Broken Chord (2 page)

Plump, ultra-feminine, bejewelled, superbly made-up and still pretty despite her age, Fiona beamed on her guests. “Ursula, Guido, my dears, I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve got quite a treat for you this evening.” Her husband, Ubaldo, faultlessly dressed, had a permanent smile fixed on his tanned face. He bowed and kissed Ursula’s hand, his eyes barely seeming to register her, before she was wafted on with Guido and ushered through to the main reception room where rows of chairs had been set out facing a small raised dais. As soon as they were safely out of earshot, Fiona hissed in her husband’s ear, “Those emeralds are divine. What a waste. She should give them to her daughter. They only draw attention to her neck and let’s face it that’s the last thing she needs.” Her hand touched her own wrinkled neck briefly.

“I can just see you giving your stuff to Diana, my dear,” Ubaldo said through his teeth.

Fiona ignored that and said, “I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing with that toy-boy.”

“Use your imagination, Fiona.”

“I’d rather not.”

As soon as they left the room Ursula whispered, “I’m sure he’s on something.”

“Not surprising, he’d need to be living with that.” Guido’s eyes were already darting round taking note of everything, the paintings, the furnishings and the colours.

“It’s his eyes, they never connect,” she said thoughtfully.

“He’s probably up to his eyeballs in Xanax.”

“And that smile.”

“Plastic surgery. He’s got no choice. He has to smile; his skin’s been stretched so much.” Guido grinned.

“Really! Remind me not to go for it.”

“You don’t need it, darling.” He knew when she was fishing for a compliment and always made quite sure she got what she wanted.

“Thank you, my love.”

Ursula entered the main room and smiled vaguely around her while Guido’s sharp rapacious eyes discerned who was present and decided the order in which they would be greeted. He murmured instructions in her ear and she moved regally, her hand extended showing her engagement ring to full advantage. The large diamond glittered in solitary splendour and she was aware it was the focus of everyone’s glances as she smiled and spoke the usual words of greeting, “My dear, it’s been ages…”

Her white evening dress made soft noises as she moved. It sheathed her sun-bronzed body and swathed her shoulders covering the more vulnerable areas of ageing skin. She was as tall as Guido but with none of his grace. She was big boned and walked a little awkwardly in her high heeled shoes as though unused to them. Guido’s guiding hand, lightly touching her waist, felt reassuring. He was quite invaluable. She wanted to interpret the way other women looked at her as envious, and tried to ignore the possibility that those subtle whispers were critical. They could laugh as much as they liked. She had what they didn’t, a handsome,
sexually-active
man. Whatever they might think or say, she knew it was wonderful to enter a room with a good-looking man. She sighed with pleasure. Fiona’s charity concert would no doubt be very good but already Ursula was planning her own which would be even better. She finally sat down, smoothing the dress underneath her, with a delicious feeling of anticipation.

In the kitchen at the villa, Marta, the housekeeper, watched as the woman finished loading the dishwasher, started it off and then washed and dried her hands before taking her apron off and hanging it up.

“That’s it. I’ve finished. See you tomorrow, goodnight, Signora.” Franca, the kitchen help, took her leave, using the formal you, ‘lei’. Her bicycle was waiting outside and she would cycle off into the warm evening, home to her husband and daughter. She lived in the village and Ursula had inherited her along with the house.

Marta and her husband Piero both smiled and said goodnight, but they used the more casual you ‘tu’ as they did with all servants. Piero waited until the door had closed before pouring himself a generous measure of Madam’s finest whisky. As always, he was dressed immaculately, in a sober fashion. His shirt was pale blue and the cuffs were held together by gold cuff links. He was tall and spare, his greying hair was cut very short. His face was austere, his eyes grey and shrewd. He looked what he was, a man of authority within his circumscribed sphere.

“So she’s going to marry him,” said Marta flatly. She’d been holding on to this piece of news, longing to bring it up and explore the ramifications, ever since Ursula had shown them the ring that afternoon with a strange kind of exultation.

“She’s a fool if she does. All he wants is her money. I’d have thought she’d have realised that by now.”

“Oh I don’t know. She needs a man. You know she can’t live without one. Anyway she’ll make sure he can’t get his hands on too much of the money. At least he’s better than the last one.”

“He’ll take as much as he can get from her, but you’re right, anything would be better than Carletto.” He remembered the scenes, the broken vases hurled across the floor, the childish tantrums and then of course the disgusting, the obscene truths shouted for all to hear and Marianna cringing in the kitchen looking at them with frightened eyes and feeling responsible for everything.

“That abortion nearly did for her,” remarked Piero, following his own train of thought.

“She’s upstairs with that boy now.” Her tone was one of disapproval. Marta was the epitome of respectability. Very thin, she was wearing a dark linen dress with long sleeves. A broach was pinned to one side and simple golden earrings glinted against her carefully dyed brown hair, which she wore in a chignon. The lightest of make-up over naturally olive skin, and dark red lipstick, gave her the look of a gypsy, or so Piero thought, knowing full well that it was a description that would have made her feel uneasy. He looked at her but said nothing.

Marta looked round the enormous kitchen. It was spotless. Stainless steel gleamed everywhere. The rest of the villa might be eighteenth century but the kitchen, apart from the massive stone fireplace, was definitely ultra-modern.

“This is the best place so far,” said Marta with satisfaction. “I hated the villa near Florence. It was way out in the wilds and the kitchens were half a mile from the dining room.”

“Well, they are here, too.”

“No, it’s quite different. But what I really like is that there’s a village here and Lucca is only seven kilometres away.”

“Shame about the Rossi family.”

“Oh God! What a nightmare. She’ll never get rid of them, you know.”

“Something will have to be done.” He took another reflective sip of the whisky, swilling it gently round in his mouth.

Marta looked sharply at him.

“She’s made them a decent offer and they should go,” Piero said slowly. “Things can’t carry on like this.”

“No, I suppose not. Maybe she should get another lawyer for this. Avvocato Martinelli’s getting on a bit.”

“Maybe. The trouble is that sitting tenants have the law on their side and they know it.”

They sat in silence for a moment. They had been with Ursula for twenty-five years, following her from country to country, villa to villa, through marriages and liaisons, privy to all the family secrets, yet still not quite part of the family. They were paid servants, and yet as familiar to the family as kitchen cats. They
were often ignored, occasionally petted, leaned on when necessary and most importantly, they were always there; loyal, devoted and reliable. Childless, they had parented Ursula’s off-spring, helping them through the upheavals as they changed step-father, or house, or country and school. Rootless, they had provided roots for Tebaldo, Marianna and Lapo, who they thought loved them but, had their mother decided to throw them out, would have watched them leave without protest. They were dependents, and as such dispensable.

“Lapo didn’t come back last night,” Piero said.

“No.” She grimaced. “Madam didn’t say anything.”

“She never does.”

“What’s to say?” They looked at each other.

They both looked up as they heard the door open and then Lapo was in the kitchen, blonde curls, blue eyes, the face of an angel with the body of a gargoyle, and the behaviour of the devil, intelligent and cunning, and when the occasion arose, quite charming. Marta loved him desperately. She always had. His deformed body that she longed to straighten out for him, endeared him to her so much that she ignored all his faults and condoned all his actions, no matter how terrible.

“Lapo! Are you hungry?” She couldn’t hide her pleasure at this unexpected intrusion.

“Starving, dear, lovely Marta. Tell me there’s something left for me.” His blue eyes were laughing at her.

She grinned at him. “Where have you been?”

“Ah, that’s a secret.”

“Oh well, I don’t want to know your secrets. Now let me see what I can give you. Do you want pasta?”

He shook his head,

“I’ve got some quiche and I can make a salad. Would that be OK?”

“Fine. Can I eat here with you two?”

“We’ve already eaten but we’ll keep you company.” Marta couldn’t keep the happiness out of her voice. She loved it when Lapo sat with them in the kitchen.

Lapo’s eyes slid round and fixed on Piero’s glass as though guessing the age of the whisky he was drinking. “Have another drink Piero.”

“No, thank you. One’s enough for me. I’m not much of a drinker, as you know.” There was a brief silence, heavy with unsaid words. Marta prepared the food and set it down in front of Lapo.

“Have they gone to the Contessa’s?”

“Of course.”

“Ah, the lovely Fiona and the never-aging Ubaldo. I’m sure she’s had him stuffed. He never changes.”

Marta stifled a laugh.

“Is Marianna in?”

“Yes,” she replied in a guarded tone.

“With her friend?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh yes you do, Marta. Anyway I know you, when you say ‘I don’t know’, what you mean is ‘yes’.”

Marta gave a brief smile.

“Did Mamma tell you she’s going to marry Guido?”

“Yes.”

“And, no comment, is that it?”

Piero shifted in his chair. “It’s not our business to approve or disapprove of anything your mother does.”

Lapo laughed, “That’ll put your nose out of joint, Piero.”

“Not at all. Why should it?”

“Come on, he’ll be checking on the level in the whisky bottles for one thing and everything else that you consider your personal domain. ‘The times they are a changin’,” he sang.

“It will be up to your mother if any changes are to be made.”

“She’ll want her husband to be happy, don’t you think?” he said, and then began to eat very fast, shovelling the food down as quickly as he could, without any pretence of elegance or even good manners. He ate like an animal.

As soon as he had finished, he pushed the plate away and announced, “I’m absolutely full to the brim. Thanks, Marta,
that was great,” and then he was gone. They listened to his feet running unevenly up the stairs and then the distant sound of a door banging, muted shouts and then the door again. This time the footsteps were coming down slowly. Piero moved into the hall and watched the young man walk towards the front door. “Goodnight… sir,” he said very slowly, adding the last word a beat too late.

Roberto looked at him warily as though worried he was being made fun of or perhaps threatened in some subtle way. “Goodnight, Signor Lotti.”

Piero watched him until he had closed the door and then went back into the kitchen. “He’s gone.”

“It sounded like they had words. He and Lapo don’t get on.” Marta didn’t sound displeased.

“No, I shouldn’t think they do. They haven’t got much in common.”

“True and he’ll be worried about his sister,” added Marta.

“You reckon? Let’s face it, Roberto’s not exactly a prince, is he? I mean what can he offer her?” He paused and added, “Madam will make a move soon. She’s been holding back but I can feel it building up.” Piero said it in a vaguely apprehensive way.

“Poor boy. He’s got no idea how vicious she can be.”

“Well it can’t go on, so the sooner it’s dealt with the better.”

Marta sighed and changed the subject. “Tebaldo’s coming the day after tomorrow.”

“It’ll be nice to see the children again.”

“But Isabella does nothing but cause trouble. She’s very difficult.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is rude. Her father was a peasant and she’s so aware of her roots she treats everyone who doesn’t have the same amount of money like dirt. She’s not a lady and no amount of money will make her one. Tebaldo should never have married her.”

“Money is always useful and the children are lovely,” said Marta trying to be positive.

“Well, they’re only little. Just you wait and see what they’re
like when they grow up.”

“Tebaldo can’t stand Guido,” she observed.

“More trouble.”

“Isabella was so rude to him last time it was appalling. She called him a second-hand furniture dealer. She really goes too far.”

“But he takes it,” Piero smiled at her.

“Of course he does. A man who sells himself has no pride. He’ll take anything and keep quiet.”

“Not much of a man at all really.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

They both knew what they meant by that.

“Lapo, why are you so foul to him?” Marianna asked. She was pacing up and down the room smoking again.

“Can’t stand him. Wake up, Marianna. He’s after your money.” Lapo sat on her bed, his short legs dangling in mid-air.

“No he’s not.”

“Of course he is. He’d be a fool not to be. He’s a swineherd dreaming of marrying the rich princess.”

“Come on, Lapo, we’re going out together, that’s all.” She blew smoke in his direction.

“Tell me what you see in him?”

“Why should I? You wouldn’t understand.”

He stared at her and remarked, “You should see your eyes.” She made no comment. “You’ve been snorting coke again.”

“That’s my business.”

“He brings it to you.”

“No!” She jerked to a standstill and stared at him.

“Liar. I wonder what Mamma would think if she knew about you and especially about him.”

“I don’t care what she thinks. Anyway Mamma doesn’t think about me at all really and she certainly doesn’t care. She never even looks at me, hasn’t done for years, since… you know… so I don’t expect she’ll notice anything.”

“Perhaps I’ll tell her then.” He got up as though to go on this errand.

“Good idea. Get out of my bedroom.” She was angry so she gave him a slight push which made him stumble.

He whipped round, grabbed her arm and pinched the skin viciously between his fingers. She slapped his face and he slapped hers more violently.

“Don’t you dare touch me again,” he said, his beautiful face twisted into a vicious mask.

“You bastard.” Tears had sprung to her eyes with the violence of the blow and her face was stinging.

“Actually, I think you’ll find that, technically, it’s you who are the bastard.”

He grinned at her, then turned and left.

Alone in the room, Marianna went into her bathroom, ran the cold water and applied a wet cloth to her cheek. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was beautiful. She had no difficulty in seeing and accepting that. She brushed her blonde hair aside and examined her cheek. She applied some make-up to her face to hide the redness. It was still stinging from Lapo’s slap. She picked up a hairbrush and began to brush her hair. It was thick and dead straight and hung like a curtain down to her waist. She sometimes thought it might have been better if she’d been less attractive, maybe even deformed like Lapo. Would that have saved her? She stared at herself without expression. What could other people read from your face? Could they read your hatred, your fear, your lack of real interest in life, or your desperation? Could Lapo really see from her eyes what she was doing? Would her mother notice? Why was she doing it anyway? There was no answer to that, or no answer that she wanted to give. “Everybody does it,” she murmured, “so why not?”

She turned on the television and watched it for some time without actually having any awareness of what she was seeing, then she abruptly got up and threw on a light jacket. She knew Roberto would be down at the main bar in the small town. She wanted him, she needed sex right now, so she was going to go and get him. She would drive up to the bar, honk and make him run out and get in the car like a puppy dog, wagging his tail or maybe
she’d rush in and grab him in front of his friends. She laughed at the thought. He would need petting after his little set to with Lapo and besides, she loved him. She picked up her bag and turned out the light.

Lapo got out of the shower and avoided looking at his body in the mirror. If he kept his eyes firmly on his face he could actually forget about his body, apart from one very important and impressive part. He was short, not far off being a dwarf, and crooked, but there was nothing missing. In fact, he glanced down at himself with pride, he knew he was rather more well-endowed than most men. He got dressed carefully. They might call him a freak but he could have any woman he wanted. Women only looked at his face too. Besides, his money was enough to make them forget the rest. All women were whores in his book. There wasn’t one of them you couldn’t buy. You could do anything you wanted as long as you had the money to pay for it and everybody had their price.

Roberto entered the bar inwardly seething with rage. Lapo had no right to interfere, no right to tell him he was wasting his time and in such a way that was deliberately done to humiliate him. OK, so he was poor compared to them, but he wasn’t going to let that freak Lapo, and, come to that, all the rest of them, walk all over him. Even that bloody manservant, because that’s what he was, a servant, treated him like shit.

He looked around. The bar was full. There were a few girls hanging round the snooker table where their boyfriends played. Older men sat playing cards or reading the papers provided by the owner;
La Gazzetta dello Sport, La Nazione
and
Il Tirreno,
the sporting paper and two Tuscan papers. He ordered a beer and began to drink it, standing at the counter. He felt someone move up beside him. “Got anything?” a voice whispered.

He turned and saw Mario, a boy he’d been at school with, not a close friend but close enough. “Sure,” he muttered and, leaving his beer on the counter, walked through to the back where there
was an unsavoury lavatory. A few minutes later Mario joined him. There was an exchange of money for a small packet, palm to palm. Roberto went back to his beer.

Cocaine was cheaper now and as far as he was concerned nowhere near as damaging as heroin. It was the cool drug, the ‘in’ drug and there were no risks of infection. Heroin was the bad one, it was squalid and the general aura around it was a big turn off. Druggies, pale and white, scratching themselves, lying about in a stupor, going through withdrawal, or risking an overdose, were quite different to the hip image of ‘get up and go’ coke. He wouldn’t touch the other. This stuff was just recreational and he wasn’t really a dealer; he was just getting some for his friends. So what if he did make a little extra on top, he was running the risk of bringing it in here. Every time he bought some from his local supplier, his skin crawled. Being caught would mean jail and the end of everything.

When the door had closed for the last time, behind Lapo, Piero poured himself another generous shot of whisky and, carrying it in his hand, moved up to the study. He walked past the door of the well-equipped gym where Ursula worked out every morning. Twice a week she also had a massage. Her hair was washed and set at least twice a week too and coloured as often as was necessary, by Jean Paul who was really a Neapolitan brat with clever hands. It was amusing to watch Jean Paul and Guido sizing each other up. They were both made of the same clay, clever and reasonably successful men who had come from nothing, who used their wits and lived off the rich. Piero did not, however, include himself in that category.

In the study was the huge desk at which Ursula sat only to write cheques. Apart from these brief visits it was really his domain. Ursula had no idea where anything was or even what was there. He had total control and that was how he liked it. He took a small key from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk. His fingers reached down to the bottom of the pile and pulled out the grubby envelope addressed to Ursula, that she had
never seen. He took the letter from it and read,

“
Why don’t you go home you fat German cow. We don’t like Germans round here, not after what you did to us during the war. People here have long memories. If you don’t go you’ll be very sorry.
”

It had been written on a computer and printed out. It was about as anonymous as it was possible for a letter to be these days. No one could ever identify its provenance. The postmark on the envelope was local and Piero had toyed with the idea of going to the police with it before dismissing that as a really bad move. This letter was probably the work of a local nut; to go to the police would give it an importance it didn’t merit. The thing to do with rubbish like this was to ignore it. He wouldn’t throw it away, not yet, but he didn’t see the need for Ursula to know anything about it, for now and, hopefully, not at all. It would be pointless to worry her with it. He folded it up and replaced it in the envelope, then put it back in the drawer and locked it again. He didn’t like it being there. He couldn’t forget it was there and although he tried hard to dismiss it from his thoughts, it had been constantly on his mind ever since it had arrived. The longer it stayed there in the drawer the worse it got. He might be making a mistake but now after three weeks he felt he couldn’t remedy it. At least there’d been only the one letter, so far, and that was what he was really worried about. These things were rarely isolated. He wondered about the author of the letter. Was it an old embittered survivor of the war, a widow, or an ex-partisan? There seemed to be a lot of those in the village which had been on the front during the advance of the allies through Italy in 1944 as they liberated the country and brought with them all their riches and their corruption, their chewing gum, chocolate, silk stockings, money and a different way of life. His own family who came from Florence had had very mixed feelings about their liberators, but their hatred of the Germans had been absolute. He had grown up with that as a constant theme. Now no one spoke about the war. It was over, forgotten by most, ancient history to the ignorant young, who knew little
about it and were told even less at school. History lessons stopped with the beginning of Fascism. Now German tourists thronged the country and were welcomed by everybody, as was right, so why was someone taking exception to one half-German woman who had been born after the war, had no blood on her hands and was guilty of no sins except, of course, those of her father and her countrymen? The sins of the father… What rubbish! He snorted with derision. If that were true then how many would be guilty?

He sat down, took a sip of his drink and began sorting out the letters and bills. Part of his job as general manager of the house was to make out cheques for all bills, hire and fire servants and generally make sure that Madam, as she liked to be called, had nothing to concern herself with other than her own pleasure. He’d been protecting her for so long it seemed natural. His eyes roved towards the desk drawer again. He sighed, finished his drink in one short sharp gulp and began to make out the cheques. She would sign them without even looking. He could easily have cheated but he never had and she knew it. There were the odd perks like the few extra bottles of wine from the wine merchant, little things of that sort, but he had never cheated or taken a cut as he knew some people in his position did.

In the immediate future the problem of Roberto would have to be solved but Piero was quite sure he could deal with that, if asked, as discretely as he had dealt with other things in the past: paying off prostitutes brutalised by Lapo, Marianna’s abortion, and Tebaldo’s drug dependency. There were ways of dealing with unfortunate situations and he knew all of them.

A middle-aged man, modestly dressed, sat in a corner of the bar, reading a sports paper. Although not from the village he had become a regular and now aroused little curiosity. Occasionally, he lifted his eyes and watched Roberto come and go to the lavatory, always closely followed by someone. The local Chief of Police had asked for surveillance after becoming aware of an increase in the amount of cocaine available in the area. This Roberto was obviously the
dealer but he wouldn’t be arrested just yet. He was a very small fish in a very big pool and it was the sharks that controlled the trade that they wanted, not the minnows.

A motorbike drew up outside making an incredible noise. Shortly afterwards a youth came in. He had studs in his ears, a ring through one eyebrow and another through his lower lip. His hair was very long and black, his face a mask of scorn. He didn’t walk in, he swaggered. Conversation faltered for a moment. Roberto studiously ignored him, partially turning away from him. The newcomer ordered a beer and when he had been served, turned his back to the counter and drank his beer down staring intently at everyone with a smile that was almost a sneer. No one spoke to him and he approached no-one. When his glass was empty he put it down on the counter, paid and left. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited for the engine to start up and set off. The man reading his newspaper wondered what it was all about. One thing seemed certain; Roberto knew the youth and by his evasive action, which was quite unnecessary, had made that crystal clear. He might just as well have said out loud, “I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

As the sound of the motorbike receded, a furious honking started up outside. All eyes swivelled round to Roberto who seemed undecided but didn’t move. Then an incredibly beautiful blonde girl came into the bar and grabbed him by the arm. After a few minutes whispered conversation, they left together.

The man in the corner folded his newspaper and slowly left the bar. Outside, the girl was leaning against an expensive car and Roberto was kissing her, a lengthy deep kiss, which lasted long enough for him to reach his own vehicle. When they drove away, he followed them in his small dark car, watched as they turned into a driveway and made a note of the address. He parked in the shadows and a waited for a while before deciding to call it off for the night. Roberto was obviously going nowhere.

After the concert Ursula and Guido left almost straight away. She wasn’t tempted by the food laid out attractively in Fiona’s rather
vulgar dining room. Guido looked round at the heavy curtains and the Baroque cherubs that were in abundance. He went over to examine a painting of Saint Sebastian. Ubaldo said, “Grim, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and undoubtedly a fake,” replied Guido. He smiled at Ubaldo, who moved forward to examine the painting more carefully. Then he joined Ursula who was drinking champagne, picked up a small pastry basket of caviar, examined it and replaced it on his plate and muttered, “Prepared yesterday by the smell of it. Don’t even think of touching it. Shall we go?”