Sex and Vanity(20)
“Va bene, Niccolò. Possiamo dare un’occhiata?” George replied.
“Certo!”
Lucie looked at George in surprise. “Wait a minute, you speak Italian? You know him?”
“I do. He’s the caretaker. I was here yesterday looking around.”
“Why?”
“Why not? I’m thinking of doing a project inspired by the house.”
“Project?”
“I study sustainable environmental design at UC Berkeley.”
“Oh,” Lucie said. She was beginning to see him in a whole new light.
They climbed up the steps to the flat white roof, which was like a viewing deck for the most glorious panoramic views of the Gulf of Sorrento. Lucie walked as close to the edge of the roof as she dared to and looked out, taking a deep breath. The sun was beginning to set, making the calm sea shimmer in the most seductive shades of gold. She was feeling so much lighter all of a sudden, and she felt almost guilty about it.
George was sitting on the top step of the roof, gazing up at the island and the seagulls that circled endlessly around the jagged peaks. Lucie sat down next to him, finally feeling like she had to say something.
“I’m so ashamed,” she began. “I don’t know why I ran away.”
“You don’t need to explain.”
Lucie sighed deeply. “I took a CPR class back in high school. I even got an A, believe it or not. But today … I dunno … I could’ve done something. I should’ve done something! I was having the loveliest time just sitting in that café, and then suddenly out of nowhere this terrible thing happened. I just … froze. And then I couldn’t face it, and my body just took over.”
“It was a traumatic sight. I wanted to run too. I wanted so much not to be there, but no one was doing anything.”
“I don’t know how I’m ever going to walk through the piazzetta again.”
“You left your shopping bag at the café.”
“I know. I was going to head back there eventually and get it. I also skipped out on my bill.”
“I tried to pay for you, but the waiters wouldn’t let me. They waived it.”
“They did?”
“I did get your bag for you. But …” George paused, giving her a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, I threw the bag away.”
“What? Why did you do that?”
George turned away from her. “I didn’t want you to have to see it. It was all splattered with blood, even inside. There was blood on the sandals.”
Lucie said nothing for a moment. She thought of how trivial those sandals had suddenly become to her. In the course of one afternoon, everything had changed. In the blink of an eye, someone had died. Someone’s father, someone’s husband, someone’s friend. People would be shocked and grieving. She didn’t even know the old man, and she was grieving for him. If only she had done something, if only she had started giving him CPR sooner, he might have survived. How was she going to sit through the dinner tonight at the Michelin-starred restaurant that everyone else was so excited about? How would she be able to enjoy Isabel’s wedding? How could she begin to enjoy anything ever again?
George peered into her eyes with that same intensity that used to freak her out, but she somehow found it soothing now. It was as if he could read every single thing going through her mind.
“Can I tell you a story, if I promise it has a happy ending?” he asked.
“Sure, I guess.” She stood up, and they began walking along the roof toward the water.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl who sat in a café on the square in Capri, enjoying an afternoon drink …”
Lucie froze in alarm. She was about to cut George off, when he said, “I know you didn’t want me to say anything, but I think you need to know the old man in the piazzetta is okay. We managed to revive him.”
Lucie stared at George wide-eyed, as he went on with his story.
“While I was doing CPR on him, the doctor arrived. He was this young guy in board shorts carrying a black leather case, and he had a defibrillator inside. He gave the man a shock with the machine, and he started to breathe again.”
Lucie didn’t know what was happening to her. She began hyperventilating uncontrollably, and then her entire body started to heave with sobs. She leaned on George, weeping into his shoulder in relief.
George put his arm around her and continued to speak in a soft, steady voice: “The old man was British, and his wife arrived at the piazzetta right as we revived him. She had been down the street shopping at Ferragamo. By the time I left, he was sitting up in a chair, getting treated by the doctor while his wife scolded him for running off …”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marina Grande
Capri, Italy
Charlotte was the first to arrive at the designated meeting place by the cathedral steps, where she found a man with a flamboyant, Daliesque mustache pacing impatiently. Baron Mordecai von Ephrussí (Wetherby Dragon Harrow / Magdalen College, Oxford), as he introduced himself, was an acclaimed author, art historian, antiquities consultant, and, currently, fellow at the American Academy in Rome, where he was—as he told anyone who mattered—working on “the definitive biography of Luchino Visconti.” The Baron claimed to descend from a long line of Franco-Prussian Jewish aristocrats, even though he was born and raised in England. He had a grand title, but was living off an even grander overdraft, and depended on the good graces of his friends, usually grand ladies of a certain age and status who enjoyed his wit, title, gossip, and expertise on pre-Napoleonic Limoges, not necessarily in that order.