Death Among the Ruins (20 page)

“A regrettable, dark side to an otherwise admirable culture,” pronounced Terranova when they reconvened in the corridor. “I thank God for the Church! Without us, one shudders to think what would have become of mankind!”

And so saying, he left them.

“Father Terranova is an extremely pious man, is he not, Signorina Beaumont?” asked the professor, locking the door.

“He speaks as though he were,” she replied. “But actions, rather than words, give the true measure of the man. The fellow is a cretin, and please spare me any jokes about his hailing from Palermo. Why does he feel it necessary to desecrate art? He neither appreciates nor understands it, and therefore would do best to avoid it.”

“Yes,” said Bergamini simply. “That is his job, I suppose.”

 

Though Belinda actually realized on their way back to the villa that she had forgotten the CIN, she said nothing about it, for she was hungry, and having a row so late in the day would have resulted in a meal that was belated, indigestible, or even missed altogether. So Arabella did not in fact discover the loss until after dinner, when the resultant emotional storm was more convenient to all parties.

“Oh, Bunny!” she cried. “How could you have done that?”

Belinda had already retired for the night, and was tucked up with a naughty bedtime book. “It was entirely inadvertent, Bell. I have told you how sorry I am! But what can I possibly do about it now? What would you like me to do?”

“Tell your precious professor that you have mislaid my notebook in his beastly museum, and that I would greatly appreciate its return!”

“I already have. He has promised to look for it.”

“Did you tell him that it contains things of a highly personal nature?”

“Yes. Oh, but . . . I hope you have not written anything unflattering about
him
. Back when, you know, when I thought he was horrid . . .”

“I might have done. I don’t remember. What I
do
recall is writing my suspicions concerning Renilde’s sudden death, and the party to whom I ascribe the blame for it.”

“Let us look at the bright side,” said Belinda. ”Chances are very good that it will be found and returned by someone who cannot read English. If we make up our minds that that is what will happen, it is bound to come true.”

“No, it isn’t, Bunny,” said Arabella. “People cannot influence events merely by thinking about them, and I am probably going to agonize over that notebook until it is found. If only I had a lover! Someone to calm my nerves, and take my mind off things! Have you noticed how few playfellows we have had since coming to the most erotic nation on earth? And I thought Italians were supposed to be sex-mad!”

Belinda assumed an inebriated expression.

“You cannot be serious,” said Arabella. “How many times have you and the professor actually engaged in fornication?”

“Just the once. But sex is not everything. You can see how attentive he is to me. It is only a matter of time, before . . . but if all you wish to do is fornicate with someone, that is easy enough. Men watch us and follow us wherever we go. A stranger came up behind me only yesterday, and blew on the back of my neck. He didn’t say anything. He just . . . blew.”

“Yes, yes; but one hesitates to do the deed with
complete
strangers.”

“You had four of them in Pompeii.”

“True. That was in the dark, though. It’s not as satisfying in the dark.”

“It was, for
me
.”

“Yes, darling, but you are a freak of nature. We know this, now.”

“Well . . . there is always Mr. Kendrick.”

Arabella snorted. “Mr. K. would never consent to such a thing, unless I promised to marry him. Besides, it would not be fair. He would never be able to find satisfaction with any other woman, once he’d had me. This way, at least, the poor man has a sporting chance.”

“Or maybe you are afraid,” said Belinda. “Perhaps no other
man
would do for
you,
once you came to know Mr. Kendrick in the biblical sense.”

“Oh, Bunny,” said Arabella. “Now you are being absurd.”

 

 

“I
am quite famished!” exclaimed the rector, entering the little sitting room and flinging his hat onto the horns of a stuffed chamois. “What have we on the menu tonight?” He had just hiked up the trail from the bay, and was looking quite boyishly healthy, in a way that made Arabella suck in her breath, a little.

“
Cinghiale
—wild boar,” she replied, setting down her book. “Shot in Viterbo by a friend of our hosts, and sent to us as a courtesy. Was that not kind of him?”

Charles groaned aloud. He had earlier attempted to accompany Kendrick down the hillside, but had found it necessary to turn back, and had been lying prostrate and silent upon the divan for the last quarter hour.

“You have not had this dish ever before, Charles,” admonished Arabella. “How do you know you are not going to like it?”

“It is Italian,” he replied, “and I am homesick. I didn’t like to say so before, but there it is. I miss English food.”

“Don’t be silly. Italian cuisine is widely held to be the greatest of them all!”

“Well, I am
not
wide, myself,” he replied, “and I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but I am growing less wide with every day that passes. A man can live on bread and cigars for only so long, you know.”

“Let us dine out then, Bell,” said Belinda, ever the peacemaker. “Perhaps the professor can suggest a good English restaurant.”

“There is no such thing,” said Arabella sourly.

“Why don’t we compromise?” Kendrick suggested. “Let us find a place that serves fresh seafood!”

“No!” Charles cried. “What is this obsession everybody seems to have with ‘fresh this’ and ‘sun-ripened that’ . . . ? Such terms are not a part of our heritage! Where is your patriotism, Kendrick?”

“Not in my stomach,” he replied acerbically.

“There must be somebody somewhere with an establishment that serves mushy peas and spotted dick,” said Charles. “Ask Bergamini if he knows of such a place, would you, Bell? Good God! All these tomatoes! All this blasted macaroni!”

“The proper term is ‘pasta.’”

“No, it isn’t; it’s
‘basta!
’ And
I
have had enough of it!”

Unfortunately for the others, the professor not only knew of a restaurant that served British food, but “bespoke it fair.” So Arabella made him come along with them, as punishment.

It was rather a crush. They were five in a carriage designed for four persons, so Belinda was obliged to sit on the professor’s lap, which was perfectly acceptable, because she was a courtesan and could behave as she liked.

“Professor,” said Arabella, “have you had any news of my notebook?”

“Not yet,
signorina
. But I have alerted the staff, and we are all, as you say, keeping an eye out. I shall inform you the moment it is found.”

Belinda looked contrite. “I am
so
sorry, Bell. I shall never forgive myself.”

“Well. What is done is done. Besides, you did not forget it on purpose.”

Charles yawned loudly. “I hope this place serves
genuine
English food,” he said, “and not, you know, the sort of thing that is ‘modified’ for Italian tastes.”

“I have never eaten there myself,” Bergamini admitted, “but the atmosphere could not be more British. It is run by a Scotsman with a Welsh wife and a Manx cat, who offers English food, and occasionally Irish dancing.”

He had both arms round Belinda’s waist, and appeared to be quite reconciled to having a bad dinner.

“Dancing?” asked Arabella. “In a restaurant?”

“Yes. It is quite an idea, is it not? The place has rather a scandalous reputation. But as we are all persons of the world, we shall not mind that.”

“No, indeed!” cried Belinda. “It sounds exciting!”

“As for me,” said Charles, “I don’t mind the atmosphere one way or the other. All I ask is a taste of home: a soup of foraged mutton, sprinkled with kitchen sweepings and perfectly roasted to the consistency of jack-boot leather, with mushy grace notes of fermented peas. A brace of tough and underdone pullets, with bloody, rubbery veins. An overripe grainy potato, redolent of peat bogs, a classic Yorkshire pudding, tasting of nothing at all, and a grand, bland medley of artisanal turnips and rutabagas, boiled with flour and lard!”

Kendrick caught his mood. “Might I suggest a faintly rancid flounder, boiled whole, and aromatic of unwashed stockings, in a soapy-flavored
velouté
with lard dollops?”

“I recommend a heap of partially composted cold, soft carrots,” Belinda chimed in, “with an apple tart for afters, swimming in curdled cream—part dirty foam and part yellow liquid—tasting of the sweet/hot/spicy tang of flour, and liberally dusted with ashes of . . . ashes!”

“I have never cared for that sort of thing,” Arabella explained to Bergamini. “Our Mrs. Moly, you know, cooks mostly French dishes.”

The restaurant was lavishly decorated, as befitted a place of unsavory reputation, with huge gilt mirrors and tapestried walls. The food was unsavory, too. In fact, it was terrible. Charles adored it, and most of the others were too hungry to be finicky, but Arabella pushed her plate away after only a few bites, and resolved to confine herself to drinking. This was not a habit with her, as she liked to have control of her mind at all times, but in the company of her family and their dear friend, she could scarcely have been safer without being at home.

“Bunny,” she said, after a time, “the light is dim, and I am as drunk as a glass of bitters, so you must tell me if I am seeing aright.”

“Very well,” said Belinda. “To what do you refer?”

“That man over there. Is he the rarest out-and-outer to walk out of a dream, or is that just the wine talking?”

“Well, yes. He seems to be both good-looking and headed this way with the host. I don’t believe he is English, though. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” said Arabella. “I am shortly going to disappear, and I do not want you to worry, so I am going to tell you precisely where I shall be: safely tucked up in that gentleman’s bed.”

“Good evening, ladies and gents,” said the host in the overly familiar manner that seemed to be the standard for expatriates abroad, “please allow me to present to you Herr Gustav Groer, of the Austrian Diplomatic.”

The Beaumonts and Mr. Kendrick graciously bowed their heads in acknowledgement, and supplied their own names, except for Bergamini, who neither moved nor spoke. But the Austrian seemed to have eyes for Arabella only.

“
Fraulein,
” said he, clicking his booted heels smartly together and taking her hand. “As you appear to have finished your supper, might I request the pleasure of a dance?”

And as he led her to the floor—for, naturally, she had not refused him—he asked whether she knew how to waltz.

Whenever a new fad or craze or popular entertainment cropped up, particularly if it carried a whiff of scandal, or was disapproved of by the guardians of civilized society, Arabella not only knew all about it, but also how to do it to perfection. She was thoroughly familiar with waltzes—one might almost say,
overly
familiar—yet she had never heard anything like the one Herr Groer requested of the orchestra leader. It was very dark. Very
Teutonic
. The drums beat a sinister military tattoo, and the music, though stirring, was neither easy nor merry, but grim to the point of actually making her flesh creep.

“What an interesting composition,” she said as they circled the dance floor. “Is this one of your favorites?”

“It
is
my favorite,” he replied. “What do you think of the tune?”

“I confess that it does not fetch me as it does you, but it is certainly . . . striking.”

As she whirled round and round in the dimly lit restaurant, Arabella began to feel the drink rise to her head. And in a kind of delirium, she saw the men round her as skeletons, in veiled top hats and mourning clothes; the women as bloodless corpses in winding sheets. She dared not look at her partner’s face, for he was apt to be the most frightening specter of all.

After a time, the other couples began to leave. Evidently, they had not cared for the music, either. And then, finally, it was over. The spinning room settled round her once again, and Arabella decided she was not going to be sick, after all.

“
Fraulein,
” said her partner urgently. “I must speak with you alone. I should like to take you to a place I know.”

“I am not in the habit of accompanying strangers to undisclosed locations, Herr Groer.”

“Forgive me. I do not wish to appear to be too much in haste, but time may be of the essence. I am an associate of Metternich’s.”

“Should I know who that is?”

“Oh, but surely you have heard of Klemens von Metternich! The great Austrian statesman? Of whom it is said, he has ‘a finger in every pie’?”

The orchestra struck up the waltz macabre, again, for Herr Groer had requested they play it twice. He and Arabella danced once more. But there were no other couples this time, and her giddiness was beginning to dissipate.

“This statesman of yours sounds like some sort of cannibal pastry cook,” she said.

“Yes,
fraulein,
he is. And I am, also. At the moment I feast my eyes only, but later I shall convince you to indulge my every appetite.”

“Your English is very good, Herr Groer,” said Arabella, “but it is a trifle stiff. You should simply have said, ‘I want to eat you.’ Or better yet, whispered it.”

“Really? I should whisper so?”

“Oh, yes. Of all the sentences it is possible to construct with an English vocabulary, ladies are best pleased by that one.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I shall remember this.”

 

“You know, I think the
signorina
may not be entirely safe with that fellow,” said the professor quietly.

Kendrick was all attention in an instant, but Charles merely glanced up whilst pouring himself another glass of port. “I shouldn’t worry about her, if I were you, Bergamini. When it comes to men, Arabella knows which end is up!”

“I did not mean unsafe in that sense,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “Austrian government officials are not very popular here. Someone may try to shoot him, you see, and if the
signorina
is standing too close when it happens . . .”

“Good God!” cried Kendrick, bolting from his chair.

“There is no immediate cause for alarm, Reverend. She is in no danger here. But you would be well advised to keep an eye on her.”

 

“And may I ask,” Herr Groer was saying, “why you are so opposed to people discussing politics?”

“For me,” said Arabella, “it is like being privy to an argument between two very dull persons, whom I neither know well nor care for. And it is an argument which never ends, you see. It is a bore.”

“Let me assure you,
fraulein,
” said Groer earnestly. “Boring you is the last thing I should wish to do.” And he began to entertain her with snippets from Metternich’s personal life.

“. . . The father, so brilliant, you see, and yet the son can barely write his own name! Of course,
I
can barely write his name, either. The poor little fellow has a whale-ish appellation: Franz Karl Viktor Ernst Lothar Clemens Joseph Anton Adam von Metternich! Imagine, having to write so much, and spell it all correctly, too, when one is just learning to form one’s letters!”

She laughed, and instantly perceived that he had wanted her to, that he had carefully constructed the entire conversation to achieve exactly this effect.

“His tutors are vexed at little Franz Karl Viktor’s never completing an exercise, but he is probably too exhausted once he’s written out his name! Besides, there is no more room left on the page!”

The Austrian laughed loudly, as if inviting her to join in, but this time Arabella only smiled. He was trying too hard now. Groer seemed to sense he was losing ground, and abruptly changed the subject. She had the impression that he had read a manual, and was mentally following:

 

“Thank you,” she said. “It has been most amusing, but I must go now.”