The Scarlet Thread (9 page)

“I'd take my belt to that one if I was him. She needs the shit beaten out of her.”

His companion grinned. “You ever see the Don lose his temper? Holy Jesus, he'll kill the little bitch. Come on, let's leave 'em to it. You take the south side of the house, I'll go around the east. Giorgio's keeping his eyes open out back.”

They sailed for Europe on the
Queen Elizabeth
. They were reconciled because they had to be. The families were now bound by a far-reaching business alliance. There was too much at stake beyond their personal happiness, and they accepted this in their different ways.

Steven argued with himself that Clara was still very young and her parents had spoiled her rotten. But she loved him, and he knew he must come to terms with her jealousy. It would pass in time, as she matured and her self-confidence grew. He had asked too much of her too quickly. He chided himself for having underestimated the fiery Sicilian temperament.

When she cried and begged him to love her, he came very close to tenderness as well as sexual desire. They'd be happy, he insisted.

Clara suffered. It was a new experience for her, and she was driven mad from loving a husband she couldn't possess. She had led a charmed life, protected from the least disappointment or frustration. She was helpless in this situation, at the mercy of an unbridled temper and her passion. Suspicion tortured her, so that she watched him constantly. She tried to please him but was never sure she succeeded. She was beautiful, and the admiring looks of men aboard the liner told her that she could have anyone she chose. But the ghost of a dead woman mocked her in Steven's arms. And the ghost of a dead child. That at least she could send quickly to its grave. She knelt by her bed at night and prayed to the Virgin and the saints to make her pregnant.

She knew her father was delighted with the marriage. In calmer moments, she realized that he would dismiss a wartime love affair with a shrug and wonder what she was complaining about. He wouldn't be pleased if there was trouble. He expected a good marriage, grandchildren to gladden his old age, and all the benefits of a treaty with Lucca Falconi. She would have to win Steven, and the way to do it was to give him a son as quickly as she could.

Paris enchanted Clara. She visited every art gallery, and to please her, Steven bought several expensive modern paintings for their new home.

They also explored the world of fashion. Clara fell in love with Dior's designs, which suited her svelte body admirably. Steven felt proud to see heads turn when they entered a restaurant. And Clara shopped for him. There were lavish presents of ties and shirts from Charvet and a magnificent Boucheron platinum watch. She stood beside him, watching his reaction, demanding over and over if he liked this or that. She was a child at heart, he thought: extravagant, impulsive, and demanding too, but it was all part of being in love. No half measures were possible. The extremes of her nature were a surprise to him. The Sicilian courtship, albeit American style, had left them little time to get to know each other in any depth. When they had managed to be alone, every moment was taken up in hungry sexual exploration, which was quickly stopped before it went too far.

Underneath the facade of culture and education there lurked a primitive Sicilian woman, single-minded in her love, black-hearted in her hatred. And clever. She had a brain, and its keenness surprised him. The more he understood her, the less he dismissed her quick intelligence. But she was still the adoring bride, willing to be guided, erotically submissive to whatever he asked.

They were happy together in Paris; so happy she begged to stay an extra week. The week lengthened into a fortnight.

She said to him one day as they walked arm in arm up the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, “You love it here as much as I do,
caro
, don't you?”

“I guess I do,” Steven agreed.

“Then why don't we buy an apartment here?” she said triumphantly. “I could use part of Papa's settlement. We could come in the spring maybe, when you weren't too busy. Why don't we, Steven?”

He stopped, taken by surprise. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“I've even asked around,” she admitted. “There's a lovely apartment for sale close by the Invalides. Couldn't we see it?”

Steven hesitated. This was a honeymoon. Time taken off from the important things in life. Their home was in the States. A place in Florida was realistic. An apartment halfway across the world was not. She saw the refusal coming, and the brightness changed to a sullen, tearful look full of reproach.

“Clara, sweetheart, it's a crazy idea. We'd never spend any time in it. How could we? We're going to have a place in Palm Beach. We'll have kids—we won't want to leave them behind.”

Kids. She bit her lip. That very morning, she'd learned she wasn't pregnant yet. The idea of a romantic rendezvous in Paris was some kind of compensation for that disappointment. Every year, she had imagined, they could slip away and have a secret honeymoon in the place where they had started to be really happy.

“We could just look at it,” she said. “What's the harm? We're not doing anything else this afternoon.”

“If you look at it, you'll like it,” he answered. “And we'll have an argument.”

“If we don't like it,” she countered, “there won't be an argument. Steven darling, it was just a silly idea, I guess, but it sounded like fun. I was going to surprise you. See it this afternoon and buy it for us. Maybe I should have done it.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have,” he countered. “I don't like surprises, sweetheart. If you're bored, we'll go see the place. But not to buy it or anything.”

It was a mistake to have indulged her, and as soon as the concierge let them in, Steven knew it. There was a magnificent reception room, over thirty feet long, with a fine Louis XVI marble fireplace and a brilliant Beauvais tapestry running the length of one wall. They could buy it with the apartment, the agent explained, because it was too big for the owners' new house. Long windows looked out over the Seine. Clara opened one and stepped onto the tiny balcony. She avoided Steven's eyes; her instincts warned her not to pressure him. The room, in all its elegance and beauty, would speak for itself.

The dining room was long and narrow, its walls hung in crimson silk. The parquet flooring made their footsteps echo. The bedroom was small, without a view and painted a cold French gray. The bathroom, compared to their American one, was primitive but could be modernized. The bedroom needed only clever decorating and a handsome bed. Ideas chased through her mind but stopped at her tongue. He wouldn't agree. She knew he wouldn't. He would see all the practical disadvantages and simply say no. It was her money, but he would still feel he had a husband's right to dictate how she spent it. She walked back through the rich dining room and into the great salon, her full mouth set tightly.

She said sweetly, looking up at him. “I know we can't have it,
caro
, but isn't it lovely?”

“It's one hell of a room,” he said, looking around once more. “It's got everything, if only we didn't live three thousand miles away.” Then he thanked the agent, who understood that this was not going to be a sale. “You won't have trouble selling this.”

She slipped her hand through his arm as they walked out onto the street. For a moment she turned and looked back at the building. The facade was white stone, built in the handsome classical style of the Second Empire, when Napoleon's nephew, the last emperor, remodeled Paris to his grand design.

“Well, never mind,” she said. “It was fun seeing it.”

He was surprised that she gave in so easily and grateful because she continued to be pleasant for the rest of the day, which was unusual when she didn't get her way.

Everything went wrong in Monte Carlo, where the scene was set for a romantic climax to the honeymoon before they were to fly back to New York via London.

They had a suite booked in the Hôtel de Paris, overlooking the harbor. Big flower arrangements and champagne in an ice bucket awaited them with the manager's compliments. The weather was perfect; the sea sparkled like a big blue diamond, and the yachts rode at their moorings in arrogant splendor. There was a gala night at the casino, to which they had been invited, thanks to a friend with influence who owed the Fabrizzis a favor. He had secured the coveted entrée to the social event of the season.

Clara was exquisitely dressed in a cream silk Dior evening dress. It flattered her pale skin, which she never exposed to the damaging rays of sunshine, and the long, silky black hair that swung down to her shoulders. She wore her father's diamonds around her neck and Lucca Falconi's diamonds in her ears. She entered the casino on the arm of her tall husband and registered the looks of admiration. There was a flush of happiness and pride in her cheeks, partly owing to the secret she was keeping from Steven. The Paris apartment was hers. She had concluded the deal before they flew down to Nice.

The manager and his assistant saw them enter. They were men of impeccable manners and suave appearance, with sharp eyes and cash-register memories.

“That's the one,” the assistant murmured.

For a moment the manager's automatic smile came loose. “How did they get in here, Pierre?”

He whispered a local name. “He wanted an invitation for a friend's daughter and her husband. On their honeymoon, he said. He vouched for them personally. I said, Pass the names through to my secretary, and she'll see they get an invitation.”

“If His Highness gets to hear of this, you're fired,” the manager muttered, bowing his head in greeting to a distinguished gambling client. “The mob's never set foot in here till tonight. I want him watched. I want someone on his tail when he's eating or gambling or taking a piss. He's come here for something. I want to know who he talks to, who seems to know him. And see that name's struck off the list.”

“Falconi?” the assistant said under his breath. “I've already done that.”

“I mean the bastard that got him in here,” the manager said, moving forward to kiss an English duchess's hand.

There was a performance by a troupe from the Ballet Russe, which nearly sent Steven to sleep after a magnificent seven-course dinner, enhanced by the finest wines and vintage champagne. Afterward the guests found their way to the gambling tables, and that's when Steven came to life. He quickly noted every detail of the doyen of casinos, filing them away for future reference: the rich decor, the air of exclusivity, the impeccable dress and bearing of every member of the staff, all in full evening dress.

The gala was graced by the prince himself and a large party. Clara stared with open curiosity, and for a moment the prince stared back, trying to place this new beauty. Steven was not beguiled by princes, but he was intrigued by the source from which so much royal revenue was drawn. The air smelled of money, cigar smoke and expensive scent; of out-of-season flowers that bloomed from every stately vase in every available space; and of the indefinable odor of human excitement as the tables began to fill up.

He passed through the roulette salon. Every kind of gambling was in progress, from simple blackjack to the heavy silence of the baccarat room, where fortunes were lost and a few made. Class! The word screamed at him. That was the keynote of the whole place. Discreet, opulent, challenging the clientele to prove they had the money and the nerve to play there.

It was the greatest contrast to the casinos in Nevada, which were noisy and garish, staffed by hoods in tight tuxedos, with holsters bulging under their arms. Whores draped themselves around the bars and gambling tables, getting a percentage if their customers drank and bet more than they meant to, before they were taken upstairs to be fleeced.

Even the biggest and smartest casinos run by the Musso family in Las Vegas were second-rate compared to this. True, the croupiers here had the same feral look in the eye, the same slick movements, and doubtless the invisible button near the knee to alter the draw of the cards or the balance of the wheel. But that was all they had in common. Class, he said to himself. Here losing money was a privilege. He moved a little closer to the baccarat table. A blond woman wearing enough rubies and diamonds to pay off the national debt was playing with demonic concentration. Greed distorted her otherwise beautiful face. She was winning, the counters piling up at her elbow. After each hand, she pushed a handful into the slit in the table for the croupier.

“
Merci, Altesse
,” he said each time, and made a little bow.

Someone close to Steven murmured to him in English, “You wouldn't think the Germans lost the war, to look at her, would you?”

“She's German?” Steven said.

The man was in his middle thirties, with a beaky English face and a slight drawl. “Princess Beatrix von Arentz,” he answered. He had been told to follow the American, and in his view, the best way to watch someone in a place like this was to talk to him. It wasn't the conventional method, but then he'd never done anything conventional in his life. Except gamble away his own inheritance.

“Stinking rich husband,” he volunteered. “Amazing how they pull themselves up by the boot straps, isn't it? I think he made it out of scrap.” He had a rather high-pitched laugh, which he muffled with his hand. “Plenty of that around in Hunland after the war. She's crazy. She comes here every night and never moves from that table till they close.
She's
the princess, by the way. God knows what sewer the husband crawled out of. He usually goes home by now and leaves her to it.”

“She's winning,” Steven remarked. “She's winning an awful lot of money.”

“Not as much as she's lost,” the Englishman remarked. “Casinos are like bookmakers, don't you think? They always end up with a profit. Do you play?”