Taking Adam aside, Harry announced breathlessly that he'd just met the most amazing woman. The fact that she was married appeared to have no bearing on the matter, and Harry hurried off to make some alterations to the place settings.
Adam sought out Signora Docci, who was in discussion with a middle-aged couple. She used his arrival as an excuse to peel away, slipping her arm through his and leading him off.
"Where are we going?"
"Anywhere but there."
Picking their way down the steps to the parterre, she explained that the man was a friend of Maurizio, a fellow partisan from the war. And like many partisans she had known, he'd been less set on fighting the Germans than on looting the factories the enemy destroyed while in retreat. Being first on the scene, the members of the Italian underground were often best placed to control the black market in any goods that survived. First it was shoes from Poggibonsi, then hats from Impruneta.
"He," she said, with a slight jerk of the head behind her, "came to our door with both. His prices were ridiculous." She gave a little laugh. "Our heroes of the struggle. Look at them now—no different."
Adam had to ask. "And Maurizio?"
"Let's just say, he never sold to us."
She smiled and nodded at the leader of the chamber quartet as they negotiated their way across the parterre. They stopped at the balustrade, looking down over the lower terrace, the hills beyond already falling into silhouette.
"It's changing so fast."
"What?"
She couldn't mean the view. Medieval peasants wouldn't have looked out of place in it.
"The world. Or maybe every age thinks just the same thing."
"Maybe."
"Big changes are coming. I can see it everywhere ... music, theater, films, art. Look at Harry's sculpture. Have you ever seen anything like it? Don't listen to the politicians, always look at the artists, they're the first to tell us where we're going."
"Have you been talking to him?"
"Harry?"
"It's not the first time I've heard that line of argument."
She laughed. "Well, that one was mine."
They were approached by a passing couple. A few pleasantries were exchanged, Adam was introduced by Signora Docci, but the couple soon took the veiled hint from their hostess and moved on.
Signora Docci ground the tip of the cane into the gravel at their feet, observing her handiwork for a moment before looking up.
"You have a gift, Adam, don't waste it."
"You have been talking to him."
"He's right. You sense things other people don't."
"Or maybe I'm so ordinary that anything that isn't disturbs me."
She laughed. "I'm sorry you're leaving. I'm also sorry we only met at the end of my life. I think we could have been very good friends."
Embarrassment left him mute. No one had ever spoken to him in such terms before.
"Remember those words," she said.
"I will."
She turned stiffly and surveyed the villa with an approving eye—the stir and hum on the terrace, the lowering sun skimming the roof.
"Now take this old lady back to her guests. It's time to announce dinner."
Harry had engineered matters so that Signora Pedretti—the new love of his life—was seated between them.
"Make me look good," said Harry, seeing her approach their table.
"How?" asked Adam.
"Just be yourself."
Signora Pedretti was young, petite, impishly beautiful. Her delicate wrists glistened with gold, and her mouth was a startling splash of color. She didn't appear nearly as surprised as Harry by the fact that providence had thrown them together again. Nor was she unhappy about it.
She proved considerably better company than the woman to Adam's left, who only came to life when he finally remarked on the jewels blazing at her neck. She was French, Parisian, married to the American gentleman holding forth on the far side of the table about the benefits of the fertilizers and hybrid grains he sold to the Italians. God knows how much money he had made importing "superior American product," as he termed it—quite a bundle, if his wife's necklace was anything to go by—but he talked like a man on a humanitarian mission. Italy was poor, ravaged by war and desperately in need of being dragged into the twentieth century. He, of course, was proud to be playing his part in this mercy mission.
His words clearly rankled the Italians around the table, but out of politeness, or maybe stupefaction, they held themselves in check. It took an Englishwoman to light the touch paper. Adam had been introduced to her earlier in the evening—a tall, pale creature, gaunt and ascetic, with a bony high-ridged nose and heavy-lidded eyes that lent her a misleading air of boredom. It was a distinctive and familiar look, a particular brand of ugliness reserved for the English upper classes.
Those same lugubrious eyes now twinkled with mischief as she leaned forward, searching out the Italian faces around the table.
"I happen to know a lot of Americans," she said with her cut- glass accent, "and please don't think for a moment that they are all like Seymour."
"Vera . . ." There was a note of friendly forbearance in Seymour's voice that suggested they were well acquainted.
"Can't you see they're only tolerating you? They find your views offensive. As do I."
"I'm not trying to be offensive."
"I know," replied Vera with a wicked smile, "it comes naturally."
Seymour gave a hearty laugh. "Touche."
"If the United States is so worried about communism and Russia's interest in Italy, which is a questionable notion now that that funny little man Khrushchev is premier, then you really should spend less time treating this country like a marketplace for your goods and more time making friends."
The ensuing debate ran right through the starter of blue mullet and on into the spit-roasted pork stuffed with garlic and rosemary (which tasted as good as it had been smelling all afternoon). It was a lively and generally good-natured discussion about Fascists, Monarchists and democracy, poverty, overpopulation and America's desire to create the world in its own image. Even Harry and Signora Pedretti broke off from their quiet flirtation to chip in a comment from time to time.
Seymour fought his corner valiantly and with dignity, never losing his studied jauntiness, whereas his wife grew tetchy and spiteful. Her unquestioning belief in the redemptive power of economic prosperity bore all the hallmarks of religious zealotry. Her god was the one true god, and all unbelievers were doomed to damnation, or worse stilclass="underline" communism.
The discussion petered out over pudding, by which time the first stars were overhead, the torches had been lit around the parterre, and Adam was wondering just how much longer he could go without seeing Antonella. The moment the band struck up on the lower terrace, he downed the rest of his coffee and went in search of her.
People were rising now, making for the music. Through the building throng he saw her talking to Maria, who had abandoned the refuge of the villa. Maria was smiling—which in itself was a rarity—but it was her hands that seemed different. They made quick and expressive gestures as she talked. Her dark eyes lost some of their luster when she saw Adam approaching, and she only stayed long enough to acknowledge his greeting.
"Poor Maria," said Antonella.
"Is there a problem?"
"Only that she is a bit drunk." She hooked her arm through his. "Come, I want you to meet someone."
The elderly man in question was on the point of nodding off, his bald crown tracing a lazy circle in the air. The table where he was seated was deserted, except for a young couple on the far side, engrossed, pressed close in conversation, a picture of barely suppressed desire. When Antonella and Adam took a seat on either side of the man, he started like a soldier called to attention.