As the two talked and laughed, Sydney began to put together the pieces of the past few minutes: the jibe by the crew member and Giulia’s reaction, the way Cosimo spoke to this woman, even the emblem on the Ducati. Could it be —?
The jacket was huge on her. Sydney rolled up the sleeves and hauled it across her body. She could feel her heartbeat quieting, the delicious irony of the situation easing her sense of desolation. It looked as if the whirligig of time was bringing in a revenge far sweeter than she herself could possibly have dreamed up, in her wildest and cruellest imaginings.
“Come on, Sydney,” said Giulia Vannoni. “Let’s go.”
And go they did. Heart in mouth at first, Sydney felt every muscle in her body stiffen as they roared away, the wind blowing through her completely inadequate sandals, the Ducati accelerating rapidly as Giulia put it through its paces, winding along the lanes to the south of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, smooth as the feel of Giulia’s soft leather jacket beneath her hands. Gradually, Sydney found her own movements blending with Giulia’s, much as she had learned to move with another dancer in a pas de deux, relying on the strength and expertise of her partner.
They seemed to be heading for the southern coastline of the island. In spite of their introductory tour, Sydney was vague about the geography of Guernsey, but she knew that this coastline — unlike the flatter, gentler western coastline where much of the filming would take place and where many of the wartime installations were to be found — was craggy and spectacular. Wild and beautiful, its cliffs and coves were breathtaking enough to have attracted the painter Renoir on a visit to the island. They turned yet another corner in a small, winding lane and Sydney saw a sliver of milky blue horizon beyond a cleft in the pine-covered slopes. Sydney felt herself slip toward Giulia as the Ducati descended a steep slope between the trees.
“See?” Giulia called over her shoulder, her words blown back by the wind. “Mio castello.”
Giulia’s castle, set high above the sea, was one of the eighteenth-century Martello towers, built to protect the island against Napoleonic invasion. This one seemed to have been modified, because on top of the familiar circular construction with its tiny slit windows, was what appeared to be another storey, with wider windows, still elongated in shape. There was a stone wall encrusted with plants around the perimeter of a grassy enclosure, with a solid-looking gate set in it. Giulia brought the Ducati to a halt by the gate, and got off the bike.
“Here, let me give you a hand. I’ll unlock this and we’ll walk from here.”
“Your castle? I wouldn’t have thought they allowed anyone to buy one of these,” said Sydney, removing her purloined helmet. She was grateful for the heavy jacket. They were high up, close to the edge of the cliff, and the wind was strong.
“Yes, it’s mine. There are only one or two of these on private land — there’s one out at L’Ancresse in the north of the island, I’m told — and I was lucky enough to be staying with my aunt when this one came on the market.”
“The marchesa is your aunt?”
“She is.”
Giulia pulled the Ducati through the gate, which she relocked. “Robbery is not such a problem here — it’s the sightseers and nosey small ragazzi I want to keep away from the place,” she said.
For a moment, Sydney hesitated. Ahead of her, the Martello tower loomed, grey, cold and forbidding, like something out of a tale by Grimm. No attempt at decoration had been made to the exterior, and the area around it was unkempt, rough beneath her feet with exposed rock and long grasses. Above her head a flock of gulls wheeled with their hideous shriek. Ahead of her she saw that Giulia had unlocked the door of the tower and was pushing the Ducati inside.
Well, she thought. You’ve done dumber things in your life, woman. And walked toward Giulia Vannoni.
“Welcome,” said Giulia, “to my castello isola.”
As Sydney stepped across the threshold, Giulia flicked a light switch by the door.
Sydney gasped.
Where the outside had been bleak and forbidding, the interior was warm, glowing with colour, ablaze with oranges, ruby reds, carmines, emerald and aqua, the glowing blue of stained-glass windows or Victorian enamels. Giulia was laughing as she flicked down the Ducati’s stand, leaving it on a terrazzoed area by the door.
“That look of surprise on your face — you expected gloomy grey and black bleakness — no?”
“Yes. This is like — a secret garden.”
“That is nice. I am away so much I do not want those beyond the walls to guess at what lies inside. The lady at L’Ancresse has a picture window where there once was a gun, but no landscaping, no tearing out of these narrow slits for me. I make my own light. Always have done, cara. I like to feel — protected.”
Giulia’s secret garden was contained in one circular room, with an iron circular staircase curling up close to one of the walls, its railings in ferro battuto, the spectacular wrought iron of Tuscany. The harsh stone of the round walls was largely hidden and softened by bronze silk curtains that had been used as an undulating backdrop, like an extra frame, for the paintings — most of them abstract, but again using the deep, glowing palette of their setting. Opposite the door through which they had entered, against a black wall — the one sombre note in the room — stood a bronze sculpture of a woman, arms raised as if she were about to dive on to the pale cinnamon terrazzo around the white translucent cube on which she stood, frozen in time.
I make my own light, Giulia had said, and it was the lighting that created the magic of her secret garden. Sconces in burnished metal mounted on the walls and standing on slender poles gave the feeling of candlelight to the space, while above their heads glittered a spectacular eighteenth-century Venetian chandelier.
“Where do you get the power from?” Sydney asked. “That’s a practical question, not a philosophical one.”
Giulia laughed. “I have a generator. The Germans used this place during the war. The bigger problem was water, but there once was a house on the site, and there is a good well. Another practical question — are you hungry?”
“Starving. My last meal was at about five o’clock this morning.”
“Me too. Let us pour ourselves some wine and get something to eat. My kitchen, such as it is, is over here, by the lovely lady.”
To the right of the sculpture was a small space semi-concealed by a screen made of the same material as the translucent cube. Sydney stepped on to the carpet that covered most of the floor.
Beneath her feet rode a knight — from the red cross on his shield, it appeared to be St. George — a deep blue surcoat over his silver armour. To one side of him stood a slender maiden, hands clasped in prayer over her deep pink dress. At her feet roared an emerald dragon in his death throes, his elegant ivory throat pierced by a sword — or a stiletto, or a dagger, since only the elaborately decorated hilt protruded.
“This is —” What was there to say? Coincidence? An omen? Sydney was at a loss for words.
“Spettacolare, no? I had it specially woven for me. I so love the legend — the king’s daughter sacrificed to the dragon that threatened the kingdom, and the knight who saves her.”
“Do you believe in knights on white horses, Giulia?” Leave the other alone, she thought. For now.
“That save us from others, or ourselves, you mean? No. But, see, his horse is chestnut. I asked for that. And above his head an angel — them, I believe in. Sometimes. Come, I’m too hungry for all this. We’ll talk while I cook.”
The small area behind the screen contained four burners set in an olive green ceramic counter, some wall storage, a small fridge, and two bar stools. Giulia patted one as she passed.
“Sit down. We’ll start with some Brunello di Montalcino.”
The