The Pigeon Project (30 page)

“And give you an opportunity to court more of your young ladies,” said the contessa mischievously. “Now, that too would be a consideration, wouldn’t it, Oreste?”

Oreste Memo flushed, glanced apologetically at Teresa Fantoni, and stuttered, “I-I assure you, that would be a minor consideration. I seek only one woman, a creative soulmate, to share my 150 years.”

“Well spoken, Oreste,” said the contessa. “And you, Teresa, what would a slowdown of aging, a promise of 150 years mean to you?”

Teresa Fantoni was silent for a moment. “I am an actress, and in what has become a world of the young, an actress needs youth,” she said with undisguised passion.

“Sarah Bernhardt was active at seventy,” the contessa reminded her.

“She was a caricature of herself at seventy,” said Teresa Fantoni. “I have seen film of her, and heard her old voice on records, and she was an embarrassment. No, an actress must not wrinkle and hobble and crumble before the audience’s eyes. She must embody, for the world, its dream of eternal youth, romance, love, hope. If she cannot do that, she is dead. What more can I say than that I would welcome a chance to play Juliet for another forty to sixty years—and be believable and beloved.”

The actress’s passionate reply had laid a hushed silence on the room for seconds, finally broken by Cedric Foster.

“She’s right, entirely right,” he said. “Who in the hell wants to grow old so soon?”

“But Cedric,” said the contessa, “you, as a novelist, are perhaps the least affected by aging. You have a tradition in your field of continued productivity in advanced years. From Tolstoy to Maugham, writers in their seventies and eighties have continued to produce works of merit. After all, Cedric, with age come superior wisdom, experience, better judgment—”

“Don’t give me that crap, Contessa,” the novelist said angrily. “That’s crap, that’s what it is—all the sedatives to quiet the fears of the old, about the loss of their powers, about dying. Next you’ll tell me it is fun to grow old, gain peace of mind, be above the rat race. Growing old is rotten, it stinks, it’s the final vicious trick played on man by an unkind God. To give us so much in youth, to promise so much, and then abruptly take it all away and boot us into oblivion. And I’m not speaking about writing alone. I agree with Miss Fantoni, old actresses are caricatures and old writers are blurb writers, essayists, reviewers, their prose witless, childish, respected only because they have stayed around so long. But it is not the loss of creativity with aging that I’m really talking about. I’m talking about the cruel loss of powers as a human being—with every added burdening year, being unable to remember, to walk quickly, or to make love like a magnificent animal—suddenly to find flab instead of firmness in face and body, to—to see the young look at you with pity—or amusement—and turn away from you to their own. No, Contessa, there is nothing good to say about growing old at seventy. But to be alive and well and young at seventy—to be strong at 100—to be optimistic at 120—that alone might enable one to forgive God.”

Momentarily taken aback by the emotion in Cedric Foster’s statement, more desperate than Teresa Fantoni’s, the contessa turned toward Jordan, as if to question him next. But as she did so, Jordan could see, she had become aware of how the subject under discussion had dampened the mood in the room. Assessing this, judging the threat to the well-being of her dinner party, she was briefly troubled. Then she artificially brightened.

Clapping her hands, the contessa stood up. “Enough of geriatrics,” she announced. “The time has come to savor the present. I’m going to put on some cheerful music, and I’m going to tell you of an adventure I had in London last summer.”

With the music on, and the contessa diverting her guests with a humorous if pointless anecdote, the mood in the room lifted somewhat, but relaxation was never fully restored. Oreste Memo mooned over Teresa Fantoni, who sat remote, smoking cigarettes endlessly, lost in herself. Across the way, Cedric Foster, frowning, giving off an aura of bitterness, ignored his hostess’s story and constantly glanced at his companion, Ian, giggling over the attractive Italian publisher’s remarks.

After a half hour, Jordan took Alison by the hand and nodded toward the door.

Observing the amenities of leave-taking, Jordan and Alison quietly retreated from the room, followed by the contessa.

In the portego, at the head of the staircase, Jordan halted and considered the contessa with a slight smile. “Contessa, thank you, it was a lovely party.”

“You enjoyed it?”

“Every minute,” said Alison.

But Jordan could not resist one parting shot. “Contessa, you take big risks,” he chided her. “You shouldn’t. Too much is at stake.”

“Oh, Timothy, no one believed it. No one can imagine it is all true, and that the scientist is under this very roof. It was just to liven up the party. It was for fun.”

“It certainly livened up the party, but apparently for some of them it wasn’t fun.”

“Timothy, it is just that I don’t mind old age—rather revel in the tyranny of it. I guess I forget how much others fear it.”

“Anyway, promise me, no more games until the professor is safely out of Venice.”

“You have my promise.”

“Let no one see him—no one.”

“You have my word. No one shall.”

“You observed what he means to people. What he has is the last high left for humanity.”

“You’re right. I’ll be careful, Timothy.”

“I expect to be back here within forty-eight hours. When I come back for him, that will be when we are ready to make a break for freedom.” He took the contessa’s hand. “Pray for us.”

“I’ll pray for all of us,” the contessa said fervently.

* * *

At ten-forty the following morning, the Contessa Elvira De Marchi, wearing a silk robe, sat at the circular marble table in her small breakfast room between the kitchen and dining room on the first floor, finishing the last of her coffee and toast and reading II Gazzettino. She had gone to sleep late the night before, assuring herself that she had hosted a successful party. She had awakened late, yet before her houseguests, and hastened to serve Professor Davis MacDonald his breakfast personally. Then, after a leisurely bath, she had made her way to this cubicle for her own light breakfast.

As she absorbed herself in a story on the progress being made by the carabinieri and the questore in their hunt for the spy, she heard approaching footsteps in the portego and then in the dining room. She raised her head just as the doorway was filled with the presence of Cedric Foster. He was as immaculate as ever in a loose cashmere jacket, ascot, sport shirt, and slacks.

“Good morning, Cedric,” she said. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

She rose, found a cup, brought it back to the table as he sat down. She poured. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black. To match my mood.”

She took her chair again, lifting up the newspaper. “Maybe I can improve it. Would you like me to read you a summary of the news?”

“Thanks, but no,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I was up half the night. Couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was your story. I couldn’t put it out of my mind. Kept turning it over.”

“What story?” she said innocently.

“You know very well what story. The one that got me going. The one about the scientist you had just met who is on the verge of discovering a formula that will arrest aging. I kept speculating about it in bed, but I still don’t believe it’s true. That’s not supposed to happen for another century.”

“It’s true, Cedric.”

“You’d swear to it?”

“On the heads of my children and grandchildren.”

Foster nodded. “Okay, I believe you. Where did you meet this scientist?”

“I thought I had made that clear. Right here in Venice.”

“When?”

She hesitated. “Recently. Very recently.”

“And he expects to have a formula that will keep us all healthy and prolong our lives?”

She did not know what impelled her next. Perhaps his own doubtfulness. Perhaps her own desire to reinforce her image of strict honesty and integrity. “Since we’re alone now, Cedric, I can be more fully truthful. He doesn’t expect to have such a formula.” She paused, and added emphatically, “He already has it.”

Cedric Foster’s eyes opened wide. “Really?”

“Yes, he has it.”

“Well, where is it? Why don’t we all have it?”

“You will, with everyone else, but you’ll have to wait until he can escape from here and be free.”

Foster snatched at the last. “Escape from here? What does that mean?”

The contessa bit her lip. “I can’t say any more.”

Foster was after her. “You can’t say that much and not say more. You mean he’s the one who is wanted by the police? The reason for this whole emergency?”

“Cedric, please, I promised—”

“We’re friends. You can confide in me. This scientist, he must be in the city right now. And you’ve seen him. You’ve talked to him. You swore you talked to him and what he said about his formula was true.”

“Yes, I talked to him.”

“Then he must be here, nearby.”

“He is nearby.”

“Where?” Cedric Foster pressed her. “I must talk to him too. I must see him.”

“You can’t. I’ve given my word that no one will see him.”

“You’ve given your word no one will see him. You mean you’re his protector? You’re in control of him?”

“Please, Cedric, I’ve said too much already.”

“Wait a minute, Elvira, wait. Listen to me.” There was the same passion in his voice that he had shown last night in speaking of the horrors of aging. “We’re close friends, trusting friends, we’ve been friends for years. This is important to me. What you’ve been saying is so important to me, can have such an effect on my life, that it’s difficult even to articulate it. This man can change my life, Elvira. He can save me, certainly save me from suicide.”

“What are you talking about, Cedric? I’ve never heard you carry on this way. What’s got into you?”

Cedric Foster, agitated, groped for words, then blurted them. “It’s a crisis in my life, Elvira, the supreme crisis. I’ve not spoken of this to anyone. You are the only one I’d dare confide in. It’s about Ian. You know we’re lovers. I love him as I’ve never loved anyone on earth. He means everything to me. Without him, at this stage, life would be meaningless. But I’m going to lose him. I can see that. He’s very young, half my age, and frivolous. I know his shortcomings. I know that in some ways he is not worthy of me. But I love him blindly, insanely—what else can I say? I must hold on to him, have him for my own. But I’m growing older, hatefully older, and soon I’ll be too old for him. Already he is looking elsewhere, attracted by, flirtatious with, younger men. You saw him last night. It was a humiliation to me the way he ignored me and was openly attentive to that terrible Italian publisher, that young man Sergio. That’s been happening more and more often, and one day soon, as I grow older, as I wither, as I become less and less attractive to him, Ian will surely leave me. And I will be lost. All will be ended for me. Can’t you see my predicament, Elvira? Can’t you feel human compassion for me and understand my need?”

His distorted face was close to her own. She could feel the brush of his warm breath. She pulled back, her mind an emotional pinwheel. “I-I’m sorry, Cedric. I do understand. I’m deeply sorry.”

“But not enough to help me? To save me?”

“Be reasonable, Cedric, please be reasonable and understand my own situation. Someone brought him—the professor—to me, to help them hide him. I did so. Yes, he’s here in this palazzo, under this roof. But I’ve pledged another friend, a dear good friend, given my word, that I would permit no one to see the professor. Much as I care for you, Cedric, I must honor my word.”

Cedric Foster was in a frenzy of insistence. “But if he’s here, right here in this building, as am I, what harm would it do anyone? But for me, it can save my life. If I could explain my desperation to the professor, surely he would understand and be sympathetic. He could administer his formula—simple as that—and I would be saved.”

Fighting for time, bringing her coffee cup between them, she saw that it rattled in her hand and she set it down. “Cedric, you will see the professor soon. The Communists want him for themselves, and we’re trying to get him out of here unharmed for the whole world. After that, the professor will see you, in Paris, London, New York, somewhere. I’ll put in a word for you, arrange that he see you soon.”

“When the whole world has him? When everyone is tearing him apart to be first? You want me to stand in line with the whole world, wait years to be saved when I’m dying each day?”

“It’s not at all the way you put it,” she pleaded. “You’ll have your opportunity like everyone—”

“No, I want it now, right now. Where is he in this building, Elvira? I’m going to see him. Take me to him this moment.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” he said, stumbling to his feet. “I’ll find him. myself, if I have to break down every door.”

The contessa was standing, frightened but firm, blocking him. “Don’t you dare!” she exclaimed. “Have you gone crazy or what? I won’t let you. You’re not breaking in on any of my guests, interrupting their privacy.”

“I’ve got to,” he said, voice quavering.

“You’re not going to. I won’t allow it. I forbid it One move like that and I’ll have the servants throw you out of here. Yes, I will. I’ll throw you out of here.”

Cedric Foster stood breathing heavily, staring at her as he recovered his composure. “All right,” he said. “If you won’t help me—I’ll find other means.”

“What means?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Cedric, I confided in you. Don’t you do anything to violate that confidence. Don’t you dare do anything to harm that good man.”

He pushed past her with determination. “I’ll do what I have to do, and nothing will stop me.”

He was gone, and she was alone and trembling.

My God, she thought, he’s out of his mind. He’s going to the police to make a deal. A promise of first priority for himself with the formula, and in turn he will bring the police here and lead them to Professor MacDonald.