Sea of Lost Love (27 page)

T
he following morning Celestria awoke to see the photograph on the floor by the door. Daylight flooded the room with sunshine and banished the demons from the shadows. She no longer felt afraid or ashamed. Perhaps it had been Gaitano or Federica, neither whom would think any less of her for shedding tears. She picked the photo up and put it on the dresser, leaning it up against the mirror so she would see it every time she brushed her hair.

She breakfasted early and, infected by the enthusiasm of the dawn, made off for Salazar's office. Surely today would be different?

She rang the bell and waited for the woman to open the door. To her surprise, she barely recognized her, as she was now fully made up with red lipstick, coiffed hair, and a little too much rouge. The woman smiled and beckoned her inside. Celestria's heart soared. The elusive Mr. Salazar had returned. The woman said something incomprehensible in Italian and gently pushed her into the waiting room. There were a sofa and a couple of armchairs, a single painting of the sea, and a vase of yellow flowers on the coffee table. She offered Celestria a drink.
“Caffé?”
Celestria shook her head. She was much too nervous to waste time drinking coffee. “Please wait,” said the secretary, obviously struggling with her poor English. Celestria sat down, attempting to look confident, and picked up a magazine. The secretary disappeared. She could hear the murmur of low voices down the corridor. Finally, the door opened and a handsome middle-aged man strode in, wearing a pressed ivory suit and shiny, two-toned brogues. He was short, with sleek black hair, a low, unwrinkled forehead, thick eyebrows that resembled furry caterpillars, and the large, oleaginous smile of a man used to slipping through people's defenses with his charm.

“Signorina Montague,” he gushed, opening his arms as if about to embrace her. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” His English was good, though flamboyantly accented. His bitter chocolate eyes appraised her with admiration. “You are more beautiful than your father,” he said with a laugh. “Please, come into my office.”

She walked past him, through a cloud of sweet cologne, into a room that was wood paneled, with a bookcase filling one wall, a pair of mahogany filing cabinets between two windows that gave on to a small cobbled courtyard, and a wide English desk more suited to a city chairman than a provincial clerk. He offered her a seat before sinking into his own leather chair. “I, too, have daughters,” he said, pointing to the family photographs that rested in silver frames on the desk amid piles of papers and a smart leather briefcase. “Italian women are beautiful, but you,
signorina,
put them in the shade.”

Celestria was not in the mood for his empty flattery. There was even something insulting about his assumption that she would be grateful for it. “I am here about my father,” she said briskly.

“Of course you are. Signor Montague was a good client of mine.” Celestria was surprised. She hadn't expected him to know he was dead.

“Who told you he had died?” she asked. It was Salazar's turn to look shocked.

“Dead?” He shook his head and straightened. “I never said he was dead.”

“You used the past tense.”

“So?” he shrugged. “We no longer do business together.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So, he is dead?” The smile had slipped off his face, leaving his mouth loose and shapeless.

“He died at sea.”

“How?”

“In a boating accident. He drowned.”

“Drowned?” Salazar's eyes widened in horror. He had suddenly gone very pale. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“So am I.”

“How can I help you?” He loosened his tie as he was beginning to sweat, and forced a smile that hung unsteadily on his face.

“I am sorting out his affairs. I know nothing of his businesses. I do know that he sent money out to you on a regular basis. I'd like to know where that money has gone.”

Salazar hesitated a moment. He reached for a silver box, opened it, and took out a small cigar. “You don't mind if I smoke?” Celestria shook her head. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a lighter. She knew he was playing for time. “Life is all fog and smoke and mirrors,” he said with a shrug.

“What do you mean?” Celestria was irritated.

“His business collapsed. He took what little there was left and disappeared. What can I tell you?”

“Where did all those thousands of pounds go?”

“Sunk, my good lady. I suppose, one could say, drowned, like your father.” His small eyes shone maliciously.

“I don't understand. What business was it?”

Salazar heaved a sigh and took a long puff before placing his cigar on the edge of a glass ashtray already filled with ash. He leaned forward. His face was now red and sweating.
“Signorina,
it is a man's world. If I were you, I would leave business to the boys. Besides, you have already admitted that you don't understand. I have not the time nor the patience to enlighten you.”

Celestria was affronted. He stood up and opened a drawer in one of the filing cabinets behind him. Celestria looked out into the courtyard. An iron gate stood at the top of a small incline of steps, opening into what looked like a pretty orchard of apple trees. The steps made her think of the mausoleum in the city of the dead, and her thoughts once again wandered to Hamish. Salazar turned, bringing a file with him, and sat down. He placed it on the desk and opened it. Celestria peered over. He was flicking through what looked like correspondence and lists of numbers and names. “This, my good lady, is all I have left of your father.” He slapped a page with the back of his hand.

“What are they?”

“Lists of creditors.” He looked at Celestria and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Your father left nothing behind but angry people demanding money.”

At that moment there was a knock on the door. The secretary appeared, looking flustered.
“C'è una signora alla porta che dice di volerti vedere, dice che è urgente. E' arrivata direttamente da Parigi.”
He smiled at Celestria, but loosened his tie again.

“Tell her I am busy,” he replied frostily. “Tell her to come back tomorrow.”

The secretary nodded and closed the door behind her. Celestria frowned.

“It seems I am besieged by women today. I am a lucky man.” He picked up his cigar and puffed on it again. “Now, where were we?”

“My father's business. Was it his alone?”

“No, he had a partner, and the countess, of course.”

“The countess?” Celestria screwed up her nose. “Countess Valonya?”

There was another knock on the door. The secretary didn't wait for Salazar to respond but opened it in a fluster.
“Dice che la vedrá. E furiosa.”
He chuckled nervously. The secretary was very pale, wringing her hands. She spoke at great speed, her voice a note or two higher than before. After she had left, he shrugged again.

“The woman is in love with me,” he sighed pompously. “What can I do? Frenchwomen are very pushy. They don't like to take no for an answer. She has telephoned me daily from Paris, demanding to see me. Can you imagine?” He took a puff, pausing for a moment. “I deal with all sorts of people,
signorina.
From the ex-king of Italy to the present king of olive oil. I treat them all the same. With respect. My job requires discretion. My clients are important men of means and position, and they don't take very kindly to being played with.” He narrowed his eyes and gazed at her through the diaphanous screen of smoke. “Your father was a gambler. Some he won, some he lost, but he played a little too hard. Do you understand what I'm saying?” Celestria nodded slowly, though she wished he would make himself clear.

“What part did the countess play in my father's affairs?”

“I never liked her. Let's just say she was a lugubrious character. He sent her out when he could not come himself. A shadow that blended in with the night.”

Suddenly a loud crash resounded through the building. The secretary hurried in. There was a terrible commotion. Salazar stood up and dialed for the
carabinieri.
Celestria peered around the corner, to where the front window was broken. Shattered glass lay all over the floor. Within minutes a couple of policemen in khaki uniforms had arrived. Salazar strode past her. He let off a round of staccato Italian phrases at the woman who was now being marched away by the police. She hurled back abuse, straining to free herself.

Celestria caught sight of her. She was beautiful, middle-aged, her shiny brown hair parted on the side and carefully tied into a tight chignon at the back of her head. She wore an ivory suit, the jacket nipped in at the waist, the pencil skirt reaching just below her knees. Her heels were high, and of pale leather to match her handbag. She didn't look the type to throw a brick through a window; more likely to have a champagne glass in one hand and a cigarette holder in the other.

Salazar shook Celestria's hand. She knew he was withholding information. But he was as slippery as the grease he used to slick back his hair. For the moment there was nothing more she could do.

She left with reluctance, aware that she had learned nothing at all. So the countess had done her father's dirty work, but what exactly had that involved? Salazar had given nothing away. She had no means of knowing whether the money had indeed been withdrawn, and, as far as she could tell, there was no way of finding out. Lord, she wished her grandfather had come with her. She wasn't equipped to work all this out on her own.

She wandered into the piazza and sat on a bench in the sunshine. A horse plodded past, pulling a cart of pine furniture. She watched him and envied the man who led him, for he appeared to have not a care in the world. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized that it was two in the afternoon and she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She thought of the vast sum of money her father had supposedly withdrawn the week preceding his death. To whom had the countess given it? Was he being blackmailed? If so, what could it be that he hadn't wanted anyone to know about? He hadn't had a job for two years. He had squandered his family's money. Where had it all gone to? What was he running from?

She stood up to make her way back to the Convento and she noticed the police station at the other end of the piazza. Curiosity overrode her hunger, and she walked around to see what had become of the Frenchwoman. There seemed to be no one about. She looked up and down the road, then stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the door and listened. She heard a burst of laughter, then a woman's voice, smooth and silky like condensed milk. She recognized it at once. Perhaps, if Celestria could solicit her help, she might shed some light on the mysterious Salazar. Celestria felt she had nothing to lose by trying.

She entered the police station to find the Frenchwoman sitting on a chair surrounded by a group of eight enraptured policemen. One was lighting the cigarette she held to her crimson lips, another handing her a little cup of coffee. They were all laughing at whatever she was saying. Her Italian seemed flawless. When she saw Celestria, her eyes narrowed and the smile turned into a scowl.
“Chi è lei?”
she said, nodding towards Celestria.

“I was having a meeting with Salazar when—”

“I threw a brick through his window.” Her English was good but heavily accented. “What is it to you?” She took a drag and blew out the smoke, watching the younger woman with disdain. The policemen were clearly bemused.

“I think we are in the same boat.”

“You can think what you like,
chérie.
” She showed no willingness to collude.

“Can we talk in private?”

The Frenchwoman laughed meanly. “I am under arrest, or perhaps it has escaped your notice.” She ran her eyes over her audience and straightened the cap of one of them, before patting it playfully. “Why don't you go away?”

Celestria was stung. The woman began to speak to the men in Italian. They all turned to Celestria and laughed. She spun around and hurried out, her cheeks burning with humiliation.

Folding her arms against her chest, she strode back beneath the pine trees to the Convento. “This has been a huge mistake coming out here,” she muttered to herself crossly. “Why is everyone so horrid?” She cast her eyes over to the city of the dead.

As she stepped through the door into the Convento, she bumped straight into Hamish. Without deliberating her words, she stiffened and, to his astonishment, said exactly what was on her mind. “Oh, Lord, it's you again! The one person I do not wish to see today.”

“I—” he began, but she cut him off with a loud sigh.

“Save it. I don't know what it is about this place, but it is filled with very rude people. Where I come from people are good-natured and polite. And you know what? It's not the Italians who are rude. No, Nuzzo is a darling, and Freddie and Gaitano are charm personified. It's the Scottish and the French, who should really know better.”

“I should apologize,” he said, frowning heavily, visibly disturbed by her outburst.