Читать книгу Bestseller - Olivia Goldsmith - Страница 29

19

Often while reading a book one feels that the author would have preferred to paint rather than write; one can sense the pleasure he derives from describing a landscape or a person, as if he were painting what he is saying, because deep in his heart he would have preferred to use brushes and colors.

—Pablo Picasso

Camilla and Frederick arrived in Assisi at twilight, and the driver expertly maneuvered the narrow street that led first up the hill to the apex and then down through a gate, passed the church of Saint Francis, and wound around to the venerable Hotel Subiaso. It was the only hotel perched beside the huge basilica. The suite had a terrace large enough to host a small drinks party on, and Camilla couldn’t help but be drawn through the French doors. There was a spectacular view of the Umbrian plain seven hundred feet below. Despite her horrid nervousness, her concern about the sleeping arrangements and the lot, she couldn’t help but be seduced by the scene, if not by Frederick himself.

“It’s wonderful,” she said reverently. He joined her and nodded. “It’s like the landscape behind a Leonardo painting.”

“You have a good eye.”

“I would have been a painter if I had the talent,” Camilla told him.

“And I’d have been a painter if 1 had the talent.” She looked at him, surprised. Then she was lured back to the view. “Do you like it?” he asked.

“I like everything. Especially you.” Then she was embarrassed by her warmth. “With the exception of your sadly misguided preference for Guardi over Canaletto.”

“Hah!” He put his hand up and examined her hair. “You’re showing your bourgeois roots, my girl.”

She jumped involuntarily, then stared back out at the view, not knowing what to feel. She felt exposed somehow. Her roots were not bourgeois at all—they were far lower than that. What did his little joke mean? Below them lights were beginning to twinkle. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never stayed in Assisi overnight, and I’m sure you don’t get this view from anywhere except the hotel.”

“That’s nothing,” Frederick said. “Take a look at this.” Gently he took her arm and turned her to the right. There, abutting the side of the hill, the church of Saint Francis extended itself to the very end of the peak, illuminated and as nobly beautiful as the prow of a ship. Camilla actually gasped. Although she had seen the basilica by night, lit at the entrance, the massive stone portals viewed from the piazza didn’t reveal even a tenth of the structure.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Frederick said. “And they built it in three years.”

The building was astonishing. It was, essentially, a full church built upon a full church. Although there was no dome, the double height of the two floors combined, built into and rising out of the hill of Assisi itself, made the whole deeply impressive. The rows of riblike flying buttresses were like the exposed bones of a fossil along the escarpment of the Assisi cliff. It was a breathtaking sight, and it brought Camilla great joy—the kind of joy that cannot be planned for or sought but that comes serendipitously. Suddenly she was flooded with it, nearly drunk with it, and it must have showed.

Camilla wished she could talk about it, could thank him and tell him how much the sight meant to her. But she wasn’t good with words—not unless she wrote them down. She hadn’t even been able to broach the subject of his intentions—whether Frederick expected her to sleep with him. She hated being so tongue-tied.

Maybe Frederick understood. “I’ll leave you here,” he said. “My room is next door.” Before she could say anything, he withdrew. She felt a momentary stab of guilt: It had so far been so easy. No embarrassing fumblings, no need for gentle explanations or—far worse—awkward struggles and recriminations. She was, apparently, free. No strings attached. Free to take in this beauty without having to bonk him. She had misjudged Frederick.

Tonight she felt herself among the privileged. On other day visits she had looked up and seen people on the many terraces and balconies of the Subiaso. She had known that it was not, as her mother surely would have put it, “for the likes of us.” But now it was for her. She smiled in the dark. Looking out at the view was like owning a wonderful painting. She tried to memorize the sight, so that she could recall it at will.

Just then a shutter door opened and, on a much smaller balcony, Frederick appeared. He waved. “Do you think you might consider relinquishing the view if I tempted you with dinner on the terrace below?” He gestured, and though she couldn’t see his hand in the increasing darkness, his white shirt cuff gleamed. She looked down. Two or three stories below was a vast piazza. She hadn’t noticed it because it was completely roofed with green leaves. Just below the verdant canopy she could glimpse the diners who were beginning to take their tables. “I have a reservation. I wanted to be sure we had a seat by the railing,” he told her. His head was cocked in that funny way of his—birdlike and pushed almost down to one shoulder. “Do you think you could stop drinking all this in and start eating instead?” His white teeth flashed in the darkness. She nodded, then realized he wouldn’t be able to see her gesture.

“Yes,” she called to him. “I’m starving. But aren’t you knackered?”

“What? Knackered? Sounds like something done to a horse.” She heard him laugh, and she blushed.

She always said the wrong thing. She probably sounded like a yob. “Tired,” she said, flustered. “I meant tired. Anyway, knock on my door when you’re ready. I’ll go down on you.” She realized then what she’d said and blushed furiously. “Go down with you,” she corrected.

“Well, I think I prefer the former, but I’ll do the latter,” Frederick laughed.

Perfect. He was genteel, and I throw in the smut! What a balls-up. Camilla wondered about Frederick again. He was certainly attentive, but so were so many homosexual men. And why else would he be traveling with his mother? But perhaps he was not gay. Nervously Camilla went back inside and only then realized the room was actually a small suite. The parlor was furnished in old but tasteless Italian furniture of the if-its-gilded-or-painted-it-must-be-bellisimo school. A small door led to the minuscule bedroom. There was only enough space there for a large bed painted with garlands of peonies and a huge matching wardrobe. But there were shutters that opened to a small balcony, similar to the one Frederick had stood on. Camilla looked from the balcony to the bed and realized that she could sleep tonight with the shutters open and wake up to a view unsurpassed in all of Umbría. She smiled, then forced herself to get down to business, washing up and dressing. She was just finishing up when she heard Frederick’s tap at the door. Grabbing a jumper to throw over her shoulders, she joined him in the hallway.

Camilla was charmed by the dining room—if a veranda covered with vines could be classified as a room. Once again, as in San Gimignano, she and Frederick were led to the best table, in the corner where the two railings met. The leafy roof rustled, and Camilla put the jumper around her shoulders.

“Cold?” Frederick asked. “Shall I give you my jacket?”

“No,” she told him, “it’s perfect.”

And it was. The meal was perfect, the view was perfect, and the wine was perfect. Despite her awkwardness, they talked about Saint Francis and Saint Claire and planned how they would spend the day tomorrow. The dining room buzzed pleasantly with the talk of couples and families enjoying themselves.

At last, when Frederick ordered an espresso, Camilla shook her head. It was too late in the evening for her to drink coffee, and she had never really grown to like it despite her years in America and Italy. She was a PG Tips girl, though in New York she’d gotten used to instant coffee. She’d never admit that was all she drank.

“I tell you what,” he suggested. “Why don’t we have dessert and my espresso on your veranda?” He turned to the waiter, who immediately nodded.

Oh no, Camilla thought. Now all of the messiness would begin. She should have known. She had no one to blame but herself. She got up, reluctantly, as Frederick held her chair. He took her arm just above the elbow, and they walked across the dining room. “They have a miraculous fruit sorbet that they serve in a hollowed-out frozen peach,” Frederick murmured. “I’ve ordered you one.”

Camilla nodded stiffly. Frederick walked very slowly, almost holding her back, his head cocked to the side in his habitual way. They entered the lift, and when they reached their floor, she led Frederick to her room. She fiddled with the big, ancient key but couldn’t get the door to open. Her hands were shaking. Gently, Frederick took the key from her and deftly placed it in the keyhole, opening the door. This was it, then, she thought, her heart sinking. They walked through the salon and out onto the balcony. A waiter followed them, threw a white cloth over the table, and wiped down the two painted chairs. They both took seats while he served the espresso to Frederick and placed the peach before Camilla with a flourish. It looked like nothing so much as a Chinese baby’s face, the top cut off and replaced as a little cap. Despite her anxiety, Camilla had to smile. And it was delicious. Somehow the frozen crystals tasted even more peachlike than the best peaches she had ever had. She took the long spoon and silently offered some to Frederick, but he didn’t see her gesture or else ignored it. Perhaps he didn’t care for sweets. Or he was waiting for dessert of another kind. He had finished his espresso and now leaned forward. “Camilla, I would like to ask you to do something with me. I know it’s a lot to ask. It involves a lot of trust, but I think you can trust me.”

Oh God, she thought. Here it comes. This was what happened when one wasn’t good at talking. She decided it was best to take control herself. “You want to sleep with me,” she said, her voice flat.

Frederick leaned back. He was silent for a long moment. “That’s a very kind offer, and I’m sure it would be much more than pleasant, but I wasn’t actually thinking about that.” He paused, and Camilla tried to get over her monumental embarrassment. “I was talking about something more intimate.” Frederick said. “I hoped you would read me your manuscript.”

They had moved into the salon for the light. Frederick was lying on the uncomfortable-looking sofa, propped up by an even more uncomfortable-looking bolster. Camilla sat across from him on the small chair beside the lamp table. She had her manuscript on her lap—she carried it with her all the time since she’d finished it. Frederick had called for a bottle of Pellegrino, and Camilla stopped now, at the end of the chapter, and took a sip. She was afraid to look at him. She was still far too embarrassed. And she was also far too excited. She had never shown the manuscript to anybody, and she had certainly never read it out loud. Hearing it made a lot of difference. She saw awkward phrases and some redundancies. But on the whole she thought it came across, and she had been thrilled when he laughed at the funny bits. She’d even dared to glance across at him from under her lashes as she read the scene introducing Mrs. Florence Mallabar. She couldn’t be sure, but his face looked pained.

She finished the fizzy water and put the glass down. They were both silent for a moment. “Are you tired?” he asked.

She shook her head, but she didn’t want to bore him. “I’ll stop,” she assured him. “It isn’t very good, is it?” The eleventh commandment in Britain was “Thou shalt not blow thine own trumpet.” She still adhered to it.

Frederick threw his legs over the side of the sofa and sat up. “Camilla,” he said, “it’s wonderful. It’s a really wonderful story. Your descriptions … well, they’re brilliant. I see everything that you write about.” He paused. “But that’s not it. That’s not even important. It’s the characters. Those women are so alive. I know them. My mother is friends with them. They’re funny. And brave.” He paused. Camilla’s heart beat so loudly she was sure he could hear it too. “You have so much insight, and so much compassion for them, Camilla. You’re really, really good.”

She sat still, utterly still, for a long moment and then put her face in her hands. She began to cry, silently at first, but she couldn’t help making some sound. She wept because she believed him. This book that she had started, purely out of loneliness and desperation, that she had worked on with discipline, and then with all of her concentration and all of her love, really was worth something. It had taken on a life of its own. It wasn’t just because Frederick said so. His words had unlocked the knowledge in her own heart. She looked across the room at him.

“Thank you,” she said.