‘And you have friends in Munich?’
‘I have friends in all sorts of places. And I make new friends very easily.’
‘I’ll bet you do.’
I turned away from the piano. Pietro detached himself from Helena and sat up.
‘So there you are, Vicky. I have been telling Helena about the architecture of ancient Greek temples.’
‘Oh, really,’ I said. ‘Fascinating subject, isn’t it, Helena?’
Helena giggled. She sounded as if she were in a very pleasant mood. She stirred lazily, and as she did so I caught a flash of light that dazzled me. Pietro had gone to the table, where a tray of hors d’oeuvres was set out, so I sat down next to Helena.
No wonder she was in a good mood. Pinned to the sweeping contours of her breast was the source of the dazzle – a brooch as big as a bread-and-butter plate. It was a Baroque piece, white gold and diamonds and pearls, set with plaques of antique cameos. Eighteenth-century taste, like Helena’s, was inclined to be gaudy. But she was obviously very happy with her prize; her round face beamed as she contemplated the jewel over her double chin.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘It must be love.’
Helena giggled again.
‘It is only a loan,’ she whispered, in a conspiratorial tone. ‘So he says. But I think I will forget to give it back to him, eh?’
‘Mmmm,’ I said.
‘Come to the window, so you can see it better.’
I was happy to do so, since I wanted a closer look at the brooch. Helena didn’t take it off; she probably thought I would grab it and run, as she would have been tempted to do if the situation had been reversed. But I could see it quite well. It was prominently displayed.
I could have sworn it was genuine. No, take that back; I wouldn’t have staked my reputation on any piece in Pietro’s collection, knowing what I knew. But this didn’t seem like the sort of thing my jeweller friend would copy. The laboratory boys haven’t succeeded in making a synthetic diamond that can be mass-produced cheaply. Besides, though this brooch was worth more money than I was, it wasn’t unique. Pietro had other jewels in his collection that were worth much more.
I admired the effect, while Helena preened herself and simpered. We were still standing there by the window when the door opened and the dowager entered, leaning on her grandson’s arm.
Helena must have known there would be trouble over that brooch, but she was ready to brazen it out. She stuck out her chin and her chest; the diamonds caught the sunlight in a scintillant flash, and the dowager, whose eyes were as keen as her old limbs were feeble, stopped short. She didn’t speak, but I heard her breath come out in a hiss like that of an angry snake. Her beady black eyes narrowed, reminding me of the zoological fact that birds were reptilian in origin.
Pietro hastily turned his back and began eating hors d’oeuvres. Luigi dropped the old lady’s arm. She made no attempt to stop him, although she must have anticipated what he would do. She limped to a chair and sat down.
Then Luigi exploded.
There is no point in repeating what he said, even if I could remember all the words. He had an excellent command of vulgar invective, as do most kids his age, but the tirade was rendered pathetic by the fact that he couldn’t quite keep his voice under control. Finally it broke altogether – with sheer rage, I’m sure – and he ran out of the room. The footman held the door for him.
If I don’t mention the footman or the butler or the maid more often, it is because I would have to mention them too often. Servants were all over the house, like fleas, jumping out at you when you didn’t expect them. Many of the more personal family encounters I was to witness took place in front of this audience; none of the Caravaggios seemed to mind them, but I couldn’t be sure whether it was because they were regarded as members of the family or as pieces of furniture.
Pietro sputtered helplessly during his son’s outburst. When the boy ran out, he would have shouted, had he not caught his mother’s eye. The dowager said nothing. She didn’t have to. It was quite clear what she thought of the whole thing, and with whom her sympathy lay. Obviously both she and Luigi assumed Pietro had given his girlfriend the brooch to keep.
The remainder of the cocktail hour passed uncomfortably. At least I was uncomfortable, and so was Pietro. Helena, never sensitive to other people’s feelings, basked in the reflected glitter of diamonds. The dowager sat like a stiff black effigy, her wrinkled white hands folded over the top of her stick. She never took her eyes off the swaggering, self-conscious figure of her son.
The only thing that made the situation bearable was Smythe’s playing. He went from Tchaikovsky to Bach to Vivaldi and finally lapsed into Rudolf Friml, which he performed with a swooping, saccharine sweetness that made the melodies sound like satires of themselves. I don’t think he was playing to be helpful, he was only amusing himself; but music does soothe the savage breast, and it pleased Pietro.
It was a long evening, though. The dowager stuck with us till long after dinner – in order to punish Pietro – and it was almost ten o’clock before the four of us returned to the drawing room for coffee. Like a naughty little boy, Pietro relaxed as soon as his mother left. He had drunk quite a bit, and was well into his aggressive mood; the fact that he had had to repress it in front of the old lady made him even more belligerent. He turned on Smythe, who was drifting towards the piano, and snarled.
‘A fine performance, I must say. So this is how you carry out your duties!’
Smythe raised an eyebrow and did not reply. Pietro looked at me.
‘He has been here less than a week, and you see how he behaves! Like a guest in the house. I take him in, employ him, because he is well recommended; he does no work, he sits by laughing when my own son insults and defames me. What do you say to that?’
‘Terrible,’ I said. The complaint was totally unreasonable, of course, but I was not inclined to defend Sir John Smythe. If Pietro had proposed stringing him up for horse stealing, I’d have lent a hand on the rope.
‘Don’t be so silly, Pietro,’ Helena said, fingering her diamonds. ‘What do you expect Sir John to do? It is your problem if your son misbehaves.’
The old saying, that it takes two to make a fight, is a lie. One person can start a fight all by himself if he is determined to, and Pietro was. Helena’s defence of Smythe only gave Pietro a convenient handle. By the time he was through, he had accused his secretary and his mistress of carrying on an affair right under his nose. I think he was looking for an excuse to take the brooch back, and Helena, never too bright, fell right into the trap.
Smythe fell into another kind of trap. When Pietro started slapping his chest and shouting about his family honour, Smythe put his coffee cup carefully down on a table and stood up.
‘Oh, all right,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘Let’s get it over with. Fetch the umbrellas.’
‘Ah, you mock me,’ screamed Pietro. ‘Umbrellas, you say? You wish to make me a laughingstock. You do not take me seriously. You will see if a Caravaggio is to be insulted.’ And he rushed out of the room.
He was back in less time than I would have supposed possible, brandishing – yes, you guessed it – only it wasn’t one sword, it was two, one in each hand. He flung one of them down on the floor in front of Smythe. Gold shone. I remembered those rapiers; they were a matched pair, part of the jewel collection, because they had gorgeous decorated hilts. They were court swords, meant to be worn with a fancy uniform; but the blades were of Toledo steel, and quite sharp.
Smythe contemplated the weapon blankly as Pietro tried to struggle out of his coat. The footman had to come and help him. Then he took up his sword and fell into what he fondly believed was an attitude of defence, flexing his knees and waving his arms.
‘Come,’ he shouted. ‘Defend your honour, if you have any!’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said uneasily, as Smythe bent to pick up his weapon. ‘Those points look pretty sharp. He could hurt himself.’
‘He could also hurt me,’ said Smythe indignantly. ‘After all, I didn’t start this nonsense.’
Pietro ran at him, roaring. He slid neatly to one side, and the point of the sword punctured the back of the chair in which he had been sitting. Pietro tugged at it, cursing luridly, and Smythe moved discreetly back a few feet. He looked at his sword and then at Pietro’s plump posterior, temptingly tilted as he tried to free his sword from the sofa.
