He bustled forward. ‘Signer Farrell. The Contessa Valle.’
I bowed. The girl didn’t move, but I could see her eyes examining me. I felt the way a horse must feel when it is being appraised by an expert. Sismondi gave an uncertain little cough. ‘What can I give you to drink, Signer Farrell? A whisky, yes?’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He went over to an elaborate modern cocktail cabinet that stood open in the corner. The girl’s silence and immobility was disturbing. I followed him, very conscious of the drag of my leg.
‘I am sorry my wife is not ‘ere to welcome you, signore,’ he said as he poured the drink.
‘She have — how do you call it? — the influenza, eh?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is the weather, you know. It has been very cold here in Milano. You like seltz?’
‘No, I’ll have it neat, thank you,’ I said.
He handed me a heavy, cut-glass goblet half-full of whisky. ‘Zina? You like another benedictine?’
‘Please.’ Her voice was low and slumbrous and the way she said it the word became a purr. I went over and got her glass. The tips of her fingers touched mine as she handed it to me. The green eyes stared at me unblinking. She didn’t say anything, but I felt my pulse beat quicken. She was dressed in an evening gown of green silk, cut very low and drawn in at the waist by a silver girdle. She wore no jewellery at all. She was like something by one of the early Italian painters — a woman straight out of the medieval past of Italy.
When I took the drink back to her she slipped her legs off the couch. It was one single movement, without effort. Her body seemed to flow from one position to the next. ‘Sit down here,’ she said, patting the cushions beside her. ‘Now tell me how you lose your leg?’