The Italian Matchmaker(99)

Panfilo spent the day taking photographs, assisted by an enthusiastic youth called Mario. Rosa wandered from room to room, imagining what they were like in their glory days and being no help at all. Romina shadowed the stylist and florist who arranged the rooms to their best advantage, enhancing the shots with large vases of white lilies and dusty pink roses. For the family picture, the make-up artist spent an hour painting her face and styling her hair while she insisted on brushing Porci for his part in the portrait. Bill was reluctant to be photographed, but his wife insisted. After all, she explained, it was only right that the public should see how handsome he was too!

Panfilo settled them on the terrace with the ocean behind them. Romina cradled Porci like a baby and scratched his fat tummy, while he grunted with pleasure and paddled with one hind leg. At least Romina had removed his nappy. Panfilo looked over the Polaroids with satisfaction.

At the end of the day they moved down to the folly. The light was softer now as the sun turned the heavens pink. Romina insisted on leaving the folly as it was. No flowers, no bowls of fruit, no enhancement of any kind. The magic was already there. She was right; it was perfect just the way it was.

Panfilo was on the point of taking the shots with film when, all of a sudden, the lights flickered and went out.

‘Madonna!’ Romina exclaimed. ‘There really is a ghost in this place!’

‘It’s the Marchese!’ Rosa announced excitedly. Porci gave an anxious grunt and trotted off into the bushes. Mario ran about checking extension leads and the plugs that connected to the generator. There was no electricity in the folly itself.

‘Is it possible to take shots without lights?’ Romina asked.

Panfilo shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s enough natural light.’ He turned to his assistant. ‘What’s wrong? Is it the generator?’

‘No, everything works perfectly. Try again.’

Panfilo switched the lights on. They worked. Without wasting time he set about focusing the cameras. Just as he was about to take the first shot the lights flickered for a few seconds before going out again. One bulb exploded, spraying the floor with broken glass.

‘This is spooky!’ squealed Rosa.

‘What is it?’ Romina asked anxiously.

‘Someone doesn’t want us to photograph the folly,’ said Panfilo darkly.

‘Or he doesn’t want us to take it with artificial light,’ Rosa suggested. ‘Try without. Go on!’

‘Very well,’ Panfilo sighed, certain it was too dark. ‘I’ll take a Polaroid.’

They waited a moment while the Polaroid developed. Romina recalled the cigarette stubs on the ground outside the window and wondered whether these strange goings-on had something to do with the person responsible for those. Finally, Panfilo pulled back the black film to reveal the picture. ‘Right, it’s perfect,’ he said, astonished. ‘Let’s not waste another minute.’ And he set about taking the photographs as quickly as he could, before the light changed.

‘Must be the Marchese, don’t you think?’ said Rosa. ‘Wouldn’t he want his folly to be pictured at its best? He knew it would look better in natural light.’

‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Romina muttered.

‘I’m not so sure any more,’ Rosa said. ‘I think there’s a lot out there that we can’t see.’

‘You sound like my mother,’ Romina said scathingly. ‘She was delusional to the point of insanity!’

Rosa was left staring at the photograph. The light that illuminated the folly was not only natural, but supernatural.

When Panfilo returned home, he was careful not to mention his day up at the palazzo. Rosa, too, had agreed to keep quiet. She didn’t want to antagonise her mother and she was still smarting from the consequences of having invited that journalist up for a drink after Mass. Alba didn’t ask. They sat at the dinner table, skirting around the subject like skaters around a hole in the ice. Cosima had enjoyed a shopping trip to Naples with Luca and was wearing one of the new dresses he had bought her. Rosa eyed it enviously, but then she remembered her new friend and the anticipation of seeing him that night erased her envy like sun burning off mist.

Panfilo left the Polaroids where Alba was sure to find them. Just as he had predicted, she was unable to contain her curiosity. When the household went to bed, she crept downstairs to look at them.





28



‘So, Luca,’ said Caradoc, swilling the ice around in his glass of whisky. ‘How’s the widow?’

They sat outside on the terrace. It was late. Dusty moths and little midges hovered around the hurricane lamps and crickets chirruped in the undergrowth. Ventura had cleared away dinner. Romina and Bill had retired to bed, exhausted by a day spent photographing the palazzo. Ma had retreated inside to listen to Nanni playing the piano. To her surprise he played like a concert pianist, his long fingers dancing effortlessly over the keys. Dennis and Stephanie had reluctantly motored off in his shiny Maserati just after tea, promising to return the following summer. Romina had watched them drive away with regret. Stephanie would have been good for Luca, despite her youth. Still, there was always Freya.