The Mermaid Garden (41 page)

new contacts he had made and the business opportunities they might

give him.

“I think this summer is going to be very special, darling. A turning

point for you now that you’re a young lady.”

“I felt I belonged tonight.”

“And, darling, you
did
belong. I watched you and Giovanna and

thought how very like sisters you are.”

“She’s my best friend.”

“Indeed she is, and I can’t think of a nicer friend for you.” Floriana’s name rested unspoken on both their lips.

Dawn was seeping into the sky when Dante and Good-Night walked

Floriana back to her home on Via Roma. The stars were beginning to

fade, the moon now as pale as a specter. The town was slowly waking,

the odd Cinquecento rattling over the cobbles, dogs gathering outside

the
panetteria
that smelled of freshly baked bread.

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“So, this is where you live,” he said, stopping in front of the
portone
—

the big wooden door that once opened to cars, but now remained firmly

bolted. Floriana hesitated by the smaller door cut into it. She did not want him to come in and see the simplicity of her apartment, nor her

inebriated father.

“This is it,” she replied. “Signora Bruno doesn’t like visitors.”

“You need to get some rest.” He ran his thumb over her cheek. “I’m

glad I found you, Floriana.” He kissed her again, not wanting to let her go, drunk on love.

“I must go,” she said, aware that her father could come weaving

down the street at any moment.

“Come to La Magdalena today.”

“Perhaps.”

“Good-Night will want to see you. And so will I.”

“Then I’ll come with Costanza.”

She slipped in and closed the door behind her, leaning against it and

shutting her eyes to hold on to the magic.

“So, you went to the party after all,” came a low voice from the stairs.

It was Signora Bruno in her dressing gown, her wide feet squeezed into

slippers. “You look like you’ve just been kissed by a prince.”

“What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I’m always up. I find it hard to sleep in the heat.”

Floriana ambled over, her hips swinging playfully. “I
have
been kissed by a prince,” she laughed.

Signora Bruno forgot all about her insomnia. “The devil strike me

down,” she exclaimed. “Little Floriana, of all people!”

“I didn’t go to the party. I spied from the wall, and he found me.”

“He must have been looking for you.”

“I think he was.”

Signora Bruno chuckled. “Well, that’ll teach them.”

“Our love is too strong to keep us apart.”

“So, tell me. What does he look like?”

Floriana sat down on the step below. “He’s tall and fair-skinned,

with pale green eyes, the color of a tropical sea.”

“Well, you must be in love if you see his eyes like that.”

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“But I love his mouth the best, the way it curls at the corners, and

when he smiles, it’s so wide, showing all his teeth.”

“So, you’ve just enjoyed your first kiss.” Floriana blushed and touched her lips with her fingertips. “I remember my first kiss. It was the nicest kiss I’ve ever been given. If I could put it in a box and take it out now and then, I’m sure I’d sleep better. It’s never like that again, you know.

Innocence once lost is lost forever. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“You’re an old cynic.”

“Perhaps, but a wise cynic. After you make love he’ll never bother to

kiss you like that again, for hours and hours. It turns into something

else, and kissing is no longer the goal, but the means to an end—and in my experience men usually prefer to skip that bit altogether and jump

right to the end as fast as possible. Mind you play hard to get.”

“He’s already got me.”

“No, he hasn’t. Don’t go giving in too easily. A man like that might

suppose a girl like you is something she’s not.”

Floriana was appalled. “I’ll be a virgin on my wedding day, if that’s

what you mean.”

“Well, of course you will. Still, this is the time you need a mother to tell you the story of the stork.”

“But I have you, Signora Bruno.”

“I knew there must be some purpose to my life. If I wasn’t intended

to marry a prince myself, I was charged with making sure you do.”

“When I marry him, you’re going to come and live with me at La

Magdalena.”

“Oh, good. I’ll die happy.” She pushed herself up with a groan.

“Right, the day is beginning. I can’t sit around in my dressing gown

all morning. There are things to be done—and that
cretino
has overwatered his geraniums again.” She clicked her tongue.

Floriana lay on her bed fully clothed, but she was too excited to

sleep. She replayed the night over and over, dwelling on the kiss and

closing her eyes to relive it. Dante was back, and he loved her; nothing in the world mattered anymore. She could hear her father snoring in

the room next door. What a useless, selfish man he was. She longed to

have a father who loved her, with whom she could share her innermost

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thoughts and wishes. A father she could be proud of. But nothing

would convince her to introduce Elio to Dante.

Dante appeared for breakfast on the terrace where a round table had

been set up in the shade. His mother in a wide sunhat was sipping

coffee, her pale skin shiny with moisturizer, eyes hidden behind big

sunglasses. Giovanna sat sleepily, nibbling toast while Damiana drank

coffee and ate a bowl of fruit. Beppe presided over the table like a king, surveying the remains of the party from the lofty height of the terrace.

Already the team was back to dismantle the tent and take away the

tables and chairs—and the guest who had fallen asleep in the corner.

By evening the gardens would be restored to their former perfection

and the view of the park once again unbroken.

“Ah, my son,” exclaimed Beppe. “Come and sit beside me and tell me

what you thought of your party.”

A butler pulled out his chair. Dante sat down and asked for a black

coffee. “I had a blast, Papà.”

His father beamed proudly. “Good boy. No one throws a party like

I do. Any girls worth mentioning?”

Dante hesitated. The one girl he wanted to mention was unmen-

tionable. “Many.”

Beppe patted his son’s back. “That’s my boy. Many.” The butler

poured Dante a cup of coffee just as breakfast was interrupted by a

telephone call. Beppe disappeared off to take it in his study.

“So, girls, how was it for you?” Dante asked.

“It was magical,” said Damiana, brightening up now her father had

left the table.

“It was the best night I’ve ever had in my life,” enthused Giovanna.

“I saw Costanza was here,” said Dante carefully. “She’s grown up,

hasn’t she?”

“But little Floriana didn’t come,” his mother interjected mournfully.

“I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed.”

Dante was surprised. “You invited her?”

“Why shouldn’t I? Really, Dante, you’re as bad as your father. She’s

adorable, and I’m extremely fond of her.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

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“So, she lives in a modest house in Herba—why should that make a

difference? In fact, I don’t know where she lives, so I gave her invitation to Costanza’s mother.”

It didn’t take Dante long to work out what had happened. “I doubt

that woman ever gave it to her.”

Violetta took off her glasses. “What are you suggesting?”

“That she’s a terrible snob.”

“You really think she would be capable of such unkindness?”

“Absolutely.”

Violetta’s face relaxed into a smile. “I do hope there is some mistake, but not misconduct. I thought it odd that Floriana didn’t come.”

“She would have loved to come,” Damiana reassured her. “She

adores it here, and she adores you, Mamma. You’re the mother she has

never had.”

“I’m sure Costanza’s mother wouldn’t have done it on purpose,” said

Giovanna. “Perhaps she just forgot or mislaid it.”

“Perhaps,” said Violetta, draining her coffee cup. “Anyway, I shan’t

ask her. I’m sure it’s an innocent mistake. But I will tell Floriana that she wasn’t excluded. If she didn’t get the invitation, she will be hurt that she wasn’t invited. Will she be coming today with Costanza?”

“I don’t know,” Giovanna replied. “I asked Costanza, and she said

nothing about Floriana”

“I’m sure she will,” said Damiana. “They usually come together, don’t

they?”

Dante sat quietly, letting the women discuss the likelihood of Flori-

ana turning up to swim, knowing for sure that she would. He wondered

what his parents would think of him courting her. His mother adored

her, but would she consider her good enough for her only son?

He watched her across the table. Violetta was from a middle-class

family in Venice. Dreamy and idealistic, she was a woman who loved

nature and animals like he did, and considered all creatures equal in

God’s eyes. How extraordinary that she had chosen to marry Beppe, a

man who had left his working-class home in Turin and built a fortune

in Milan, making packaging for food and liquids.

They were opposites: one strong, the other fragile; one ambitious,

the other unmoved by ambition; one loud and pompous, the other

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quiet and unassuming. For Beppe, reputation and social standing were

all important; for Violetta, it was only the heart that mattered. It was all very well having ideals, accepting people for their natures not for their credentials, but when tested, would she be able to live by them? For the time being Floriana would have to be a secret Dante kept to himself.

After breakfast Dante went into the house with the intention of going

up to his room when he bumped into Zazzetta in the hall. The little

man smiled—a crooked smile, which revealed a sharp eyetooth that

was slightly longer than the others, like a wolf ’s.

“Good morning, Dante,” he said, giving a barely perceptible bow.

“Zazzetta,” Dante replied. He had never liked his father’s fixer. There was something shifty about him.

“Your father wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“If you have nothing better to do.” Dante bristled. Zazzetta knew he

had nothing better to do. He cursed under his breath and strode into

the study, the black-clad adviser following silently behind.

“Ah, Dante, come in,” said his father, putting down his pen and

looking up from the document he was signing. “Done, Zazzetta.” He

dabbed his signature with a blotter and handed him the paper. Zazzetta

placed it carefully in the black leather folder he was carrying and slid away, closing the door behind him.

“Let’s talk about your future.” Beppe was not a man to waste time

with small talk. “You have finished your studies and your apprentice-

ship and made me proud, Dante. I was never given the opportunities

you have been given.”

“I know, and I’m grateful, father.”

“You’ve excelled youself.” He appraised his son with satisfaction.

“You are everything I have ever wanted in a son. You’re handsome, in-

telligent, athletic, and shrewd. You’ve inherited the best of me and the best of your mother. It’s lucky that you haven’t inherited her flaws, eh?”

“Her flaws?”

“Don’t look so alarmed. No one is perfect. If you had inherited your

mother’s gentle nature, you would be no good to me.”

“Her gentle nature is an advantage in a woman.”

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“Indeed. But in a man, it is a weakness, and there is no room for

weakness in the world of business. I didn’t make my millions being

kind and gentle, but shrewd and formidable. As Machiavelli so bril-

liantly put it: Fear is the way a man commands respect. So, Dante, you

will join me in Milan on the first of September.”

Dante was not surprised by his father’s instructions. In fact, he had

always known he would be expected to join the family firm. However,

he still felt apprehensive, as if a heavy barred door had just closed on his freedom.

“It will be reassuring to know that my son and heir will take over

when I retire. I didn’t build my fortune to have it passed on to an outsider. So, what do you say?” His father did not anticipate a refusal.

“I’m ready, Father,” Dante replied dutifully.

“
Bravo!
Now, how about a game of tennis, eh? You might be younger and fitter than me, but I have the cunning of an old fox.”

They played a set on the rich red sand of the tennis court, assisted

by Piero and Mario, the chauffeur’s sons, who made very fine ball boys.

Halfway through the set, when Dante was winning and about to serve

game point, he saw Giovanna walking in the gardens with Costanza.

His heart inflated at the prospect of seeing Floriana, and he served an ace, passing his father on his backhand. Beppe was not a good loser and swore furiously, whacking his racket through the air. The distraction,