Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

Having ruined my own good time and not knowing quite what to do with myself, I took the train to Sorrento on the third day. I stayed at the Imperial Hotel Tramantano, overlooking the Gulf of Naples, and insisted on a bayside room. Then spent hours on the balcony watching the hydroplanes ferry tourists to and from Capri.

In Sorrento, I prefer to eat not downtown among the winding streets filled with pottery and souvenir shops, but at the harbor of Marina Grande where I can watch the fishing boats come in, see wedding parties taking pictures in front of the old church, and watch grandmothers go to mass. I usually love the walk that plunges steeply down the hillside, twisting through narrow streets and passing underneath the city’s ancient gate. And there’s nothing like eating outside at a table on the crude dock that hovers just above the lapping waves. But that year, I couldn’t get excited about the long walk back up the hill to the hotel, and I decided not to make the trek.

The second afternoon, I did, however, visit a marquetry shop run by a family who sells antique boxes pieced together from miniscule bits of colored wood. Among all the containers and plaques and trivets, I saw a box that would have been perfect for Cranwell; he would have appreciated the artistry required to make it. I punished him by not buying it, and on my walk back over to the hotel, I purchased a bottle of limoncello for myself instead.

I spent that night parked in a chair on my balcony, sipping lemon liqueur, watching the activity, hearing the humanity in the town around me.

The next day I spent on Capri.

And that year, I found no pleasure in the hydroplane ride across the bay. In the past, I had loved the strength in the wind as the boat rounded the corner of the peninsula and pointed its nose toward the island. That year, it required too much energy to keep my hat on my head, so I went inside the boat and sat on a bench. If I wasn’t happy, at least I could nurse my self-pity in the relative warmth of a southern Italian winter.

My thoughts kept stalling on Cranwell. I kept wondering what he was up to. And even as I climbed the hill that the town of Capri clings to, I tried to decide whether or not he would be doing whatever it was with Sévérine.

Even the view from the top of the hill at Tragara, of the wedge-shaped Faraglioni formations jutting from the sea, seemed mundane. In past years, I had followed the path beneath the hillside terrace to the water. That year, I found a bench beneath a tree and, hidden by my sunglasses, closed my eyes and dozed in the breeze.

From hundreds of miles away, Cranwell had managed to ruin everything.

From Sorrento, I took the train back to Rome and flew out of the Eternal City seven long days after I’d landed there. It was only after I reached Paris that I realized my thin black pants, black tight-fitting long-sleeve sweater, and hair spun into a French roll were reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. And wasn’t her Roman holiday nearly as pointless as mine?

I returned to find Cranwell waiting on my doorstep with Lucy beside him. He was wearing a black leather jacket fastened with toggles over a pair of jeans. Forlorn little kids sitting on the stoops of their tract homes in mid-America have nothing on forlorn grown men sitting on the huge steps of a gigantic chateau.

He shot up like a rocket and a grin creased his face as soon as my car looped around the drive. He practically skipped to the car, opened the door for me, and then insisted on carrying my suitcase up the stairs.

“And where is Sévérine?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t seen her in a week.”

For the first time since I’d left on vacation, I felt my spirits lift.

We had dinner together, as was our habit. I had to admit that it was nice to see him again, although I still clenched my teeth whenever I thought of Sévérine.

His soap and woodsy scent overpowered the smell of everything else. And it was not the first time I’d noticed that it had a dizzying effect on me.

As I placed an espresso in front of him after our meal, he cleared his throat as if he had something important to say. I suddenly felt very nervous.

“I have something for you Freddie.”

“Oh?”

“I saw it in Paris. It made me think of you. Merry belated Christmas.”

He passed a small rectangular package to me. I opened it. Found it to be an antique cookbook that was at least three hundred and fifty years old.

“I know it’s not quite fifteenth century, but I thought it might be interesting all the same.”

When I clenched my teeth that time, it was to keep from crying. All I could see was that perfect box sitting in the marquetry shop in Sorrento. I kept my head bowed until I regained control.

How did the book come to be clasped to my chest?

I smiled and looked at him. “Thank you. It’s really very…” I couldn’t help myself: I burst into tears.

“Freddie.” He drew me close and put his arms around me. “What’s wrong? Why are you so unhappy?”

He pressed his cheek to my hair and stroked my back as I allowed myself the pleasure of being held by him. His shoulder was the perfect height for me to rest my head on. Closing my eyes and feeling the roughness of his taupe wool sweater against my face, I imagined for just a moment that he loved me.

If only he weren’t with Sévérine.

As if on cue, the door slammed in the entry hall.

“ Cou-cou .” Sévérine’s voice drifted down to us. I pulled out of Cranwell’s arms, turned my back to him, rubbed a hand across my face, and took a tremulous trial sniff.

“Frédérique?”

I walked toward the stairs and shouted up at her. “Down here.”

Quickly walking back to the table, I palmed Cranwell’s present and slid past Sévérine as she came down the stairs. She was wearing a well-cut black blazer and a jaunty red chenille scarf over tight-fitting jeans.

Leaving the lovers to themselves, I took my misery upstairs.

I passed the week kicking myself for breaking down in front of Cranwell again. My emotions didn’t usually live so close to the surface. Finally, I was able to look Cranwell in the eye, and by that time, my next guests had arrived. They came, surprisingly enough, on a Tuesday.

They drove up in a Mercedes and parked exactly in the center of the drive.

As I watched, a man opened the driver’s door by degrees and appeared in increments, first a foot, then a calf, then a leg. An arm. The top of his head. Finally, he straightened. Although he was old and hunched, he had a magnificent head of hair and a regal cut to his suit. Pausing for a moment, he put a hand to his tie and then made his way around the car to the passenger’s side.

He opened the door and offered a hand to the passenger. In contrast to the gentleman, she floated out of the car to her feet, and after settling a sweater over her shoulders, she slipped a hand around the gentleman’s arm.

Together they turned toward the chateau.

My jaw dropped.

Never had I seen a more beautiful woman.

She, like the man, was probably at least eighty years old, but where he was stooped, she stood straight as a ruler and carried her head high. At a younger age, she would have had the blackest of hair, for that was the only way to account for her brilliant white locks. They had been drawn back from her face and then curled up at the ends. And her body was one that even I would envy. The drapey crepe dress she wore recalled the sirens of the 1940s.

And then, she turned her face to the man and smiled. The glow in her eyes and the round apples that appeared in her cheeks cast the illusion of a woman in her thirties.

They came up the steps toward me, and I opened the door wide for them.

“Monsieur et Madame Duroc.” I inclined my head as I greeted them.