Free Italian Fever by Valerie Martin Page B

here a very short time,” Antonio said. “I gathered that she was not happy. We are too isolated here. She was bored perhaps, and she went away.”
    “Do you know where she went?”
    “I hardly know when she went. Our family spends the month of April at our house in Firenze. It is the only bearable season there now; the city has become impossible. Signora Bultman was still here when we left. When we came back, she was gone.”
    Massimo agreed with Antonio that Florence, once an easy, comfortable, fascinating city, had become progressively unlivable. Even old Florentine families of his acquaintance abandoned it each year for longer and longer stays in the campagna . It was the same in Rome: the traffic, the tourist buses, the unbreathable air. Roman youths had taken to wearing surgical masks while riding their motorini through the poisonous atmosphere.
    Lucy watched Antonio as he gathered the last fragments of quail onto his fork. She recalled the salutation of the letter, “Carissima, amatissima Caterina.” He was lying, of course. He knew exactly when Catherine had left, and why as well. He probably knew where she was. Her stomach turned so forcefully, she covered her mouth with her hand, for she had had an unexpected thought: Suppose Catherine is dead?
    But that was ridiculous. Why was she jumping to such a wild conclusion? What Antonio had said was probably true—Catherine had gotten bored and left. And if he had been sending her love letters, it wasn’t surprising that he became somewhat ruffled and defensive at the mention of her name.
    Massimo had finished speaking, but Antonio did not take up the subject of urban blight. He seemed determined to view all his guests’ efforts at conversation with incredulity. He allowed a pause just sufficient to make it clear that Massimo’s remarks did not, after all, apply, before he turned to Stanton Cutler and asked him if he wouldn’t like another serving of cinghiale . Lucy pushed her food around disconsolately; she had served herself too much. As the meal dragged on, she felt more and more uncomfortable. The nausea she had been fighting all day asserted itself as a primary sensation, not to be ignored. She experienced a few stabs of pain in her lower abdomen that she couldn’t classify; was it the digestive or the reproductive system? Her joints ached and her head had begun to throb. Massimo was speaking again, this time to Stanton Cutler, who was willing to take up any subject. She listened absently; they were talking about a young Italian writer Paolo Braggio was pushing. Did Stanton think his last book would appeal to an American audience?
    Lucy’s mind wandered. She thought of what she would do on the morrow. Massimo would be gone; she had a number of phone calls to make. She would look for DV’s car keys. Perhaps they were in one of his coat pockets.
    But her first priority would be sleep. She was so weary that, if only her stomach would calm down, she could sleep for days. She reminded herself to have someone, Massimo or Antonio, tell Signora Panatella she wouldn’t require further food deliveries. She wanted to spend the day alone, uninterrupted, and she already had enough food to last several days.
    Antonio Cini entered the conversation briefly with the observation that the only novel worth reading in the last hundred years was Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa’s Il Gattopardo . Lucy took a sip of wine, which provoked another surge of nausea. To take her mind off her discomfiture, she observed her dinner companions. Stanton Cutler spoke about the difficulties of publishing foreign books in that most provincial of countries, the United States. Massimo appeared to listen, but he could barely restrain himself from interrupting; his lips moved slightly, so intent was he on his own response. On her other side, Signora Cini had finished eating and resumed mumbling, addressing only her grandson. He looked down at her, his impatience and disdain animating every line of