lust. Trying
not to look but looking. And now he gazes at me.
The erotic tension between us, the almost-touching-ness, is delicious yet unbearable.
Gloriously intolerable. It cannot go on. It must go on. The drought must break, the
wet season must return. Yet still the sun beats down.
He raises a hand.
“Perhaps we need a little more wine.”
“Do we?”
He nods.
“Something different this time. Something rather special.”
Glancing along the table, I notice that the dishes and the plates have all been spirited
away, without my really being aware. I am not surprised; Marc Roscarrick is surrounded
by a halo of things that just happen , appropriately yet invisibly.
The plates have, in turn, been replaced with a new silver bucket and a fresh bottle
of wine. Marc extracts this small, slender half bottle; turning it in his hand, he
shows me the label.
“It is Moscato Rosa, from St. Laurenz, again in the Alto Adige.” Marc pours a couple
of inches into a tiny glass, which he then pushes my way.
The wine looks like liquefied amber mixed with the blood of a saint. The aroma is
already divine. He gestures at my glass of rosy gold wine. “We only make a few hundred
bottles a year; most years we can’t make it at all. The climatic conditions have to
be absolutely perfetto . There are only ten hectares of vineyards in the world that are dedicated to this grape.”
I pause before I taste. The time has come; before this goes too far, before I drink
too much, I really must have the answers.
“Marc. How did you know where I was in the Quartieri? How did you know I needed rescuing?”
The breeze ripples the parasol above us. Marc carefully replaces the bottle in the
silver bucket, then looks my way.
“The first time I glimpsed you, Alexandra, in the Gambrinus . . .” He gestures helplessly,
like someone confessing a dark secret. “I thought you were the loveliest woman I had
ever seen.”
I stare at him. My mind resists the words, but my heart soars. It soars. It does.
I am a fool. But it does. The loveliest woman I had ever seen .
Me .
“I am sorry if this sounds glib or facile, X, but it is also the truth. I wanted to
come over and talk to you. Immediately.”
I manage to speak.
“So?”
“I restrained myself. Instead, I listened in to your conversation. I am sorry. Then
I paid for your drinks. I couldn’t help doing that at least. And then I left, before
I did anything more foolish.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
He ignores my question.
“But then you came to the palazzo. You were audacious. You were not quite the innocent
I imagined. You were also funny and smart and . . . Well, it was very difficult to
resist again . I am not a man to restrict myself to sentimentality.”
What is he saying? I am melting in the words. Melting. But I mustn’t. I need to know
about Jessica. Why did he tell me he was interested in Jess? Before I can ask, he
goes on.
“After you left the palazzo I asked friends of mine—friends, colleagues, servants—to
look out for you. Again, I am sorry. I was interfering in your affairs, without your
permission, it is unforgivable. But you seemed . . . a little naïve, maybe too audacious.”
“You had me followed?”
“Not exactly. Watched over? Yes. Watched over is better. But then I heard you were
exploring the slums, Materdei, Scampia—dangerous, dangerous places—and I asked my
people to be more proactive. Yes, in the last couple of days, you were followed.”
I don’t know what to think about this. Should I be appalled, disgusted, violated?
I am not. I feel protected . Marc Roscarrick was protecting me . It is impossible to feel anger. He continues.
“I was in the Via Toledo when my man Giuseppe called and said you were in deep trouble—he
got to you first, but I came as fast as possible.”
“And saved me. Thank you.”
He waves away the compliment.
“It was pure selfishness on my part.
not to look but looking. And now he gazes at me.
The erotic tension between us, the almost-touching-ness, is delicious yet unbearable.
Gloriously intolerable. It cannot go on. It must go on. The drought must break, the
wet season must return. Yet still the sun beats down.
He raises a hand.
“Perhaps we need a little more wine.”
“Do we?”
He nods.
“Something different this time. Something rather special.”
Glancing along the table, I notice that the dishes and the plates have all been spirited
away, without my really being aware. I am not surprised; Marc Roscarrick is surrounded
by a halo of things that just happen , appropriately yet invisibly.
The plates have, in turn, been replaced with a new silver bucket and a fresh bottle
of wine. Marc extracts this small, slender half bottle; turning it in his hand, he
shows me the label.
“It is Moscato Rosa, from St. Laurenz, again in the Alto Adige.” Marc pours a couple
of inches into a tiny glass, which he then pushes my way.
The wine looks like liquefied amber mixed with the blood of a saint. The aroma is
already divine. He gestures at my glass of rosy gold wine. “We only make a few hundred
bottles a year; most years we can’t make it at all. The climatic conditions have to
be absolutely perfetto . There are only ten hectares of vineyards in the world that are dedicated to this grape.”
I pause before I taste. The time has come; before this goes too far, before I drink
too much, I really must have the answers.
“Marc. How did you know where I was in the Quartieri? How did you know I needed rescuing?”
The breeze ripples the parasol above us. Marc carefully replaces the bottle in the
silver bucket, then looks my way.
“The first time I glimpsed you, Alexandra, in the Gambrinus . . .” He gestures helplessly,
like someone confessing a dark secret. “I thought you were the loveliest woman I had
ever seen.”
I stare at him. My mind resists the words, but my heart soars. It soars. It does.
I am a fool. But it does. The loveliest woman I had ever seen .
Me .
“I am sorry if this sounds glib or facile, X, but it is also the truth. I wanted to
come over and talk to you. Immediately.”
I manage to speak.
“So?”
“I restrained myself. Instead, I listened in to your conversation. I am sorry. Then
I paid for your drinks. I couldn’t help doing that at least. And then I left, before
I did anything more foolish.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
He ignores my question.
“But then you came to the palazzo. You were audacious. You were not quite the innocent
I imagined. You were also funny and smart and . . . Well, it was very difficult to
resist again . I am not a man to restrict myself to sentimentality.”
What is he saying? I am melting in the words. Melting. But I mustn’t. I need to know
about Jessica. Why did he tell me he was interested in Jess? Before I can ask, he
goes on.
“After you left the palazzo I asked friends of mine—friends, colleagues, servants—to
look out for you. Again, I am sorry. I was interfering in your affairs, without your
permission, it is unforgivable. But you seemed . . . a little naïve, maybe too audacious.”
“You had me followed?”
“Not exactly. Watched over? Yes. Watched over is better. But then I heard you were
exploring the slums, Materdei, Scampia—dangerous, dangerous places—and I asked my
people to be more proactive. Yes, in the last couple of days, you were followed.”
I don’t know what to think about this. Should I be appalled, disgusted, violated?
I am not. I feel protected . Marc Roscarrick was protecting me . It is impossible to feel anger. He continues.
“I was in the Via Toledo when my man Giuseppe called and said you were in deep trouble—he
got to you first, but I came as fast as possible.”
“And saved me. Thank you.”
He waves away the compliment.
“It was pure selfishness on my part.
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