Free Street of the Five Moons by Elizabeth Peters Page A

already at the table when we entered the dining room. I could have identified her without Pietro’s preliminary statement. I mean, I never saw a woman who looked more like a mistress. If she continued to stow away spaghetti at that rate, in another year she would no longer be voluptuous, she would be fat. But she was still young — not more than twenty — and her ripe, quivering masses of flesh had the gloss of fine ivory. A good deal of it (the flesh) was displayed by her strapless, practically topless, green satin dress. Masses of blond hair tumbled over her shoulders, in the careless style made popular by an American television actress. She had a pursed little mouth and big brown eyes as expressionless as rocks. She took one look at me, and the rocks started to melt, like lava.
    Another woman was seated at the foot of the table. Pietro led me toward her and introduced his mother, the dowager countess. Unlike her son, she was painfully thin. Her face was a map of fine wrinkles, surmounted by beautifully coiffured white hair. She bowed her head graciously when Pietro presented me as a learned lady who had come to study his collections. She looked very fragile and sweet in her black dress trimmed with cobwebby lace, but I suspected it would not do to underestimate her. The dark eyes that peered out of her sunken sockets were as bright and cynical as a mockingbird’s.
    Pietro led me back to the head of the table and indicated the chair on his right. Helena was already seated at his left. She barely acknowledged Pietro’s gabbled introduction, and after a pained, expressive look at me he seated himself, while one of the dozen footmen who were standing around pulled out my chair.
    The Englishman seated himself. There was still one vacant place. Pietro glared at it.
    “Late again. Where is the wretched boy? We will not wait. The food will be cold.”
    The first course was a cold soup that resembled Vichyssoise, made with cream and leeks and other ingredients I couldn’t identify. Pietro had finished his bowl before the door was opened by a servant and the missing person appeared.
    He was absolutely beautiful. I have to use that word, though there was nothing feminine about his features. The tanned chest displayed by his open shirt was as neatly modeled as that of Verrocchio’s young David. He was beautiful as young creatures are before their features harden. Thick dark hair tumbled over his high forehead. His costume was casual: slacks, a rumpled shirt open to the navel, espadrilles on his feet.
    Pietro let out a roar.
    “So there you are! What do you mean by being late? Pay your respects to your grandmother. And do you not see that we have a guest? Per Dio , you are a sight! Could you not at least wash your hands before appearing?”
    I was amused — which shows you I am not as smart as I think I am. But Pietro sounded like so many of the exasperated parents of teenagers whom I had known in America and in Germany. The boy was obviously his son. Only a father could be so annoyed.
    The boy, who had been wandering slowly toward his chair, stopped and looked blankly at his father. Then he turned toward the dowager and bowed.
    “Grandmother, excuse me. I have been working. I lost track of the time.”
    “That is all right, my darling,” said the old lady fondly.
    “It is not all right,” snarled Pietro. “Vicky, this ill-bred young boor is, for my sins, my only son. Luigi, greet the distinguished lady doctor Miss Bliss, a scholar of art history. No, do not offer your hand, idiota , it is too dirty. Go and wash!”
    Luigi had obediently advanced toward me, his hand extended. It resembled a sculpture by someone like Dali — perfectly shaped, with long, spatulate fingers; but it was blue and pink and green and red.
    “Of course,” I said, smiling. “You are a painter.”
    “He is a bad painter,” said Pietro. “He dabbles in oils. He makes messes.”
    The boy gave his father a look of naked loathing. I really