The American Lady(67)

“Alois Sawatzky, the bookseller I told you about, would love to hear about a dream like that. He would interpret it and then speculate about its deeper meaning.”

“I don’t need any specialists to tell me what it’s about,” Franco said irritably. “It’s because of this miserable wood cabin we’re lodged in. So much for fresh air and nature’s light! My father’s hunting hounds have better accommodations. This is the last night we spend in this shack. We’re moving to the Casa Semiramis tomorrow.”

He looked around the room, still fuming. He had wanted to stay in the hotel from the very beginning, since it promised at least a little comfort. But during their first tour of the grounds he had let Marie talk him into staying in one of the wooden cabins that were scattered through the forest.

“How romantic!” she had exclaimed. How charming to wash on the front deck in the morning with just a bucket of water! Sherlain had been equally taken with the idea. Pandora, however, had been quite horrified at the idea of getting so close to Mother Nature.

“If it’s so darn comfortable living in a chicken coop like that, why have Henri Oedenkoven and Ida Hoffmann built themselves a villa with electricity and running water?” she had asked. It was one of the curious features of the place that the owners of the commune lived in far greater luxury than the other members. In the end the two women had taken a room in the little hotel that stood at the edge of the estate, with its spectacular view of the lake. Pandora had read out loud from the hotel brochure. “Peace and quiet and freedom for those who are tired, who can gather new strength here.” She decided that it was just the place for them.

Franco drew on his cigarette, furious. Why had he agreed to live in the forest like a savage?

Marie had had trouble sleeping even on their first night there—there were too many strange noises, rustlings in the undergrowth, small twigs cracking as though underfoot. She admitted to him the next morning that she had strained her ears at every sound, while he himself had slept like a log, since he’d taken a quick tour of the taverns down in Ascona that evening. She also told him that she always felt as though she were being watched. No wonder, given that there were no curtains in the cabin, or even shutters for the windows. “Now who on earth is going to watch us sleep in the middle of the night?” he had reassured her, then suggested that they move to the hotel. But she wouldn’t hear of it. Then she should come down to Ascona with him in the evenings, he said; some wine would certainly help her sleep. But she hadn’t agreed to that either. He asked whether she had converted to Monte Verità’s creed of abstinence. At that Marie just laughed, unbuttoned her blouse and invited him to find out just how abstinent she had become. After that there had been no more talk of moving to the hotel.

He felt his desire reawaken now. He reached out and stroked her breast gently. Maybe he could get her to take her mind off things for a while.

But Marie wriggled out of his arms a moment later.

“That’s enough feeling sorry for myself. I won’t let one silly dream spoil my whole day. What I need right now is a cold shower,” she declared with conviction in her voice. She pulled her nightgown over her head and walked outside, stark-naked, blowing him a teasing kiss first.

Franco watched her go. What was it about this woman that she could twist him around her little finger? Ever since he had met Marie he had been a different man—sometimes he barely recognized himself. He did things for her sake that he would never have dreamt of doing before. Such as this detour to Ascona. It had taken quite a lot of persuasion to talk his father into giving him these three weeks of leisure, and he had to promise to make up for lost work once he got back home. When the old count had grumbled that other men never let their love affairs get in the way of business, Franco had answered heatedly that this was more than just a love affair, that Marie was the woman he’d been waiting for all his life. His father had replied that he could hardly believe that some chance acquaintance he’d met on his travels in America was so much better than the many blue-blooded marchionesses and countesses his mother had presented to him over the years—any one of whom would have made a good match. Whereupon Franco had announced that he loved Marie. The old man spluttered with laughter and said that he loved his dogs.

After the heated exchange over the telephone in the Ascona post office, Franco decided it was probably best not to mention for now that he would be bringing Marie back with him. Clearly his parents needed time to get used to the idea that they would soon have to share their only son with a woman. But the time was drawing near when they would have to set out for Genoa.