Anne Mather - Prelude To Enchantment

Sancha sought about in her mind for a suitable beginning, and then said: ‘First of all I'd like some personal details.’ She flushed. ‘Not necessarily intimate details, you understand, but perhaps a little of your background.'

The Count tapped ash from his cheroot into an onyx ashtray. ‘Very well, signorina , I will tell you something of my family's history, si ?’ He contemplated the jewel-inscribed signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. ‘I am the eleventh Conte di Malatesta, the title being granted to my family in the eighteenth century. There have been ancestors of mine in various walks of life, most notably politics and the church. But I am, regrettably, the last surviving member of the family, having no brothers and no sisters. My parents are both dead, and my closest living relative is an elderly aunt.’ His eyes challenged hers as she looked up from taking this down. ‘Is that the kind of thing you wanted?'

Sancha's colour deepened. ‘Y—yes, signore. ’ She consulted her notebook with assumed concentration. ‘You—er—you haven't mentioned the palazzo. Perhaps you could tell me a little about it.'

He inclined his head. ‘Of course.’ He glanced round the huge apartment. ‘The palazzo was built in the sixteenth century and was originally owned by a commercial trading family who lost their fortune when Napoleon Bonaparte was making a name for himself. It is, as you can see, badly in need of renovation, although these apartments which I have for my own use are reasonably comfortable.'

‘Thank you.’ Sancha finished the sentence carefully.

‘What now?’ The Count surveyed her intently. ‘Tell me, are you not a little young to be conducting such an interview, or is Parita experimenting in the use of junior reporters?'

Sancha looked up indignantly. ‘I am perfectly capable of conducting this interview, signore ,’ she retorted, her annoyance overcoming nervousness momentarily, but only momentarily so that when she realised what she had said she felt discomfited. However, there was a glint of amusement in the Count's slightly narrowed eyes, as he said:

‘I understood a Signorina Fabrioli was to interview me.'

Sancha bit her lip. ‘Yes, she was,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘But I'm afraid she was taken ill at the last moment, so——'

‘So you were deputed to take her place?'

‘Yes.’ Belatedly she remembered she had not said signore.

‘I see.’ The Count stubbed out the remains of his cheroot. ‘Do go on. Do you wish to get on to the book now?'

‘Oh! Oh, yes!’ Sancha flicked over the page in her notebook. ‘Yes, of course. Er'—she was flustered—‘er—would you like to tell me what inspired you to write such a book?'

‘You have read it?’ His eyes were too piercing.

‘Yes,’ Sancha faced him resolutely. She would not let him disconcert her.

‘Then you ask me what you would like to know,’ he parried.

Sancha sighed. ‘All right.’ She sought about in her mind for an opening. ‘Have—have you always been interested in this period of Italian history?'

The Count frowned. ‘Well, signorina , the Borgias have always interested me. And the artists of that time—Dante, Michelangelo, Giotto; the Renaissance period was an inspiring period, don't you think?'

‘Undoubtedly.’ Sancha swallowed hard. ‘Did—did the book take long to write?'

‘To write, no. To research yes. I suppose in all it took perhaps two years from inception to completion. Writing is a fascinating business, do you not agree?'

Sancha smiled faintly and nodded. Mentally she went over what she had put down, trying desperately to keep the conversation going. It would be too awful to sit here with his man and say nothing, constantly aware of the searching penetration of his eyes. She was not used to men like him. He was much older than any of the men she associated with, for one thing, and she speculated upon his actual age. He could have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five, but she did not like to ask. She had a description, and that would have to be enough. There was the information about his family, of course, that could be enlarged upon back at the office, and there was the further history of the palazzo itself which she could no doubt research herself in the city's archives. Then there was the book; she could perhaps use some more information about his style of writing, and the reasons behind it.

Looking up again, she said: ‘How do you write, signore ? I mean—do you have set hours every day when you work at the book? Or is it a thing of inspiration?'

The Count considered her question before answering. Then he said: ‘When I was writing the book I followed many variations. Sometimes I could write for hours on end, and at others a few lines only. At the moment, I am researching for another book and I work most mornings.'

‘Oh, that's interesting!’ Sancha was glad of another avenue to follow. ‘May we know what this second book is about?'

‘Of course.’ The Count inclined his head again. ‘It takes up where my first book left off, following into the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.'

‘I see.’ Sancha nodded, scribbling frantically on her pad.

‘But I am also creating yet another book,’ went on the Count softly. ‘It is not like the others. It is not an historical book, as such, but a book of poetry. Do you like poetry, Miss Forrest?'

Sancha's colour deepened hotly. ‘Er—yes,’ she answered uncomfortably. ‘When—when I find time to read it.'

‘But you must find time, signorina ,’ he exclaimed urgently. ‘There is so much beauty to be found in words, don't you think? We should not always use words for prosaic things like this interview for instance. We should allow words to flow—to melodise; to lift us out of the coils of mortal man into the infinite!'

Sancha listened to him, enthralled in spite of herself. Then she realised he had stopped speaking and was regarding her with those disturbing eyes again and she sought refuge in the scribbled lines on her pad.

Wetting her dry lips, she went on. ‘You write poetry, signore ?’ without looking up.

‘Very little, signorina ,’ he confessed softly. ‘The poems I am collating are the work of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century poets who regrettably were never recognised or published. Some are anonymous, some have the names of their authors, but all are quite beautiful.'

The tenor of his voice changed as he spoke of these things he admired so much and Sancha realised that this was where his real enthusiasm lay. And because he was enthusiastic he had the power to fill her with enthusiasm, too.

‘Will you have some more wine, signorina ?’ he asked suddenly, getting to his feet and crossing to where Paolo, had left the tray. ‘It is a hot afternoon. No doubt you are thirsty.'

‘Oh, no, no, thank you.’ Sancha shook her head vigorously. Already the heat of the room and the heady quality of the wine she had already drunk were combining to make her feel slightly drowsy. It was so quiet here, so peaceful after the hectic activity of the magazine offices.

The Count poured himself more wine and then came to lean against the mantel again, one foot upraised to rest upon the polished brass fender before it. Sancha from her position could see the polished boot on his foot and the tautness of the dark trousers against the muscles of his legs. He was altogether too close for comfort and she slid back in her seat as surreptitiously as she could.

‘Is that all?’ he enquired now.

‘I—I think so.’ Sancha closed her book with a snap.

‘Good.’ He swallowed some of the wine and holding up his glass to the light examined the remainder of its contents with intent appraisal. ‘And now perhaps you will tell me something about yourself.'