Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (33 page)

“What a
beautiful dress,” said the lady standing in front of
Gian
Lorenzo.

He nodded his
agreement and, staring at the yards of Persian silk that formed a magnificent
train behind Angelina, didn’t express the one thought that must have been on
everyone’s mind. Nevertheless, the look on Angelina’s face was that of a bride
displaying total contentment with her lot. She was walking toward the man she
adored, aware that many of the women present would have been only too happy to
take her place.

As Angelina
climbed the steps up onto the stage, the boards creaked. Her future husband
smiled as he took a pace forward to join his bride. They both turned to face
Cardinal
Montagni
, the Archbishop of Naples. One or
two guests failed to stifle a smile when the cardinal turned to Paolo and
inquired, “Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, for better for
worse, for richer
for
poorer...”

Once bride and
groom had been joined together in holy matrimony,
Gian
Lorenzo made his way to the Long Garden, to join a thousand other guests for
dinner. A feast followed that began with champagne and truffle risotto, and
ended with chocolate
souffle
and a Chateau
d’Yquem
.
Gian
Lorenzo could
barely move by the time Paolo rose to reply to his best man’s speech.

“I am the
happiest man on earth,” he declared, as he turned to face his beaming bride. “I
have found the ideal woman for me, and I am only too aware that I must be the
envy of every bachelor present.” A sentiment which
Gian
Lorenzo could not quite agree with, but he quickly banished the ungracious
thought from his mind. Paolo continued, “You know, I was the first suitor to
win Angelina’s heart. No longer will I have to search for the perfect woman
because I have found her. Please rise and join me in a toast to Angelina, my
little angel.”

The gathering
rose as one and toasted, “Angelina.” One or two even managed “his little
angel.”

After the
speeches were over, the dancing began to yet another band–this time one that
had been flown in from New Orleans.
Gian
Lorenzo
overheard that Angelina had once mentioned to Papa that she liked jazz.

As the band
struck up and the champagne continued to flow, the newlyweds moved among their
guests, which gave
Gian
Lorenzo a fleeting moment to
thank Paolo and his bride for including him in such an unforgettable occasion.
“Medici would have swooned,” he told her, as he kissed her hand. She gave him a
warm, gentle smile, but didn’t respond.

“Let’s keep in
touch,” suggested Paolo as the two of them drifted away.

“Angelina is
fascinated by art, you know, and is thinking of starting her own collection,”
were the last words
Gian
Lorenzo heard, before Paolo
moved on to another guest.

Just before the
sun rose and breakfast was about to be served, Signor and Signora
Castelli
set off for the airport, with a thousand hands
waving their farewells. They drove out of the grounds of the Borghese with
Paolo at the wheel of his latest Ferrari–not the ideal car for his bride. When
they reached the airport, Paolo drove out onto a private airstrip and brought
the car to a halt by the side of a Lear jet that was waiting for two
passengers. The newlyweds left the Ferrari parked on the
runway,
climbed the steps and disappeared inside Papa’s aircraft.

Within minutes
of fastening their seatbelts, the jet took off for Acapulco, the first stop on
their three-month honeymoon.

Despite Paolo’s
parting words, when the
Castellis
returned from their
honeymoon they made no attempt to keep in touch with
Gian
Lorenzo. However, he was able to follow their exploits on an almost daily basis
in the gossip columns of the national press.

A year later he
read that they would be moving to Venice, where they had purchased the type of
villa that makes the covers, not the inside pages, of glossy magazines.
Gian
Lorenzo assumed that he and his old friend were
unlikely to bump into each other again.

When Antonio
Venici
retired, he happily handed over the responsibility
for the family business to his son. As the new owner of the
Venici
Gallery,
Gian
Lorenzo spent half his time traveling
around Europe in search of that elusive painting which makes collectors gasp,
while not insulting the dealer with any suggestion of bargaining.

One such
journey was to Venice, to view a Canaletto owned by the
Contessa
di Palma–a lady who, having divorced her third husband and sadly no longer possessing
the looks to guarantee a fourth, had decided she would have to part with one or
two of her treasures. The
Contessa’s
only stipulation
was that no one must discover that she was facing temporary financial
difficulties. Every leading dealer in Italy knew of her mounting debts and
unpaid creditors.

Gian
Lorenzo was only thankful that the
Contessa
had chosen him to share her confidences with.

Gian
Lorenzo took some time to study the
Contessa’s
considerable collection and concluded that she
had an eye not only for rich men. After he had agreed a price for the
Canaletto, he expressed the hope that this might be the beginning of a long and
fruitful relationship.

“Let’s start
with dinner at Harry’s
Bar
, my darling,” said the
Contessa
, once she had
Gian
Lorenzo’s
check in her hand.

Gian
Lorenzo was making up his mind between an
affogato
or
an espresso when Paolo
and Angelina strolled into Harrys Bar. Everyone in the room followed their
progress, as the maître d’ ushered them unctuously to a corner table.

“Now there’s
someone who can afford to buy my
entire
collection,”
whispered the
Contessa
.

“Without a
doubt,” agreed
Gian
Lorenzo, “but unfortunately Paolo
only collects rare cars.”

“And even rarer
women,” interjected the
Contessa
.

“And I’m not
altogether sure what Angelina collects.”

“A few extra
pounds each year,” suggested the
Contessa
. “She once
came to tea with my second husband and literally ate us out of house and home.
By the time she left we were down to the water biscuits.”

“Well, let’s
try and make up for that tonight,” said
Gian
Lorenzo.
“I’m told the zabaglione is their signature dish?”

The
Contessa
showed no interest in the zabaglione, but simply
sailed on, ignoring her companion’s unsubtle hint.

“Can you
imagine what those two get up to, when they’re in bed?”

Gian
Lorenzo was surprised that the
Contessa
was willing to voice a question he had often thought about but never felt able
to express. And there was worse to come as the
Contessa
went on to describe things that hadn’t, until then, even crossed
Gian
Lorenzo’s mind.

“Do you think
he climbs on top of her?”
Gian
Lorenzo didn’t offer
an opinion. “A feat in itself,” she continued, “because if they did it the
other way round, surely she’d suffocate him.”

Gian
Lorenzo didn’t care to think about the image, so he
tried once again to change the subject. “We went to the same school, you
know–one hell of an athlete.”

“You’d have to
be, to satisfy her.”

“I even
attended their wedding,” he added. “A truly memorable occasion, though I doubt
after all this time that he would even remember I was among the guests.”

“Would you
really be willing to spend the rest of your life with such a creature, however
much money she had to offer?” asked the
Contessa
, not
paying attention to her host’s words.

“He claims to
adore her,” said
Gian
Lorenzo,
“calls her his little angel.”

“In that case,
I wouldn’t want to meet up with his idea of a big angel.”

“But if he felt
otherwise,” suggested
Gian
Lorenzo, “he could always
divorce her.”

“Not a chance,”
said the
Contessa
, “you clearly haven’t been told
about their pre-nuptial agreement.”

“No, I
haven’t,” admitted
Gian
Lorenzo, trying not to sound
interested.

“Her father had
much the same opinion of that clapped-out footballer as I do.

Old man
Porcelli
made him sign an agreement which spelled out that
if Paolo ever divorced his daughter he would end up with nothing. Paolo was
also forced to sign a second document stating that he would never reveal the
contents of the pre-nuptial to anyone, including Angelina.”

“Then how do
you know about it?” prompted
Gian
Lorenzo.

“When you’ve
signed as many prenuptials as I have, darling, you hear things.”

Gian
Lorenzo laughed and called for the bill.

The maître d’
smiled. “It’s already been taken care of, signor,” he said, nodding in the
direction of Paolo, “by your old school friend.”

“How kind of
him,” said
Gian
Lorenzo.

“No, her,” the
Contessa
reminded him.

“Please excuse
me for a moment,” said
Gian
Lorenzo. “I must just
thank them before we leave.” He rose from his place, and made his way slowly
across the crowded room.

“How are you?”
said Paolo, who was on his feet long before
Gian
Lorenzo had reached their table. “You know my little angel, of course,” he
said, turning to smile at his wife, “but then how could you ever forget?”

Gian
Lorenzo took Angelina’s hand and kissed it gently.
“And I will also never forget your magnificent wedding.”

“Medici would
have swooned,” said Angelina.

Gian
Lorenzo gave a slight bow in acknowledgment.

“Is that the
Contessa
di Palma you are dining with?” asked Paolo. “Because
if it is, she has something my little angel desires.”
Gian
Lorenzo made no comment. “I do hope,
Gian
Lorenzo, that
she’s a client, not a friend, because if my
little angel wants something, then I will stop at nothing to ensure she gets
it.”
Gian
Lorenzo still considered it wise to remain
silent. Never forget, his father had once told him, only restaurateurs close
 
deals in restaurants–when they hand you
the bill. “And as it’s a field I know little about,” continued Paolo, “and you
are acknowledged as one of the nation’s leading authorities, perhaps you would
be kind enough to represent Angelina on this occasion?”

“I would be
delighted to do so,” said
Gian
Lorenzo, as the head
waiter placed a chocolate trifle in front of Paolo’s wife, with a bowl of
créme
fraîche
on the side.

“Excellent,”
said Paolo, “let’s keep in touch.”

Gian
Lorenzo smiled and shook his old friend by the hand.
He well remembered the last occasion Paolo had made such an offer.

But then some
people consider such suggestions nothing more than polite conversation.
Gian
Lorenzo turned to Angelina and bowed low before
walking back across the restaurant to rejoin the
Contessa
.

“Time for us to
leave, I fear,” said
Gian
Lorenzo, glancing at his
watch, “especially if I’m to catch the first plane to Rome in the morning.”

“Did you manage
to sell my Canaletto to your friend?” asked the
Contessa
,
as she rose from her place.

“No,” replied
Gian
Lorenzo, as he waved in the direction of Paolo’s
table, “but he did suggest that we keep in touch.”

“And will you?”

“That might be
quite difficult,” admitted
Gian
Lorenzo, “as he
didn’t give me his number, and I have a feeling Signor and Signora
Castelli
will not be listed in the
Yellow Pages.”

Gian
Lorenzo took the first flight back to Rome the
following morning. The Canaletto was to follow him at a more leisurely pace. No
sooner had he set foot in the gallery than his secretary rushed out of the
office, spilling out the words, “Paolo
Castelli
has
already called twice this morning. He apologized for not giving you his
number,” she added, “and wondered if you would be kind enough to phone him,
just as soon as you get in.”