Hamish sat in Saverio’s bar playing Scopa with old Leopoldo, his son Manfredo, and his good friend Vitalino. The sun had set; the dusky road outside was quiet but for the odd stray dog crossing the shadows in search of scraps. Saverio leaned over a cup of black coffee, moaning to a couple of sympathetic friends about his wife’s sour humor and refusal to make love to him anymore. He cast a glance at Hamish, whose tormented face was partly hidden by the hand of cards he was pretending to study, and felt a stab of guilt; at least he had a wife to complain about.
Hamish was looking at the cards, but he wasn’t seeing them. He felt disgruntled, as if someone had pulled him out of his body and carelessly stuffed him back in again so that nothing fitted properly. He shuffled on his chair in an effort to settle back into his skin, but to no avail. He still felt troubled and uncomfortable. Vitalino watched him carefully. He was the first friend Hamish had made on arriving in Italy five years before, and he understood him better than anyone. He wanted to catch his eye and give him an empathetic smile, but Hamish was lost in thought.
Hamish had been a very different man before Natalia’s death, Vitalino mused. He had painted with flamboyance, played the piano with flair and passion, and held everyone in his thrall with his talent for making the most mundane task of the day into the most hilarious story. No one could laugh like Hamish. A real belly laugh, throwing his head back and roaring like a bear. He rarely laughed like that these days, and Vitalino hadn’t seen a painting in months. Yet recently Hamish had slowly begun to reemerge. As if he had made a mental decision to begin the long climb back up the cliff from where Natalia had fallen to her death. He had started to paint again, and the task of building Gaitano’s library had filled him with enthusiasm, for, like his father-in-law, books were one of his great loves. Until the last few days, when, for no apparent reason, his climb had suddenly been frustrated. The pallor had returned beneath his tan; the haunted expression once more seeped into the lines around his eyes. He had that furtive, hunted look again, like in the days following Natalia’s death, when malicious whispers condemning him of foul play had lingered in the pauses between declarations of condolence.
Old Lorenzo caught his son’s eye and shrugged. It was unlike him to resist a quip to shake Hamish out of his mooning. Leopoldo looked to Vitalino for guidance. It was no use. None of them knew what to do. If Hamish was reluctant to share his troubles, there was nothing that could persuade him.
“Let’s buy another round,” Vitalino suggested, patting Hamish’s back playfully.
“I’ll have coffee,” Hamish replied, placing his cards on the table. He noticed the look of concern on the faces of his companions. Shifting his eyes from one to the other, he gave them a wry smile and sat back in his chair. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“You’re not yourself,” said Leopoldo, his crusty voice surprisingly gentle. “Are you all right?”
Hamish sighed. “My mind’s not on the game tonight. I’m sorry.”
Manfredo folded his cards. “Let’s abandon the game, then. It’s no good for your morale to lose all the time!” He pulled a smile, which Hamish returned halfheartedly. Vitalino called out to Saverio, who tore himself away from his bitter soliloquy to make them coffee.
“It’s that blond woman, isn’t it?” said Vitalino. Hamish looked startled. “We’ve all seen her. She sticks out like a swan among swine.”
“She’s a beauty,” Leopoldo agreed, shaking his gray head. “You have to move on. It’s been three years. Natalia is with God.”
Hamish’s face grew red with anger. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Leopoldo,” he growled. “Besides, she’s not my type.”
“Then I will have her,” quipped Manfredo.
“You’re most welcome,” Hamish replied, standing up. He threw some lira on the table. “For the coffee. It’s my turn.” He made for the door, gasping for air.
Outside he stood in the moonlight, leaning heavily on his stick, breathing deeply. The door opened behind him, and Vitalino appeared, his face full of concern. “She’s rattled your cage, hasn’t she?” he said.
“Yes,” Hamish groaned. He set off up the road. Vitalino accompanied him.
“You have to learn to love again, my friend. You’re young…”
“Save it!” Hamish snapped. “Leopoldo doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know her.”
“Who is she?”
Hamish stopped and turned to face Vitalino. He gathered himself a moment, as if it cost him to mention that hated name. “Robert Montague’s daughter.”
Vitalino recoiled. “My God, what’s she doing here?”
“I don’t know.” He continued to walk again. “But I wish she’d leave.”
Vitalino thought for a moment. He had noticed her strolling through the town with Nuzzo the day before. He had been struck by her loveliness—as pale and graceful as an angel. The whole town was talking about her. “Look,” he ventured. “She’s not Robert Montague. I don’t think it’s fair to condemn her just because she shares his blood.”
“I can’t bear to look at her.”
“That’s easy,” said Vitalino.
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Aren’t you making a mountain out of a molehill?”
“I thought you of all people would understand.”
“I do. But she’s not her father. She’s an individual. You should treat her as one. Have you spoken to her?”
“Not really.” Hamish shrugged off their first encounter in Natalia’s crypt; he was too ashamed to speak of it.
“So you don’t know her at all?”
“No,” he conceded.
“You’ve prejudged her.”
“Yes.”
“For an intelligent man, you’re a fool!”
Hamish shook his head. How could he expect his friend to understand when he didn’t know the whole truth? Only he and Natalia knew what was too dreadful to share.
The following two days Celestria walked through the small town of Marelatte in the hope of meeting the elusive Salazar, only to find the same woman with the same flustered expression on her increasingly gaunt face. As Celestria waited for the man to return, she whiled away the time by sitting in the garden reading The Forsyte Saga, which distracted her from her sorry situation, as Gaitano knew it would. Another family’s trials helped her temporarily to forget her own. Her head ached with thinking about her father. The book was a relief, like ice to lower a fever. She felt Hamish’s brooding presence in the Convento even though she rarely glimpsed him. She knew he was working on Gaitano’s library but dared not venture near, even though her fury at being ignored made him hard to disregard. His arrogance was unbelievable and aroused in her a nagging curiosity.
She had been at the Convento for five nights, during which time she had barely mentioned her father. He existed only in her thoughts, shoved aside by the Forsyte family and any other means of distraction that enabled her to avoid feeling any pain. On the fifth night, however, the frustration of not finding Salazar, combined with Gaitano’s grandfatherly attention, Hamish’s rudeness, and too much wine, filled her with an overwhelming sadness. She went to bed heavyhearted, wanting nothing more than to cry into her pillow, but the tears would not come. She pulled out the photograph of her father in his panama hat that she had found with Federica’s letter, and held it to her bosom.
Unable to sleep and longing to express her pain, she shrugged on her dressing gown and padded down the corridor to the piano. She sat on the stool in front of the window, through which a silvery beam of light entered to illuminate the keys. The piano had called to her from the first moment she had seen it. Yet she had not dared play in case someone overheard her. She didn’t desire to play the tunes she had laboriously learned since childhood, but her own made-up songs that she heard in her head and yearned to sing.
She knew she wasn’t a good singer. Her voice was not clear but husky and unsteady. Sometimes she didn’t even make the notes. But it was the most satisfactory way of expressing her feelings. When she sang, she felt a loosening in her chest, a pouring of something warm and healing into her heart, and a lightness of being. It was her secret pleasure. She had never needed it more than now.
Leaning the photograph on the music stand, she placed her hands over the keys. Slowly she began to play. She was careful to play quietly. She didn’t want to wake anyone up. As her fingers pressed the chords she felt a melody emerge and began to hum. The hum grew into words and the words into phrases as she sang of her love and her sorrow, climaxing in a chorus that she repeated over and over until the tears seeped through her eyelashes and poured down her cheeks.
Unknown to her, Hamish had been restless, too. He had avoided seeing her by working on Gaitano’s library and dining with Vitalino and his large, demonstrative family. Yet his friend’s advice stuck in his mind. He was unable to shake it off because Vitalino was right. It was unjust to judge a woman by the actions of her father. Hamish had trouble sleeping, tossing in the heat of his room, plagued by night terrors and an unquenchable frustration. He had escaped to the coolness of his studio, up a small flight of stairs not far from the piano. At first he thought he was dreaming when he heard the soft notes wafting down the corridor. He had suspended his brush and raised his eyes to the door, listening intently.
No one played but him. He couldn’t hear the voice, but he knew instantly who was touching the keys. Drawn by curiosity, he tiptoed down the corridor and peered around the corner, making sure he remained in shadow so she wouldn’t see him. What he saw moved him deeply and unexpectedly. Celestria sat in the pale moonlight, her face shining with tears, singing softly to herself. Her hair fell about her shoulders in waves, tumbling over her white dressing gown, loosely tied so that it revealed her smooth chest and the lace top of her negligée. She played a sad tune, stumbling on the keys, hitting the odd wrong note, but seemingly unaware. Her voice was deep and smoky, and it didn’t matter that she sang a little out of tune. She looked beautiful but, most notably, vulnerable. He forgot his prejudice and wanted simply to hold her against him. He remained for a long time staring in awe at the sight of the woman he had believed to be hard and arrogant. The overriding feeling, however, was one of shame. Vitalino was right; he was a fool.
He watched her for an hour, oblivious of the time. Finally, she heaved herself up, drained from weeping. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her dressing gown, gently closed the lid of the piano, and returned to her room. Hamish retreated into the shadows so that she didn’t see him as she passed. He inhaled the faint smell of bluebells and watched her open her door and disappear inside. Overcome with longing, he crept over to where she had been sitting, as if the warmth of the seat would bring him closer to her. Suddenly he saw the photograph on the music stand. He recognized the man at once. Taken there at the Convento, he was unmistakable in his pale suit and panama hat. He picked it up and asked himself: Why is she crying for her father?
Celestria was in bed when the photograph was slipped under her door. She heard the rustle as it was pushed through the crack. She sat up and stared at it, too frightened to move, for she sensed who was behind it. What flustered her the most, however, was that not only must he have heard her singing, but he must also have seen her cry.