Love Falls (25 page)

‘Early tomorrow' – Caroline stretched – ‘the horses will run trials in the square. There are twenty of them, and ten will be chosen.' Lara thought she saw her shiver. ‘But I have a good feeling about this year, about this horse, a good feeling that we'll be chosen.' She looked at Lara as she stood up. ‘I'm leaving first thing. If you're interested you'd be welcome to come.'

‘No,' Lara said much too fast. ‘I mean, I promised.' She looked at her father. ‘I just really think I should stay with Dad, that's all.'

Caroline nodded. ‘Well, wish me luck,' she said. ‘It's not even the best ten horses they're looking for, it's the ten most evenly matched.'

‘Good luck,' they said together, and with a light step Caroline skipped from the room.

 

 

Lara woke in the middle of the night. She lay completely still, her blood racing, her mouth dry. Had she heard something? A pebble thrown up at the window? A shout? Please let it be Kip. She felt sick with longing, and she climbed out of bed. But there was no one there. Just the gravel drive and the two cars, the shadows of the bushes, the dark leaves of the trees beyond.

She went to the other window, open to the moon, and leant out. There was the light, flickering in the hills, and then a snatch of music floating down. How long would it take, she wondered, to get up there, to find the path that led to that all-night party where people passionate with politics danced under the stars.

And then she heard the noise that had woken her. It was the scrape of furniture and it was coming from downstairs. Very quietly Lara stepped out on to the landing. There was silence now but as she reached the first step she heard it again, the dragging sound of a chair. Lara ran downstairs, peered into the hall, and there, sitting at the kitchen table, was her father, his work spread out before him, his foot propped up at an angle on a chair. Lara stood in the doorway and watched him. He had his head resting in one hand, a pen in the other, and he was staring at nothing at all. How long would he stay like that, she wondered, but unable to bear the suspense she coughed a little and moved towards him.

Lambert looked up. ‘Can you not sleep?' he asked her, and having lost her line, she sat down.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Oh, I thought I'd better get on.' He gave a weak smile and then, as if catching sight of a word or a phrase that displeased him, his face fell again. ‘The thing is . . .' He didn't look at her. ‘I've spent my life trying to isolate myself, push everyone away so I could work . . . and now' – he hesitated – ‘I feel . . . I've just realised. I've done it. I'm completely on my own.'

Lara wanted to touch him but she didn't dare. I know, she could say, but she didn't know. Instead she nodded. ‘How is your work?'

He brightened a little. ‘It's getting on.'

Lara went to the fridge. She poured two glasses of peach juice and brought them back to the table. ‘Thank you,' Lambert nodded and together they sat at the table, sipping the thick juice, eyeing each other occasionally while Lambert wrote and Lara stared out at the black night.

After half an hour or so she yawned. ‘Will you work all night?' she asked him, and he laid down his pen and stretched.

‘No, I'll get some sleep.' Without reaching for her arm he limped back into the sitting room and sank on to the couch.

‘Night then,' she said and he turned his face to the wall.

 

 

Lara was still in her nightdress the next morning when Caroline burst through the door. ‘We've been chosen. Our horse. Chosen to run!' She was wearing her immaculate chiffon, the creases lying perfectly flat, but her face was flushed, her cheeks hectic with red.

‘That's marvellous.' Ginny was chopping lettuce for lunch, letting it spring up behind the knife in long unfurling curls.

‘Who will ride it?' Lara asked. ‘Which
contrada
?'

‘Il Nicchio. The Shell. Once the horses are chosen they are given numbers and then each number is allocated a
contrada
. It's one of the few things that can't be fixed.'

‘Il Nicchio,' Lara said. ‘Can we bet?'

‘There is no betting. Well, not officially,' and Caroline explained that it was more complicated than that. ‘It is the jockeys who pledge the money, and then only at the start of the race, when the horses have been lined up, although of course everyone in every
contrada
is bribing everyone else to allow them to win, to trip up their enemies, to go easy on their friends. It is vastly complicated and hard to ever get to the bottom of because officially, and to many Sienese, it isn't even happening.' Caroline turned, peering towards the sitting room. ‘And Lambert?'

‘I'm here,' he called faintly. ‘I'm just going through my investments. Wondering how much I'd have to transfer into the coffers of Il Nicchio to make your day.'

‘Lambertie,' she said, and she went through to him. ‘My dearest one. You've brought me luck.'

 

 

Caroline left them again early the following day to watch the trials. Now that the horses had been chosen they had to get used to being ridden round the square. The sound of the starting cannon, the roaring of the crowd. There were six trials, morning and evening, over the next four days and Caroline intended watching as many of them as she could.

‘I feel so much better,' she laughed. ‘I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel well.' And with a wave of her hand she was off.

By late afternoon Lara was so bored she reneged on her promise never to leave Lambert, and set off for a walk. ‘I won't be long,' she said but she couldn't tell whether he heard her or not.

She walked up the hill, away from Ceccomoro. It was just beginning to grow cooler, and she felt the release of freedom as she strode on. She passed a field of olive trees and another of sunflowers, stopping to admire their heavy heads, dark-brown with seeds amid the bunting of their petals.

Unexpectedly a cyclist toiled by, dressed in clinging shorts and a T-shirt spiked with holes. He crunched over the rough road, sweat running from his body. ‘
Buona sera
,' he panted and she wished him a good evening too. Evening already. Another day. She'd done it, pushed another day between herself and Roland. If she could just keep walking, or waiting, or whatever it took to make a space, then one day she'd be all right, and she watched the cyclist – the sinews in his legs like wire – as he forced himself along.

When he was out of sight she turned in a slow circle and looked at the wooded hills around her. She'd never imagined that Italy would be so full of trees, and she remembered a story that Ginny had told her about a fire, started deliberately, which had scorched away an entire Tuscan hill. The sky had filled with smoke, the heat was overwhelming, and to make it worse the fire department had emptied the contents of the pool where Ginny worked, sucking it up to pour on to the fire. But that must have been years ago because the trees had all grown again now. Lara looked back along the road towards the house. The sun was sinking behind the mound of a hill, throwing long layers of shadows across the slopes below. She'd better go back, she decided, and she started down the road.

As soon as she turned into the drive she saw the jeep. Her stomach lurched. The jeep meant Kip. Meant Roland. For a moment she turned her back on it, but knowing this wasn't a choice, she forced herself in through the front door. She could see them on the terrace, milling and lounging and lighting cigarettes. May and Piers and Roland, Nettle, Willow, Kip. Lara's whole body was quaking, her stomach turning, her blood quivering in her veins. She moved into the gap behind the stairs and put her hand to her mouth to steady herself. ‘Hello,' she mouthed, to remind herself how to do it, and without giving herself more time she walked out through the glass doors.

‘Lara!' May was the first to greet her and when she looked up she saw real warmth in her eyes. ‘Where have you been?'

‘Nowhere,' and then before she lost courage she turned to Kip. She caught him looking at her and quickly they both glanced away.

‘Comrade.' Roland lifted his glass as if it were vodka, and although it was actually a large goblet of wine he drained it in one.

Lara backed away, taking a glass herself, and while the others were distracted, listening to Caroline describe the events of that day, she moved as far from Roland as she could get, brushing past Kip, close enough to let her shoulder rustle against his. He grabbed her hand as she moved off, catching her little finger.

‘So are you coming?' She'd forgotten to listen and it was May talking to her. ‘We're going into Siena.'

Lara could still feel the heat of Kip's hand, but she held tight to her promise. ‘I'd better stay here.' She babbled. ‘You know . . . my dad . . .' and it was only when they all began to troop out that she realised she'd been hoping for a reprieve – hoping that Lambert would realise her sacrifice, or that Caroline, who'd just arrived back, would intervene.

She followed them to the door and watched as Roland swung himself into the front with Piers. May and the twins climbed in over the metal lip and Kip pulled himself in after them. Kip looked round briefly but just as she was about to wave his attention was caught by somebody inside. The engine started, the wheels spun and with a blast of white dust the car was gone. Lara sat on the doorstep as if she'd been wounded. God, she hissed, and she punched herself on the arm to redistribute the pain.

That night Caroline was in almost feverish high spirits. She talked about the morning's trial and what it had revealed. There was another trial now, maybe even at this very moment, and two more tomorrow, but she was under doctor's orders to rest. If Il Nicchio wins – she tapped her fingers – it will be the first win in twelve years for the Shell. If Il Nicchio wins – she could hardly sit still – my horse will be a hero. Will go down in the history books. Will never be forgotten. ‘But there is La Selva,' she mused, ‘La Selva, the Woodland, has a good horse, and of course poor Il Bruco, the Caterpillar, hasn't won since 1955, so they are, as ever, hopeful. Can you imagine?' Caroline continued, ‘There are grown men and women of Il Bruco who have never known their
contrada
to win. How would that feel?' she pondered, and she looked from Lambert to Lara as if neither of them could imagine so much loss.

‘Which
contrada
did your husband come from?' Lara asked, but Caroline shook her head. ‘You have to be born within the city walls to come from a
contrada
. Antonio was originally from Rome but as a young man he fell in love with the Palio. He brought me to it for the first time, actually, to cheer me up after my last divorce, and I was smitten too.'

‘Who won that year?' Lara asked and, without hesitation, Caroline answered, ‘La Giraffa.'

‘You know,' she said a little later, ‘married couples from different
contrade
usually go home to their own families the night before the Palio. It's not a law, but feelings run too high for them to stay away. People take to the streets, singing, chanting, waving flags. The night before the Palio is one of my favourite nights. It is the biggest trial, the dress rehearsal really. I do hope you'll come?'

‘I think I should save my strength for the big night,' Lambert frowned.

‘And I . . .' Lara looked towards her father.

‘Do go,' he said. ‘I think you should.'

‘It'll be a long evening,' Caroline warned, and Lara wondered how that could be the case when the race only lasted ninety seconds.

‘It'll be the most intense ninety seconds of your life,' Caroline promised. ‘It's incredible.' She danced her hands. ‘It's like an orgasm.' And Lara tried not to blush.

 

 

Lara lay in bed and read
The Grapes of Wrath
. Occasionally she tiptoed to the window, hoping she might find Kip standing below with a red rose or a half-drunk bottle of champagne, returned from Siena, and unable to bear another night without her. But there was no one there. Even the revolutionaries on the hill were quiet, no sign of firelight, not a flicker of a song. At one in the morning, still unable to sleep, she tiptoed downstairs, hoping to find her father bent over his desk, but even Lambert was asleep, his damaged foot uncovered, the toes still black.

Lara put out her light and tried to sleep. She counted sheep, tried to remember the names of every person in her English class, even the ones who sat silent at the back, and when that failed she got up again and as quietly as she could she practised the moves of her Indian dancing, stretching out her arms, lengthening her neck. Only her eyes must move. Her eyes, her head and her shoulders. This was the simplest dance, but within it, as with every dance, there was a message. It was in the shape of the hands, the ring finger bent back, and in the bells that strapped around your ankles and tinkled when you danced. Once she'd mastered this she allowed her feet to slap gently on the floor, back and forth, heel and then flat, and she remembered how she'd longed to progress, not so much for the skill involved in the dance itself but in order to be allowed to wear the clothes.