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Authors: Margaret Moore

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BOOK: Broken Chord
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Isabella went slowly upstairs to her bedroom. It was cool and in semi-darkness, the outside shutters drawn against the heat. The air conditioner was quietly humming and she actually had to repress a shiver. She looked at the bed. It was large, big enough for them to sleep in together without touching, which was the way it had been for some time. She didn’t know what he wanted. He was driving her crazy with his constant criticism and this last week, since they’d come to stay with his mother, as they did every year in the summer, he’d seemed to step back and look at her through his family’s eyes, which had made it all so much worse. They all made her feel like some kind of serving wench. Who did they think they were? That bloody Ursula was little more than a whore, always with at least one man on a string and often more than one, and that revolting Guido was the last straw. How dare he look down his nose at her as though she didn’t know which fork to use. God, it was depressing.

She took off her summer dress and looked at her body in the mirror. She realised she’d let herself go. She was overweight and the depressing flabbiness of her striated belly, the result of two pregnancies, made her look older than she was. Thirty wasn’t old these days, yet somehow she looked old. She tried to look classy but she never quite managed it, no matter how much she spent. Perhaps the whole secret was not to have to try to look classy but to just be it. Her family had never had much taste. Her father, a self-made man, had retained the love of the kitschy style he’d liked
before he made his pile. He believed that more is better and at least she’d learnt enough to know that wasn’t so. Less was better. Understated was good, and simple perfection was what she aimed at without ever achieving it. She realised her hair was too brassily blonde, her make-up too heavy. She felt great until she stood face-to-face with Ursula and Marianna, who didn’t even have to try, they just knew, they just were. A tear rolled down one cheek. She looked pathetic. She was pathetic. No wonder Teo didn’t care for her. Who would? What was she? They all thought she was useless, not right for Teo, especially Ursula, who was so quietly and calculatingly rude to her that she sometimes longed to strangle her. God how she hated her. She imagined beating her mother-in-law with a horsewhip and actually managed to smile.

 

Ursula lay on the bed with her eyes shut listening to the throbbing in her head. It felt as though her brain was going to explode. The slightest movement sent ripples of hammering agony through her skull as though her brain was crashing against the bone. Perhaps it was. Perhaps the awfulness of that afternoon had driven her brain into overdrive and it was pulsating with rage and horror. The implications of what that vile delinquent had hissed in her ear were quite clear and Guido’s reaction to her accusations had been hysterical, but not that of a man unjustly accused, no, it was the hysteria of a man who knew he was discovered and undone, like a snared animal terrified of death. Of course he’d denied everything, he’d begged her to remember how much he loved her and pleaded with her not to believe anything bad of him, but she knew. Deep down she had always known that what Guido did with her in bed was called servicing and now she had to accept that she’d been a complete and utter fool.

That vile Rossi family! They were like a dreadful canker in her life, the worm in the apple. Their repulsive way of living was an evil thing that had poisoned her life. Her lovely villa was contaminated by their presence and she knew she would never get rid of them. Tears poured down her cheeks and as she sobbed, her body moved and the pain in her head reached a new and terrifying peak.

Guido had rushed out of the house and jumped into his car without any idea of where he was going. He was shaking with fear. That stupid little clod Claudio Rossi had told Ursula, of all people, about him. Well, at the very least he’d hinted and that was more than enough for Ursula. Now he was going to be thrown out, after all the hard work he’d put into this. It was so ridiculous. Overseeing the work on the villa he’d run into the boy and had allowed himself to get involved in something really stupid, but what was a small peccadillo compared to months of good behaviour, so to speak. He couldn’t believe she wanted to end it, after all he’d done for her. He braked and parked in a lay-by. He was thinking furiously. He’d been an absolute fool. He’d overreacted to her accusations. He should have played a much more subtle hand but he’d been taken so unawares that he’d behaved like an idiot. Could he mend it? Was it possible? Would she accept an abject crawling acknowledgement of his sins and his avowal of sincere unhappiness at the thought of losing her? She needed him. She would come round in the end, but the immediate problem was what to do, where to go, where to sleep that night. Tomorrow he would think about how to make his overtures. He started the car and drove off towards Lucca to look for a hotel. There was no point in driving to his flat in Florence. He wanted to be near to hand. As for Ursula, he’d leave her to cool off for now. It would be pointless to try anything further at the moment. He needed her to calm down. He thought he’d phone her the next day, no, first thing in the morning he would send three dozen red roses and a note declaring his undying love. He smiled. It would be alright, it had to be alright or he’d make the bitch pay for it. He was not without resources and vendetta was always a wonderful dessert after a good meal, and up till now the meal had been excellent.

 

Marianna was back on her bed but this time she was not weeping and helpless. She’d had a sudden flash of understanding. Ursula, her mother, the bitch, the whore, was maybe something even worse. And Piero, where did he come in all this? A man of so many resources.

Now she had to get out of the house and go and see Roberto. A whole week of being locked in the house like some prisoner had been a waste of time. Let them try and stop her now. She picked up the phone and called a taxi.

 

Two hours later Ursula staggered out of bed and had yet another shower. She felt so awful that she stayed there under the gentle spray of cool water until she was actually cold, but at least her head was clearer. The injection that Marta had given her had worked. It had dulled the pain, brought it down to an acceptable level, but as always had left her feeling a little groggy. Now she dressed, took a good hard look at herself, squared her shoulders and opened the door resolutely.

To her surprise, the house was empty. She walked slowly through the rooms, trying not to jar her head with the movement, and found no-one. Finally, she went slowly down to the kitchen where preparations for dinner were under way. She beckoned Marta out and asked, “Where are they?”

“Who?”

“All of them.”

“Tebaldo has taken the children swimming, Isabella has a migraine, I think Marianna’s in her room and… everyone else is out.”

“Thank you.” She turned and walked even more carefully back upstairs keeping her head quite still. In the drawing room she picked up a magazine and sat flicking through it until, finally, she heard Teo arriving with the children. They were chattering happily.

Almost immediately after that a car arrived and for a moment her guts clenched as she thought Guido had come back, but to her surprise it was Marianna who came in. “Where have you been?” she asked abruptly.

“Out,” replied Marianna heading for the stairs.

“Whose car was that?”

“If you must know, it was a taxi.”

“A taxi! Where have you been?” Marianna ignored her and walked away.

“Marianna!” she yelled, reawakening the throbbing in her head. “Come back here. I demand to know where you went.” Marianna went up the stairs without replying.

Ursula fell back in the chair feeling that things were getting out of hand but knew she was incapable of dealing with anything. She put her hands to the sides of her head as though to keep it in one piece. She suddenly realised her two grandchildren were staring at her in surprise.

“Sorry I shouted. I’m a bit tired.”

“How’s the headache?” asked Teo.

“Bearable, just. I thought I’d make an effort and come down to dinner.”

“Good.”

“Will your wife be joining us?”

“I’ll find out,” said Teo evasively. “Come on, girls. Let’s go and get you something to eat. I bet Marta’s got something nice for you in the kitchen.”

He hurried them out, and left alone again, Ursula closed her eyes, while she did some deep breathing exercises to calm herself. She only opened them when she heard Lapo come in. She felt the customary thrill of pain that she always experienced when she looked at him. He was so beautiful and so ugly. It wrenched her heart. He was the only one of her children that she felt anything for now. After Marianna’s little problem, she had found herself unable to look the girl in the eye and had distanced herself from her. She knew it was probably because of her own feelings of guilt that this should have happened under her own roof, but she couldn’t do anything about it and she didn’t want to think about it.

As for Teo, well, when he had been a drivelling, snivelling, weak little drug addict she had despised him so much that not even his apparent redemption had changed her feelings. She still felt he was weak and that his determined respectability was very fragile.

“All alone, Mamma?”

“As you see, Lapo.”

“Where is… everyone?”

“Around. They’ll be down for dinner, except Isabella who
seems to have succumbed to migraine.”

“What about you?”

“Marta gave me an injection. I can bear it now if I keep fairly still.”

“Want to talk?”

“No, I’m too tired, and I need to think things through.”

“What things?”

“None of your business. Where have you been?”

“Out with a friend.” He grinned at her.

“Whose name I shouldn’t ask.”

“Oh, you can ask, but I won’t answer.”

“Be careful Lapo. You go too far. I don’t want any more trouble.”

“I’ll be very, very careful.”

He moved away swiftly and she closed her eyes again, listening to his uneven steps on the stairs.

 

Jacopo Dragonetti left work and collected his car, but this evening he turned it towards the station where he was about to pick up Vanessa. They were going up into the hills to the north of Lucca where, after what he hoped would be an excellent meal, they were going to a concert. He had phoned her after lunch to suggest they go, and had then booked the restaurant. The train was due in at 17.29 but it was twenty minutes late, as he more or less expected it would be. It finally arrived, an elderly, graffiti covered train with all windows open as the air con had failed to work. Vanessa practically fell off it. “Remind me never to take the train again. I was nearly cooked in it.”

He laughed, “Sorry, but the car is cool, I turned the air con on ten minutes ago. It will be cooler up in the hills.”

“What’s the name of this place again?”

“Barga.” He handed her the leaflet and she read it.

“Oh, right, of course they have the opera festival there. I’d forgotten. I went there quite a few years ago, they were doing a Vivaldi Oratorio, Juditha Triumphans, in the Duomo. It was pretty amazing.”

“Well, tonight the concert is outside, in the cloisters of the convent.”

“I love concerts in the open air and it’s Beethoven string quartets. Great.”

“We’re eating in the historic centre of the town. I’ve booked us in for seven thirty at the Scacciaguai restaurant. It was recommended by a friend.”

They had reached the car and Vanessa got in and sighed, “Oh, this is lovely, so cool. Look at me, I must look like a tomato.”

She was a little flushed. Jacopo said, “I like tomatoes.”

They took the road that ran through the Serchio river valley, often right beside the river which now contained little water. At Borgo a Mozzano the dam was half empty. Just beyond the dam was the donkey-backed Devil’s bridge, first built by Contessa Matilde di Canossa in the twelth century and later modified at the beginning of the fourteenth century. Dragonetti who had looked it up that afternoon told Vanessa all about it. “The real name of the bridge is the Ponte della Maddalena, but it is usually known by the other name. It seems that the man who was building the bridge was behind with the work and made a pact with the devil who enabled him to finish the work in time but claimed in payment the soul of the first living being to cross the completed bridge. The problem was solved by sending a pig over first.”

“I love it.”

“Even the Germans spared it during the second world war.”

“They spared the Ponte Vecchio in Florence too.”

“Perhaps they thought they would be coming back and wanted to keep the beautiful things intact.”

“Probably.”

As they drove up the last stretch of road the outline of the Duomo of Barga came into view. “Will we have time to look inside it?” asked Vanessa. “I seem to remember there’s a huge barbaric wooden sculpture of Saint Christopher.”

“My favourite saint. We’ll dash in and have a look at him before the concert. The convent is practically next door and anyway the concert’s bound to start late.”

“I think you’ll be quite surprised by the church. It’s pretty stark and dominated by the statue.”

“It will make a change after all the Baroque stuff I’ve seen in Lucca.”

They parked the car in a car park that was inconveniently placed down in the valley below the town, which meant they had an uphill walk to get to the restaurant.

 

Dinner was an amazingly quiet meal considering the violent emotions several members of the group were experiencing. Ursula hid her agitation with an air of such coolness that no one dared to mention or even allude to the colossal row that she must have known they’d heard. Tebaldo tried to look unaware that his wife’s presence was a distinct embarrassment to him. She was so obviously unhappy that she sat stuffing herself with an enormous amount of food. It took all he’d got not to tell her to leave the table. Isabella always tried to stifle her unhappiness with food and ate it much too fast, ramming it into her mouth to fill up some inner emptiness. Feeling the eyes of her in-laws on her, she finally stopped gobbling and excused herself saying that her headache had returned. Ursula remarked, “It probably has something to do with your digestion. Perhaps if you ate more slowly you’d feel better.”

BOOK: Broken Chord
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