She Walks in Darkness (3 page)

We had a very English-style tea, then I left the two men alone to talk antiquities while I went out to buy groceries. I had no idea what to expect at the Villa Carenni, and this might save a trip later. The doctor kindly sent his housekeeper with me as guide.

“Giovanna knows all the best shops, signora. You will need her help.”

Giovanna also knew no English, and I wondered just how we would manage, but somehow we did. She was a stout friendly woman, with soft black eyes and a voice as soft, and she did know where to find the best fruits and vegetables, and also several more fattening things. I have no doubt that her cooking was responsible for both her figure and the doctor’s.

Yet it was while I was with her, in those narrow old streets, that the first hint of trouble came. Although it may have had nothing to do with what happened here, I do not know that it did.

Once Volterra was a mighty fortress, the western-most outpost of that culture that may have been brought by hard-eyed, black-bearded princes from the East. The land was fertile then, before pagan Rome crushed her great rivals and teachers, the proud Rasenna, whose own empire once had stretched from sea to sea. The Romans, later such great builders themselves, let the wonderful Etruscan irrigation system fail and the rich farmlands become deserts and ague-ridden marshes.

“Maybe, so long as Tuscan lands were rich, even Rome was afraid,” Dr. Pulcinelli had said at tea.

Certainly the disasters never have bean repaired. The city’s prosperity never has come back; its broken walls hold only a third as many people as they housed in the days of their strength. Over them loom two buildings modern by comparison, one the famous Mastio, in whose terrible circular cells many a state prisoner of the Middle Ages died. It holds common criminals now, and in the huge bare lunatic asylum of today it has a gloomy twin. Sight of that grim pair made me shudder; I always have hated the sight of prisons; I would much prefer dying to being shut up and knowing that I never could get out again.

“Fuggito! fuggito!”
It seemed only natural when I heard a woman cry that, saw her running across the gray stones. She stopped and talked with Giovanna; their eyes flashed, and their hands and tongues flew. I gathered that a prisoner had escaped, and told myself that I must not be glad. It might be someone dangerous.

But when the other woman had gone and Giovanna led me down a steep alley filled with whitish dust, I suddenly knew that I was not glad. The massive stone walls presented an unbroken front with no corners for an escaped convict or lunatic to dart around, but I found myself watching the heavy shut doors uneasily. What if one of them were to burst open?

What if he were to jump out at us?

Shrewd criminals do not risk unnecessary bloodshed, but madmen kill without reason....

Then before one door I saw something that made me stop, startled. There, beneath the burning summer sun, was what looked like a snowdrift: a gleaming, piled-up whiteness.

Giovanna stopped too, knocked. An old woman opened the door, her wrinkled face tense, her black eyes gleaming with fear. “She’s heard of the escaped prisoner too,” I thought, with a pang of pity. But at sight of us she relaxed, greeted Giovanna volubly, and stepped back to let us in.

The place was the shop of an alabaster carver. Alabaster abounds around Volterra, and the old man who came forward to meet us had carved it into dozens of exquisite shapes. The white gypsum dust piled outside must have been his leavings. I do not know much about art, but I know that he is an artist.

There was a flood of Italian—I caught the words “Villa Carenni” and figured that our address was being given—but fortunately or unfortunately, the old man knew some English. Richard and I are not rich, we are saving for things our house will really need when we get it, but I finally let him sell me an exquisite lantern (a copy of an old Etruscan lamp, he said) at a price that seemed absurdly low.

His eyes beamed then; he thanked me in voluble Italian. As the money changed hands, I heard a faint rustling somewhere in the gloomy depths of the shop behind us, and the shopkeeper started and glanced over his shoulder.

“Is somebody there?” My eyes followed his, but the shadows were too deep; I could see nothing.

Then the old woman laughed—a little too loudly—and her husband moved rather quickly to the door, bowed, smiled, and opened it. They did not seem afraid that anybody might have gotten into their house; if anything, they were anxious to get us out of it. Once, on our way back to the palazzo, I glanced back, thinking that I heard steps on the stones behind us, but I saw no one.

When I joined Richard and the doctor, my fit of nerves was over. I forgot to mention the escaped prisoner, I was so busy showing my lantern, and hoping that Richard would like it. He did. Dr. Pulcinelli smiled indulgently.

“I should have known that Giovanna would take you to the Credis’; Taddeo Credi’s wife is an old friend of hers. But you were not cheated; he is a fine workman. He was once a protégé of Prince Mino Carenni, on whose lands he was born.”

“You knew Prince Mino?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment. “In my youth I revered him. His learning, not his opinions and theories, which were always extreme. I still admire that.”

“You and Professor Harris both made a thorough search for those epoch-making discoveries that he was rumored to have found during his last years,” said Richard. “Didn’t you, sir?”

The doctor sighed. “Yes. But we found nothing. And we went deep into the vaults below the villa, into the lowest”—he hesitated again—“at least the lowest known level of the ancient tombs.”

What a place to have built a love nest,
I thought—
over a cemetery.
What I said aloud was something quite different: “You don’t think that the prince would have committed murder?” And then I could have bitten my tongue; since the two men had known each other, such a remark was intolerably tactless.

The doctor stiffened. “That story was a lie, signora: a stupid and malicious slander.” He paused a moment. “Yet there may have been reasons for its telling. This is a day of change. Too much change, however it ends, to please older men like me. Old loyalties are fading, old resentments sometimes erupt in barbaric ways. Not too far from here last year, an ironmaster was burned alive in his own furnace, by men some of whom he had known all his life.”

“Communist agitators prompt those things, though, don’t they?” Richard said. “Men from outside?”

“Communists, yes.” The doctor’s face was grim. “But such men are not always strangers; sometimes they return to their own birthplaces to bring violence and bloodshed. But to return to our subject: The Prince Carenni’s pride of race and birth amounted almost to insanity, but it is preposterous to suggest that he ever would have harmed a guest whom his house sheltered. There is a famous old Italian story of a father who killed his own son for betraying a guest to the law. Even though, according to one version, the fugitive was also the seducer of the boy’s sister.”

Richard nodded. “I know, sir. You see, Barby, the guest’s own worth didn’t matter; the host’s honor was at stake, once he’d given him shelter. In Italy the tradition of hospitality always has been very sacred.”

“Exactly.” Our host was gratified.

He courteously urged us to stay for dinner. “Then you could see
le Balze
in the dusk. The site of Volterra’s great landslide. The event itself was a catastrophe, destroying perhaps priceless tombs, but at twilight, when the broken cliffs gleam with phosphorescence and the masses of fallen earth turn purple—well, it is not a sight to forget.”

I felt that I could stand the deprivation; also that in a country so full of tombs, the destruction of one batch could not have been too great a loss. Richard must have read my feelings in my face; he thanked the doctor, but refused.

“My wife is tired, and we want to get to the villa before dark; I don’t know these roads too well. But we’ll be back. May we take a rain check on your invitation, sir?”

And then the meaning of rain check had to be explained; the doctor was delighted with the new phrase.

When we came to the Porta all’ Arco again, a policeman stopped us and I tensed, but after a swift exchange in Italian, Richard grinned at me. “It’s all right, Barbs. We’re not being arrested. They’re just stopping all cars to look for a man—”

“I know. I heard while I was out with Giovanna.”

If I hadn’t stopped him then, Richard might have told me what now I would give so much to know! As it was, he only shrugged. “Whoever the fellow is, they’ve certainly got the wind up. This man even wanted to look in the trunk of our car, but I told him it hadn’t been unlocked since we left Florence.”

It had been. I had unlocked it before I realized that the groceries could be stuffed into the back part with our luggage. The car is—was—new, and that lock sticks; I don’t use it if I can help it. Did I get it locked again? I know I tried to—I am sure I thought I had. But I was nervous then; until Giovanna and I were safely inside the palazzo’s stout walls, I couldn’t shake off that creepy feeling that we were being followed. And if the lock didn’t catch, the trunk sat there accessible for nearly an hour. Someone could have gotten into it easily; the street is lonely and quiet there outside Dr. Pulcinelli’s door. Someone could have lain hidden there while Richard and I drove out of Volterra. Death doubled up in that cramped space, coiled there like a snake. Waiting to strike.

When Richard parked the car and came into the villa with me, it—that thing we had harbored—could have crawled out.

Death free to strike!

But if so, where was Mattia Rossi then? He should have been there to welcome us, and he was not. His killer must have reached the villa before us; I only hope that he has enough sense to be already well on his way elsewhere. Somewhere as far from the scene of his crime as he can get.

No, no murderer came with us to the Villa Carenni: That thought is mad, a fear-spawned fantasy of the night. It cannot matter now, the thing I kept Richard from telling me. Yet it could matter very much, here in this lonely place, whether that man escaped from the Mastio or from that other grim pile that houses the insane.

Madness. It is such a familiar word, yet what is a madman really like? I have never seen one, I have never known anybody who has. Dear God, keep it that way! Let me never see the thing that may have been coiled within a few feet of me, all that long way from Volterra!

Chapter II

esterday, when Volterra’s brooding height first fell behind us, something made me say, “What became of her, Richard? Of that little bride who sounds so much like Browning’s Pompilia? Did she outlive the old man and get to marry somebody her own age? I hope so.”

He said rather slowly, “There’s no record of her anywhere. All the other Carenni wives rest honorably beside their noble lords, either here or in Florence. But she seems to have vanished without a trace.”

“Perhaps she eloped.” I felt cheered.

He grinned. “You take the marriage vows seriously, Barby-girl. I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

“You’re keeping something from me now. If there hadn’t been something you didn’t want me to hear, you’d have told me about her in the first place. There is a story, isn’t there? An ugly one?”

He took one hand from the wheel a moment,
covered mine with it. “Let’s let it alone, Barbs. Every old house has seen both ugliness and beauty. You can’t keep either one out.”

“All right. I won’t ask any more questions until we leave. I certainly will then.”

“Good girl.” He squeezed my hand, and we drove on.

Sunset found us still driving. The hills were purple now; the earth was as gray as a dead face. There were no more houses, not a single sign of life anywhere. The car was climbing steadily, up rocky, barren slopes.

And then we saw it: rosy in the red light, its stone walls—stone that light-catching, ever-changing color peculiar to Tuscany—rising up before us with an almost tender softness of hue and purity of line. It looked so beautiful that my heart rose; I pressed Richard’s hand. “It
is
lovely. The right place for a honeymoon.” And he smiled at me, his eyes warm. Oh, Richard! Richard!

We drove into a stone-paved courtyard and parked before huge, heavily carved doors. Richard got out and went in to look for Mattia Rossi. I was left alone in the courtyard; at least I thought I was alone....

I heard nothing; I can swear to that. Nothing but the cooing of pigeons, the soft natural sounds of a summer evening, no least noise from inside the trunk. If he was there, he waited very quietly. But of course he was not there.

When Richard came back, he was puzzled, frowning. “The old fellow doesn’t seem to be anywhere around. But he can't be far away. Nothing's locked up. Better come in.”

The big, shadowy hall was lovely too, with its noble stone staircase. But it was nothing compared to our ownquarters, waiting above. A wide archway joined two big, low rooms that seemed magical in the twilight. On the rear wall of the inner chamber, Venus was rising naked from the sea. Nymphs were raising worshipful arms to hail her, birds were flying low in marveling delight, fish rose staring from the deep. In the half-light the blue waves really had the shimmer of mysterious depths; their cool hues brought out the rosy whiteness of the goddess’s flesh. As we crossed the anteroom towards the magnificent carved bed at her feet, we seemed to be caught among all these creatures swarming along the walls to do her homage.

“Some bridal suite,” said Richard, grinning.

For a moment I didn’t answer. Realization had come like a blow, made me a little sick. These had been the long-dead little principessa’s rooms! I suddenly wished that Richard and I were going to love somewhere else, in some cheap, clean place. Then I managed to smile and said quite truthfully, “You can’t just say that this is beautiful. But what else is there to say?”

“I’m glad you like it.” Was his smile indulgent? Richard is hard to fool. “I’ll go down and get our bags.”

“And the groceries. I’ll come too.”

We made three trips in all. The first was fun, an occasion. The second definitely was not fun, and the third left me panting, anxious only to put my load down and rest.

But inspection of my very original kitchen soon restored me. It was really a bath—a Roman-ish super-bath, opening into both rooms. Walls and ceiling, gorgeous as the bedroom’s own, made it a kind of rainbow wonderland. A tall screen hid the john, Mrs. Harris’s two hot plates sat on a small folding table that could be easily cleared away, and the big, modern white refrigerator almost justified itself. It towered over a rose-colored marble pool that looked like the very heart of a rose.
Had the aged bridegroom like to watch his young wife bathe?
I wondered, suddenly feeling a little nauseated.
To gloat over that girlish body that was legally his?

Richard said, “I’d better put the car away.”

“Is there a garage?”

“In the base of the tower; I expect it used to hold donkeys. As we came in, a kind of screening wall hid it from the
cortile
—courtyard to you.”

“Oh, the tower! I didn’t get a good look at it. Can we see it from the bedroom windows?”

“A little.”

Most old Tuscan villas have towers, relics of the days when every country house was both farm and fort. I ran to the windows and looked out, then caught my breath.

The tower was squat, unimpressive. It had not been remodeled for the bride, but the garden below us had. Statues gleamed ghost-pale among a glowing riot of
roses and jasmine. One was a gigantic, white-winged woman carrying in her arms a life-sized youth of red terra cotta.

I said, startled, “What’s that?”

“The goddess Eos carrying off Kephalos?” Richard’s eyes had followed mine.

“What for? To eat him?”

“Lord, no! She was in love with him.”

“Well, I’d certainly hate for her to love me!”

This was not Homer’s rosy-fingered Eos; I remembered the story now. All the tender radiance of the Greek dawn-goddess was gone. This giantess’s mouth, bent to her unwilling prey’s, seemed more likely to bite than to kiss. One felt immense appetite, savage strength, but no tenderness. Her very whiteness made her seem like death, seizing upon warm human life.

“She’s gone native.” Richard surveyed her quizzically. “Etruscan ideas very likely went back to the old Triple Goddess, the Killer-Mother: Queen of the Underworld as well as of Heaven and Earth.”

“Whatever the lady is, I could do without her.”

“Oh, Kephalos got home eventually.” Richard raised an eyebrow. “To find that his pretty young wife hadn’t been exactly inconsolable during his absence.”

“I’m sure she can’t have thought it was any use to wait.”

Richard laughed and went out. I went back to our bathroom-kitchenette and began putting things away, but first I put on a pot of coffee. The long fierce heat
of the day was gone. Now that night was near, a dank chill seemed to be rising from the thick, old stone walls, in spite of all the gaily painted figures that ran riot over them. I found cups and saucers, and began to set a little table.

And then I heard it. The crash outside!

I seemed to be crawling though I was running, ages seemed to pass before I was downstairs and outside in the cool evening. Before I found that screening wall Richard had spoken of and ran round it.

The car lay overturned in a little ditch that ran along one side of the tower. And Richard lay inside it, his crumpled body somehow looking different, horribly different from the way it does when he is asleep.

I tried to get the car door open, but I couldn’t. I don’t know much about cars, but this one, being a Volkswagen, had its engine in the rear, so fire ought to start in the back seat. But would it stay there more than a minute? I was wearing a blouse and skirt. I tore off the skirt, stamped it down into the inch or two of water in the ditch, then, using the muddy mass of it as a shield, I scrambled in over the car door.

Richard was heavy—how could a long, lean man be so heavy? For hideous seconds I thought I could not budge him, but finally I got him halfway across the car door. Then, as I pulled and tugged at his inert weight, my heart feeling as if it would burst, the thing I feared came. The smell of smoke, the crackle of flames. I must get Richard out—I must! With all my weight, I strained
against his. The muddy skirt still shielded us, but through it I could feel the hissing heat; at any second the soaked cloth must burst into flame. Tug—pull—tug. My heart was hurting as if Eos were squeezing it between her giant fingers. Trying to squeeze the life out of me, the mortal wife who was fighting her for Kephalos. I could see her hungry eyes, feel the power of her outspread wings....

Then Richard woke up. He opened his eyes and coughed.

Together we squirmed over the car door. We fell into the ditch, but that was good. The mud put out the fires that were starting in his clothing, and what was left of mine. The whole ghastly struggle can have lasted only for seconds, but it had felt like years.

Richard seemed dazed. I led him back to the villa. Twice he stumbled on the stairs, and once he stopped and rubbed his hand against the back of his head; it came away bloody. When we reached our room, he sat down heavily on the bed, and I ran for the coffee, but he would not take it. “Let me be, Barb. I’m sleepy.”

For a moment I don’t think I breathed at all. Somewhere I have heard or read that it is a very bad sign when a person whose head has been hurt says, “I am sleepy.”

I caught at him. “Richard!”

“Let me be.” He mumbled the words that time; then he pulled away from me and just lay down and went to sleep.

My first panicky impulse was to shake him awake; fear of hurting him stopped me. Then I remembered: the telephone! The Harrises had said they had one. It wasn’t up here, so probably it was downstairs in the great, shadowy hall. I made for the stairs again, staggering as I ran, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

The telephone is there, but it will not ring.

When I finally accepted its silence, I sat down and cried. But then a comforting thought came: This explained Mattia Rossi’s absence. He had gone into town to report that the telephone was out of order. He would soon be back.

But he was an old man, and Mrs. Harris had said that he used a cycle. What if he should spend the night in Volterra?

Again I fought panic, tried to remember more things that Mrs. Harris had said. There is a village somewhere among the hills, not too far from the villa, but when I had asked her if anyone there might speak English, she had laughed. “Child, the people live practically the same way their ancestors did thousands of years ago. You couldn’t make a soul understand you.”

A village I couldn’t possibly find in the dark, and where nobody would know what I was saying if I got there! An old man who might not come back till morning! I began to cry again.

Stop it, Barbara! Get a hold of yourself. You can’t afford to go to pieces now.

Something deep inside me said that, and I knew
it was right. I went back upstairs; the coffee was still fairly hot, and I drank it all, black. While cold water poured into the tub, I tore off my ruined blouse and undies (trousseau things that I had been proud of ), then plunged into that rose-colored marble pool. The non-voluptuous, stinging coldness shocked me back to life. Then I did what I could for Richard; I could not turn him over or get all his clothes off, but I carefully examined all of him that I could see. There is an ugly wound on the back of his head, but the bone around it feels firm. His skull is not fractured; I am sure of that. If only I knew enough to be sure!

Concussion. That can keep a man unconscious for hours, perhaps days. Even a doctor can only let the patient lie still and rest. Usually the man wakes of himself; often concussion is not dangerous, I believe. But sometimes it kills.