Flirting in Italian (18 page)

Frustration and anger rise in me like bile. I can see in Catia’s eyes that she isn’t going to believe me, no matter how much I protest. The girls are absolutely right.

I’m just working out why when Elisa strolls into the room.

“Luca, ciao!”
she exclaims, walking toward him with her hands out, like an actress in a very bad film. She glances all around the salon, taking in the scene, and then says in English for our benefit:

“I hear your car, so I go to look for you. But I don’t find you!” She kisses him on both cheeks, her hands on his shoulders, lingering as long as she can, pressing her thin frame up against him in a way that makes me want to rip her off him and send her flying. “You get my SMS and come back early from Florence to find me! How nice!”

“Ciao, Elisa,”
Luca says rather dryly.

When did she “go to find Luca”?
I want to know.
Before or after someone locked me in the passage?

“Ho chiuso la porta, Luca, ne sono sicura,”
his mother says, swiveling in her chair to look up at him.
“Le ho fatto vedere il passaggio, per curiosita, e poi l’ho richiuso.”

Luca’s dark eyebrows lift a little.

“My mother says,” he informs us all, “that she showed you ladies the passage in her tour of the castello, but then she is sure she closed it again.”

I look quickly around at the girls. That means everyone
knew about the passage, everyone who was with Catia. Any one of them, given the opportunity, could have doubled back and opened the door as a trap for me.

But why on earth would any of them play such a nasty trick?

Catia says, flicking her hand as if she’s shooing an annoying fly away from her, “The wind opened the door and then it closed it again. Violet was silly to go inside, but she was never locked in, she just panicked.
Ecco tutto
. I should have noticed she was gone before, but it is such a pleasure for me to walk around your marvelous home, Donatella, that I was distracted. There is always something beautiful here that I have not noticed before. Like the mother-of-pearl inlay on the credenza in the
salotto
upstairs. Truly magnificent.”

The principessa smiles at her a little uncertainly. I’m bristling with fury at being dismissed as a hysterical idiot: I glance at Luca to see if he’ll defend me, insist that the door really was latched shut, but instead, reading my thoughts, he sticks out his tongue at me, and then, keeping it stuck out, closes his white teeth on it in a brief gesture that signifies all too clearly that I should bite my tongue and not say another word.

I fume. Almost literally. I wouldn’t be surprised if smoke were coming out of my ears.

“
Allora
, shall we have our
brindisi
now?” Catia suggests, and the principessa nods.

“Luca, il campanello, per favore,”
she says to her son, and Luca crosses the room to where a long golden woven cord is hanging near a doorway, suspended from the ceiling,
ending in a matching tassel. He pulls it. No sound emerges, but obviously it’s not supposed to; the bell rings in a far-off part of the castello, in the servants’ quarters.

Paige sighs in ecstasy.

“How
cool
,” she says, directing a melting stare at Luca. “I’d
love
to live in a place like this—just pull a cord when you need someone to bring something …”

“It is very old and falling down,” Luca says depressingly, propping his shoulders against the wall and crossing his legs at the ankles. “And it costs so much to heat, in the winter we live in one small room.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true!” she coos.

“Si,
invece
. In the peasants’ houses, they have the big fireplace,” he informs her. “With the stone
panchini
—” He looks at Catia, who provides him with the word “benches.”

“Ecco,”
he continues. “With the stone benches to sleep next to the fire, to stay warm. Often I say to my mother, we need them here too.”

Paige giggles.

“You need an American heiress,” she says teasingly. “Like in the nineteenth century in England. Kendra and I saw the miniseries. These American girls with tons of money went to England and married the dukes and earls ’cause those guys needed money to keep up their stately homes, and the girls wanted to be duchesses. Or princesses,” she adds pointedly.

“Subtle, Paige,” Kendra says. “Subtle like a Mack truck.”

Paige giggles again. “I’m just
saying
,” she points out, tossing her blond curls. “I’d
looove
to be a princess.”

“There are many princes in Italy,” Luca says. “And almost all of them are very poor.”

“Awesome,” Paige says with relish.

“We’re not all this bad,” Kendra says to me and Kelly in an undertone. “Honestly.”

“I think she’s funny,” Kelly says back. “I mean, she’s only saying what everyone’s thinking. I sort of admire her for coming straight out with it.”

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” Kendra observes. “She’s not the only one in this room thinking she’d like to be a princess.”

And she stares pointedly at Elisa, who’s tugging on Luca’s arm as if it were the bell cord, a pack of cigarettes in her hand; she’s trying to get him to go outside to smoke with her.

Kelly snuffles a laugh of acknowledgment, and though the entire conversation is setting my nerves even more on edge, I join in. We’re a group, united enough to be intimidating, and Elisa senses the three of us staring at her, judging her; she swings her head around and glares back, her dark eyes glittering.

I’m as sure as I can be of anything that it was Elisa who sneaked back and shut me into the secret passage.

“Ecco, signora!”
Maria, the housekeeper, bustles into the Gold Salon carrying a beautiful gilded wooden tray, topped with small crystal stemmed glasses, a matching decanter half full of a straw-colored liquid, and two china plates of biscotti—long and angled at each end, with almonds in them, so dry you could break a tooth if you don’t realize that you’re supposed to dunk them in your cappuccino first to soften them.

Luca takes the tray from Maria, who flaps and protests but is clearly very pleased at his courtesy. She supervises him carrying it across the room to a round table by the window, then shoos him away to preside over it, looking at the principessa expectantly.

“Grazie, Maria,”
the principessa says, rising to her feet,
visibly more relaxed now that the afternoon’s visit has returned to something approaching its normal routine.
“Allora, cantuccini e vin santo?”

She crosses with small, ladylike steps to the table. Maria starts to pour the glasses one by one, and we line up for the principessa to hand them out to us.

“This is
vin santo
from the di Vesperi estate,” Catia informs us as we each take one; they’re small, the size of sherry glasses. “Literally, ‘holy wine.’ It is sweet and not too strong. Traditionally the
cantuccini
, which are typical biscuits of the region, are dipped into the wine and then eaten when they get a little soft.”

Elisa declines the biscuit, but the rest of us take one from the plate Maria hands around. She stops in front of me, and much to my surprise and embarrassment, she reaches out with the hand not holding the plate and pinches my cheeks, one after the other.

“Bella,”
she mutters.
“Molto italiana, Molto tipica, come nei anni cinquanta.”

Everyone looks at me. Maria’s pinch is as forceful as her grip on my shoulders was earlier.

“She says,” Luca informs me, “that you are beautiful in the Italian style. Like a girl from the fifties.”

“Poi c’ha un po’ di carne sulle ossa,”
Maria adds, looking me up and down with something very like a leer.
“Non come lei. È un stecchino,”
she adds, nodding vehemently at Elisa.
“Dovresti mangiare una volta ogni tanto.”

“Ah, she says that you have some meat on your bones,” Luca says, visibly amused now at my expense. “But she says Elisa is too thin and needs to eat more.”

I’m as red as a tomato. That evil old dwarf just practically called me fat in front of everyone! And Elisa, of course, is enjoying this tremendously; she throws back her head and laughs theatrically.

“Che buffa, quella vecchietta,”
she says, and then, with an equally dramatic gesture, she looks out the open window onto the terrace and points.
“Luca, guarda! Pipistrelli!”

We all look where she’s indicating; it would be against human nature not to. Dusk is falling, the sky fading to a deep mauve-blue streaked with rays of bright pink from the red sun, setting behind the castello. But it’s not the beautiful sunset that Elisa is staring at, it’s the small dark shapes in the air, circling around the cypresses that line the northerly approach to the castello beyond the encircling, fortified wall.

“What are they?” Kelly asks.

“Bats,” Elisa informs us smugly. “Luca loves bats. They come out at this time of the evening to eat the mosquitoes. We would always watch them when we were little.” She links her arm through his, a favorite technique of hers, and saunters with him out onto the terrace. He doesn’t look back.

“Eww!” Kendra says, shuddering and clamping her hands on her hair, as if a swarm of bats is about to fly in and try to nest there. “I hate bats!”

“I bet you’ve never even seen a bat,” Kelly says pragmatically. “Anyway, they don’t want us. They want the mosquitoes. You heard her.”

“Come outside!” Luca calls over his shoulder. “It’s very lovely out here!”

Kelly and Paige need no encouragement, and both shoot
out onto the terrace. Kelly wants to watch the bats; Paige wants to try to pry Luca from Elisa, as far as I can make out.

“The bats sleep in the
cipressi
,” Luca explains, his voice carrying clearly in the still night air. “Because it is dark in there, and they like the dark. And in Italy, we have the
cipressi
always by the
cimiteri—
”

“Cemeteries,” Elisa translates, still clinging proprietorially to his arm.

“So people think, oh, bats love the
cimiteri
, they are very
Gotici
.”

“Gothic,” Elisa prompts.

“Got-ic,” Luca attempts. “But really, the bats like the
cipressi
. They are not really
Gotici
. They just like the dark inside.”

“Well, that’s a pretty good definition of Gothic,” Kelly observes, and Luca turns to her.

I step back, farther inside the salon. Watching Luca surrounded by girls, all vying for his attention, Elisa attached to him like a nasty growth that will need extensive surgery to remove, is not my idea of a fun time. I drink some
vin santo
, which is stronger than Catia made it sound, definitely stronger than normal wine; no wonder they serve it in small glasses. But it really hits the spot. It warms me all the way down my esophagus, rich and sweet. I dunk my biscuit in it, feeling a bit common—but after all, Catia said to do it—and try a bite. Wow. This certainly beats dipping it into cappuccino.

Kendra has overcome her distaste for bats and ventured out onto the terrace too, not wanting to be left out. They cluster together, heads tilted back, watching the bats loop in
circles and then dart swiftly among their invisible prey, the tiny insects that come out as night begins to fall. I see why Luca enjoys watching the sight; it’s hypnotic and fascinating. How often do you actually get to watch bats, let alone when they’re hunting for dinner?

But my view of the back of his black head, his white-shirted shoulders, is too much for me. Barely half an hour ago my hands were in his hair, feeling how soft and silky it was. The arm that Elisa’s clutching was around me, pulling me closer to him. I never knew I was a jealous person before, and I’m shocked at how primitive I feel, seeing him bantering and laughing with a bevy of girls.

Catia and the principessa have retreated to a sofa and are sitting there, heads together, chattering away in Italian, sipping their wine. There’s no space for me to join them, and their body language makes it clear that they’re having what my dad calls a grown-up moment. So I finish off my biscuit and my wine, making them last as long as I can, and when I really can’t stand there with an empty glass any longer, I put it down on a little table and do what all the wallflowers and gooseberries do at parties: wander around the room, pretending I’m totally absorbed in the art hanging on the walls.

Out on the terrace, I hear laughter. They’re obviously all having a lovely time. And since there’s absolutely no point wishing that I were out there alone with Luca—his arm wrapped around my waist, my head on his shoulder, watching the bats circle while the sun sets and the red streaks fade from the sky as it turns a deep, velvety purple and the stars begin to come out and the moon rises behind the cypresses
—since there’s absolutely no point in picturing that
at all
—I find an album of watercolors on a marble-topped chest of drawers at the back of the room and start to turn its pages. It’s a collection of paintings of fruit and sort of general vegetation, quite old, surely nineteenth century. Apples, pomegranates, quinces, lemons, oranges, each pictured on a white background, still on a stalk with their leaves attached, like a guide to recognizing them and their foliage. The pictures are very delicate, beautifully done, fine black-ink lines sketching in all the details with simple, clean strokes that look so perfectly executed that they must be the result of years and years of practice.

Well, I’m only seventeen
, I find myself thinking.
I could start now, couldn’t I?

I’ve managed to distract myself so successfully from Luca and his group of admiring girls that I’m startled when I hear their voices, babbling loudly and happily as they come back inside. I close the book and turn around to see Maria circling with the decanter, smiling, topping up everyone’s glasses, and I retrieve my own from the side table and accept a little more.

“Mamma, io dovrei andare,”
Luca says, crossing the salon, the girls trailing behind him as if he were a rock star and they were his groupies.

“Oh, Luca, veramente? Torni a Firenze?”
the principessa says, her face falling.

“No, a Gaiole. A cena con Fabrizio.”
He bends down to kiss his mother on either cheek. “I go now,” he says to his little court. “I have dinner with a friend.”

There’s a collective sigh at the thought of Luca going.

“I was going to say,” Catia responds, “you could come back with us for dinner if you liked.”

The girls perk up visibly, like flowers put in fresh water. I don’t. I know Luca isn’t coming.

“Ah, per carità, Catia, no!”
the principessa protests.
“Semmai, cena qui, con la sua mamma—”
She stretches out one frail hand to her son entreatingly.

I don’t understand the Italian, but it’s obvious that they’re all fighting over him. The principessa wants Luca to have dinner here; Catia wants him to come back with us, as do all the other girls but Elisa, who wants him to carry her off in his car, treat her to a romantic dinner, and then, probably, propose. And Luca knows all of this; I glance at him, and see a complacent expression on his face as he takes his mother’s hand and kisses it, a gesture that brings more sighs from Kelly, Kendra, and Paige.

Well, I’m never going to be like that with him
, I promise myself. I take a step back till I’m leaning against the side of an armchair, watching the scene play out as if it had nothing to do with me.
I’m never going to be part of a group of girls all vying to catch his attention, jumping up and down, practically screaming: Look at me, Luca! Look at me! The more I see that, the farther I’ll walk away from it. If Luca wants me, he’ll have to come and get me
.

And if he doesn’t—his loss
.

Brave words
, I think sarcastically: even my
vin santo
tastes a little bitter going down, probably from the acid at the back of my throat, watching Luca flirt with the girls as he kisses them all goodbye on each cheek.
Let’s see if you can stick to those brave words, Violet
.

Over the rim of my glass, I catch Maria’s eye. She’s busying
herself behind the table with the tray on it, stacking the empty plates that held biscotti. But she’s looking right at me, her beady little eyes sharp and dark, and I have the strangest feeling that she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

She must have seen so much go on here
, I think. Luca’s dad, the playboy prince with his girlfriends … the principessa, visibly lonely and unhappy, but clinging on to the castello as if it were all she had left … a family tragedy in miniature. Maria’s gaze shifts away from me, and I follow it, to Luca, who’s hugging his mother goodbye; she’s clinging to him too, as dramatic as if he were leaving for a month instead of just going out to dinner with a friend called Fabrizio. (I understood that much. I was listening jealously to see if he’d name a girl he was due to meet.)

Luca waits patiently while she clutches him, kisses him, pats his cheek, muttering
“mio bellissimo figlio,”
“my beautiful son,” something an English boy would loathe and detest with every fiber of his being. Luca doesn’t seem to mind at all: Italian boys are clearly very used to being complimented in public by their mothers. Finally he detaches himself, kisses Catia goodbye, and looks over at me.

I realize I’m between him and the main door. I actually start to slip behind the armchair, as if I need a barricade between me and Luca; I’m frightened, physically frightened, of what might happen if he kisses me in public. Not that we might become overcome with passion, nothing that silly, just that I might give myself away, cling to him like the principessa just did …

“Violetta,” he says softly, and before I know it, he’s crossed the room to me with two brief strides of his long legs.
He takes hold of my shoulders, looks down at me. I brace myself. But he doesn’t kiss me at all. He just says, equally softly,
“A presto,”
releases me, and walks out of the salon.

There’s silence for a long moment as we all watch him go: then, like air whizzing out of a balloon, we all deflate. No more excitement for us. The hot boy has left the building.

“Time for us all to go,” Catia says.
“Andiamo, ragazze!”

“Enjoy your dinner,” Elisa says, and I don’t think it’s just my imagination—I think that for some reason, she’s directing this at me. She looks straight at me, with a mocking gleam in her eyes. “I stay here, I will have dinner with Donatella. To keep her company.”

Maria, collecting glasses, nods approvingly, and the principessa looks touchingly happy not to be dining alone.

“Nice,” Kendra mutters, just low enough that Elisa can’t hear. “Way to show you’re good daughter-in-law material.”

“Bene, bene,”
Catia says casually, but I detect a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes; she, too, knows what Elisa’s tactics are, and approves of them. With practiced efficiency, she herds us into saying our goodbyes and thanks to the principessa; we don’t even bother with a goodbye to Elisa, who has turned her back on us anyway. We flood out of the house, through the huge iron gates, to the jeep. Paige is talking nonstop, a stream of near-incoherent babble about castles and princesses and just having been kissed by a prince.

I wait, during all the drive back, and all the time I’m eating the minestrone soup that’s our starter at dinner, for Catia to bring up the subject of me getting stuck in the passage at the castello. Ask me if I’m okay, speculate about how it could have happened, express concern that I might have
been really upset. But she doesn’t mention it at all, which I find telling. We go straight to the dining room when we’re back at Villa Barbiano, and I don’t have any time alone with the girls to talk over what happened. I’m not even sure how much I want to tell them anyway: my head’s spinning, and I’m acutely aware that I met these girls only a few days before.