Italian Fever (13 page)

“I am up,” she said, “but not exactly about.”

He held out his hand, which she took briefly, for it was so cold and limp, it offered nothing in the way of greeting but seemed, rather, to have been extended to inform her of his
acquaintance with and indifference to the ordinary forms of courtesy. Massimo, sensing motion at his back, turned and exchanged a similar handshake over Lucy’s shoulder, followed by impatient gestures at the telephone, into which he continued his diatribe.

“He is always on the phone,” Lucy observed.

“Then he has been neglecting you.”

“No,” she said. “Not at all. He has been wonderfully attentive. I’m in his debt now, I think, possibly forever.”

Antonio smiled down on her, giving her the full benefit of his sickly and contemptuous address. “Forever,” he said. “That must be a tiresome sensation.”

Lucy looked back at Massimo. He had reached the conclusion of his call. His eyes rested upon her, then flicked past her to Antonio. She experienced a rush of affection for him, which, coupled with her visceral aversion to her interlocutor, left her edgy and defensive. “It is an obligation,” she said, “that I look forward to discharging.”

Massimo closed up his phone and greeted their guest in a genial stream of Italian, which Antonio returned affably enough, though he declined the questionable comfort of the iron chair offered him. “I will not stay,” he protested, switching to English. “I came to inquire after our poor Lucia. Signora Panatella is anxious to hear of her improvement, but she doesn’t wish to intrude, unless you have some need of her services. In which case …” He turned to Lucy. “I’m sure you can imagine her willingness.”

Lucy smiled up at him, shading her eyes with her hand, for the sun was behind him. “That’s very thoughtful of her,” she said.

Massimo and Antonio exchanged a look that Lucy characterized
as sardonic. “Why does she bother you with this message?” Massimo said. “What does she want?”

Antonio shrugged. “She has never been able to accept the idea that the entire house is rented to one tenant,” he explained. “She understands that your unlucky friend leased it that way, and that it makes no difference in her income, but now he is gone, the lease is not in your name, Lucia, and, well, she is an uneducated person, a peasant. For such a person, there is something unsettling about owning an empty room.”

Lucy pictured the conversation that had resulted in this visit—the anxious, inexperienced, but avaricious up-from-tenancy landowner soliciting the intercession and wisdom of the great Cini dynasty, which had, after all, been keeping her own family in line for centuries. Did she guess that her concerns were only another target for Antonio’s universal scorn?

“What does she want to do?” Massimo sputtered. “Does she want to fill the place with Germans?”

Antonio gave his most ghastly smile. “Oh, I suppose so,” he said. “That is her vision of paradise.”

“
Disgraziata!
” Massimo exclaimed.

Lucy leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes with her thumb and index finger. “There’s nothing she can do about it,” she said. “I’ll call the agency today and have someone explain it to her.”

“I believe someone has attempted this,” Antonio replied, looking glum.

“Well, they will have to try again,” Lucy concluded.

Antonio shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He never stood square, Lucy realized. He was always slouching or leaning on something for support. “It’s a pity that you should be vexed by this trivial matter when you are so ill.”

“It is an outrage,” Massimo agreed.

Lucy said nothing while Antonio cast his moody eyes languidly from her to Massimo, who was stubbing out his cigarette, and back again, hemming them together inside the narrow, hot, distinctly lurid circumference of his presumptions.

“I’m not vexed,” she protested. “The rent, which is exorbitant, by the way, is paid here until the end of the month. I know this, because I wrote the check myself. The house cannot be rented until then. Isn’t Lucio Panatella a banker? Surely he knows this.”

“Lucio is away this week. But when he comes back, I’m sure he will calm his mother’s … perturbation.”

Lucy chuckled. “What an amusing word,” she said.

Antonio drew his eyebrows together and puckered his mouth in an expression of mock dismay. “It is not correct?” he asked.

“Very correct,” she assured him. “Very precise.”

“I am relieved,” he announced. “And now I won’t disturb you any longer. Lucia, I am pleased that you are feeling better. I hope before you leave you will find time to dine with us once more. And also you, Signor Compitelli, of course. You would be most welcome.”

Lucy smiled, though the prospect of another stultifying evening at the Cinis’ was so unappealing, she was not able even to mouth the proper formulas of gratitude. Massimo, however, was evidently charmed at the invitation. He got to his feet and advanced upon Antonio with sincere exclamations, half in English, expressing the great pleasure he and the signora would have in such an event. The two men shook hands, but not heartily; Antonio shrank visibly from Massimo’s vitality. Then he made his way back down the stairs. Massimo stood
looking after him, his head back, resting the backs of his hands on his hips. As they heard the car engine starting, he came to the table and resumed his seat.

“What a disagreeable man,” Lucy said.

Massimo looked up sharply. “How can you say that? He has been most thoughtful.”

“He’s a liar,” she said. “He lies about everything.”

“That is ridiculous.” Massimo tapped a cigarette out of the pack vehemently. “How could you know such a thing?”

Lucy studied him closely. His question was rhetorical; it did not even occur to him that she might have valid evidence for her charge. It annoyed her that he was so eager to take the part of the jaded aristocrat against that of the observant foreigner, and she was uncertain whether she wanted to share the secret of the letter. But if she didn’t, he would assume that she was describing some intuition she had about Antonio, that she had confessed to a feeling rather than stated a fact. “He lied about Catherine Bultman,” she said.

“How could you know this?” he repeated.

“He said he hardly knew her, when in fact he was in love with her. He wrote her a passionate love letter.”

“You are still ill,” Massimo said, getting up. “You are having delusions. It is time we went inside.”

She waved him away. “I’m not having delusions. I saw the letter. Catherine left it in the other apartment. You can see it for yourself.”

“You found someone’s personal letter and you read it?” he exclaimed. “Lucy, this is too much.”

“I have to go through DV’s papers,” she protested. “That’s what I’m here for. And I didn’t read it. I couldn’t. It’s in Italian. But it is a love letter—I could tell that much—and it’s signed ‘Antonio.’ ”

“How many people do you think are named Antonio in this country?” he said. “This is a common name. It proves nothing. Please, Lucy, you are overtired. We will go inside.”

“You’re not listening to me,” she complained, but she didn’t resist the assistance he offered her. He was right: She was not well enough even for this small excitement. Her heart was racing; she felt weepy and weary to her bones. As she rose, she dashed unwelcome tears from her eyes. “We’re having our first argument,” she mumbled.

Massimo passed his arm around her shoulder, holding her up as he steered her toward the door. “This is not an argument,” he said. In the kitchen, he placed his cool palm against her cheek and for a moment she closed her eyes and rested against it. Gently, he raised her chin and she looked up into the clear icy green of his eyes. His expression was, as always, faintly amused, but wasn’t there something else, something serious and intent? She couldn’t be sure.

Perhaps he was right, she thought as her lips parted beneath the warm pressure of his kiss. Perhaps she was having delusions.

T
HAT KISS
, that kiss. It would recur in her imagination with all its power and mystery intact whenever she read words like
voluptuous
,
passionate
,
sensuous
, for the rest of her life. Or so she thought as she lay quietly in her bed that evening, examining it with the care and precision of a jeweler setting a precious stone. In fact, she was convinced she had never had the slightest inkling of the real meaning of such words, especially the word
voluptuous
, which she sounded out softly, accompanied by a shiver of delight.
Surrender
, that was another one, often coupled with inappropriate adjectives like
sweet
in the writings of mawkish sentimentalists. There had been nothing sweet about it. She had nearly fainted. But she had struggled against the encroaching darkness, and the kiss had called her back, so slow, insistent, passionate yet controlled, with an element of tenderness that touched her to her core. She could not fall away from it; she would not.

She turned onto her side and pulled the pillow in close. Part of the beauty of it was there had been only the kiss, a brief and overpowering rapture (
rapture
, that was another word elucidated forever), and then he had released her without comment, escorted her the rest of the way to her bed, arranged her blankets and pillows, stroked her hair back from her temple in that gentle motherly way he had, and left her to rest.

And she had slept, although she didn’t know for how long. Her room was dark. She was exhilarated, excited, but, most of all, she was hungry. She gave up her reverie and climbed out of bed, pleased to find herself more steady on her feet than she had been for days. She went out to find Massimo.

He was standing at the stove in the kitchen, stirring a pan of fragrant olives and tomatoes with one hand while he held the telephone to his ear with the other. When Lucy pulled out the chair from the table, she startled him. He turned around, looking angry, then, seeing her, he smiled, the anger vanishing. He said a few words into the phone. She understood “
Ora devo riattaccare
”—“I must hang up now.” Then he closed the phone and laid it on the table, giving it a last impatient shove, as if he expected it to bite him. “You are up,” he observed. “And walking about on your own.”

“I’m cured,” she said. She didn’t add the hyperbolic corollary that sprang to her mind—I’ve been cured by your kiss—though she knew he might read it in her eyes if he cared to.

“Wonderful,” he said, turning back to his pan. “Soon you will have no need of me.”

Not so, she thought. Not soon. But she only said, “I’m starving.”

He opened a pot lid on one burner, peered into an open pot on another. “You are having luck,” he said. “This pasta is cooked.”

“I
THINK
I’ve finally had enough sleep.” Lucy poured herself another glass of wine from the pitcher. “I don’t care if I never sleep again.”

“That’s too bad,” Massimo said. He was standing at the sink, washing up the last of the dinner dishes. “Because it is nearly midnight.”

“My clock is completely out of whack.”

“Your clock is broken?”

“My biological clock. I’m wide-awake. I’ve become a night owl.”

He put the last pot on the dish rack and turned to her, drying his hands on the dish towel. “You should be careful not to drink too much wine.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. She took a decorous sip from the glass. “But the wine here is so good, how can I resist it?”

“Yes, I see,” he said. “You are a hedonist. And it gets you into trouble.”

Lucy smiled up at him, enjoying the absurdity of this new image of herself. “If you only knew how ridiculous that is,” she said.

“Oh no,” he disagreed. “I am an excellent judge of character.”

She laughed. “Well, you haven’t observed mine under ordinary
circumstances. If you had, you would know that I am extremely practical, reliable, and incapable of doing anything …”

She paused. The word eluded her. What was it she was incapable of doing? Massimo was no help. He stood looking at her, his mouth set in the amused expression she found so provoking. “You always seem to be laughing at me,” she said.

“I am not laughing. You are very charming,” he observed.

Flustered, unused to compliments, Lucy could only look at her hands. Another swallow of wine seemed much the best option.

He moved from the sink, and when she had set the glass down again, he took it away. “You will make yourself sick again,” he said.

“I feel fine,” she protested. “My joints ache a little”—she stretched her arms up over her head—“and my ankle is shot, but other than that, I feel pretty good.”

“Come and lie down on my bed,” he suggested, “and I will give you a massage. I am very good at it.”

“Are you?” Lucy said, opening her eyes wide. He nodded sagely. “Well, I can believe it. But I can’t ask you to take any more trouble over me. You’ve done too much already.”

“I do it for myself as much as for you,” he replied. “It is my pleasure.” He indicated the sitting room, where his narrow bed, neatly made, awaited.

“I know it,” Lucy said. She got up, clinging to his arm as he helped her through the door. “But I don’t understand it.”

When she was stretched out on her stomach before him, she recalled the kiss—was it only a few hours ago?—and a nervous fluttering in her chest culminated in a hollow cough. He adjusted the pillow under her cheek and pulled her arms out to either side. “You must be perfectly relaxed and limp,” he
instructed her. The pillow smelled of him, a combination of cigarettes, a pleasant musky aftershave—she’d noticed the bottle in the bathroom and the name came to her, Toscana—the herbal shampoo he used—she’d seen that bottle, too—and through it all an undertone, heady and disturbing, that she identified simply as maleness. It had been awhile, she realized, since she had breathed in that particular essence. Since the divorce, she had had two largely unsatisfactory affairs, both resulting from friendships that would have been better left untested. What she felt about Massimo was different, entirely new: She was both wary and fascinated. She knew very little about him, and every bit of it boded ill for her peace of mind.