours with his Italian business associates. Something of a letdown, he thought ruefully and, back in his hotel room, he picked up the telephone and called Chad. But it was morning in Vermont, and Chad and his friend were horseback riding. So Nick called his office.

^^Buon£[wmo/' said Les. "Did it fly?"

"On schedule; everything we wanted," Nick replied. "That's a pretty good accent; you'd do fine here."

'Tou just heard my entire Italian vocabulary. Have you had any time to play?"

"This is a business trip, remember? What's happening there that I should know about?"

"How much can happen in two days? Let's see. Monica has an idea for a series of original dramas; it sounds chancy to me, but I have a feeling you'll like it. She's writing it up. Oh, one thing you might think about while you're there. You know Valerie's little guy? The one we're researching?"

"Scutigera. Did you find something on him?"

"Nothing much. Remember the newspapers picked it up after her show, but didn't find a lot more than Valerie had. Good publicity for her, though. Anyway, we found a yacht he chartered for a party off the Canaries, but who knows? It was billed as a cocktail party and it might have been. The son of a bitch is as tight as a tin can. Or he's clean. We'd like to ask him about the yacht, though, and a few other things; trouble is, he may not be around. We called for a follow-up interview and whoever answered said he was ill and going home to die."

"How ill? He was fine three months ago when Valerie talked to him."

"They didn't confide in me."

Nick thought about it. "Lousy timing. But if we get anything, we could do the piece without him."

"Sure, but who wants to? Listen, this is what I'm getting at. He went home to die. Where do you think home is for a guy named Salvatore Scutigera?"

Nick grinned. "I'd say somewhere around here. Where is he?"

"Siena. Small town not too far from—"

"Florence."

"Which I think is not too far from Rome."

"Four hours. There's a high-speed train. I could go up tomorrow morning—No, damn it, I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon for Paris."

"Can you put it off?"

"No. How close is he to dying?"

"Nobody gave me a timetable. Could you get to him after Paris?"

"No, but I could after Munich. Five days from now. I'll get an interviewer and..." He stopped, remembering past lessons at Omega. "You set it up, Les. We've got a Rome office now; they'll work with

you. If you can have an interviewer and cameraman waiting for me in Florence in five days, we'll drive to Siena together and try to get something out of him; it may be our last chance. And send me the questions you've got for him."

He was beginning to feel excited. How did he always end up behind a desk, he wondered, when it was always more fim to be in the middle of things, doing the work?

"What else can we do for you?" asked Les.

"We need his address," Nick replied.

"Good idea. I'll ask Valerie to get it. She met his staff when she was at his house here; they'll give it to her. She could get his phone number too. In fact, she could call him, to set up the interview. He liked her."

"Fine. Unless it would be better to take him by surprise. Ask her what she thinks; she knows him, and we don't."

"I'll talk to her right away," Les said, and the minute he hung up the telephone he went to the main office and found Valerie at her desk, writing a new script. "Can I interrupt? I just talked to Nick."

She looked up. "Did they sign the agreement?"

"It's all wrapped up; Nick usually gets what he goes after. Listen, we need your help. We want to get an interview with Scutigera while he's still alive and kicking. I'm getting an interviewer and a cameraman from Rome, and Nick will go with them to Siena when he finishes up in Paris and Munich. What do you think, should we take him by surprise or call ahead? And if we call ahead, can you set it up? He trusts you, right?"

"Just a minute." Valerie gazed past him, at the windows on the far wall. Dark clouds moved sluggishly across the sky; it had been raining all day. And she had been missing Nick. It astonished her to discover how much she missed him. She had been seeing him once a week for a conversation that took place in a bright, public corridor and lasted less than ten minutes. Not what most people would call a haunting memory. But that was only a part of what she missed. Just as much, she missed knowing he was in the studio or the control room when she taped her program, and knowing he was in the same building while she did her work. She had not realized how important his presence had become, just the knowledge that he was nearby, while she tried to make up her mind whether to pursue him or not.

She made up her mind. "I should be there," she said to Les. "It doesn't make sense to use an Italian interviewer who's never met Sal, when I have. He's hard to get close to; why start from scratch? He

knows me, he trusts me, he probably wouldn't be surprised to see me come back." Her voice grew more urgent. "Les, I want to do this. There's no reason for me to pave the way for somebody with a phone call. If I can pave the way, I should be doing the interview."

Les was grinning. "A true journalist; totally possessive about her story. I understand that; I admire it. But Nick's set it up, Val; I can't tell him I'm sending you to do it."

"Then I will." She had suddenly realized how much she did want to do it. She'd want it whether Nick was there or not. And with stunning clarity she saw how far she had come from the days when she and her mother had discussed her marrying Edgar because there was no alternative. She would fly across the ocean to be with Nick for awhile, away from the office, but she was driven just as much by journalistic fervor, and that made her feel very good. "I'll call him and tell him I'll meet him in Siena on"—she reached for her calendar—"Thursday. No, I can't. I tape my show on Thursday. It will have to be Friday. He'll understand." She looked at Les. "I'm sorry; I'm going too fast, aren't I? Is it all right, Les? Can I do it?"

He hesitated, but not for long. He knew she was right. "Yes. But I want you to take your own camera crew and director. We might as well do it right. And I'll be the one to call Nick; if s a change in plans that has to come from me."

"It did come from you," Valerie said.

"It's a phone call that ought to come from me," he said firmly.

Reluctantly, she nodded. "I'd like to talk to him about arrangements, when you're through."

"Good enough," he said. "I'll call you when we're ready."

He went to his office. Valerie sat still, looking at the heavy clouds through the rain-streaked window. It would be sunny in Italy, she thought. It would be warm and beautiftil and wonderflil in Italy.

She sat still, thinking about Italy, waiting for Les to finish talking to Nick. And then it would be her turn.

Chapter 24

( M M he sun was shining in Florence; the air was warm

^^ U and still. Valerie opened wide the tall windows and

^\ ^m shutters of her room in the Hotel Monna Lisa

\^^^^ overlooking the courtyard garden, and unpacked,

hanging her clothes in the antique armoire. She

had not asked where Nick was staying. Knowing that E8cN would pay

the bill, she made her own reservation, choosing a hotel she had never

been in before: lower-priced than anything she would have chosen in

her other life, but more expensive than she could afford on her own.

Five centuries earlier, the Monna Lisa had been a palace for a Medici prince, and it still felt like one, with soaring ceilings, high leaded windows, polished stone floors and a winding stone staircase to the second floor where niches held ancient statues and urns. The courtyard was lush with roses, pomegranates, and lemon and olive trees; and the enormous leaded-glass doors of the dining room, where breakfast was served every day, opened onto it. It was a small, very private hotel, neither luxurious nor grand, but to Valerie, taking her first vacation since Carlton's death a year and a half earlier, it was one of the most beautiful places in the world.

As soon as she unpacked, she telephoned Salvatore Scutigera.

'TSIo, no; he is very ill," said his daughter, Rosanna. She was not friendly. "He refuses to talk to anyone, only me, and not even me, very much. He just reads and looks at his garden."

"It's very important that I talk to him again," Valerie said. "I came to Italy just for this reason."

"About what?"

"Parts of his story we didn't have time for; there's so much we didn't talk about."

"Well, you won't now either. You don't understand; he doesn't talk. And when he does, he talks only in Italian. It's like he's forgotten he was an American for most of his life."

"He might talk to me; we became friends," said Valerie in Italian.

"Ah!" cried Rosanna. "But, still... No, I'm sorry, I can't do it."

"Rosanna," said Valerie urgently. She tried to think of the right words. This was her story, and she couldn't let it slip away. "I think your father might Uke to record for history what he's done with his life. If he doesn't want to, of course I won't intrude on him, but what if he does? We ought to give him that chance. He's done so much with world leaders who will be immortal on film and television tape, why shouldn't Sal be able to do the same? Would you ask him that?"

There was a silence. "He always thought he was smarter than all those so-called leaders," Rosanna said at last.

Valerie was silent; it was not a time to push.

"I would be there, too?" Rosanna asked. "To protect him from the wrong questions," she added hastily.

Valerie smiled. It had nothing to do with protecting her father; Rosanna wanted to be on television, too. "Of course you'd be there," she said.

"Well, then. I think I could ask him. I don't know what he'll say, of course, but... in case he says yes, could you come at, say, ten o'clock the day after tomorrow?"

"Yes, that would be fine."

"But what shall I do if he reftises to have a camera there?" asked Rosanna, suddenly worried. "He doesn't like cameras."

"Tell him we'll cancel the interview," Valerie said firmly, knowing she was safe: Rosanna was on her side. "Tell him I haven't figured out how to do a television interview without a camera."

Rosanna laughed. "I'll tell him; he'll like that. Day after tomorrow, then..."

Valerie put down the telephone and whirled around her small room.

She was going to get her story. And if she was right, and she did find another side to Scutigera, she was going to put together a sixteen-minute report on him that no one could resist, and use it to move up fi-om reporting four-minute segments to being a full reporter on "Blow-Up."

But that wasn't what she told Nick that evening, when he called from his room at the Excelsior Hotel. She told him only that she had an appointment, and her cameraman and director would arrive the next day.

"That was quick," he said. "You were right; no one else should be doing this. Have you had dinner?"

"No. But I made reservations, in case you got here in time."

"So did I. Shall we toss a coin?"

"You said you hadn't been here before."

"I haven't. I hope you'll show me some of the sights. I called from Munich; a friend there recommended Sabatini."

Valerie banished Enoteca Pinchiorri from her plans; they would go there another night. "It's very good," she said. "\Vhat time?"

"Eight. Is that all right? It gives you less than an hour."

"Ifs fine. I'll see you there. Do you know where it is? The Via Panzini."

"I'll find it. How long will it take me to walk there?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"I'll be waiting for you."

It was only when they had hung up that Valerie wondered at the casual ease of their exchange. It had not even struck her that it was strange to make dinner plans with Nick for the first time in fourteen years, and to visualize him, a couple of miles away, in a hotel where she had stayed a dozen times.