Jasmine scented the air, and something just a bit stale, ashy. Old. Despite the high ceilings, there was a feeling as if everything in here were shut up for the season. There were no sounds, and the curtains drawn across the far wall reached from floor to ceiling. Though they were a pale blue, light in colour, even from where she stood, Annamarie could tell that they were heavily padded or had a second layer behind them, presumably to keep out draughts. The effect of those drapes was a vault-like atmosphere, and Annamarie could forget that it was snowing, could forget everything that lay outside this very room.
She went to the dresser, drawn by the etched blue bottle on its edge as much as by her own image in the mirror. The perfume bottle had a golden cap and beige atomiser with tassels. Annamarie picked it up and felt the satisfying weight of the heavy glass, so contrary to the light floral fragrance within. She rubbed an index finger over the row of bumps along the oval sides before holding the bottle to her nose. There was something soft and pure about jasmine, and she inhaled deeply before tipping it towards her throat and spraying some just above the collar of her blouse.
Putting down the perfume, she turned her attention to the photos lined up and angled towards the bed. The frames were silver or pewter with gilded edges. She searched for Marco’s father in them and found none. Just Chiara Grimani holding a baby, which Annamarie had to assume was Marco, and another one, where she recognised Marco as a little boy in the vineyard in front of the villa. There were also several photos of an outrageous-looking woman together with Chiara. In one of them, the woman wore flowing, long trousers, had closely-cropped hair, and held a cigarette holder, like a movie star.
Annamarie spotted a silver letter opener and picked it up, holding it as if it were the cigarette holder. She positioned herself before the mirror and copied the pose in the photo. “Oh, you don’t say, darling,” she said to her reflection. “Yes, absolutely gorgeous. Really? Why yes, darling, I’d be delighted!”
Was this how her father had seen her outside the Grimani apartments? Her face changed before her. She looked away and put the letter opener back where she found it.
She moved on, her fingers brushing over the lamps, the gilded mirror, the intricately decorated knobs on the dresser drawers as she continued through the room to the wardrobe and opened the doors with heavy arms. The smell of mothballs and old wood drifted out, making her pinch her nose for a moment. An old-people smell. That was what it was.
She carefully pushed the hangers aside, looking at the array of dresses and accessories. On the floor of the wardrobe were rows of shoes, low-heeled and high-heeled, and at the very back, she found a pair of old-fashioned boots. They were high-topped in soft beige leather with hooks for the laces. She lifted one out, the left one, and held it against the bottom of her foot, noting how the leather had been ruined by watermarks.
“I was holding on to those boots for nostalgic reasons.” Tyrolean dialect. Just a hint of Italian.
Annamarie dropped the boot.
Chiara stood in the doorway, dressed in a black sequinned evening gown with a splash of bold-coloured flowers in dark pink, purple, and orange. It ended in a fishtail on the floor.
Annamarie picked up the boot to put it back in the wardrobe. “They’re pretty, the boots,” she replied in German. “And your dress.”
“The boots? They were, I suppose.”
She came into the room, and Annamarie searched for disapproval on Chiara’s face but found none.
“I was pregnant with Marco when I ruined them,” Chiara said. “I was a different person then.”
Her eyes were glazed, and Annamarie could smell alcohol on her breath. And smoke.
“What happened that you ruined them?” The German words felt odd in Annamarie’s mouth, like tasting an apple when she expected an orange.
“A tub of water.”
Annamarie frowned.
“Never mind.” Chiara leaned into the wardrobe and began pushing back dresses. “Marco tells me you need something to wear.” She seemed to find what she was looking for and pulled out a gown the colour of jade with gold and silver beads in swirled patterns, like snail shells.
She eyed Annamarie for a moment, her distaste for the Fascist uniform obvious, and held the gown up against Annamarie’s front.
Annamarie gingerly pressed it against herself, astounded by the dress. When she turned from the mirror, Chiara was holding a pair of stilettos in beaded gold and silver mesh to match the gown. Annamarie stepped behind the screen barrier and changed. When she came out from behind it, her reflection made her catch her breath.
“The luxury of youth,” Chiara declared. “The confidence you have in your ideals, your sense of freedom! It is truly remarkable.” She laughed a little, and Annamarie looked at the ground. “Come, let’s have a look at you.”
Chiara moved her to stand before the full-length mirror, and Annamarie watched the woman’s expression for a moment before admiring herself. The bodice was cut in a way as to enhance her figure, perfect for a movie starlet. A woman.
“You can wear that tonight, if you wish,” Chiara said, though she looked as if she regretted it. Her hands were still pressing down on Annamarie’s shoulders, and she was gazing at her as if she were looking for something. When she spoke again, her voice was a touch shrill. “Where did you say you were from?”
She stiffened under Chiara’s touch. “Near the Swiss border.”
“Yes, that’s what you told me last time. And what’s the name
