‘But very jealous,’ said Pietro. ‘Very rude. Do not let her intimidate you, Vicky, I beg.’
‘I won’t. But if you find her so obnoxious, why don’t you get rid of her?’
‘It is not so easy, that,’ said Pietro sadly. ‘Wait till you meet her.’
Believe it or not, I had almost forgotten my motive for looking up Count Caravaggio. He was such a silly little man. It was almost impossible to picture him as a master criminal. We were crossing the huge hall, with its original Greek statues set in shell-shaped niches, when I was brought back to reality with a rude thump. A door opened, and a familiar form emerged.
‘You,’ I gasped, like a good Gothic heroine.
The Englishman raised one eyebrow. Not both, just one. I hate people who can do that.
‘I fear you have the advantage of me,’ he said, in an offensive public-school drawl. ‘Your Excellency?’
‘Yes, yes, I introduce you,’ said Pietro, without enthusiasm. ‘It is my secretary, Miss Bliss. Sir John Smythe.’
‘Sir?’ I said. ‘Smith?’
‘With a y, and e on the end,’ said John Smythe suavely. ‘An obscure title, but an old one, and not without honour.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ I replied uncouthly. ‘What about those stories about your ancestor and Pocahontas?’
‘A cadet branch of the family,’ said the Englishman, without cracking a smile.
Pietro, who had not understood any of this, interrupted in a petulant voice.
‘We are late for lunch. It is well we meet you, John; you must make arrangements for tomorrow. Miss Bliss – she is Doctor Bliss, in fact, a learned lady – she will accompany us to Tivoli. You will have one of the cars pick her up at her hotel. The car I will travel in, you understand?’
‘I do understand, your Excellency,’ said Mr Smythe. ‘Believe me, I understand.’
‘Come, then, we are late for lunch,’ said Pietro. Towing me with him, he trotted across the hall, with Mr Smythe trailing behind.
I didn’t believe in that title of Smythe’s for a minute. Actually, I didn’t believe in his name either. At least it gave him an identity, a name at which I could direct all the epithets I had been thinking up.
My first lunch at the Palazzo Caravaggio was an experience I won’t soon forget. I don’t know which was more memorable, the food, the furnishings, or the people. Pietro did not stint himself. He was a gourmet as well as a gourmand; the food was marvellous, from the pasta in a delicate cream sauce to the towering meringue laced with rum, and he ate most of it. The quality of the food told me something interesting about the man, something that was confirmed by the contents of the long, formal dining room. He had superb taste. Every piece of furniture was an antique, lovingly tended. The plates were eighteenth-century Chinese, the tablecloth was one of those heavy damask things that take three days to iron. I could go on, but that gives you a rough idea. Pietro was a much more interesting character than he appeared to be at first. He might be a fat, self-indulgent little lecher, but he was also a fat, self-indulgent, cultivated little lecher.
I can’t say his taste in women was complimentary to me, however. In this area he seemed to prefer quantity to quality.
Helena was already at the table when we entered the dining room. I could have identified her without Pietro’s preliminary statement. I mean, I never saw a woman who looked more like a mistress. If she continued to stow away spaghetti at that rate, in another year she would no longer be voluptuous, she would be fat. But she was still young – not more than twenty – and her ripe, quivering masses of flesh had the gloss of fine ivory. A good deal of it (the flesh) was displayed by her strapless, practically topless, green satin dress. Masses of blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, in the careless style made popular by an American television actress. She had a pursed little mouth and big brown eyes as expressionless as rocks. She took one look at me, and the rocks started to melt, like lava.
Another woman was seated at the foot of the table. Pietro led me towards her and introduced his mother, the dowager countess. Unlike her son, she was painfully thin. Her face was a map of fine wrinkles, surmounted by beautifully coiffured white hair. She bowed her head graciously when Pietro presented me as a learned lady who had come to study his collections. She looked very fragile and sweet in her black dress trimmed with cobwebby lace, but I suspected it would not do to underestimate her. The dark eyes that peered out of her sunken sockets were as bright and cynical as a mockingbird’s.
Pietro led me back to the head of the table and indicated the chair on his right. Helena was already seated at his left. She barely acknowledged Pietro’s gabbled introduction, and after a pained, expressive look at me he seated himself, while one of the dozen footmen who were standing around pulled out my chair.
The Englishman seated himself. There was still one vacant place. Pietro glared at it.
‘Late again. Where is the wretched boy? We will not wait. The food will be cold.’
The first course was a cold soup that resembled Vichyssoise, made with cream and leeks and other ingredients I couldn’t identify. Pietro had finished his bowl before the door was opened by a servant and the missing person appeared.
He was absolutely beautiful. I have to use that word, though there was nothing feminine about his features. The tanned chest was displayed by his open shirt was as neatly modelled as that of Verrocchio’s young David. He was beautiful as young creatures are before their features harden. Thick dark hair tumbled over his high forehead. His costume was casuaclass="underline" slacks, a rumpled shirt open to the navel, espadrilles on his feet.
Pietro let out a roar.
‘So there you are! What do you mean by being late? Pay your respects to your grandmother. And do you not see that we have a guest? Per Dio, you are a sight! Could you not at least wash your hands before appearing?’
I was amused – which shows you I am not as smart as I think I am. But Pietro sounded like so many of the exasperated parents of teenagers whom I had known in America and in Germany. The boy was obviously his son. Only a father could be so annoyed.
The boy, who had been wandering slowly towards his chair, stopped and looked blankly at his father. Then he turned towards the dowager and bowed.
‘Grandmother, excuse me. I have been working. I lost track of the time.’
‘That is all right, my darling,’ said the old lady fondly.
‘It is not all right,’ snarled Pietro. ‘Vicky, this ill-bred young boor is, for my sins, my only son. Luigi, greet the distinguished lady doctor Miss Bliss, a scholar of art history. No, do not offer your hand, idiota, it is too dirty. Go and wash!’
Luigi had obediently advanced towards me, his hand extended. It resembled a sculpture by someone like Dali – perfectly shaped, with long, spatulate fingers; but it was blue and pink and green and red.
‘Of course,’ I said, smiling. ‘You are a painter.’
‘He is a bad painter,’ said Pietro. ‘He dabbles in oils. He makes messes.’
The boy gave his father a look of naked loathing. I really couldn’t blame him.
‘I’d like to see your work someday,’ I said tactfully.
‘You will hate it,’ Pietro said. ‘Go, Luigi, and wash yourself.’
‘Never mind, never mind,’ snapped his grandmother. ‘You make too much of a small thing, my son. Sit down, Luigi. Eat. You are too thin. Eat, dear boy.’
Pietro shut up. With a triumphant look at his father, Luigi took his seat.
‘She spoils him,’ Pietro muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘How can I maintain discipline when she contradicts everything I say?’
I had no intention of getting involved in a family argument. So I just smiled and ate my soup.