The Magicians of Caprona (6 page)

“That spell,” said Old Niccolo, “lasted for days in my grandfather’s time.”

“Do you mean it’s that enchanter?” Paolo asked. “Is he spoiling all our spells?”

Old Niccolo stared at him, full-eyed, like a baby about to burst into tears. “No, lad. I fancy not. The truth is, the Casa Montana is in as bad a way as Caprona. The old virtue is fading. It has faded generation by generation, and now it is almost gone. I am ashamed that you should learn it like this. Let’s get out, boys, and start dragging.”

It was a wretched humiliation. Since the rest of the family were all either asleep or at work on the Old Bridge, there was no one to help them pull the coach through the gate. And Domenico was no use. He confessed afterwards that he could not remember getting home. They left him asleep in the coach and dragged it in, just the three of them. Even Benvenuto dashing through the rain did not cheer Tonino much.

“One consolation,” panted their grandfather. “The rain. There is no one about to see Old Niccolo dragging his own coach.”

Paolo and Tonino did not find much consolation in that. Now they understood the growing un ease in the Casa, and it was not pleasant. They understood why everyone was so anxious about the Old Bridge, and so delighted when, just before Christmas, it was mended at last. They understood, too, the worry about a husband for Rosa. As soon as the bridge was repaired, everyone went back to discussing that. And Paolo and Tonino knew why everyone agreed that the young man Rosa
must choose, must have, if he had nothing else, a strong talent for spells.

“To improve the breed, you mean?” said Rosa. She was very sarcastic and independent about it. “Very well, dear Uncle Lorenzo, I shall only fall in love with men who can make paper horses waterproof.”

Uncle Lorenzo blushed angrily. The whole family felt humiliated by those horses. But Elizabeth was trying not to laugh. Elizabeth certainly encouraged Rosa in her independent attitude. Benvenuto informed Tonino it was the English way. Cats liked English people, he added.

“Have we really lost our virtue?” Tonino asked Benvenuto anxiously. He thought it was probably the explanation for his slowness.

Benvenuto said that he did not know what it was like in the old days, but he knew there was enough magic about now to make his coat spark. It seemed like a lot. But he sometimes wondered if it was being applied properly.

Around this time, twice as many newspapers found their way into the Casa. There were journals from Rome and magazines from Genoa and Milan, as well as the usual Caprona papers. Every one read them eagerly and talked in mutters about the attitude of Florence, movements in Pisa and opinion hardening in Siena. Out of the worried murmurs, the word
War
began to sound, more and more frequently. And, instead of the usual Christmas songs, the only tune heard in the Casa Montana, night and day, was the
Angel of Caprona
.

The tune was sung, in bass, tenor and soprano. It was played slowly on flutes, picked out on guitars and lilted on violins. Every one of the Montanas lived in hope that he or she would be the person to find the true words. Rinaldo had a new idea. He procured a drum and sat on the edge of his bed beating out the rhythm, until Aunt Francesca implored him to stop. And even that did not help. Not one of the Montanas could begin to set the right words to the tune. Antonio looked so worried that
Paolo could scarcely bear to look at him.

With so much worry about, it was hardly surprising that Paolo and Tonino looked forward daily to being invited to the Duke’s pantomime. It was the one bright spot. But Antonio and Rinaldo went to the Palace—on foot—to deliver the special effects, and came back without a word of invitation. Christmas came. The entire Montana family went to church, in the beautiful marble-fronted Church of Sant’ Angelo, and behaved with great devotion. Usually it was only Aunt Anna and Aunt Maria who were notably religious, but now everyone felt they had something to pray for. It was only when the time came to sing the
Angel of Caprona
that the Montana devotion slackened. An absent-minded look came over their faces, from Old Niccolo to the smallest cousin. They sang:

Every one of them was wondering what the real words were.

They came home for the family celebrations, and there was still no word from the Duke. Then Christmas was over. New Year drew on and passed too, and the boys were forced to realize that there would be no invitation after all. Each told himself he had known the Duke was like that. They did not speak of it to one another. But they were both bitterly disappointed.

They were roused from their gloom by Lucia racing along the gallery, screaming, “Come and look at Rosa’s young man!”

“What?” said Antonio, raising his worried face from a book about the Angel of Caprona. “What? Nothing’s decided yet.”

Lucia leaped from foot to foot. She was pink with excitement. “Rosa’s decided for herself! I knew she would. Come and see!”

Led by Lucia, Antonio, Paolo, Tonino and Benvenuto raced along the gallery and down the stone stairs at the end. People and cats were streaming through the courtyard from all directions, hurrying to the room called the Saloon, beyond the dining room.

Rosa was standing near the windows, looking happy but defiant, with both hands clasped around the arm of an embarrassed-looking young man with ginger hair. A bright ring winked on Rosa’s finger. Elizabeth was with them, looking as happy as Rosa and almost as defiant. When the young man saw the family streaming through the door and crowding towards him, his face became bright pink and his hand went up to loosen his smart tie. But, in spite of that, it was plain to everyone that, underneath, the young man was as happy as Rosa. And Rosa was so happy that she seemed to shine, like the Angel over the gate. This made everyone stare, marveling. Which, of course, made the young man more embarrassed than ever.

Old Niccolo cleared his throat. “Now look here,” he said. Then he stopped. This was Antonio’s business. He looked at Antonio.

Paolo and Tonino noticed that their father looked at their mother
first. Elizabeth’s happy look seemed to reassure him a little. “Now, just who are you?” he said to the young man. “How did you meet my Rosa?”

“He was one of the contractors on the Old Bridge, Father,” said Rosa.

“And he has enormous natural talent, Antonio,” said Elizabeth, “and a beautiful singing voice.”

“All right, all right,” said Antonio. “Let the boy speak for himself, women.”

The young man swallowed, and helped the swallow down with a shake of his tie. His face was now very pale. “My name is Marco Andretti,” he said in a pleasant, if husky, voice. “I—I think you met my brother at the bridge, sir. I was on the other shift. That’s how I came to meet Rosa.” The way he smiled down at Rosa left everybody hoping that he would be fit to become a Montana.

“It’ll break their hearts if Father says no,” Lucia whispered to Paolo. Paolo nodded. He could see that.

Antonio was pulling his lip, which was a thing he did when his face could hold no more worry than it did already. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve met Mario Andretti, of course. A very respectable family.” He made that sound not altogether a good thing. “But I’m sure you’re aware, Signor Andretti, that ours is a special family. We have to be careful who we marry. First, what do you think of the Petrocchis?”

Marco’s pale face went fiery red. He answered with a violence which surprised the Montanas, “I hate their guts, Signor Montana!” He seemed so upset that Rosa pulled his arm down and patted it soothingly.

“Marco has personal family reasons, Father,” she said.

“Which I’d prefer not to go into,” Marco said.

“We—well, I’ll not press you for them,” Antonio said, and continued to pull his lip. “But, you see, our family must marry someone
with at least some talent for magic. Have you any ability there, Signor Andretti?”

Marco Andretti seemed to relax at this. He smiled, and gently took Rosa’s hands off his sleeve. Then he sang. Elizabeth had been right about his voice. It was a golden tenor. Uncle Lorenzo was heard to rumble that he could not think what a voice like that was doing outside the Milan Opera.

sang Marco. As he sang, the tree came into being, rooted in the carpet between Rosa and Antonio, first as a faint gold shadow, then as a rattling metal shape, dazzling gold in the shafts of sunlight from the windows. The Montanas nodded their appreciation. The trunk and each branch, even the smallest twig, was indeed pure gold. But Marco sang on, and as he sang, the gold twigs put out buds, pale and fist-shaped at first, then bright and pointed. Instants later, the tree was in leaf. It was moving and rattling constantly to Marco’s singing. It put out pink and white flowers in clusters, which budded, expanded and dropped, as quickly as flames in a firework. The room was full of scent, then of petals fluttering like confetti. Marco still sang, and the tree still moved. Before the last petal had fallen, pointed green fruit was swelling where the flowers had been. The fruit grew brownish and swelled, and swelled and turned bulging and yellow, until the tree drooped under the weight of a heavy crop of big yellow pears.

Marco concluded. He put up a hand, picked one of the pears and
held it, rather diffidently, out to Antonio.

There were murmurs of appreciation from the rest of the family. Antonio took the pear and sniffed it. And he smiled, to Marco’s evident relief. “Good fruit,” he said. “That was very elegantly done, Signor Andretti. But there is one more thing I must ask you. Would you agree to change your name to Montana? That is our custom, you see.”

“Yes, Rosa told me,” said Marco. “And—and this is a difficulty. My brother needs me in his firm, and he too wants to keep his family name. Would it be all right if I’m known as Montana when I’m here, and as—as Andretti when I’m at home with my brother?”

“You mean you and Rosa wouldn’t live here?” Antonio asked, astonished.

“Not all the time. No,” said Marco. From the way he said it, it was clear he was not going to change his mind.

This was serious. Antonio looked at Old Niccolo. And there were grave faces all round at the thought of the family being broken up.

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” said Elizabeth.

“Well—my great-uncle did it,” Old Niccolo said. “But it was not a success. His wife ran off to Sicily with a greasy little warlock.”

“That doesn’t mean
I’m
going to!” Rosa said.

The family wavered, with the tree gently rattling in their midst. Everyone loved Rosa. Marco was clearly nice. Nobody wanted to break their hearts. But this idea of living away from the Casa—!

Aunt Francesca heaved herself forward, saying, “I side with Elizabeth. Our Rosa has found herself a nice boy with more talent and a better voice than I’ve seen outside our family for years. Let them get married.”

Antonio looked dreadfully worried at this, but he did not pull his lip. He seemed to be relaxing, ready to agree, when Rinaldo set the tree rattling furiously by pushing his way underneath it.

“Just a moment. Aren’t we all being a bit trustful? Who is this fellow, after all? Why haven’t we come across him and his talents before?”

Paolo hung his head and watched Rinaldo under his hair. This was Rinaldo in the mood he least admired. Rinaldo loud and aggressive, with an unpleasant twist to his mouth. Rinaldo was still a little pale from the cut on his head, but this went rather well with the black clothes and the red brigand’s scarf. Rinaldo knew it did. He flung up his head with an air, and contemptuously brushed off a petal that had fallen on his black sleeve. And he looked at Marco, challenging him to answer.

The way Marco looked back showed that he was quite ready to stand up to Rinaldo. “I’ve been at college in Rome until recently,” he said. “If that’s what you mean.”

Rinaldo swung round to face the family. “So he says,” he said. “He’s done a pretty trick for us, and said all the right things—but so would anyone in his place.” He swung round on Marco. It was so dramatic that Tonino winced and even Paolo felt a little unhappy. “I don’t trust you,” said Rinaldo. “I’ve seen your face before somewhere.”

“At the Old Bridge,” said Marco.

“No, not there. It was somewhere else,” said Rinaldo.

And this must be true, Tonino realized. Marco did have a familiar look. And Tonino could not have seen him at the Old Bridge, because Tonino had never been there.

“Do you want me to fetch my brother, or my priest, to vouch for me?” asked Marco.

“No,” said Rinaldo rudely. “I want the truth.”

Marco took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be unfriendly,” he said. The arm Rosa was not holding bent, and so did the fist on the end of it. Rinaldo gave it a look as if he welcomed it, and swaggered a step nearer.

“Please!” Rosa said uselessly.

Benvenuto moved in Tonino’s arms. Into Tonino’s head came a picture of a large stripy tomcat swaggering on the Casa roof—Benvenuto’s roof. Tonino nearly laughed. Benvenuto’s muscular back legs pushed him backwards into Paolo as Benvenuto took off. Benvenuto landed between Rinaldo and Marco. There was a gentle “Ah!” from the rest of the family. They knew Benvenuto would settle it.

Benvenuto deliberately ignored Rinaldo. Arching himself tall, with his tail straight up like a cypress tree, he minced to Marco’s legs and rubbed himself around them. Marco undoubled his fist and bent to hold his hand out to Benvenuto. “Hallo,” he said. “What’s your name?” He paused, for Benvenuto to tell him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Benvenuto,” he said.