John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

There were also other aspects: handfuls of peeling buildings, the open front of a cluttered shop, a dowdy petrol station. In summer these last would seem romantic. In winter they came into clear, depressing focus. Now he looked for the gates set into the high, grey stone wall to the right, hoping that nothing at the villa had fundamentally altered.

The gates were open, and he swung the Fiat into the tight turning circle inside, cut the engine and got Out. In front of him was a large and beautiful lily pond, bordered on the right by another gate which, in turn, led to steps overhung with vines and greenery. He could see the white dome of the villa above, and was half way up the steps when a voice called “Signor Bond?”

He shouted back an affirmative, and, as he reached the top, a young girl appeared. She was dressed in a tank top and jeans that were not so much cut-ofs as rip-offs, making her look as though a pair of gorgeous legs had been grafted Onto a small, exquisite body. Her face could only be described as cheeky. Dark eyes danced above a snub nose and wide smiling mouth, the whole topped by a bubbly black, tight-curled foam of hair.

She had come out of the big, sliding glass doors of the villa and now stood, smiling, by the poolside. In the palms and tropical fronds to her right a short, white statue of a young satyr thumbed its mouth and produced almost a mirror-image of the girl.

“Signor Bond,” she said again, the voice jolly and bright, “welcome to Villa Capricciani. I am Beatrice.” She pronounced it with almost cassata-flavoured Italian - Beh-ah-Tre-che. “I am here to greet you. Also to look after you. I am the maid.”

Bond thought he would not like to bet on it, but strode onto the wide terrace which was covered with a green material so that in hot weather you would not barbecue the bare soles of your feet getting to the pool which was now empty and covered. The villas were never open in the winter, so he wondered how M had pulled off the renting of this one. The answer probably lay in a close, maybe secret, arrangement with the owner. M had highly-placed friends the world over, and, Bond suspected, was able to apply pressure when required by circumstances such as these.

As though reading his thoughts, Beatrice stretched Out her hand and took his in an unexpectedly firm grasp. “The Signora is away. She go to Milano for the Natale. I remain here and guard the house and all the villas entirely.”

“And I wonder if you guard them for BAST, also?”

Bond thought.

“Come, I will show you.” Beatrice gave his hand a short tug, like a child leading him into the villa, then stopped. “Ah, I forget.

Already you know. You have before been here, yes?”

He smiled and nodded, following her into the big white room with arched ceiling and matching sofas and chairs, encased in cream covers.

There were three glass-topped tables, four lamps with surrounds of white glass shaped like Opening lilies, and four paintings - one in the style of Hockney, an unknown man leaning against the chrome surround of the pool; three others of various garden views which needed no explaining to Bond.

In spite of Beatrice’s realisation of the fact that he already knew the place, she continued to lead him around, almost at breakneck speed, showing off the three large bedrooms “You will have trouble in making your mind which to use, huh? Or possibly you use them one at a time. Different each night. You are alone, huh? A pity. One different each night would be enjoyable.” This last was followed by grandsire triples of laughter.

The villa was on one level, just the main room, with doors off to the three bedrooms, and a narrow passage - neatly contrived to store two refrigerators, food, china, pots, pans and cutlery leading to the kitchen. The rear of the main room was arched and, in turn, led to the dining area: the whole beautifully furnished with a clever mix of old and new, each room taking on a style of its own. Behind the dining area you passed through a pair of french windows on to a second terrace, on the left of which, steps led up to a flat roof, converted into an open-sided room - simply a wood and rush roof, topped by a weathercock, supported by heavy wooden beams and furnished with a long refectory table, making an excellent dining area in summer.

The view looked out towards the little white and grey town of Forio, with its ancient refurbished church of Our Lady of Succour, brilliant white, built with simple architectural lines, perched on the older grey stone projecting from the headland of Soccorso.

The rain had cleared, and there was a little winter sun which seemed to hit the church, tiny in the distance, then bounce off to sprinkle and glitter on the water. Bond looked back at the town, with its hills rising above, then returned his gaze to the promontory and the church.

“Is beautiful, eh?” Beatrice stood by his side. “This is for the help of fishermen; for all who sail. Our Lady of Soccorso takes care of them.”

“We have a hymn,” Bond unexpectedly heard himself say. “It is a prayer. Oh hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea.”’ “Is good.”

She was standing close to him, and even in the chill of this winter day he could smell the sunshine on her. A sweetness that seemed to have been trapped in the strong hot weeks of summer, mingled with a scent he could not identify.

He turned and walked back, pausing by the steps to look at this incredible wonder which lay behind the villa.

At one time, the local people had thought the Signora - who, as Beatrice had said, was now in Milan - was mad. Widow of a great artist she had bought this land: barren rock. She had arranged for some of it to be blasted away, shaping it into a kind of amphitheatre. Hard against the side of the rock she had then built a large villa which looked like a grey buttressed fortress.

The four small villas which she rented out in the summer were converted from old structures, once shepherds’ huts and barns.

But her greatest achievement had been the garden which was reflected in some of the pictures back in the Villa Capricciani.

She had gathered together men who loved growing things, as she did, and, with immense toil and frustration had built this incredible, beautiful place full of cyprus, palm, mountain flowers, flowering shrubs and bushes, shaded walks, ponds and fountains, water tricks which would hurl liquid into great archways over paths, or imitate a mountain stream pouring endlessly from bare rock into a blue pool from whence it was recycled to create the illusion of constant moving water.

The ponds were peopled by small turtles and goldfish, and even in winter there was colour from hardy plants. All year round there was some form of natural colour, and the beauty of this place stayed in Bond’s memory. Once seen, the garden lived with you, as though it had been implanted in your mind through some magic of its own creation.

He looked up along the stone-encrusted ridge at the far end of the great scooped rock, and allowed his eyes to trace their way along the zigzag of paths and walks, the trees and bushes bent, growing at angles determined by the harsh winds of winter.

Indeed, this was a work of great love and dedication. The local people had long since come to understand that the Signora should be treated with awe and reverence.

“Is a great genius, the Signora,” Beatrice said, as though speaking of a saint.

“An amazing lady.” Bond smiled at her, standing to one side to allow the girl to descend first, as he looked down at the rear terrace.

Since the moment they had met by the pool he had been careful to keep Beatrice in view. Even when she had come close to him on the Open, covered roof-top, he had made sure his body had always been turned towards her with one hand braced, stiff and tense, to be used as a cutting edge should she make a wrong move. For all he knew, the effervescent Beatrice could well be the Cat, Saphii Boudai, or at least one of her messengers.