Last Voyage of the Valentina(40)

“Who said he’d never win a woman with his singing?” said Thomas with a chuckle. “I’d wager he could have any one of those girls he wanted.”

“If he hasn’t already,” added Jack. “Here I come to break up the party with my lucky charm.” Brendan was now permanently perched on his shoulder.

“This could be interesting,” mused Thomas. “The voice versus the rat!”

“How many times do I have to tell you, he’s not a rat!” snapped Jack.

“A rat with a tail.”

“Ah, but what he can do with that tail is nobody’s business,” he said with a leer.

Thomas screwed up his nose. “I don’t wish to know what you put that poor animal through.”

“Let’s just say he’s definitely a breast man!”

“Christ, there’s no end to your perversions!”

Immacolata didn’t appear for lunch. According to the waiter she was preparing herself for the festa di Santa Benedetta, a highly religious ceremony that required all her energies. However, she had suggested they eat ricci di mare. Thomas and Jack had never eaten sea urchins, and the thought of swallowing those shiny innards made their own innards churn. When the dish was put before them, one of the girls showed them how it was done. With expert hands she cut one in half, squeezed lemon onto the still quivering insides, then scooped them out with a spoon, straight into her wide, open mouth. “Che buono!” she enthused, licking the lipstick off her lips.

“I’ll tell her what else she can put in that mouth of hers,” quipped Jack with a smirk. The sailors guffawed uproariously and the bewildered girl, not understanding what he had said, laughed too.

Soon they were the town entertainment once again. It made Thomas uncomfortable to eat in front of a herd of salivating onlookers. After a while il sindacco appeared, starched and smelling of cologne, to herd them away as a farmer would his cows. Flicking his fingers importantly he summoned a waiter. “Ricci di mare,” he said, swallowing the saliva that had gathered in his mouth at the sight of the Englishmen’s plates.

As the sindacco carefully spooned his first mouthful, Lattarullo appeared with a stiff envelope of crisp white paper. Thomas took it and frowned. His name was written in ink in the most exquisite handwriting. He spent a few minutes staring at it, trying to guess whom it was from. Lattarullo knew, but he didn’t say. He didn’t want to spoil the Englishman’s surprise. He stood in the heat, dabbing his grubby brow with a rag, longing for a nap. “For God’s sake, sir, open it!” said Jack impatiently, as curious as he. Thomas tore the envelope and pulled out an elegant card with the name Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone engraved on the top in navy blue. Beneath, in that exquisite hand, was an invitation to tea at his home, Palazzo Montelimone.

“So this is the famous marchese?” he said, raising his eyebrows at Lattarullo.

“Yes, the aristocrat who lives up there on the hill. The one whose chauffeur tried to kill us yesterday.”

“What does he want from me?”

Lattarullo shrugged and pulled his fish face. “Bo!” he replied unhelpfully. Thomas turned to Jack. Jack imitated the carabiniere.

“Bo! Let’s go and find out. Perhaps he wants to apologize for his chauffeur.”

“Then we should accept,” Thomas replied, slipping the card back into the envelope. “It’s only polite. However, I imagine it’s just an excuse to introduce himself. I know the type. Love to tell you a bit about themselves and how important they are.”

“They say he has a wine cellar the size of a house. That the Germans didn’t find it. It’s worth the visit just for that,” said Lattarullo, passing a dry tongue over scaly lips. “I had better accompany you. Besides, you don’t know the way.”



That afternoon the three of them set off along the dusty track. After a short drive, Lattarullo turned up a steep hill where the track curved around a sharp bend. The trees encroached further and further into the road until it was almost impossible to get the car through. It struggled on, choking and retching like a sick old man, until finally a pair of imposing black gates indicated the entrance to Palazzo Montelimone. They were rusting and peeling and overgrown with years of neglect. It was as if the forest were slowly invading the grounds, winding its green tentacles around those gates until one day they and the house would disappear completely, swallowed up by the superior force of nature.

They drove in, silenced by the scene. The building itself was beautiful yet corroded by lack of care and the ruthless abuse of time. Wisteria was tumbling over itself in glorious abundance as if the palazzo were trying to mask the rot with luxurious garments. The gardens were wild. Flowers had valiantly seeded themselves everywhere, but nothing could prevent the gradual choking by evil-intentioned weeds.