The Italian Matchmaker (34 page)

Out on the terrace Romina introduced Panfilo to her friends. Dennis, Stephanie, Ma and Caradoc were playing cards. Nanni had taken Fiyona into town on the excuse of enjoying one final coffee before she left that afternoon. They were both too ashamed to face Panfilo. Porci trotted up to sniff the new arrival. ‘My friends, this is the famous Panfilo Pallavicini!’ Romina announced, opening her arms theatrically.

‘The great Panfilo!’ The professor exclaimed. ‘We’ve been awaiting your arrival with anticipation.’

‘What a peaceful sight!’ Panfilo ran a hand through his long hair. ‘Life up at the
palazzo
is good.’

‘Up to a point,’ grumbled Ma. ‘It would be better if I was winning.’

‘I’m going to show Panfilo the folly,’ said Romina.

‘I hope you don’t find any ghosts,’ Dennis called after her.

‘I’m sure Luca has frightened them away,’ Ma muttered sarcastically.

‘Luca has been much too busy with the living to worry about the dead,’ said Caradoc.

Panfilo followed Romina down the garden. ‘My husband is constantly building things,’ Romina explained. ‘Now he’s building a grotto out of tree stumps. What on earth will he think of next?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Panfilo. ‘You have done an incredible amount of work. It’s hard to imagine that it was a ruin only two years ago.’

‘There was something rather wonderful about the ruin, actually. I wish I had taken photographs. I’d like to make a book of before and after shots. A place as historic as this should be documented for posterity. All I have left of the past is the folly. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve heard a lot about it from my daughter, but I’ve never been up here. It will be a pleasure to photograph. The only trouble is I don’t know how I’m going to choose a few pictures out of so many. It requires a book, not just an article.’

‘You are so right. That’s what I think. Maybe you and I can write the book.’

‘I think my wife would divorce me.’

Romina smiled. ‘I shouldn’t worry. You’d be snapped up before you wondered where you were going to lay your head at night!

When they reached the folly, Romina was surprised to see Porci lying against the door. ‘And what are you doing here, little pig?’ She had an awful feeling that someone was inside.

‘A pet?’

‘My baby Porci,’ she breathed, as the animal stood up to be let inside. Romina tried to look nonchalant, not wanting to give anything away, smiled confidently at Panfilo and opened the door. Porci trotted in. To her intense relief, the place was empty.

Panfilo gazed around the exquisite little building. The symmetry was perfect, the harmony as sensual as a beautiful piece of music. Romina threw open the shutters and let the sunlight tumble in, illuminating the books, the four-poster bed and the pretty dressing-table and desk. Then something made her look down to the ground outside the window; there, among the ferns, was a heap of cigarette butts.

Romina felt her fury mount. The intruder
had
to be found. This
had
to stop. Luca
had
to get a grip and catch her before she set fire to the place. But, not wanting to ruin the day she had been looking forward to for weeks, she gritted her teeth and shoved it out of her mind.

‘Isn’t it divine?’ she said, smiling at Panfilo.

‘It is more than divine,’ he replied seriously. ‘It’s special.’ He rubbed his fingers and thumb together. ‘There’s something in the air. I can’t put it into words. It’s a feeling, as if the air is charged with sorrow.’

‘I call it love,’ said Romina.

‘Perhaps. Lost love. It’s a sad feeling. Perhaps I can capture it.’ He looked out of the window, working out where the sun rose and set. ‘We’ll do this last. When the sun is going down and the light is mellow.’

They heard the scuffle of feet as someone approached from the path. For a moment Romina thought it was the intruder and thanked God she was with Panfilo. Porci stared at the door expectantly. But it was Rosa’s face that appeared in the doorway, flushed from having climbed the hill.

‘Hi!’ she said. ‘I’ve come to help.’

Panfilo grinned at his daughter. ‘Good. We can always do with an extra pair of hands.’

‘Hello, Rosa, my dear,’ Romina gushed with relief. ‘I’m so pleased it is you.’

‘Hi Romina, and hello little pig!’ she exclaimed, scooping him up. Porci didn’t resist. She sat on the bed and stroked him. ‘This is the most comfortable bed ever!’ she exclaimed, a wistful smile on her face as she recalled the night before.

‘Don’t get too comfortable. We’ve got work to do,’ said Panfilo

‘When are you going to photograph it?’

‘This evening,’ he replied.

‘Good,’ said Rosa, putting Porci down and following her father out into the sunlight. ‘This should be the main photograph.’

‘You haven’t seen the rest of the
palazzo
yet,’ protested Romina, locking the door behind her.

‘I can’t imagine anything can be as perfect as this little folly. The very bed upon which my grandmother lay with the
Marchese
.’

‘The very bed that catapulted her to her death,’ Panfilo added dryly.

‘Don’t spoil it! Let me enjoy the romance.’

‘There was no romance, Rosa. It was tawdry and decadent. There was nothing romantic about Valentina.’

Nanni and Fiyona deliberately stayed away from Fiorelli’s in case Alba was there. Fiyona noticed a young
carabiniere
chatting up a pretty local woman, his gilded epaulettes shining in the morning sunshine and his eyes hidden behind a dashing pair of dark glasses.

‘Back to London today, what a pity,’ she said, dragging on a cigarette. ‘I could get used to this life.’

‘I can’t imagine returning to Venice,’ said Nanni.

‘What’s waiting for you in Venice?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then stay.’

‘I can’t sponge off my sister indefinitely.’

‘Why not? The others do.’

‘They’ll all leave in the end.’

‘Only when they die.’

‘Incantellaria does have a certain magic.’

‘Palazzo Montelimone has a certain magic,’ she corrected. ‘The folly is something I’ll never forget.’

‘So, what are you going to write?’ Nanni asked, waving at a waiter to order another double espresso.

‘I will tell it as it is.’

‘Which is?’

‘That Romina and Bill, one of the most eccentric couples I have ever met, have built on foundations stained with blood to create a glorious home where peace and harmony co-exist with the resonance of mystery and murder. I will tell the story of Valentina and the
Marchese
and I will write that it is rumoured that Valentina’s brother Falco sought revenge on the
Marchese
and killed him, but it has never been proven and the case is closed. I will mention the possibility that he had an accomplice who has never been named.’

‘If you hadn’t offended Alba, would you name her father?’

She thought a moment. ‘No. I have a nose for sniffing out the truth and I sense Thomas Arbuckle was in on it. But while there’s doubt, there’s a chance I might make a mistake. And I don’t make mistakes.’

‘
Sei brava davvero
,’ he marvelled.

‘I’m not a good person. I’ve always been more intent on getting my articles right than sparing the feelings of those I write about. One forgets they’re real people. And they
are
real people. The least I can do is consider them when I put pen to paper. Besides, I have a soft spot for Rosa and I’m falling in love with Incantellaria. If I offend everyone I’ll never be able to come back. And you do want me to come back, don’t you, Nanni?’

Nanni recalled their encounter on the beach and felt an ache in his loins. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘You’re very sweet, Nanni,’ she laughed.

‘You don’t leave until this afternoon. What are we going to do until then?’

Her crimson lips curled into a smile. There wasn’t time to seduce the
carabiniere
and there was something rather endearing about Nanni. ‘Well,’ she said, leaning across the table. ‘There’s a little hotel right here in the square. We can’t possibly go back to the
palazzo
. We’re fugitives. Say we hide out for the morning and order room service for lunch?’

‘That, my dear Fiyona, is the best idea you’ve had all day.’

Panfilo spent the day taking photographs, assisted by an enthusiastic youth called Mario. Rosa wandered from room to room, imagining what they were like in their glory days and being no help at all. Romina shadowed the stylist and florist who arranged the rooms to their best advantage, enhancing the shots with large vases of white lilies and dusty pink roses. For the family picture, the make-up artist spent an hour painting her face and styling her hair while she insisted on brushing Porci for his part in the portrait. Bill was reluctant to be photographed, but his wife insisted. After all, she explained, it was only right that the public should see how handsome he was too!

Panfilo settled them on the terrace with the ocean behind them. Romina cradled Porci like a baby and scratched his fat tummy, while he grunted with pleasure and paddled with one hind leg. At least Romina had removed his nappy. Panfilo looked over the Polaroids with satisfaction.

At the end of the day they moved down to the folly. The light was softer now as the sun turned the heavens pink. Romina insisted on leaving the folly as it was. No flowers, no bowls of fruit, no enhancement of any kind. The magic was already there. She was right; it was perfect just the way it was.

Panfilo was on the point of taking the shots with film when, all of a sudden, the lights flickered and went out.

‘
Madonna!
’ Romina exclaimed. ‘There really is a ghost in this place!’

‘It’s the
Marchese
!’ Rosa announced excitedly. Porci gave an anxious grunt and trotted off into the bushes. Mario ran about checking extension leads and the plugs that connected to the generator. There was no electricity in the folly itself.

‘Is it possible to take shots without lights?’ Romina asked.

Panfilo shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s enough natural light.’ He turned to his assistant. ‘What’s wrong? Is it the generator?’

‘No, everything works perfectly. Try again.’

Panfilo switched the lights on. They worked. Without wasting time he set about focusing the cameras. Just as he was about to take the first shot the lights flickered for a few seconds before going out again. One bulb exploded, spraying the floor with broken glass.

‘This is spooky!’ squealed Rosa.

‘What is it?’ Romina asked anxiously.

‘Someone doesn’t want us to photograph the folly,’ said Panfilo darkly.

‘Or he doesn’t want us to take it with artificial light,’ Rosa suggested. ‘Try without. Go on!’

‘Very well,’ Panfilo sighed, certain it was too dark. ‘I’ll take a Polaroid.’

They waited a moment while the Polaroid developed. Romina recalled the cigarette stubs on the ground outside the window and wondered whether these strange goings-on had something to do with the person responsible for those. Finally, Panfilo pulled back the black film to reveal the picture. ‘Right, it’s perfect,’ he said, astonished. ‘Let’s not waste another minute.’ And he set about taking the photographs as quickly as he could, before the light changed.

‘Must be the
Marchese
, don’t you think?’ said Rosa. ‘Wouldn’t he want his folly to be pictured at its best? He knew it would look better in natural light.’

‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Romina muttered.

‘I’m not so sure any more,’ Rosa said. ‘I think there’s a lot out there that we can’t see.’

‘You sound like my mother,’ Romina said scathingly. ‘She was delusional to the point of insanity!’

Rosa was left staring at the photograph. The light that illuminated the folly was not only natural, but supernatural.

When Panfilo returned home, he was careful not to mention his day up at the
palazzo
. Rosa, too, had agreed to keep quiet. She didn’t want to antagonise her mother and she was still smarting from the consequences of having invited that journalist up for a drink after Mass. Alba didn’t ask. They sat at the dinner table, skirting around the subject like skaters around a hole in the ice. Cosima had enjoyed a shopping trip to Naples with Luca and was wearing one of the new dresses he had bought her. Rosa eyed it enviously, but then she remembered her new friend and the anticipation of seeing him that night erased her envy like sun burning off mist.

Panfilo left the Polaroids where Alba was sure to find them. Just as he had predicted, she was unable to contain her curiosity. When the household went to bed, she crept downstairs to look at them.

 

‘So, Luca,’ said Caradoc, swilling the ice around in his glass of whisky. ‘How’s the widow?’

They sat outside on the terrace. It was late. Dusty moths and little midges hovered around the hurricane lamps and crickets chirruped in the undergrowth. Ventura had cleared away dinner. Romina and Bill had retired to bed, exhausted by a day spent photographing the
palazzo
. Ma had retreated inside to listen to Nanni playing the piano. To her surprise he played like a concert pianist, his long fingers dancing effortlessly over the keys. Dennis and Stephanie had reluctantly motored off in his shiny Maserati just after tea, promising to return the following summer. Romina had watched them drive away with regret. Stephanie would have been good for Luca, despite her youth. Still, there was always Freya.

‘She’s not a widow,’ Luca explained. ‘She’s never been married.’