Читать книгу Farelli's Wife - Lucy Gordon, Lucy Gordon - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHY you never take the car?’ Maria demanded one day. ‘When you arrive I say, ‘We don’t need the second car. You use it.’ But you never do. Is very unkind.’

‘Don’t be offended, Maria, please,’ Joanne begged. ‘It’s just that I’ve been so busy.’

‘Don’t you have any friends from when you were here before?’

‘Well—my cousin’s family lives near Asti—’

‘And you haven’t visited?’ Maria shrieked in horror, for like all Italians she was family-minded. ‘You go now.’

Vito backed his wife up, and the two of them virtually ordered her out of the house.

‘You stay away tonight,’ Maria ordered. ‘You won’t have time to drive back.’

‘I’ll have plenty of time,’ Joanne insisted. ‘I’m only going for a couple of hours.’

They argued about this until the last minute, Maria demanding that she pack a bag, Joanne firmly refusing. She was going to make this visit as brief as possible, just to prove to herself that she could cope with meeting Franco. Then she would leave and never go back.

She was dressed for the country, in trousers and sweater. But both had come from one of Turin’s most expensive shops, and she added a gold chain about her waist and dainty gold studs in her ears. She didn’t realize that she was making a point, but the costly elegance of her attire marked her out as a different person from the gauche girl of eight years ago.

As soon as she got out onto the road and felt the beauty of the day, and the sun streaming in through the open window, Joanne was glad. She’d been shut up too long with the smell of oil paint and turpentine, and she needed to breathe fresh air.

She took the route through the little medieval town of Asti. Already there were posters up advertising the palio, the bareback race that was run every year around the piazza. The jockeys were all local lads, and Joanne’s mind went back to the time Franco had taken part.

She’d been nervous as she’d taken her place in the stands with the family and almost every worker from the Farelli vineyard. The palio was so fierce that mattresses were fixed to the walls of all the surrounding buildings to save the riders and horses who crashed into them. Even so, injuries were common.

After the first lap it had been clear that the race was between Franco and another rider.

‘That’s Leo,’ Renata said excitedly. ‘He and Franco are good friends—except today.’

It was neck and neck on the last lap. Then Leo went ahead. Franco made a desperate attempt to catch up. The crowd’s cheers turned to screams as the horses collided and both riders were thrown. Miraculously the following riders managed to jump over them, and neither man was hurt. But Joanne’s heart was in her mouth as they all hurried around to see Franco afterwards.

Sophia clung to him, almost suffocating him until Giorgio gently prised her away. Leo hurled his whip to the ground, complaining, ‘I was winning. I had the race in the palm of my hand. And he robbed me.’

Franco offered Leo his hand. Leo stared at it until everyone thought he would refuse to shake. At last he put out his own hand, saying through a forced smile, ‘I’ll get even with you next year, Farelli. See if I don’t.’

But Franco had never competed again. By the next race he’d been married to Rosemary, looking forward to starting a family.

Joanne parked the car and spent an hour wandering the streets she’d once known so well. She decided she might as well have lunch here too, and enjoyed a leisurely pizza. She would have denied that she was putting off her meeting with Franco, but she didn’t hurry.

But when she resumed the journey she was further delayed by a traffic jam. For two hours she fretted and fumed behind a trail of trucks, and it was late afternoon before she neared the Farelli vineyards. She parked the car off the road and got out to lean over a fence and survey the land. The vines were growing strongly and everywhere she looked she saw the brightness of summer. It reminded her of her year in Italy when she’d fallen in love with Franco.

What would he be like now? Her last picture of him had been taken eighteen months ago and showed him older, more serious, as befitted a man of responsibilities. Yet even then a mischievous devil still lurked in his eyes. But he must have changed again since the death of his beloved wife. Suddenly she was afraid to see him. He would be a stranger.

But she couldn’t give up now. Courtesy demanded that she see Rosemary’s widower and child before she left the district. She started up again and drove on to the turning that led to the house. At once memory began to play back. The dirt track was still the one she’d seen the day Renata had brought her here for the first time. There were the ruts left by the trucks that regularly arrived and departed.

The big, sprawling house too was the same, yellow ochre in the blazing sun, the dark green shutters pulled closed against the heat, the roof tiles rusty red. And everywhere there were geraniums, the brightly coloured flowers without which no Italian country home seemed complete. Geraniums around the doors, in window boxes, in hanging baskets: red, white, pink, purple, every petal glowing vividly in the brilliant light.

Chickens strutted pompously back and forth in the yard, uttering soft, contented clucks. The Farelli family was wealthy, but the house was that of a prosperous farmer, with homeliness prevailing over luxury. That was its charm.

Did nothing ever change here? There was the long table under the trees with the benches at either side. Above it stood the wooden trellis roof with flowers wreathing in and out and hanging down from it. How many times had she sat beneath those flowers, as if in paradise, listening to the family backchat over a meal? Paradise that might have been hers, that could never have been hers. Paradise lost.

The front door was open and she walked inside. Rosemary had made this place her own, but it still felt familiar. The few new pieces of furniture blended in with the warm red flagstones. The huge fireplace, where the family had warmed themselves by log fires, was unchanged. The old sofa had been re-covered, but was otherwise still the same, the largest one Joanne had ever seen.

The staircase led directly out of the main room. An old woman whom Joanne had never seen before came bustling downstairs, wiping her hands on her apron. She was dressed in black, save for a coloured scarf covering her hair. She stopped very still when she saw Joanne.

‘I’m sorry to come in uninvited,’ Joanne said quickly. ‘I’m not prying. My cousin was Signor Farelli’s wife. Is he here?’

‘He is with the vines on the south slope,’ the woman said slowly. ‘I will send for him.’

‘No need. I know where it is. Grazie.’

In the poor light of the stairs she hadn’t noticed the old woman’s face grow pale at the sight of her. And she went out too quickly to hear her murmur, ‘Maria vergine!’ or see her cross herself.

She remembered the way perfectly. She followed the path to the stream, stepping gingerly across the stones that punctuated the fast-running water. Once she’d pretended to lose her nerve in the middle of those stones so that Franco came back and helped her across, steadying her with his strong hands.

After that the path lay around by the trees until the first slope came into view, covered in vines basking in the hot sun. Here and there she saw men moving along them, checking, testing. They turned to watch her and even at a distance she was aware of a strange frisson passing through them. One man looked at her in alarm and hurried away.

At last she reached the south slope. Here too there were memories everywhere, and she stopped to look around her. This was where she’d walked one evening to find Franco alone, and their brief tête-à-tête had been interrupted by one of his light-o’-loves.

Lost in her reverie, she didn’t at first see the child appear and begin moving towards her, an incredulous expression on his face. Suddenly he began to run. Joanne smiled, recognizing Nico.

But before she could speak he cried, ‘Mama!’ and hurled himself into her arms, hugging her tightly about the neck.

Dismay pervaded her. ‘Nico, I—I’m not—’

‘Mama! Mama!’

She could do nothing but embrace him back. It would have been cruel to refuse, but she was in turmoil. She’d barely thought of her resemblance to Rosemary, and Nico had met her before. But that had been eighteen months ago, an eternity in the life of a young child. And the likeness must have grown more pronounced than ever for him to confuse them.

She should never have come here. It had all been a terrible mistake.

‘Nico.’

The man had approached while she was unaware, and stood watching them. Rosemary looked up and her heart seemed to stop. It was Franco, but not as she had ever seen him.

The light-hearted boy was gone for ever, replaced by this grim-faced man who looked as if he’d survived the fires of hell, and now carried them with him.

He’d filled out, become heavier. Once he’d been lean and rangy. Now there was power in every line of him, from his thickly muscled legs to his heavy shoulders. He wore only a pair of shorts, and the sun glistened off the sweat on his smooth chest. An outdoor life had bronzed him, emphasizing his clear-cut features and black hair.

One thing hadn’t changed and that was the aura of vivid life he carried with him, so that his surroundings paled. But it was belied by the bleakness of his expression.

‘Nico,’ he called harshly. ‘Come here.’

‘Papa,’ the child called, ‘it’s Mama, I—I think—’

‘Come here.’ He didn’t raise his voice, but the child obeyed him at once, going to his side and slipping his hand confidingly into Franco’s big one.

‘Who are you?’ Franco whispered. ‘Who are you that you come to me in answer to—?’ He checked himself with a harsh intake of breath.

‘Franco, don’t you know me?’ she begged. ‘It’s Joanne, Rosemary’s cousin.’

‘Cousin?’ he echoed.

She went closer and his eyes gave her a shock. They seemed to look at her and through her at the same time. Joanne shivered as she realized that he was seeing something that wasn’t there, and shivered again as she guessed what it was.

‘We met, years ago,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m sorry to come on you suddenly—’ She took a step towards him.

‘Stop there,’ he said sharply. ‘Come no closer.’

She stood still, listening to the thunder of her own heartbeat. At last a long sigh escaped him and he said wearily, ‘I’m sorry. You are Joanne, I can see that now.’

‘I shouldn’t have just walked in like this. Shall I leave?’

‘Of course not.’ He seemed to pull himself together with an effort. ‘Forgive my bad manners.’

‘Nico, don’t you remember me?’ Joanne asked, reaching out her arms to the little boy. A light had died in his face, and she could see that he did now recall their first meeting.

He advanced and gave her a tentative smile. ‘I thought you were my mother,’ he said. ‘But you’re not, are you?’

‘No, I’m afraid I’m not,’ she said, taking his hand.

‘You look so like her,’ the little boy said wistfully.

‘Yes,’ Franco said in a strained voice. ‘You do. When my people came running to me crying that my wife had returned from the dead, I thought they were superstitious fools. But now I can’t blame them. You’ve grown more like her with the years.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘No, how should you? You never troubled to visit us, as a cousin should. But now—’ he gazed at her, frowning ‘—after all this time, you return.’

‘Perhaps I should have stayed away.’

‘You are here now.’ He checked his watch. ‘It grows late. We’ll go home and eat.’ He gave her a bleak look. ‘You are welcome.’

Franco’s workers gathered to watch them as they walked. She knew now why she aroused such interest, but still it gave her a strange feeling to hear the murmurs, ‘La padrona viva.’ The mistress lives. Out of the corner of her eye she saw some of them cross themselves.

‘They are superstitious people,’ Franco said. ‘They believe in ghosts.’

They’d reached the stream now and Nico bounded ahead, jumping from stone to stone, his blond hair shining gold in the late afternoon sun. It was the same colour that Rosemary’s had been, as Joanne’s was.

A man called to Franco and he turned aside to talk to him. Nico jumped up and down impatiently. ‘Come on,’ he called to Joanne, holding out a hand for her.

She reached out her own hand and felt his childish fingers grip her. ‘Hey, keep still,’ she protested, laughing, for he was still bounding about.

‘Come on, come on, come on!’ he carolled.

‘Careful!’ Joanne cried as she felt her foot slip. The next moment they were both in the stream.

It was only a couple of feet deep. Nico was up first, holding out his hands to help her up. ‘Perdona me,’ he pleaded.

Of course,’ Joanne said, blowing to get rid of the water and trying to push back wet hair from her eyes. ‘Oh, my goodness! Look at me!’

Her soft white sweater had become transparent, and was clinging to her in a way that was revealing. Men and women gathered on the bank, chuckling. She joined in, sitting there in the water and laughing up into the sun. For a moment the light blinded her, and when she could see properly she caught a glimpse of Franco’s face, and its stunned look shocked her. She reached out a hand for him to help her up, but it seemed that he couldn’t move.

‘Will anyone help me?’ she called, and some of the men crowded forward.

‘Basta!’ The one word from Franco cut across them. The men backed off, alarmed by something they heard in his voice.

He took Joanne’s hand and pulled her up out of the water and onto the bank. As she’d feared, her fawn trousers also clung to her in a revealing fashion. To her relief the men had turned their heads away. After Franco’s explosion not one was brave enough to look at her semi-nakedness.

‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Nico said.

‘Don’t be angry with him,’ Joanne said.

Franco gave her a look. ‘I am never angry with Nico,’ he said simply. ‘Now let us go home so that you can dry off.’

‘I went to the house first,’ Joanne said, hurrying to match her steps to Franco’s long strides, ‘and the old woman there told me where you were.’

‘That’s Celia, she’s my housekeeper.’

Celia emerged from the house as they approached and stood waiting, her eyes fixed on Joanne. She exclaimed over her sodden state.

‘Celia will take you upstairs to change your clothes,’ Franco said.

‘But I don’t have anything to change into,’ she said in dismay.

‘Didn’t you bring anything for overnight?’

‘I’m not staying overnight. I mean—I didn’t want to impose.’

‘How could you impose? You are family.’ Franco spoke with a coolness that robbed the words of any hint of welcome. ‘But I was forgetting. You don’t think of yourself as family. Very well, Celia will find you something of her own to wear while your clothes dry off.’

Celia spoke, not in Italian but in the robust Piedmontese dialect that Joanne had never quite mastered. She seemed to be asking a question, to which Franco responded with a curt ‘No!’

‘Your clothes will soon dry,’ he told Joanne. ‘In the meantime Celia will lend you something. She will show you to the guest room. Nico, go and get dry.’

It was the child who showed her upstairs, taking her hand and pulling her up after him. Celia provided her with a huge white bath towel and some clothes. She bore Joanne’s garments away, promising to have them dry in no time.

An unsettling playback had begun in Joanne’s head. This was the very room she’d shared with Renata when she’d first come here. There were still the same two large beds, and a roomful of old-fashioned furniture. As with the rest of the house the floor was terrazzo, the cheap substitute for marble that Italians used to keep buildings cool.

The floor-length windows were still shielded from the sun by the green wooden shutters. Celia drew one of these back, and opened the window so that a breeze caused the long curtains to billow softly into the room. Joanne went to stand there, looking out over the land bathed in the setting sun. It was as heartbreakingly beautiful as she remembered it, the Italy of her dreams, blood-red, every colour more intense, every feeling heightened.

She tried on the dress. It was dark, made of some thin, cheap material, and it hung loosely on her slender frame, evidently made for someone wider and shorter. It was a pity, she thought, that Franco hadn’t kept some of Rosemary’s clothes, but, after all, it had been over a year.

And then, with a prickle up her spine, she remembered the words he’d exchanged with Celia. And she suddenly understood that he did, indeed, have some of Rosemary’s clothes, and Celia had wanted to fetch them, and Franco had forbidden it.

She went down to find Nico waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. After the initial confusion he seemed less disturbed than anyone at seeing his mother’s image, and Joanne blessed the instinct that had made Rosemary bring him to England. Clearly he remembered her from that visit.

He proved it by holding up a colouring book she’d given him. ‘I’ve done it all,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’

He seized her hand and pulled her over to a small table in the corner. Joanne went through the pages with him, noticing that he’d completed the pictures with a skill unusual in children of his age. He had a steady hand, taking colours up to the lines but staying neatly within them in a way that suggested good control. It reminded her of her own first steps in colouring, when she’d shown a precision that had foreshadowed her later skill in imitating.

When they’d been through the book Nico shyly produced some pages covered in rough, childish paintings, and she exclaimed in delight. Here too she could see the early evidence of craftsmanship. Her genuine praise thrilled Nico, and they smiled together.

Then she looked up and found Franco watching them oddly. ‘Nico, it’s time to wash your hands for supper,’ he said. He indicated the pictures. ‘Put everything away.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ Nico said, too docilely for a child. He tidied his things and went upstairs.

‘It’s strange to find the house so quiet,’ Joanne said wistfully. ‘When I first came here there were your parents and Renata, with everyone shouting and laughing at the same time.’

‘Yes, there was a lot of laughter,’ Franco agreed. ‘Renata visited us recently, with her husband and two children. They made plenty of noise, and it was like the old days. But you’re right, it’s too quiet now.’

‘Nico must be a lonely little boy,’ Joanne ventured.

‘I’m afraid he is. He relies on Ruffo a lot for company.’

‘Is Ruffo still alive?’ she asked, delighted.

Franco gave a piercing whistle out of the window. And there was Ruffo, full of years, looking vastly wise because the black fur of his face was mostly white now. At the sight of Joanne he gave a yelp of pleasure and hurried over to her.

‘He remembers me. After all this time.’

‘He never forgets a friend,’ Franco agreed.

She petted the old dog with real pleasure, but she also knew she was using him to cover the silence that lay between herself and Franco. She began to feel desperate. She’d known that Franco would be changed, but this grave man who seemed reluctant to speak was a shock to her.

‘So tell me what happened to you,’ he said at last. ‘Did you become a great artist?’

His words had a faint ironical inflection, and she answered ruefully, ‘No, I became a great imitator. I found that I had no vision of my own, but I can copy the visions of others.’

‘That’s sad,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I remember how badly you wanted to be an artist. You couldn’t stop talking about it.’

It was a surprise to find that he recalled anything she’d said in those days.

‘I have a good career. My copies are so perfect that you can hardly tell the difference. But, of course,‘ she added with a sigh, ‘the difference is always there, nonetheless.’

‘And do you mind that so much?’

‘It was hard to realize that I have no originality.’ She tried to turn it aside lightly. ‘Doomed to wander for ever in someone else’s footsteps, judged always by how much I echo them. It’s a living, and a good one sometimes. It just isn’t what I dreamed of.’

‘And why are you in Italy now?’

‘I’m copying some works for a man who lives in Turin.’

‘And you spared us a day. How kind.’

She flushed under his ironic tone. Franco plainly thought badly of her for keeping her distance, but how could she tell him the reason?

‘I should have called you first,’ she began.

‘Why should you? My wife’s cousin is free to drop in at any time.’

She realized that his voice was different. Once it had been rich, round and musical. Now it was flat, as though all the music of life had died for him.

A harassed-looking girl came scurrying out of the kitchen carrying a pile of clean plates, pursued by Celia’s voice bawling instructions. The girl fled outside and began laying plates on the table.

‘Despite the short notice Celia is preparing a banquet in your honour,’ Franco informed her. ‘That’s why she’s a little tense. My foreman and his family are eating with us tonight.’

‘I love to remember the meals we had under the trees.’

‘You were always nervous about the flowers hanging from the trellis. You said they dropped insects over you.’

‘You did that. You slipped a spider down the back of my dress once.’

‘So I did,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘That was to punish you for revealing to my mother that you’d seen me with a woman she disapproved of.’

‘I didn’t mean to betray you,’ Joanne protested. ‘It slipped out by accident.’

‘I paid for your accident. My mother slapped me and screamed at me. I was twenty-four, but that didn’t impress her.’

They shared a smile, and for a brief moment there was a glimpse of the old, humorous Franco. Then he was gone.

‘Why don’t you have a look around, while I wash up?’ he said. ‘You’ll find the house much the same.’

‘I’d already begun to notice that. I’m glad. This was a happy place.’

She could have bitten her tongue off as soon as the words were out. It was as if Franco were turned to stone. His face was like a dead man’s. Then he said simply, ‘Yes, it was happy once.’

He walked away, leaving her blaming herself for her own clumsiness. This visit was turning into a disaster. Franco had said his foreman’s family was eating with them ‘tonight’, which suggested that they’d been invited specially. Obviously her presence was a strain, and he needed some relief.

It had been madness to come here.