The Teatro Grande wasn’t quite as large as its name suggested, but its Baroque styling was magnificent, she thought, glancing up at the semi-circle of ornately decorated boxes above her.
During the first act interval, she had been convinced that someone up there was watching her, and had looked up, scanning the boxes eagerly in the hope of catching a glimpse of the Count, or even Floria Bartrando herself.
If she had been the subject of scrutiny, she hoped she’d passed muster. Wisely, she’d brought her favourite and most expensive dress, a simple black knee-length shift, square-necked and sleeveless, relying totally on cut and its heavy silk fabric for its stunning effect.
She’d left her hair loose but swept back from her face with silver combs, and apart from the silver studs in her ears, her only jewellery was Jeremy’s diamond solitaire on her engagement finger.
She followed the rest of the audience to the small crowded bar and took her double espresso to a small table with a single chair in a quiet corner. As she sat, she noticed the picture on the wall above her. It was a large oil painting in a heavy gilded frame, its subject a seated man, white-haired but still handsome with a calm, proud face. A small plaque read ‘Cesare Valieri’.
So this is my host, she thought. And where is he?
She leaned across to the attendant, clearing a nearby table. ‘Count Valieri—is he here tonight?’
He hesitated, his glance sliding away. ‘He came, signorina, for a brief time, but has gone. I am sorry.’
Well, it didn’t really matter, she told herself, suppressing a pang of disappointment. They would meet eventually. And at least now she knew what to expect.
And her instinct about being watched might well have been correct, so it seemed odd that he had not used the opportunity to make himself known to her.
She settled back in her seat for Act III, waiting for the tragedy to reach its culmination, with Gilda sacrificing herself to save the villainous Duke who had seduced and betrayed her.
Shivering as Rigoletto tells his hired assassin ‘He is crime and I am punishment.’
And feeling tears prick at her eyelids as the jester realising he has brought about the murder of his own child, flings himself, heartbroken, across her dead body.
The applause at the end was long and generous with cries of ‘Bravo’ from all over the auditorium. It took a while for the stalls to clear and Maddie hung back, unsure what she should do.
Her best bet, she supposed, was to go back to the hotel and wait for instructions. Because she was sure there would be some.
In a way, she hoped they’d arrive tomorrow. It was late, and she felt suddenly very tired, as she walked out into the rain-washed street, hugging her cream pashmina around her. The stress of the past weeks coupled with the flight and the long car journey were clearly taking their toll.
I need sleep, she thought longingly, not an interview.
But the Count clearly had other ideas, she realised, recognising the unmistakable shape of his limousine, parked just across the street from the theatre, with its chauffeur in his dark uniform standing beside it holding the rear passenger door open for her.
And not Camillo this time. This new man was altogether taller and leaner. Younger too, she thought, although his peaked cap was pulled down shadowing his face, denying her a good look.
‘Signorina Lang—you will come with me, please.’ His voice was quiet, but it seemed to convey an order rather than a request, and Maddie hesitated.
‘You’re taking me to the Count?’
‘Who does not like to be kept waiting.’
Slightly brusque for a paid employee, she thought as she climbed into the car, but at least he spoke English, so that was a step forward.
Not that any conversation was likely, however, while the glass panels between the front and rear seating remained firmly closed.
On the other hand, she didn’t really feel like talking. The effect of the coffee had worn off and waves of drowsiness were sweeping over her.
But I can’t go to sleep, she told herself firmly, suppressing a yawn. I have to stay awake and totally alert. This is an important evening. And made herself check once again that her little voice operated tape machine and spare batteries were safely in her bag.
What she really needed was the caffeine rush from another espresso, she thought, helping herself to some of the chilled mineral water, in the hope that it would clear her head.
She began to rehearse some of the questions she needed to ask, but instead found the words and music of the opera still teeming through her brain.
I am Crime. He is Punishment. Except that was wrong, surely. It was the other way round. He is Crime …
Wasn’t that the way it went? She wasn’t even sure any more. But she could remember Rigoletto’s despairing cry, ‘Ah, the curse’ and shivered again.
She wanted to knock on the glass and ask the chauffeur not to drive quite so fast, but it was too much effort. Somehow it was much easier just to lean back against the cushions, and let them support her until the jolting over the cobbled streets ceased.
I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes, she told herself, yawning again. A little catnap. I’ll feel better then. Wide awake. Ready for anything.
And let herself slide gently down into a soft, welcoming cloud of darkness.
Her first conscious thought was that the car had stopped moving at last, and she no longer felt as if she was being shaken to bits.
Her next—that she was no longer simply sitting down, but lying flat as if she was on a couch. Or even a bed.
With a supreme effort, she lifted her heavy lids and discovered that she was indeed in a bed.
Oh God, I must have been taken ill, she thought, forcing herself to sit up. And I’m back at the hotel.
But just one glance round the room disabused her of that notion.
For one thing, the bed she was lying in, though just as wide and comfortable as the one in Room 205, was clearly very much older with an elegant headboard in some dark wood, and a sumptuous crimson brocade coverlet.
For another, there seemed to be doors everywhere, she realised in bewilderment as she tried desperately to focus. Doors next to each other, in some impossible way, in every wall all round the large square room. Doors painted in shades of green, blue and pink, and interspersed with shuttered windows.
I’m not awake, she thought, falling limply back against the pillows. I can’t be because this is obviously some weird dream.
She wasn’t even wearing her own white lawn nightdress, but some astonishing garment in heavy sapphire silk with narrow straps and a deeply plunging neckline. And it was the faint shiver of the expensive fabric against her skin that finally convinced her that she wasn’t dreaming. And that she hadn’t fallen down a rabbit hole like Alice either.
The bed and this extraordinary door-filled room were not Wonderland at all, but total, if puzzling, reality.
Go back to your first conclusion, she told herself. You became ill in the Count’s car, and you were brought here to recover. That’s the only feasible explanation, even if you don’t remember feeling unwell—just terribly sleepy.
And you’ve been looked after, although a room liable to give one hallucinations was perhaps not the best choice in the circumstances.
Thinking back, she seemed to remember a phrase which described this kind of décor. Trompe l’oeil, she thought. That was it. She’d come across it during some of her preliminary research on the Ligurian region, but had decided