The Italian's Wife By Sunset. Lucy Gordon
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every word.’
‘That’s because I’m crazy about my subject and I want everyone else to be crazy, too. I believe it can make me a bit of a bore.’
‘Sure, I’m sitting here fainting with boredom. Tell me about your subject.’
‘Archaeology. No, don’t say it—’ He interrupted himself quickly. ‘I don’t look like an archaeologist, more like a hippie—’
‘I was thinking a hobo myself,’ she said mischievously. ‘Someone not very respectable, anyway.’
‘Thank you. I take that as a compliment. I’m not respectable. I don’t pretend to be. Who needs it?’
‘Nobody, as long as you know your stuff—and you obviously do.’
Carlo grinned. ‘Why? Because I kept a few youngsters quiet? That’s the easy part, being a showman. It’s not what really counts.’
She’d actually been thinking of his string of qualifications, but remembered in time that she wasn’t supposed to know about them.
‘What does really count?’ she asked, fascinated.
That was all he needed. Words poured from him. Some she understood, some were above her head, but what was crystal-clear was his devotion, amounting to a love affair, to ancient times and other worlds.
All his life he’d had soaring ambitions, hating the thought of being earthbound.
‘I used to play truant at school,’ he recalled, ‘and my teachers all predicted I’d come to a bad end because I was bound to fail my exams. But I fooled ’em. I used to sit up the night before, memorising everything just long enough to pass with honours.’ He sighed with happy recollection. ‘Lord, but that made them mad!’
She couldn’t help laughing at the sight of him, transformed back into that rebellious schoolboy.
‘I couldn’t face anything nine-to-five,’ he said. ‘Not at school, not at work. The beauty of being in my line is that you get to fly.’
‘And you really have to fly,’ she teased. ‘I guess when you get near the earth you crash.’
‘Right. That’s why I could never be a teacher, or a museum administrator. I might have to—’ He looked desperate.
‘Might have to what?’ she asked through her laughter.
He glanced over his shoulder and spoke with a lowered voice.
‘Wear a collar and tie.’
He sat back with the air of one who had described unimaginable horrors. Della nodded in sympathy.
‘But doesn’t it ever get depressing?’ she asked. ‘Spending so much time surrounded by death, especially in Pompeii—all those people, petrified in the positions they died in nearly two thousand years ago?’
‘But they’re not dead,’ he said, almost fiercely. ‘Not to me. They’re still speaking, and I’m listening because they have so much to say.’
‘But hasn’t it all been said? I mean, they finished excavating that place years ago. What more is there?’
He almost tore his hair.
‘They didn’t finish excavating. They barely started. I’m working on a whole undiscovered area—’
He stopped, and seemed to calm himself down by force of will.
‘I’m sorry. Once I get started there’s no stopping me. I told you I’m a bore.’
‘I wasn’t bored,’ she said truthfully. ‘Not a bit.’
In truth, she was fascinated. A fire was flaming within him and she wanted to see more, know more.
‘Go on,’ she urged.
Then he was away again, words pouring out in a vivid, passionate stream so that she caught the sense even of the bits she didn’t understand. After a while she stopped trying to follow too closely. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he could make her see visions through his own eyes. It was like being taken on a journey into the heart of the man, and it was exhilarating.
‘You’ve let your food get cold,’ he said at last.
At some point they had passed onto the next course, and it had lain uneaten on both their plates while he took her on a journey to the stars.
‘I forgot about it,’ she said, feeling slightly stunned.
‘So did I,’ he admitted.
The voice of caution, which normally ruled her life, whispered, A practised charmer, but the warning floated away, unheeded. Something more was happening—something that would make her get up and leave now, if she had any sense.
But she didn’t want to be sensible. She wanted to go on enjoying this foolish magic, as crazy as a teenager. No matter how it ended. She would relish every moment.
Carlo watched her without seeming to. It was becoming important to him to ‘capture’ her in his mind, as though by doing so he could fit her into some niche where he would know what to make of her. Luckily the hours stretched ahead, full of time to get to know her better.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Carlo saw an acquaintance come into the restaurant, and he cursed silently. The man was well-meaning but long-winded, and if he didn’t act fast his evening would be in ruins.
‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said hurriedly, leaving the table.
His worst fears were fulfilled. His friend greeted him with bonhomie, and a determination to join him at all costs. Carlo just managed to head him off at the pass, and finally made his way back to the table, determined on escape.
Della was talking on her cellphone as he approached, and he heard her say, ‘It’s lovely to talk to you, darling.’
It wasn’t so much the word that troubled him as the soft adoration in her voice, the glow in her eyes.
For pity’s sake, he chided himself. You’ve only known her a few hours. What do you care who she calls darling?
He wished he knew the answer.
She was laughing, her face alight with affection.
‘I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you again soon. Bye, darling.’ She hung up.
A moment later Carlo reached the table, showing no sign that he’d heard the call or even knew she’d made one.
‘Perhaps we should move on?’ he said.
She nodded. She had seen him talking urgently with a man, blocking his way so that he could not disturb them.
Outside, he took her hand and headed for the car, but then stopped suddenly, as though something had struck him.
‘No—wait! The time’s just right.’
‘Right for what?’
‘I’ll show you.’
He turned and began to lead her in the opposite direction. Gradually the houses fell away and they were going towards the shore, reaching the road that ran beside it and crossing over onto the beach.
‘Look,’ he said.
The tide had gone out, leaving the fishing boats lying lopsided on the wet sand. Water lay in the ridges and the tiny pools, and the last rays of the setting sun had turned it deep red.
She gazed, awestruck, at so much dramatic beauty before finally breathing, ‘It’s magic.’
‘Yes, it is. Not everyone sees it, but I thought you would because of what you told me about dawn on the Thames. To some people it’s just wet sand and a few boats. If you see them by day they’re old and shabby. But like this—’
He stopped, almost as if hoping that she would finish