Kal (5 page)

She knew what that meant. They wanted a lackey and she would be the prize. Sarina De Cretico and the beautiful house on the hill—they would be the incentives for the man the brothers would buy to best serve their interests.

Sarina would receive an allowance, and she could retain the services of Ernesto and Guiseppina Mascani, the elderly couple Marcello had hired, but the other servants would be dismissed.

‘You must learn to govern your own household sparingly, like a woman of good breeding,' Mario had instructed her scathingly, ‘and in time we will find you a husband.'

Mario detested Sarina more than ever. And more than ever he detested his lust for her. Even in her widowhood she exuded sexuality. He convinced himself that Sarina had killed his young brother with her lustfulness. Unable to satisfy his wife's sexual greed, Marcello had been driven to drink. Well, Mario would not provide a husband who would satisfy her wants. He would search for a man, perhaps much older, a man who did not desire women. Mario was determined not to sate the whore's carnal desires.

And so Sarina was left a lonely prisoner in her beautiful house with her beautiful statue. Occasionally she entertained the mayor and the merchant and their wives but she had long since tired of their toadying. Besides,
it was not friends she was in need of. It was a lover.

The boredom of her long lonely nights fed the demons of her sexuality until she could stand it no longer. She plotted and planned who her lover might be. He should be older, married, with a family and responsibilities to ensure discretion. She must choose carefully. Selectively. She would be risking her life. But her body was choosing for her and her body was neither careful nor selective. Her body was responding urgently to the strong, healthy young men of the village. It was youth she wanted. Strong, virile, sturdy youth with hard bodies and fine skin.

In church on Sundays Sarina could not tear her eyes from the young Gianni brothers. Over the years she had often seen the family around the village, but the Gianni boys had been children then. When had they become such fine-looking young men?

Sarina had set her sights on the older of the brothers, Enrico, until she noticed the regular exchange of looks between him and the blacksmith's daughter. They were lovers, there could be no doubting it. She turned her attention to the younger brother, and decided he was her preference anyway. Giovanni, with his finely muscled man's body and his boy's face. He looked so young. Eighteen, perhaps nineteen. So very young. And those eyes. Intense and, as yet, ingenuous—a young man on the brink of discovery. It was the face of a virgin, Sarina decided. Yes, she was sure he was a virgin. Oh, the tricks she could teach him.

It was easy. So easy. Shopping for supplies one Saturday morning, she ran into the boy. ‘Giovanni, is it not?' smiling her dimpled smile. ‘I have met your father.' Giovanni nodding back self-consciously. He knew who she was, of course, and was flattered that she should speak to him. ‘Perhaps you could assist Ernesto. He is getting old and the sack is heavy.'

Ernesto had assured her they were not in need of horse grain—there were two sacks still in the stables at the rear of the house—but she had insisted they purchase another.

And so Giovanni accompanied Sarina and the elderly servant home in order to help unload the sack of grain.

‘Thank you, Ernesto, young Giovanni can manage.' She nodded dismissively. ‘Unharness and water the horse.' She held the stable door open for the boy and allowed it to swing closed behind them as if by accident.

‘Over here, beside the others,' she instructed, admiring in the half-light the strong forearms that balanced the sack with ease upon the fine broad shoulder.

‘Thank you,' she said when he had carefully placed it down. Then she put her hand upon the same broad shoulder and felt the firmness of his flesh. She knew that beneath the rough fabric of his shirt the skin would be smooth and silken. ‘You have grown, Giovanni. You are a young man now when only yesterday you were a boy.'

Giovanni was surprised. Who would have thought Signora De Cretico would notice him, she noticed no one. As her fingers slowly moved across his shoulder and down his arm until her hand was clasping his, Giovanni held his breath. He was confused. What did the widow want? Surely not … But his flesh tingled at her touch.

With her other hand, Sarina played with the soft brown curls that framed his face. Then she caressed his cheek. ‘Thank you for your help.' And slowly, very, very slowly, she kissed him upon the mouth. A demure kiss. A mere brush of her lips. ‘Come to me tonight and I will reward you.' He opened his mouth. He was not sure whether it was to say something or to kiss her back, but she gently pulled away. ‘Midnight,' she whispered. ‘By the stable doors.' And she was gone.

As Giovanni stepped out into the sunlight she was standing by the rear doors of the house which led to the servants' quarters. ‘Goodbye, Giovanni,' she called, waving to him. ‘Thank you for your help.'

 

A
T MIDNIGHT, AS
Giovanni crept around the side of the house, his whole body was quivering with anticipation. The expectations aroused by the furtive kisses and fumbling caresses he had exchanged with the village girls were about to be fulfilled. Uninhibited by the restrictions of virginal vows, the widow was going to allow him to take her amongst the hay on the stable floor.

But Giovanni was wrong. Finger to her lips, Sarina led him away from the stables and through the rear door of the house. Past the servants' quarters, across the courtyard and up the stairs to her bedroom.

She undressed him, touching his body, tantalising herself as much as she did him. His body was as magnificent as she had known it would be. The muscles hard and toned beneath the velvet bloom of youthful skin. She ran her fingers over his back and his buttocks and his groin. She licked his chest and his neck and his lips until Giovanni could bear no more and he clutched her breasts and her buttocks and ground his mouth upon hers.

She broke away from him. ‘
Si
,' she panted. ‘
Si, si
.'

Then they were upon the bed and Giovanni was only vaguely aware of the sheets beneath him, a silky texture he had never before felt. And then the texture of Sarina as she lowered herself upon him. Then he lost himself, forgetting everything but the feel and the taste and the smell of her.

It did not last long. Not that first time. But Sarina had not expected it to. She kept him with her until it was nearly dawn. They made love again twice and the third time it was Sarina who lost herself. She was like a
woman possessed and Giovanni marvelled at his control and the power he had over her.

They barely spoke throughout but, as Sarina ushered him back into the night, she whispered close into his ear, ‘
Mio piccolo toro
, come to me again tomorrow. At midnight. I will be waiting.'

They met each night for a whole week until Sarina came to her senses and realised that she was courting discovery. Once a week must suffice, she told herself. But the days between each Saturday midnight dragged slowly. And when Giovanni left for the railway work camp and his visits dwindled to only twice a month, she thought she would go mad.

Sarina had become insatiable. She did not love the boy, she knew that. But she loved what he did for her. He freed her. It was only in Giovanni's embrace, at the height of her passion, that she felt alive. The rest of her existence was cold and empty.

 

S
ARINA STOPPED PROWLING
the balconies. Looking through the open doors of the upstairs salon, she saw the grandfather clock read a quarter before midnight. She would go downstairs and wait for him in case he arrived early.

She knew Giovanni wanted to be free of her. She knew he was fearful of the De Cretico brothers, and he had good reason to be, but she cared nothing for his fear. She needed him desperately, and she would continue to need him until Mario found her a husband.

Sarina pulled her red velvet gown about her as she quietly opened the rear door. This waiting, she cursed, it was beyond endurance.

Nearly half an hour later, shivering with cold despite the heavy velvet gown, Sarina dragged Giovanni inside. ‘You are late,' she hissed.

Giovanni looked with some alarm at the doors to the
servants' quarters, but Sarina was already hurrying on ahead of him, through the corridor, across the courtyard. He followed.

Behind them, one of the doors opened and two pairs of eyes watched as they climbed the stairs.

Guiseppina and Ernesto looked at each other and Guiseppina shook her head with more than disapproval. Such indiscretion was dangerous. Her mistress was becoming less and less mindful of the jeopardy in which she was placing them. It would cost them all dear if the signora were to become too careless.

Quietly, Guiseppina closed the door.

The chalet was by far the largest building Caterina had ever seen. Far larger than the town hall in Ridanna and far taller than the church steeple. Made of timber, the magnificent building stood four storeys high, and that was not counting the attic with its windows jutting out from the steeply sloped slate roof. Each floor was surrounded by wide wooden balconies onto which the shuttered doors of the seventy-two guest rooms opened.

The pine-finished interior was as impressive as the exterior. On the ground level was the bar and lounge with its huge armchairs and heavy rugs. On the first floor, the dining room, its long trestle tables covered in bright red checked tablecloths. On the third floor, the music lounge, complete with piano; and on the fourth the writing room and library with desks, hardback chairs and oak shelves heavily laden with books. And in every communal area was a huge open granite fireplace where giant logs burned day and night.

There were several other timber buildings further down the slope but only one was residential—the keeper's cottage where the chalet manager and his family lived. The staff and servants, like the guests, were accommodated in the chalet itself. Not far from the keeper's cottage was the storage cabin for the ski equipment, where early each morning a queue would form as guests
lined up to collect their skis and toboggans. A little further down the slope were the stables and adjoining barn where the sleighs, sledges, harnesses and tackle were housed.

Around the chalet complex the snow-capped Alps reared into the sky, dwarfing all beneath them. But the chalet, with its scarred and weathered timber face, stood undaunted. A haven amongst the elements, a safe house for the cold and weary, it stood as it had for two centuries past and as it would for centuries to come.

Caterina loved the chalet. She worked hard and the hours were long but she was accustomed to that. On her father's farm she was up at dawn to milk the two cows and tend to the house goats and feed the chickens. By the time she returned to help her mother and her younger sister in the kitchen her father and three older brothers had left to work the small property until dusk.

Caterina's day at the chalet also started at dawn. She began by helping with the preparation of breakfast, then throughout the day she cleaned and serviced the guest rooms. Only the experienced girls were allocated duties serving in the dining room or working in the bar but, on occasion, Caterina was sent to wait on rooms when a specific service was requested—cigars here, a newspaper there—and she enjoyed the personal contact with the guests.

‘Thank you for your trouble.' The young American exchanged the newspaper for some coins and she slipped them into the pocket of her apron. It was in poor taste to look at one's tip but she could tell that it was substantial.

Although the young Americans had been there for only several days, she had seen them many times as she went about her duties. There were four of them, probably in their early twenties, students on a six-week vacation, she was told. They were very attractive and very confident and
very loud. Well, three of them were. The one they called Paul was much quieter, often preferring to look at the view rather than join in the boisterous conversation of his friends. Caterina found the Americans dazzling and sophisticated and was in awe of them.

‘Thank you, sir.' She turned to go.

‘Just a minute.' He stopped her. ‘Do you speak English?'

‘Little.' She smiled apologetically. ‘Much little.'

‘Much little.' His laughter was without scorn. ‘That's about as much as I speak Italian. You are Italian, aren't you?'

‘Italian,
si
.' In the two weeks that Caterina had been at the chalet she had tried hard to learn as much English as she could but even with the help of her new friend Mary, the Welsh girl who worked in the bar lounge, she found it a very confusing language.

‘Stay and talk to me for a while,' the American said.

Even as Paul said it, he wondered why. Unlike his friends, he was not given to flirtation. He had no ulterior motive in asking the maid to stay. No motive except for the fact that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, with her thick auburn hair and her dancing blue eyes.

Caterina stood for a moment, confused. Was there something else the American wished her to fetch?

He gestured to one of the two chairs by the table in the centre of the room. ‘Sit down,' he said. ‘Talk … um …
parlez
… no, that's French … um …' He made a chattering gesture with his hand.

She realised what he wanted so she smiled and sat tentatively on the edge of the chair. The servants were ordered not to initiate contact with the guests but, should a guest wish to engage in conversation, then they were to be as polite and helpful as possible. Caterina was not sure whether this included being
alone in a male guest's bedroom, however. She had heard several stories of men pressing their attentions upon some of the girls. She had also heard that, should any girl reciprocate, she would be immediately dismissed. The young American seemed harmless enough, though. Besides, the door was open.

‘My name is Paul,' he said, pointing to his chest. ‘Paul.'

‘Caterina,' she answered. ‘
Io mi chiamo Caterina
.'

‘America,' he said, still pointing to his chest.

‘
Si
,' she nodded.

‘Boston, Massachusetts,' still pointing. ‘You?' Now he pointed at her. ‘Caterina?'

‘Ridanna,' she answered. ‘
Una campagna vicino Ridanna
'.

‘Ah, Ridanna.' He had a map of the area and he knew that Ridanna was a small village over the border. ‘Yes,' he nodded.

Caterina felt frustrated. She wanted the American to know she came from a property near Ridanna, that her father was a farmer. She was proud of her father—his was the largest of all the Panuzzi family farms and there were many.

‘Panuzzi,' she said. ‘Caterina Panuzzi.'

The American smiled. ‘Dunleavy. Paul Dunleavy.'

‘No Ridanna,' she insisted. ‘
Mio padre è contadino
.' What was the English word for
contadino
? Try as she might Caterina could not remember. Mary, the Welsh girl, had told her but then there had been so many words and phrases that Caterina had become confused. ‘F …' she said. ‘F …' Suddenly she remembered. ‘Former,' she said triumphantly. ‘Former.'

‘Former?' Paul looked confused.

Caterina bent over in her chair and mimed drawing milk from a cow's udders. ‘Former,' she insisted. ‘Former.' He still looked confused so she put her hands
to each side of her head, forefingers extended. ‘Mooo,' she said.

Paul burst out laughing. ‘
Farmer!
You come from a farm.'

Caterina laughed with him. ‘Farmer,
si. Mio padre è
… farmer.'

Yes, she looked like a farm girl, Paul thought. Fresh and healthy, with her full, ripe body and those thick auburn curls. But now, as the laughter bubbled from her, Paul was captivated by far more than her beauty. She was so vital, so effervescent, so unaffected.

‘A farm near Ridanna,' he said, trying not to stare at her.

‘
Si
. Ridanna.
Dieci chilometri
.'

‘
Dieci
. Ten, yes? The farm is ten kilometres from Ridanna.'

‘
Si
. Farm, Ridanna, ten kilometre.' Caterina was delighted with herself. She was speaking English. And the young American was interested in what she was saying. He had a way of brushing his straight fair hair back from his brow as he concentrated upon their communication that was very attractive. And she liked his kind, grey eyes.

The two of them managed to struggle a little further with their conversation. Turning the pages of an imaginary book and scribbling with an imaginary pen, Paul told her that he was a student.

‘
Sì, studente
.' That was an easy one. But ‘mining engineer' was too difficult and, several minutes later, rather than appear stupid, Caterina decided it was time to take her leave. Besides, she might get into trouble if she stayed talking for too long.

‘I go,' she said, rising abruptly.

‘Of course.' He rose also and accompanied her to the door. ‘It was good talking to you.'

‘
Sì
,' she said. ‘Good.
Buono
.'

‘We must talk again some time.'

She did not understand him but his smile was warm and friendly so she smiled and nodded back.

 

L
ATE THE FOLLOWING
afternoon the young American was waiting for Caterina as she left the staff quarters.

‘Coffee?' he asked. And she agreed.

She agreed the following day. And the day after that. She told herself that it was good for her English, which was improving rapidly, and she bore the brunt of the other girls' teasing with good humour. But, underneath, Caterina was confused. She knew she was falling in love and it frightened her. She should say no when he asked her to drink coffee with him, but she could not. And at night, when she thought of him, she knew she wanted him to touch her. It was a sin, she told herself, she must not think of it.

Paul was also teased by his friends, but in a far more lascivious fashion. One of the young Americans was having an affair with the Welsh girl who worked in the lounge and he teased Paul mercilessly about Caterina.

‘You're a fool,' Geoffrey said. ‘Why are you wasting your time drinking coffee with her, for God's sake? Hurry up and get her into your bed—we're only here for another month.' At twenty-three Geoffrey was two years older than the others, in the final year of his engineering course, and the self-appointed leader of the group.

‘I had not intended trying to get her into my bed at all,' Paul replied stiffly. ‘She is pleasing company.'

Geoffrey scoffed at him. ‘Oh sure. Sure I believe you. Breasts like hers make very pleasing company.'

Barry and Chris burst out laughing. Geoff always amused them. Besides which, they agreed with him. If they could possibly attract the attention of a girl as beautiful as Caterina, they certainly would not be wasting time having coffee with her.

Paul refused to listen. Finally he snapped at them all. Their remarks were offensive, he told them, and until they ceased their teasing he would avoid their company.

‘Take it easy,' Geoffrey placated. ‘It was meant in good humour.' Geoffrey had not intended to offend his friend. He was particularly fond and protective of Paul They both came from Boston and their families knew each other. When Paul had enrolled at Harvard, Geoffrey had immediately taken him under his wing.

The teasing ceased and Paul was thankful. He had found it insulting to Caterina, of course, but he had also found it confronting. He had lied to Geoffrey. He most certainly did want to make love to Caterina. He wanted to make love to her so desperately that he wondered she could be so unaware of his lust.

‘Milk?' she would ask, jug poised. And when he nodded, she would add milk to his coffee. ‘Sugar? Two?' she would ask and when he nodded again she would carefully measure two teaspoons of sugar into his cup. It was a ritual which charmed him. She was so proud of her English. Laughing delightedly, she would clasp his hand. ‘Mine English good, Paolo, yes?' He loved the way she called him Paolo.

‘
My
English,' he would automatically correct her as his hand tingled. ‘Yes, very good.'

And the laughter would bubble from her again. ‘Is you. Is you make mine English good.
My
English.'

Caterina was unaware of Paul's lust only because she was too busy struggling with her own. She clasped his hand on any pretext simply to feel his skin. She delighted in him, she loved him and, mortal sin as it was, she wanted him to make love to her.

‘I can show you some English words in books,' Paul said one late afternoon. He had pointed out the words milk and chocolate and coffee on the menu in front of them.

‘Yes?' she asked.

‘The books are in my room. Would you like that?' He knew that Geoffrey would not be there. He and the others had left to spend the evening in Steinach.

‘Yes,' she nodded.

Paul closed the door behind them and picked up a book from one of the bedside tables. He sat on the bed, the open book on his knees, and she sat beside him. He pointed to a word and, as she placed her hand next to his on the page, her wrist rested on his thigh. He said nothing, but covered her hand with his own and he could feel her trembling. When he looked at her she remained staring down at the book, not seeing the page before her. Her eyes were fixed upon their hands and, as he watched her, she turned her wrist so that their palms touched and gently she entwined her fingers with his.

The kiss was soft and tender. Her lips were only slightly parted and they felt like velvet. The book fell from his knees as he drew her to him. Her body was warm and pliable and seemed to meld to his, and he could feel the fullness of her breasts against his chest. The kiss became more urgent, her lips parted a little more and he could feel the moistness of her mouth. Her breathing became heavier and she was quivering. Just as he was. She wanted him, he realised. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Gently, he placed his hand upon her breast. There was a sharp intake of breath, as if she was going to resist. But she did not. And then they were lying on the bed together. Still kissing. Yet more urgently. And touching and stroking and caressing each other. He started to fumble with his belt, trying to unfasten his trousers without breaking the kiss.

Suddenly Caterina pulled away from him and sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘
Io sono vergine
,' she said
breathlessly. She turned to him and her eyes were wide, not with fear—she was not frightened of him, he knew that. But she was troubled, uncertain.