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Authors: Norrey Ford

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BOOK: One Hot Summer
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I shall escort you,’ he said again, as if she had not spoken. It was an order, not an invitation.

They were silent for a while. Then he pointed.

Capri. See, that blue smudge in the distance? I shall take you there. We can use our own boat.’


Thank you,’ she said mildly. If he wanted to spend his time ferrying her around, why should she object? It was his choice, not hers.

The busy little harbour of Ischia delighted Jan. The hydrofoil was met by a host of mini-taxis and tiny canopied carriages drawn by horses wearing broad white bows of ribbon, scarlet ear-hoods with little bells; some sported a tall white plume on their heads. A row of waterside restaurants reminded her she had not eaten since a scant Continental breakfast soon after half-past seven. Marco Cellini must have noticed her wistful glance.


You are hungry? Yes, I am sure you are. Wait till I’ve spoken to my boatman, and we will choose a restaurant. I know the very place.’

The Cellini launch, white with blue trim, was, in fact, moored close to the restaurant he selected. As he pointed it out, his boatman leapt ashore and padded through the crowd on bare brown feet to meet them. His white teeth gleamed in a tan-gold face; his eyes were blue as the Bay. Jan guessed his age at twenty. Wherever did they go, these splendid creatures? All the men she’d seen were coarse-featured, gross of body. Except, of course, her host.

Glancing up at him quickly, she saw him shake his head at the boy, in an emphatic negative. The two spoke in rapid Italian, using their hands in delicate gestures. Then the boy trotted off towards the hydrofoil to collect Jan’s cases.

Marco took a table under a red and white awning, out of the sun.


What would you like to eat,
signorina
?’

‘Couldn’t you say Jan? I’d feel more at home, please.’


Very well. You will call me Marco when we are alone, and
signore
before the staff. My mother you will address as
signora.
She may call you anything she fancies; you mustn’t mind. I am often my father, my sister, or even myself as a little boy. You understand?’ He smiled, begging her sympathy.


I understand. One gets used to it. Does she repeat herself?’

He sighed, rolled his eyes heavenwards.

Endlessly.’


They can’t help it, poor darlings. But
signore
—I mean Marco—surely your mother must be young to suffer from this kind of deterioration? You are a young man yourself.’


It began when my father was drowned. She saw it happen. After that, she lost touch with this world, but never with him. I believe she is happier so. He is always in the next room, or the garden, or the swimming pool. He is more real than we are.’


She must have loved him very much. What a tragic loss for her.’


They were completely wrapped up in each other. I hope some day to find a love like that for myself, but I sometimes fear it happens only once in a hundred years.’


I hope you may be fortunate, Marco. And that you may keep your love longer than she did.’


Thank you.’ He scanned the long menu.

You will start with asparagus, then grilled chicken with cherries. To follow, an ice. Pistachio?’

She chuckled.

I may choose my own ice?’

The well-marked eyebrows rose.

But of course. I asked what you’d like.’


Correction—you told me. And you were right.’


I always am,’ he informed her coolly.

Over the meal, Marco was a charming companion. It seemed as if he had shed a burden, to become th
e
man he really was. He talked enthusiastically about the island, the village, the harbour, as if he owned the whole place.

‘I do, almost,’ he admitted when she told him so.

Apart from the few luxury hotels. When my parents came, there was so little, the people were so poor. We encouraged them to plant luxury crops for the growing tourist trade, installed modern processing methods. Our family brought prosperity of a sort, but now the younger ones want more. They cast envious eyes on Capri and Sorrento.’ He made a quick gesture of distaste.

They can’t see those places have lost their identity, their old traditional way of life. People become lazy and greedy when they live by exploiting others.’


Perhaps the traditional way wasn’t a comfortable way, for those who had to live it. Picturesque poverty is great if you’re a painter or a photographer. Not if you’re enduring it.

He grimaced. ‘A reformer, eh? I must be careful or we’ll have tourist markets all over Barini, and an American bar installed in the Villa Tramonti.’

Jan nodded towards the boatboy.

He’s twentieth-century, anyway.’

The boy was stretched flat on his back on the white deck, a transistor set an inch from his ear. Even from the restaurant, they could hear the strains of pop music.


Dino’s father and grandfather were shepherds, leading their flocks. They played pipes made by their own hands. The ancient Romans would have recognised them. Would even our own grandparents recognise Dino?’


You’re a traditionalist, Marco,’ she teased. She felt happy and at ease after the unhappy events of the morning, able to laugh with this man who seemed so much more friendly—much younger too—than he had been in Rome.

It seemed her laughter did not please him. He withdrew into his shell. It was as if a cloud had passed across the sun.

You mean I’m old-fashioned,’ he said
brusquely.

I admit it. I admire the old values and virtues, and see no reason why we should throw them overboard just because a few trendy people say so. Honour and decent ways of living have seen mankind through many centuries, and will again. Truth is not changed by calling it old-fashioned.

She looked down into the enormous green ice-cream the pretty waitress now placed before her.

You are right, of course, about honour and truth. But surely some things change for the better? People having more to eat, less poverty and better homes. Less work, even. Backbreaking slavery doesn’t necessarily make a man good, does it? And aren’t we more honest about things now, talk about them more openly?’


You mean if we call immorality by its proper name we are free to practise it? If we chat happily about dishonesty there’s no harm in being dishonest?’


I didn

t mean that, and you know it,’ she snapped.


Then what did you mean?’ he pressed her.

He was her host and she did not wish to air views which might spoil the pleasant atmosphere.

Let’s not argue on such a lovely day. I daresay I seem foolish and inexperienced to a man of the world like yourself. You probably disapprove of me in all respects.’


I probably do,

he said gravely.

First I disapprove of a young unmarried girl careering round the world alone. One of those famous friends of yours could have accompanied you, surely?’


I didn

t plan to come alone,’ she said quickly.

We

d meant it to be so different.’ She had not meant to say as much, and firmly closed her lips on any more disclosures. If Marco disapproved of her travelling alone, still more would he disapprove of the Jan-and-Michael idea.

And secondly, you are going to tell me, you disapprove of my accepting your invitation?’


I do.’

Goaded beyond her patience, she tossed her head
proudly.

I don’t find that at all amusing,
signore.
This expedition need go no farther. If you will tell your man to take my cases back to the ferryboat, I will return at once.’

‘To Naples? And from Naples to Rome?’ There was a ripple of amusement in his tone.

And where do you propose to find the fares?’


Since I came at your invitation, to care for your mother, you will pay them. Your old-fashioned ideas of courtesy and fair dealing will compel you to do so, and I shall accept your offer as recompense for my wasted time.’

‘Stabbed to the heart!’ He placed his hand over his heart as he spoke.

And with my own weapon. Come, I apologise. You are a nurse and I am sure you came to help my mother, and not for any charms of mine. Am I forgiven for a joke in poor taste?’

She was certain it had not been intended as a joke, but he had offered peace.

Of course. We belong to different nations, with different attitudes to life, so let us be tolerant of each other.’

‘Agreed. Now Dino seems to be ready, so if you have finished that enormous ice-cream, let us be on our way.’

The motor-launch, the
Drusus,
cleaved a white track through the deep blue water. Jan had always loved boats, and was in her element, with the breeze on her face. Now, as Marco Cellini concentrated on handling the fine little craft, she was able to watch him without being noticed. She had found him arrogant, charming, sharp-tongued, kind. A strange mixture. Which was the real man? The face she now studied was a strong one, the fine skin deeply tanned, the chin square, the cheekbones high. She looked with special interest at the mouth, for it is the mouth which betrays the man. Generously wide, yet now the lips were compressed; whether with concentration on his task, or with other thoughts which might, perhaps, have also caused the two sharp frown-lines between the well
-
marked black eyebrows, she could not tell.

Not, she decided, a happy face. A young one, yet one accustomed to heavy responsibility. A wealthy businessman, her English friend had said on the telephone. So it might be the cares of wealth or international business which weighed on him now.

After twenty minutes, Dino touched her arm, smiled and pointed.


Barini,
signorina.’

Marco glanced over his shoulder.

Little more than a lump of volcanic rock, but men have made a home of sorts on it for a few thousand years. The harbour is round the other side.’

The side they approached was steep, rising straight out of the sea without a beach or rocks at the base. Jan craned her neck to the summit of the crag, where a thin layer of soil and green growth clung precariously. All the way down, it was possible to see the rock formations, the slits and cracks, the caves eaten by the everlasting sea. Once or twice, Dino pointed to where lava must once have flowed, molten rock like treacle and now set hard as granite.

Jan shuddered. A cruel home, but well defended. Not only a home for shepherds, she guessed, but a lair of pirates well placed for a foray.

Round on the other side there was a different story. This was the fair face of Barini, with gardens running down the cliffs, and beaches lipped by shallow emerald waters. The tiny harbour built of dressed stone, the tiny lighthouse, were toy
-
like. A man and some boys sat fishing on the end of the pier, but leapt to their feet shouting and waving as the launch came in silently. Dino waved back.


Wave to them, Jan,’ Marco barked. He was intent on bringing his boat to its mooring, but he had given
an order. Obediently, she waved. After all, he was master of this craft and entitled to bark orders.

The approach to the villa was up a narrow road which ascended in breathtaking hairpin bends to the highest point of the island. They used a beach-buggy painted lemon-yellow and having a pink candy-striped awning. The unlikely little vehicle packed a lot of power, and Marco’s muscular brown hands twisted it this way and that, as deftly as he had handled the boat. And at last, under a white archway, they came to the garden of the Villa Tramonti.


Home,’ said Marco, smiling at her.

She smiled in return. ‘It’s always nice to come home?’

To her dismay, the innocent question wiped the smile from his face. For a brief moment, unutterable sadness looked out of those searching eyes, and touched the strong mouth. Then he brought the smile back and spoke.


Of course. Don’t you find it so?’ But the voice was the voice of a stranger once more.


To enter the house, one passed along an arched white corridor; one side was open to the sea, each opening framed with flowers. Geraniums scarlet and pink; cascades of purple bougainvillaeas, and, to Jan’s delight, a riot of colourful homely sweet williams. At the end of the arcade, framed by the brilliance of the distant sea, there was a bronze statue of a seated boy over a kittle fountain which sparkled as it rose and fell into a marble basin encircled by alabaster doves.

The door was black and heavily carved, set in a white arch within an arch of gold mosaic. A huge white bowl of pink geraniums was set on either side.

‘But it is quite, quite beautiful, Marco.’

‘Thank you. My father created it, out of an old tumbledown house he bought for the sake of the site. He and my mother made it a life’s work.’

He led her through a cool dark entrance hall, through glass doors into what seemed to be the main room of the villa. It was large and cool, built after the ancient Roman fashion round an open courtyard with a circular pool and another fountain. Banks of lilies grew round the pool, filling the air with their fragrance.

The floor was white marble, in which were reflected six pendant crystal chandeliers, and the comfortable-looking chairs and sofas, all upholstered in pale blue. Round the white walls, Jan observed six tall black marble plinths, each supporting a fine marble bust. It surprised her that a room so pure in line, so simple—almost austere—could at the same time look so supremely luxurious.

She had fallen on her feet. To spend the rest of her holiday in this glorious place was something of which she had not dreamed. She now saw the Rome hotel for what it was—fair enough, for those who wanted a holiday without breaking the bank, and didn’t mind roughing it a bit. But noisy, over-full, gone down in the world since the palmy days of the Edwardian travelling English.

‘Do you like it?’ Marco asked, with a rather touching pride.

‘Very much.’ She looked around curiously.

But why don t you have a view? I’d want huge windows looking over the sea.’

BOOK: One Hot Summer
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