The Black House

  Before going to bed that night, Isabella had to check the shopping list with Luigi the cook for tomorrow’s dinner party, because Luigi would be up early to buy fresh fish. Hadn’t the signora suggested fish? And Luigi recommended young lamb instead of tournedos for the main course, if he dared say so.

  Filippo paid her a compliment as he was undressing. “Osterberg thought you were charming.”

  They both slept in the same big bed, but it was so wide that Filippo could switch his reading-light on and read his papers and briefings till all hours, as he often did, without disturbing Isabella.

  A couple of evenings later Isabella was showering just before 7 P.M. when the same dark-haired creep sprang up at her bathroom window, leering a “Hello, beautiful! Getting ready for me?”

  Isabella was not in a mood for repartee. She got out of the shower.

  “Ah, signora, such beauty should not be hidden! Don’t try—”

  “I’ve told the police about you!” Isabella yelled back at him, and switched off the bathroom light.

  Isabella spoke to Filippo that evening as soon as he came in. “Something’s got to be done—opaque glass put in the window—”

  “You said that would make the bathroom look ugly.”

  “I don’t care! It’s revolting! I’ve told the porters—Giorgio, anyway. He doesn’t do a damned thing, that’s plain!—Filippo?”

  “Yes, my dear. Come on, can’t we talk about this later? I’ve got to change my shirt, at least, because we’re due—already.” He looked at his watch.

  Isabella was dressed. “I want your tear-gas gun. You remember you showed it to me. Where is it?”

  Filippo sighed. “Top drawer, left side of my desk.”

  Isabella went to the desk in Filippo’s study. The tear-gas gun looked like a fountain pen, only a bit thicker. Isabella smiled as she placed her thumb on the firing end of it and imagined her counterattack.

  “Be careful how you use that tear gas,” Filippo said as they were leaving the house. “I don’t want you to get into trouble with the police just because of a—”

  “Me in trouble with the police! Whose side are you on?” Isabella laughed, and felt much better now that she was armed.

  The next afternoon around five, Isabella went out, paid a visit to the pharmacy where she bought tissues and a bottle of new eau de cologne which the chemist suggested, and whose packaging amused her. Then she strolled toward the bar-cafè, keeping an eye out for her snoops as she went. She was bareheaded, had a bit of rouge on her lips, and she wore a new summer frock. She looked pretty and was aware of it. And across the street, walking past her very door now, went the raincoated creep in dark glasses again—and he didn’t notice her. Isabella felt slightly disappointed. She went into the bar and ordered an espresso, lit a rare cigarette.

  The barman chatted. “Wasn’t it a nice day? And the signora is looking especially well today.”

  Isabella barely heard him, but she replied politely. When she opened her handbag to pay for her espresso, she touched the tear-gas gun, picked it up, dropped it, before reaching for her purse.

  “Grazie, signora!”

  She had tipped generously as usual.

  Just as she turned to the door, the bathroom peeper—her special persecutor—entered, and had the audacity to smile broadly and nod, as if they were dear friends. Isabella lifted her head higher as if with disdain, and at the same time gave him an appraising glance, which just might have been mistaken for an invitation, Isabella knew. She had meant it that way. The creep hadn’t quite the boldness to say anything to her inside the cafè, but he did follow her out of the door. Isabella avoided looking directly at him. Even his shoes were unshined. What could he do for a living, she wondered.

  Isabella pretended, at her door, to be groping for her key. She picked up the tear-gas gun, pushed off its safety, and held it with her thumb against its top.

  Then he said, with such mirth in his voice that he could hardly get the words out, “Bellissima signora, when are you going to let me—”

  Isabella lifted the big fountain pen and pushed its firing button, maneuvering it so that its spray caught both his eyes at short range.

  “Ow!—Ooh-h!” He coughed, then groaned, down on one knee now, with a hand across his eyes.

  Even Isabella could smell the stuff, and blinked, her eyes watering. A man on the pavement had noticed the Peeping Tom struggling to get up, but was not running to help him, merely walking toward him. And now a porter opened the big wooden doors, and Isabella ducked into her own courtyard. “Thank you, Giorgio.”

  The next morning she and Filippo set out for Vienna. This excursion was one Isabella dreaded. Vienna would be dead after 11:30 at night—not even an interesting coffee house would be open. Awful! But the fact that she had fired a shot in self-defense—in attack—buoyed Isabella’s morale.

  And to crown her satisfaction she had the pleasure of seeing Peeping Tom in dark glasses as she and Filippo were getting into the chauffeured government car to be driven to the airport. The figure in dark glasses had stopped on the pavement some ten meters away to gaze at the luggage being put into the limousine by the liveried driver.

  Isabella hoped his eyes were killing him. She had noted there was a box of four cartridges for the tear-gas gun in the same drawer. She intended to keep her gadget well charged. Surely the fellow wasn’t going to come back for more! She might try it also on the feeler in the dirty raincoat. Yes, there was one who didn’t mind approaching damned close!

  “Why’re you dawdling, Isabella? Forget something?” Filippo asked, holding the car door for her.

  Isabella hadn’t realized that she had been standing on the pavement, relishing the fact that the creep could see her about to get into the protective armor of the shiny car, about to go hundreds of kilometers away from him. “I’m ready,” she said, and got in. She was not going to say to Filippo, “There’s my Peeping Tom.” She liked the idea of her secret war with him. Maybe his eyes were permanently damaged. She hoped so.

  This minor coup made Vienna seem better. Isabella missed Elisabetta—some women whose husbands were in government service traveled with their maids, but Filippo was against this, just now. “Wait a couple of years till I get a promotion,” Filippo had said. Years. Isabella didn’t care for the word year or years. Could she stand it? At the stuffy dinner parties where the Austrians spoke bad French or worse Italian, Isabella carried her tear-gas gun in her handbag, even in her small evening bag at the big gala at the Staatsoper. The Flying Dutchman. Isabella sat with legs crossed, feet crossed also with tension, and dreamed of resuming her attack when she got back to Rome.

  Then on the last evening Filippo had an “all-night meeting” with four men of the human rights committee, or whatever they called it. Isabella expected him back at the hotel about three in the morning at the latest, but he did not get back till 7:30, looking exhausted and even a bit drunk. His arrival had awakened her, though he had tried to come in quietly with his own key.

  “Nothing at all,” he said unnecessarily and a little vaguely. “Got to take a shower—then a little sleep. No appointment till—eleven this morning and it won’t matter if I’m late.” He ran the shower.

  Then Isabella remembered the girl he had been talking to that evening, as he smoked a fine cigar—at least, Isabella had heard Filippo call it “a fine cigar”—a smiling, blonde Austrian girl, smiling in the special way women had when they wanted to say, “Anything you do is all right with me. I’m yours, you understand? At least for tonight.”

  Isabella sighed, turned over in bed, tried to sleep again, but she felt tense with rage, and knew she would not sleep before it was time for breakfast, time to get up. Damn it! She knew Filippo had been at the girl’s apartment or in her hotel room, knew that if she took the trouble to sniff his shirt, even the shoulders of his dinner jacket, she
would smell the girl’s perfume—and the idea of doing that revolted her. Well, she herself had had two, no, three lovers during her married life with Filippo, but they had been so brief, those affairs! And so discreet! Not one servant had known.

  Isabella also suspected Filippo of having a girlfriend in Rome, Sibilla, a rather gypsy-like brunette, and if Filippo was “discreet,” it was because he was only lukewarm about her. This blonde tonight was more Filippo’s type, Isabella knew. She heard Filippo hit the twin bed that was pushed close to her bed. He would sleep like a log, then get up in three hours looking amazingly fresh.

  When Isabella and Filippo got back to Rome, Signor Sore-Eyes was on hand the very first evening, when Isabella stood under the shower about 7:30 in the evening. Now that was fidelity for you! Isabella ducked, giggling. Her giggle was audible.

  And Sore-Eyes’ response came instantly: “Ah, the lady of my heart is pleased! She laughs!” He had dropped to his feet, out of sight, but his voice came clearly through the stone recess. “Come, let me see more. More!” Hands grasped the bars; the grinning face appeared, black eyes shining and looking not at all damaged.

  “Get lost!” she shouted, and stepped out of the shower and began to dry herself, standing near the wall, out of his view.

  But the other nut, the feeler, seemed to have left the neighborhood. At least Isabella did not see him during three or four days after her return from Vienna. Nearly every day she had an espresso at the bar-cafè across the street, and sometimes twice a day she took taxis to the Via Veneto area, where a few of her friends lived, or to the Via Condotti for shopping. Shiny-Eyes remained faithful, however, not always in view when she came out of her big doors, but more often than not.

  Isabella fancied—she liked to fancy—that he was in love with her, even though his silly remarks were intended either to make her laugh or, she had to admit it, to insult and shock her. It was this line of thinking, however, which caused Isabella to see the Peeping Tom as a rival, and which gave her an idea. What Filippo needed was a good jolt!

  “Would you like to come for after-dinner coffee tonight?” Isabella murmured to Shiny-Eyes one day, interrupting his own stream of vulgarity, as she stood not yet pushing the bell of her house.

  The man’s mouth fell open, revealing more of his stained teeth.

  “Ghiardini,” she said, giving her last name. “Ten-thirty.” She had pushed the bell by now and the doors were opening. “Wear some better clothes,” she whispered.

  That evening Isabella dressed with a little more interest in her appearance. She and Filippo had to go out first to a “buffet cocktail” at the Hotel Eliseo. Isabella was not even interested in what country was host to the affair. Then she and Filippo departed at 10:15 in their own government car, to be followed by two other groups of Americans, Italians, and a couple of Germans. Isabella and Filippo were earlier than the rest, and of course Luigi and Elisabetta already had the long bar-table well equipped with bottles, glasses, and ice, and platters of little sausages stuck with toothpicks. Why hadn’t she told Shiny-Eyes eleven o’clock?

  But Shiny-Eyes did the right thing, and arrived just after eleven. Isabella’s heart gave a dip as he entered through the living room door, which had been opened by Luigi. The room was already crowded with guests, most of them standing up with drinks, chattering away, quite occupied, and giving Shiny-Eyes not a glance. Luigi was seeing to his drink. At least he was wearing a dark suit, a limp but white shirt, and a tie.

  Isabella chatted with a large American and his wife. Isabella hated speaking English, but she could hold her own in it. Filippo, Isabella saw, had left his quartet of diplomats and was now concentrating on two pretty women; he was standing before them while they sat on the sofa, as if mesmerizing them by his tall elegant presence, his stream of bilge. The women were German, secretaries or girl friends. Isabella almost sneered.

  Shiny-Eyes was nursing his scotch against the wall by the bar-table, and Isabella drifted over on the pretense of replenishing her champagne. She glanced at him, and he came closer. To Isabella he seemed the only vital person in the room. She had no intention of speaking to him, even of looking directly at him, and concentrated on pouring champagne from a small bottle.

  “Good evening, signora,” he said in English.

  “Good evening. And what is your name?” she asked in Italian.

  “Ugo.”

  Isabella turned gracefully on her heel and walked away. For the next minutes she was a dutiful hostess, circulating, chatting, making sure that everyone had what he or she wanted. People were relaxing, laughing more loudly. Even as she spoke to someone, Isabella looked in Ugo’s direction and saw him in the act of pocketing a small Etruscan statue. Isabella drifted slowly but directly across the room toward Ugo.

  “You put that back!” she said between her teeth, and left him.

  Ugo put it back, flustered, but not seriously.

  Filippo had caught the end of this, Isabella speaking to Ugo. Filippo rose to find a new drink, got it, and approached Isabella. “Who’s the dark type over there? Do you know him?”

  Isabella shrugged. “Someone’s bodyguard, perhaps?”

  The evening ended quietly, Ugo slipped out unnoticed even by Isabella. When Isabella turned back to the living room expecting to see Filippo, she found the room empty. “Filippo?” she called, thinking he might be in the bedroom.

  Filippo had evidently gone out with some of the guests, and Isabella was sure he was going to see one of the blondes tonight. Isabella helped herself to a last champagne, something she rarely did. She was not satisfied with the evening after all.

  When she awakened the next morning, at the knock of Elisabetta with the breakfast tray, Filippo was not beside her in bed. Elisabetta, of course, made no comment. While Isabella was still drinking cafè latte, Filippo arrived. All-night talk with the Americans, he explained, and now he had to change his clothes.

  “Is the blonde in the blue dress American? I thought she and the other blonde were Germans,” Isabella said.

  Now the row was on. So what, was Filippo’s attitude.

  “What kind of life is it for me?” Isabella screamed. “Am I nothing but an object? Just some female figure in the house—always here, to say buona sera—and smile!”

  “Where would I be without you? Every man in government service needs a wife,” replied Filippo, using the last of his patience. “And you’re a very good hostess, Isabella, really!”

  Isabella roared like a lioness. “Hostess! I detest the word! And your girl friends—in this house—”

  “Never!” Filippo replied proudly.

  “Two of them! How many have you now?”

  “Am I the only man in Rome with a mistress or two?” He had recovered his cool and intended to stand up for his rights. After all, he was supporting Isabella and in fine style, and their daughter, Susanna, too. “If you don’t like it—” But Filippo stopped.

  More than ever, that day, Isabella wanted to see Ugo. She went out around noon, and stopped for an americano at the little bar-cafè. This time she sat at a table. Ugo came in when she had nearly finished her drink. Faithful, he was. Or psychic. Maybe both. Without looking at him, she knew that he had seen her.

  She left some money on the table and walked out. Ugo followed. She walked in an opposite direction from the palazzo across the street, knowing that he knew she expected him to follow her.

  When they were safely around another corner, Isabella turned. “You did quite well last night, except for the attempted—”

  “Ah, sorry, signora!” he interrupted, grinning.

  “What are you by profession—if I dare to ask?”

  “Journalist, sometimes. Photographer. You know, a freelance.”

  “Would you like to make some money?”

  He wriggled, and grinned more widely. “To spend on you, signora,
yes.”

  “Never mind the rubbish.” He really was an untidy specimen, back in his old shoes again, dirty sweater under his jacket, and when had he last had a bath? Isabella looked around to see if anyone might be observing them. “Would you be interested in kidnapping a rich man?”

  Ugo hesitated only two seconds. “Why not?” His black eyebrows had gone up. “Tell me. Who?”

  “My husband. You will need a friend with a gun and a car.”

  Ugo indulged in another grin, but his attitude was attentive.

  Isabella had thought out her plans that morning. She told Ugo that she and Filippo wanted to buy a house outside of Rome, and she had the names of a few real estate agents. She could make an appointment with one for Friday morning, for instance, at nine o’clock. Isabella said she would make herself “indisposed” that morning, so Filippo would have to go alone. But Ugo must be at the palazzo with a car a little before nine.

  “I must make the hour the same, otherwise Filippo will suspect me,” Isabella explained. “These agents are always a little late. You should be ten minutes early. I’ll see that Filippo is ready.”

  Isabella continued, and walked slowly, since she felt it made them less conspicuous than if they stood still. If Ugo and his friend could camp out somewhere overnight with Filippo, until she had time to get a message from them and get the money from the government? If Ugo could communicate by telephone or entrust someone to deliver a written message? Either way was easy, Ugo said. He might have to hit Filippo on the head, Isabella said, but Ugo was not to hurt him seriously. Ugo understood.

  After some haggling, a ransom sum was agreed for the kidnapping on Friday morning. Tomorrow was Thursday, and if Ugo had spoken to his friend and all was well, he was to give Isabella a nod, merely, tomorrow afternoon about five when she would go out for an espresso.