That mention of her husband broke the spell. ‘He always telephones me at midnight.’ She smiled as she said this as though it was amusing that her husband didn’t trust her. I helped her on with her wrap and then she said, ‘Will you have them call Roberto please.’
When Roberto had driven us up to the Vomero his face had been wooden and impassive. But now, as he held the door open for us to get in, it was dark and alive with something that made him look more of the peasant and less of the grown-up urchin I had known. His eyes didn’t once glance at me and as he closed the door I saw he was watching Zina.
The car moved off and she slipped her hand under my arm. ‘It has been a lovely evening,’ she murmured. Her eyes were deep like velvet, her lips slightly parted. Her skin looked very white against the black of her dress. I wanted to touch it, feel her lips against mine. And then something made me look up and I saw Roberto’s eyes watching us through the driving mirror. I stiffened and she said something violent in Italian. Then she removed her hand from my arm.
As I was getting out at my hotel, she said, ‘Would you like to have a bath with me tomorrow?’ She was smiling as though she had purposely phrased it to sound naughty. When I hesitated, at a loss quite what to reply, she added, ‘I always go to the baths at the Isola d’Ischia when I come back. It is very good for the skin after the chemical atmosphere of Milan. If you would like to come I shall be leaving in the launch at eleven. We could have lunch there.’ She smiled. ‘You do not have to have the bath, you know.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Benone. At the Villa Carlotta at eleven then. Buona notte,Dick.’
Roberto was watching me from the driving seat. ‘Good night,’ I said.
Next day was as warm and blue as the previous one. I breakfasted on the balcony, dressed leisurely and then drove out to the Villa Carlotta. Zina was waiting for me in the garden. She wore white slacks, white sandals and a white silk shirt. The white emphasised the warm olive tan of her skin and the raven-gleam of her hair. A blue wave of wisteria cascaded over the summerhouse in which she was sitting. She took me down a rock path, heavy with blossom, to a wooden jetty where Roberto waited for us with a smart little motor launch, white-painted with chromium fittings sparkling against the glossy brown of the teak hull.
‘Buongiorno, Roberto.’ It was said softly, silkily and like that it seemed to have significance. Roberto looked at her as though he hated her. Then he turned quickly and started the engine.
Lounging on the cushions as the powerful engine thrust us out into the glare of the Bay I felt lazy and content as though I were a child again and had never known what it was like to be scared. The sound of the water creaming back from the bows and the touch of Zina’s hand on mine merged to form something beautiful that I wanted to grasp and keep. It was the lull before the storm and if I’d had my wits about me I’d have known it, for it was all there could I but have seen it — in the baffled hatred of Roberto’s glance, in the puff of vapour at the top of Vesuvius and in what happened at Casamicciola.