Free Street of the Five Moons by Elizabeth Peters Page B

couldn’t blame him.
    “I’d like to see your work someday,” I said tactfully.
    “You will hate it,” Pietro said. “Go Luigi, and wash yourself.”
    “Never mind, never mind,” snapped his grandmother. “You make too much of a small thing, my son. Sit down, Luigi. Eat. You are too thin. Eat, dear boy.”
    Pietro shut up. With a triumphant look at his father, Luigi took his seat.
    “She spoils him,” Pietro muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “How can I maintain discipline when she contradicts everything I say?”
    I had no intention of getting involved in a family argument. So I just smiled and ate my soup.
    The conversation did not scintillate. The dowager addressed a few courteous remarks to me, but she spoke mostly to Luigi, urging him to eat more, asking how he had slept, and so on. He was faultlessly sweet to her, and I decided that Pietro was too hard on the boy. He had lovely manners. So what if he was untidy and absentminded? There are worse faults.
    Pietro was too busy gobbling to talk much, though he and Smythe exchanged a few words on business matters — all Greek to me. Helena didn’t say a word. She was seated directly across from me, and her unblinking stare would have gotten on my nerves if I hadn’t been so fascinated by the way she was eating. Her hair kept getting in the spaghetti. I kept expecting her to fork up a strand of it, but she never did.
    There was plenty of wine with the meal, and by the time the servants removed the last plates I was, to say the least, replete. Pietro was in far worse condition. When he stood up, I feared for the cummerbund. It was strained to the utmost.
    The dowager was helped out of her chair by one of the footmen. She limped toward the door, leaning heavily on a handsome ivory-headed stick, pausing only long enough to thank me for coming and to apologize for the infirmity that made it necessary for her to retire.
    Pietro tried to bow to his mother. He managed to incline his head a couple of inches, but he didn’t bend well. The look he turned on me was fond, but glazed.
    “He will make the arrangements,” he wheezed, waving a pudgy hand in Smythe’s general direction. “Tell him when you will be ready, dear lady; the car will be there. I anticipate that moment. You will doubtless wish to return to the hotel now to pack. Sir John will have the car brought round.”
    Helena came up out of her chair as if she had been stung.
    “Car?” she repeated, in a voice as shrill and toneless as an old phonograph record. “Tomorrow? What is this, Pietro?”
    Pietro was already halfway to the door.
    “Later, my treasure, later. I must retire now. You will excuse me — my old war wound—”
    He went scuttling out. Helena turned furious eyes on me.
    “What is this? The car, tomorrow—”
    Smythe came around the table and stood beside me.
    “Car, tomorrow,” he agreed. “The lady is joining us at Tivoli. Ah” — as she started to speak — “don’t lose your temper, Helena. Think it over. It won’t do you any good to make scenes, his Excellency hates them. In fact, I think he is getting weary of your scenes.”
    “Ah, you think so?” Helena had no gift of repartee. “You think so, do you?”
    “Yes, I think so. Have another piece of cake, my dear, and calm yourself. You will excuse us? I felt sure you would….”
    To my amusement, Helena took his advice, sinking back into her chair and beckoning to one of the servants. John Smythe took my arm and led me out.
    “Don’t bother ordering the car for me,” I said. “I need a walk. I feel like a stuffed cabbage.”
    “You’ll soon lose your girlish figure if you visit the count,” Smythe said. “And that isn’t all you might lose…. Don’t you ever listen to advice?”
    “Not from people named Smythe,” I said. “Couldn’t you think up a better name than that?”
    “Why bother? Most people aren’t as critical as you. Stop trying to change the subject. If you hurry, you can catch the