As we went out through the gates I looked back. There was nothing to be seen of Pompeii except the burnt grass of what looked like a rabbit warren. It was all below the level of the ground. Behind and above it the ash slopes of film of white dust. Dust rose behind us in a white cloud. The country on either side was flat, with vines and oranges. Away to the right the ugly tower of Pompeii’s modern church thrust its needle-like top over the trees. It reminded me of the campanili of the Lombardy Plain.
It was past five when we reached the villa by a dusty track that ran dead straight through flat, almost white earth planted with bush vines. The villa itself was perched on a sudden rise where some long-forgotten lava flow had abruptly ceased. It was the usual white stucco building with flat roof and balconies and some red tiling to relieve the monotony of the design. It was built with its shoulder to the mountain so that it faced straight out across the hard-baked flatness of the vineyards to the distant gleam of the sea and a glimpse of Capri. As the car stopped the heat closed in on us. There was no sun, but the air was heavy and stifling as though the sirocco were blowing in from the Sahara. I began to wish I hadn’t come.
Zina laughed at me and took my hand. ‘Wait till you have tasted the vino. You will not look so glum then.’ She glanced up at the mountain, which from where we were standing seemed crouched right over the villa. ‘To-night I think it will look as though you can light your cigarette from the glow of her.’
We went in then. It was very cool inside. Venetian blinds screened the windows from the sunless glare. It was like going into a cave. All the servants seemed there to greet us — an old man and an old woman with gnarled, wrinkled faces, a young man who smiled vacantly and a little girl who peeped at us shyly from around a door and pulled at her skirt which was much too short for her. I was shown to a room on the first floor. The old man brought up my bags. He pulled up the Venetian blinds and I found myself looking up to the summit of Vesuvius. A little circle of black vapour appeared for an instant, writhed upwards and then slowly dissolved, and as it dissolved another black puff appeared to replace it. ‘Le place il Lachrima Christi, signore?’ the old man asked. He had a soft, whining voice.
I nodded.
He gave me a toothless smile and hurried out. He had surprising agility and he moved quickly as though expecting to be kicked out. In a few minutes he returned with a carafe of vino and a glass. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him in Italian.
‘Agostino, signore.’ He gave me a smile that was as fawning as a spaniel.
Zina had been right about the wine. It was the sort of wine you never find in the trattorias. It was the wine reserved for the grower, the pick of the vintage.
A brief exploration along the passage revealed a bathroom, beautifully tiled and complete with foot-bath and bidet. I had a bath, shaved and changed. Then I went downstairs. Agostino was laying the table in one of the rooms. I asked him where the Contessa was. ‘She is having her bath, signore,’ he answered.
I nodded and went outside. Some little distance away from the villa was a huddle of farm buildings. There was a large ugly house with a reddish plaster front that seemed to house several families as well as a good deal of livestock. A girl was drawing water from a well. She wore a black cotton frock that showed the backs of her knees and by the way her body moved under the dress I knew it was all the clothing she wore. She turned and looked at me, a flash of white teeth in a dirty brown face. Near a stone building which presumably contained the wine presses an old woman was milking a buffalo. The buffalo stood quite still working its jaws very slowly.
I turned and went back to the villa wondering why in the world Zina had suggested coming out to this little peasant backwater. But I was glad it was so secluded. And then I started to wonder why Maxwell had tried to follow us. What the devil was it he thought I knew?
As I approached the villa I heard the sound of a piano and a voice singing the jewel song from Gounod’s Faust. I went up the steps and into the room on the left. The shutters were pulled and the lights were on, and Zina was seated at the piano in a plain white evening gown with a blood red ruby at her throat and a white flower in her hair. She smiled at me and went on singing.
When she had finished she swung round on the stool. ‘Phew! It is so hot. Get me a drink. It is over there.’ She nodded to the corner.
‘What will you have?’ I asked.
‘Is there some ice?’ I nodded. ‘Then I will have a White Lady.’ She gave a little grimace to stop me making the obvious crack.
I mixed the drink and as I handed it to her I said, ‘Why exactly did you suggest coming out here?’
She looked up at me. Then her lips curved in a slow smile and she caressed the keys of the piano with one hand. ‘Don’t you know?’ Her eyebrows arched. ‘Here I can do as I please and there is nobody to tell my husband that he is a cuckold.’ She suddenly threw back her head and gave a brazen laugh. ‘You fool, Dick! You know nothing about Italy, do you? You are here for two years during the war and you know nothing — nothing.’ She banged the keys of the piano with sudden violence. Then she finished her drink and began to play again.
I stood there, listening to her, feeling awkward and somehow shy. She was so different from any woman I’d ever met before. I wanted her. And yet something stood in the way — native reserve, my damned leg; I don’t know. The music swelled to a passionate note of urgency and she began to sing. Then Agostinb came in to announce dinner and the spell was broken.
I don’t remember what we had to eat, but I do remember the wine — lovely, soft, golden wine, smooth as silk with a rich, heady bouquet. And after the meal there were nuts and fruit and aleatico, that heavy wine from the Island of Elba. Zina kept my glass constantly filled. It was almost as though she wanted to get me drunk. The smooth mounds of her breasts seemed to rise up out of the shoulderless dress, the ruby blazed red at her throat and her eyes were large and very green. I began to feel muzzy. The pushing of my blood became merged with the gentle putter of the electric light plant outside in the stillness of the night.
Coffee and liqueurs were served in the other room. Zina played to me for a bit, but she seemed restless, switching from one tune to another and from mood to mood. Her eyes kept glancing towards me. They were bright, almost greedy. Suddenly she slammed her hands on to the keys with a murderous cacophony of sound and got to her feet. She poured herself another drink and then came and sat beside me on the couch and let me touch her. Her lips when I kissed them were warm and open, but there was a tenseness about her body as it lay against me. Once she murmured, ‘I wish you were not such a nice person, Dick.’ She said it very softly and when I asked her what she meant, she smiled and stroked my hair. But a moment later the madonna look was gone. She was listening and there was a hungry look in her eyes that I didn’t understand.
It was then that I heard the aircraft. It was flying very low, its engines just ticking over. I jerked upright, listening, waiting for the crash. It seemed to pass right over the villa, so low that I thought I could hear the sound of the slipstream. The engines were throttled right back and after a moment’s silence they roared into life and then stuttered to a stop. ‘I believe it’s landed,’ I said. I had half-risen to my feet, but she pulled me back. ‘They often pass over here like that,’ she said. ‘It is the plane from Messina.’