There was a telegraph office in the hotel and they cabled Valois with Elena’s location in Aix and their intention to take the first train from the Gare de Lyon and confront her.
Serafina felt a sense of urgency now that she knew where Elena was. She felt sure this Honore fellow was telling the truth. He’d shown her the address written in Elena’s hand, for one thing. And yet they must hurry. Elena was like a wave on the shore-her own father had said as much. She and Loffredo quickened their pace.
Chapter 33: A Studio in Aix
They’d ridden all over Aix-en-Provence and the outskirts, too, looking for Elena. The Midi seemed more like Sicily, but there was a transparency, a clarity and a buoyancy to the light in the south of France that was mesmerizing, unlike anything she’d known in Oltramari. Serafina breathed in and touched Loffredo’s hand. Although their driver claimed to know the city, they found a newsstand and bought a plan, but neither the man nor the map were much help. Roads were a tangled web, abruptly stopping or making an about face, and street numbers were in no apparent order. On their first attempt to locate Elena, they wound up where they’d started. It took them the morning, but they persisted, and it was close to noon when they arrived at the address. When Serafina alighted from the carriage, the sun beat down and her curls stuck to her scalp as if they’d been burned into her flesh. Loffredo asked the driver to wait for them.
They rang the bell and stood by the side of the road in front of a high stone wall with a grill for a gate, the interior half hidden by a large bougainvillea which draped itself over the wall. Their shoes crunched gravel as they waited, too excited to stand still. For once, Serafina’s toes were warm. She shielded her eyes from the blinding rays of the sun. After the cool damp of Paris, she welcomed the warmth on her back, marveling at the vibrancy of the colors, golds and violets, umbers and oxides. The smell of lavender was almost overpowering. Even the shadows suggested heat and light. For a moment she thought they’d been magically transported into one of Cezanne’s paintings.
Two days ago, when they’d gotten Elena’s address, they rushed home. Serafina wrote a note for Carmela, and Rosa left orders for Gesuzza to enjoy herself. They packed small bags and caught a cab for the Gare de Lyon where Rosa bought tickets to Coudoux, wiring ahead for a carriage to Aix, one large enough to accommodate a party of six with luggage.
Serafina felt beads of water creeping into her undergarments. Her corset bit into her flesh. She wished she’d packed some lighter clothes.
Loffredo had removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. He stood unsmiling and rubbing his chin and rattling the gate. Teo rang the bell again. Rosa swayed from side to side. Only Tessa seemed excited, no doubt anticipating a tour of a real artist’s studio in the Midi. Serafina hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed.
Finally a disheveled man with a porcupine beard led them into a lush courtyard filled with flowers and ornamental trees. It fronted a small stone villa with climbing vines. To one side stood a large ochre outbuilding, presumably Elena’s studio.
They asked for the countess.
The man’s eyes moved to the right. “Not here.” He was short and squat, his collar undone, his trousers fading from black to purple, his face wary.
“She lives here?” Serafina asked.
Before he could reply, Rosa reached for his hand through the grill and shoved a wad of bills into it. “We’re from her hometown. We’ve traveled thousands of kilometers, and we’d like to say hello to her.”
The man removed his straw hat, wiped a sleeve across his forehead and mumbled something. The gate creaked open and he led them into a courtyard filled with sun and ornamental trees in great enameled pots. The caked earth hummed with creatures. Somewhere a bird sang. In the middle of the space grew a gnarled olive tree surrounded by tall grasses and large golden flowers.
They watched as the man opened the iron door of the studio, a rectangular structure, and followed him inside.
Serafina saw a ceiling of skylights in the narrow space, breathed in air filled with a mix of wet gesso, sawdust, and linseed oil. The entryway was crowded with easels and palettes, stretchers, rolls of canvas and linen, brushes standing in pots. They walked toward the front. When her eyes adjusted to the interior light, Serafina could see a figure, a woman. She stood at an easel holding a blank canvas, her back to them, an apron wrapped around her thick frame, her hair matted and cut unevenly.
“Hello, Elena,” Loffredo said.
The woman swiveled around and stood there, mute, her eyes round and unblinking. Slowly her cheeks filled with color. She pointed to Loffredo.
Serafina’s heart beat wildly and in spite of herself, she swayed as her vision swam, but Rosa held onto her arm, steadying her.
The moment stretched. The light seemed unreal, the whole scene, a fantasy. Elena lowered her arm. Her face showed nothing, no regret, no surprise, no happiness, no sorrow. She was quite mad, Serafina realized.
Tessa clapped a hand over her mouth. Serafina saw Teo staring at the Elena, watched Arcangelo who was peering up into the bright glassed ceiling, almost unaware of Elena, his face bathed in blue from the heavens. She looked to Rosa who stood serene, and to Loffredo who stood tall.
“Who told you where find me? It must have been that drunken lout. Some lover he turned out to be, I’ll kill him,” Elena snarled and turned to the servant. “And you? Why did you let them in? Get out of here, all of you-go!”
Loffredo straightened. “Your ruse is over.”
“How dare you disturb me? Can’t you see I’m working? Have you no shame?”
“How did you pull it off?” Rosa asked.
“All I want is to be left alone. Leave me. Now.”
“Sophie didn’t help you?” Rosa persisted. “And her sons? Ricci, for instance-he’s indebted to you. You’ve broken your father’s heart. He’s spent a fortune looking for you.”
Elena’s smile was crooked. “He doesn’t come himself to comfort me? How does he expect me to succeed?”
“In Paris, a woman of the streets was murdered, mistakenly identified as Elena Loffredo,” Rosa said.
Elena’s smile faded. She said nothing, continued to stare.
“Until last week, a stranger was buried in your grave,” Loffredo said.
Elena reared her head to the ceiling and bellowed.
Serafina’s heart seemed to stop. She rubbed her forehead. “The police investigate your death at a great cost. At a minimum, you owe their expenses, thousands of francs.”
Elena pointed to Serafina. “You’ve wanted my husband for yourself. Well, now you have him.” She sneered at Loffredo. “You disgust me. All of you disgust me. You won’t get away with this.”
Serafina felt empty, but she said, “With Loffredo, you’ll give your child a good home, respectability.”
“Why couldn’t you have simply gone on vacation if you wanted to paint?” Rosa asked.
Elena’s eyes were huge. “And have thousands of hungry Parisians on my doorstep wanting a week in the Midi? You know nothing of a painter’s life, how hard we must toil without interruption. We need months alone, no visitors. Now get out!”
“What perversity of spirit makes you think you’ll get away with this?” Rosa asked. “The joke has gone on too long. Give it up, Elena. Come back to Paris with us. You can cover the cost. Laugh it off as a lark. Imagine the surprise on your friends’ faces when you appear. They’ll talk of you forever. And when the sparkle of the joke has worn off and you’ve had your child, you can always come back here and paint if that’s what you want to do. You can do anything with your money. The world is yours.”
“Think of the child you carry,” Serafina said.
Elena’s lip curled. “Never. I’ll never return.” Her eyes darted back and forth. It was as if a demon controlled her mind.
They were silent.