Italian Fever Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR VALERIE MARTIN’S

  Italian Fever

  “Martin captures what it’s like to be an American woman in Italy. Forget those myths of romance and mystery. What Lucy finds far more valuable are friendship and the discovery of artistic treasures and Italian cuisine.”

  —USA Today

  “Italian Fever slyly dismantles its own satire and casts a long mysterious shadow over everything that has come before.”

  —The New Yorker

  “Martin’s … gifts are evident in her strong delineation of a not-as-sensible-as-she-seems heroine and a poignant portrait of a mediocre … novelist whose final manuscript stumbles into something approximating art.”

  —Elle

  “Taut, honed, and surprising.”

  —Frances Mayes, author of Under the Tuscan Sun

  “A rich literary stew.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Martin goes head-to-head with some big names (Henry James, E. M. Forster) and comes up aces.… A heart-stopping, expert, and entirely contemporary novel.”

  —Ann Arensberg, author of Incubus

  “Sophisticated … elegant, honest, devilishly witty.”

  —Hartford Courant

  “Italian Fever is a spectacular book—skillfully designed, wildly imaginative, with a startling mix of playful, romantic, and nightmarish confrontations.”

  —Joanna Scott, author of Manikin

  “Intriguing … both literal and metaphorical.”

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  “Graceful and gently amusing.”

  —Salon

  “Italian Fever is a pleasure that sticks to and tickles the ribs.”

  —Katherine Dunn, author of Geek Love

  “Captivating.… In this smart, taut tale, Valerie Martin has captured the spirit of a place, merged it into a seamless narrative, and reminded us of the power of art to alter our lives. A beautifully written, compelling novel.”

  —Mary Morris, author of Nothing to Declare

  Italian Fever

  VALERIE MARTIN

  Valerie Martin is the author of six novels and two collections of short fiction, including The Great Divorce and Mary Reilly. She lived in Rome for three years and currently resides in upstate New York.

  ALSO BY VALERIE MARTIN

  Set in Motion

  Alexandra

  A Recent Martyr

  The Consolation of Nature

  Mary Reilly

  The Great Divorce

  FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, MAY 2000

  Copyright © 1999 by Valerie Martin

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1999.

  Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Contemporaries and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:

  Italian fever : a novel / Valerie Martin. —1st ed.

  p. cm.

  I. Title

  PS3563.A7295I83 1999

  813.54—dc21

  98-31824

  eISBN: 978-0-307-83385-3

  Author photograph © Jerry Bauer

  www.vintagebooks.com

  v3.1

  For Antonella Centaro and Sergio Perroni,

  generous Italian friends who

  resemble no one in this book

  “Let her go to Italy!” he cried. “Let her meddle with what she doesn’t understand!”

  —E. M. FORSTER

  Where Angels Fear to Tread

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  DV SAT AT his writing table rubbing his tired, itching eyes with clenched fists. A pad of paper lay between his elbows; a capped pen rested upon it. A cube of ice floating in a tumbler of bourbon gave a startling crack. The cool night air moving softly through the open window lifted the edge of the paper, then let it fall again. DV cursed, added her name, gave up rubbing his eyes, and rested his chin in his palms, gazing wearily out at the blue-black sky.

  Once nothing had been easier. Now, night after night he sat like this between his former allies, the paper and the bourbon, waiting for a sentence to come to him, but nothing came. He took up the glass dutifully and swallowed the bourbon without tasting it, but he could feel it, the delicate adjustment in his consciousness, the muddling of his reflexes, the easing of his pain. He was still holding the glass to his lips when he heard the distinctive and familiar sound of gravel crunching underfoot on the drive outside. Two steps, then a pause, then another step.

  He was on his feet, on the staircase, stumbling but quick, across the living room to the front door, which he threw open easily, for it was not locked. The man was there at the end of the drive, looking back at the house. He carried a rifle propped against his shoulder, but his posture was relaxed, not stiff; there was nothing soldierly about him. DV stepped out past the trellis that shaded the doorway. He wanted to be seen. “Wait,” he said. His own voice mocked him. The word was useless, of course. He searched his memory for the proper substitute. “Aspetta,” he added.

  But the man had turned away and was disappearing from the feet up as he plunged down the slope into the olive grove. In a moment he would be gone. “Not this time, buddy,” DV said, hurling himself out across the drive. He could see his quarry moving away, though it was dark and there was a mist rising from the damp earth beneath the trees. Again he called out, “Aspetta!” and gave what chase he could. He had drunk too much. He could feel the dulling effects of the alcohol in his movements, the increased potential for losing some elementary contest with gravity. The man paused, looked back, then went on, ever downward, through the silvery trees. “He wants me to follow him,” DV muttered, stumbling against a tree root and righting himself with a grasp at a passing branch. The ground was leveling out. They had come in a wide semicircle, for just ahead was the long, low wall that hid the villa from view. The man hurried alongside this wall, then abruptly turned toward the road. DV knew where they were now; he could see the lights from the windows of his landlord’s cottage. The gate to the villa was ahead, guarding the Cini mansion, where the others were even now, doubtless, brooding and plotting against him. As he hurried past the gate, he glanced through the iron filigree, but all was darkness beyond. The cypress-lined lane curved away into the mist, like something from a movie or a dream, at once alluring and menacing. The man with the rifle had crossed the road and struck out into a plowed field. DV followed his quarry, but his thoughts circled the figure of the Cini grandson, his world-weary smile as he flicked open his lighter, his unctuous “Allow me,” the oily, confidential way he inclined his head over
her shoulder as he brought the little flame down to light her cigarette. No, DV thought, as his shoes sank in the soft mud of the field, there was nothing like the Cini family in America. Thank God for that.

  It was hard going in the field. To keep his shoes from becoming bogged in the mud, he had to keep moving, so he adopted a kind of high-stepping jog, which was tiring but effective. There was a low fence at the far side; he could see the man leaning his rifle against it, then squatting to squeeze between the cross poles. He looked back, taking up his rifle, and DV, floundering in the mud, had a sudden humiliating vision of himself as a helpless and amusing target. The man was wearing a soft old-fashioned hat with a wide brim, not at all the sort of headgear one expected to see in the countryside, and as he turned away, he touched the edge with his thumb in a gesture that looked like a greeting. Then he stepped down—there was evidently a sharp decline at the edge of the field—and, shouldering his rifle, continued on his way.

  By the time DV got to the fence, the man was nearly out of sight. There was a dry dirt road on the other side. He clambered down to it eagerly and stood for a moment stomping the mud from his shoes. His exertions had left him warm and nearly sober. He was able to consider the question of whether it was wise to continue his pursuit. He didn’t know the road; there was no telling where he might end up, how difficult the return would be. But going back now meant struggling through the muddy field. If he went along the road, he might find an easier route. As if to confirm this hope, he saw the diminishing figure of the man turning off toward the right, back toward the villa. He broke into an uneven trot. It was a relief to run on the hard-packed roadbed. He had lost sight of the man but didn’t doubt that he would come into view again around the bend just ahead. But when he got there, to his surprise, the road forked and the man was nowhere in sight. DV stopped, bemused and breathless, and stood looking this way and that through the steam of his own breath upon the cool night air. One road led uphill, curving back the way he had come; the other went down, disappearing into a patch of low bushes and trees. He peered into the darkness, detecting some motion, a flash of white, which must surely be the man with the rifle. As he hurried along this low road, it crossed his mind, in some distant, half-conscious, inaccessible way, that if the man had been wearing anything white, he would have noticed it before now. The road narrowed steadily until the bushes on either side caught at the cuffs of his pants, but he pressed on. Soon there was only a thin path, so encroached upon by the surrounding vegetation that he was forced to look down to find his way. The ground was going up now; the path twisted, first right, then left, until he was not certain in which direction he was headed. There was no sign of the man with the rifle. DV lumbered on, but he was moving slowly. As he stumbled over a tree root, his fatigue and frustration surfaced in a string of low curses. He stopped again, looking behind, then ahead. Did he really have to turn back, retrace his steps and struggle across the wretched field again? The air was heavy; gradually, he became aware of a sickish odor, something more pungent than decaying vegetation. He would go a little farther, he decided; then, if the path continued impracticable, he would go back.

  As he reached this decision, he heard the sharp crack of gunfire off to his right. His first impulse, which was to throw himself facedown on the ground, gave way to anger, and he veered toward the sound, his head lowered, his shoulders hunched forward, as if he expected to tackle his opponent. He charged a few yards through the underbrush, then came to a halt, finding himself in a wide, empty clearing. He turned around slowly, listening, trying to gauge the dimensions of the space, which was difficult in the darkness. Overhead he could see a spray of stars, very bright, for there was no artificial light to dim the heavens. The smell, fetid and sickening, was stronger. He covered his nose with his hand. Whatever it was, it was nearby. Suppose, he thought, it was a dead body, another American perhaps, lured out here, as he had been, by the man with the rifle, and murdered, as he would be if he didn’t give up the chase.

  Then, as he stood in the clearing, a terrible confusion came over him and he understood that he was lost. He couldn’t remember where he had come in, and the vegetation was as closed all around as a room with no door. He went to the spot where he thought he might have entered, but there was no evidence that it was the right one; there were no broken leaves or branches and he couldn’t see the ground well enough to make out anything like a footprint. The unpleasant smell made him anxious; it seemed to be rolling over him in waves. His stomach turned and his throat contracted. What was he doing out here? How had he come to this insalubrious pass? He covered his nose with his hand again and stood, head lowered, listening to the dense silence of the woods. Surely if he could only manage to walk straight in any direction, he would eventually come to some road. This was Italy, after all. It wasn’t some uncharted wilderness. He scanned the heavens for something to navigate by, but the truth was, he knew nothing about the stars, nor was the moon anywhere to be seen. At least if he kept walking, he could eventually escape the gagging smell. He pushed at the foliage, which gave way easily enough, and took a few steps. As quickly as the way opened before him, it closed behind. He went on—there was nothing else to do—though the way grew more difficult and the rancid air invaded his nose and mouth and burned his eyes. Again he took up a slow jog, trying not to notice the disproportionate increase in his heart rate. He was going steadily downhill, he could feel it, and this seemed comforting for some reason, perhaps because it indicated some discernible direction. Then, through a break in the trees, he saw something promising, a low hill covered with scrub and at the top a whitewashed building, perhaps the outbuilding of a farm. There would be more difficulty ahead; he would have to explain somehow who he was and where he wanted to be, but if he just kept repeating “Villa Cini,” surely he could get someone to lead him that far. A wave of optimism buoyed him up and spurred him on. He picked up speed.

  Then several things happened at once. He emerged into a narrow, open area where the decline was suddenly very steep. The fetid smell rose up around him like a swarm of furious insects, so that even as he lost his footing, flailing his arms to regain his balance, his stomach contracted violently, causing him to pitch forward, stumbling and vomiting, first to his knees, then, as the ground slipped away beneath him, head over heels. His brain buzzed with activity, every system becoming alert, but he was completely at the whim of gravity, dragged relentlessly down, while terror pumped out such a flood of adrenaline that his senses were suddenly, excruciatingly acute and time came to a standstill. He saw the slick sole of his own shoe go by and thought wistfully of the running shoes in his wardrobe at the house. His fall was generating a shower of dirt and gravel, which stung his cheeks and choked him. His chin was wet. Was it blood or vomit? One arm was trapped behind him, causing the muscles in his bad shoulder to tear painfully. He would be sore for weeks. If he could only get his legs under him long enough to lie flat, he might be able to stop this endless hurtling downhill. His head and chest came up into the air. He saw something just ahead, something white, jutting out of the soil, and he heard the word concrete as clearly as if someone had pronounced it next to his ear. It had not, he thought, been a good idea to come to Italy. She was gone, and now this. He said her name. He heard a sharp pop, not gunfire, but something much worse, very close, and then, in the last moment, he knew he was entirely free of the earth and that the all-engulfing blackness he was entering had nothing to do with anything outside his own shattered skull.

  Chapter 1

  OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE,” Lucy exclaimed. “It’s a ghost story.” She dropped the page she was reading onto the smaller of the two stacks that filled every inch of the available space on her cluttered desk. This manuscript, the first half of DV’s latest novel, had arrived from Italy the day before. The package was tattered and stained, the post-mark a month old. Why had DV shipped it by sea mail? In preparation for the labor of transcribing it onto the computer, Lucy had passed the morning reading it, experiencing, as
she always did when confronted by her employer’s contributions to the world of letters, a steady elevation of blood pressure and an involuntary clenching of the jaw that made her face ache. The page she took up next was as covered over with scratches, lines, and mysterious explosions of ink as an aerial photograph of a war zone. Why, she wondered, did it take such an effort for DV to write so poorly?

  Under different names, in different settings, the narrators of DV’s novels were all the same man: a self-absorbed, pretentious bore, always involved in a tragic but passionate relationship with a neurotic, artistic, beautiful woman, always caught up in some far-fetched rescue adventure, dipping occasionally into the dark underworld of thugs and hired murderers, or rising to the empyrean abodes, the glittering palaces of the wealthy and the elite. The whole absurd mess was glazed over with a sticky treacle of trite homilies and tributes by the narrator to himself for being so strong and wise and brave when everyone around him was scarcely able to get out of bed. He was usually a writer or a journalist; sometimes he traveled. When he traveled, he was always recovering from an emotional crisis and he was always alone. This time, his name was Malcolm Manx, described by himself in the early pages as “an American writer of some reputation.” Devastated by the breakup of a passionate but tragic marriage, he has secluded himself in a villa in Tuscany, where he hopes to find peace, inspiration, and a renewed interest in life.

  Lucy placed her frog paperweight carefully on the pages and stalked off to the kitchen. To read on, she would need a cup of herbal tea, a glass of water, and two aspirin. The book was awful. DV’s books were always awful, but what made this one worse than the others was the introduction of a new element, which was bound to boost sales: There was a ghost in the villa. DV had gone gothic. It wasn’t enough that the unsuspecting Italians must succumb to the bold and original charms of the devastated American writer; now he was haranguing the dead as well.