The Malaspiga Exit Read Online Free Page A

that Signorina Dexter who wrote to us?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Katharine said. ‘It is. I’ve just received your letter. I’d be delighted to come for tea on Wednesday. It’s very kind of you.’
    â€˜Not at all.’ The voice sounded like a young girl; it was friendly and excited. There was no suggestion of grandeur or patronage. ‘We are so looking forward to meeting you, my dear child. My son is especially pleased. He is so happy to have found a new cousin. Until Wednesday then. Goodbye.’
    She had been very welcoming; very warm. It was ridiculous to feel afraid of them one moment and then charmed by a few friendly words over the telephone.
    The taxi crossed the Ponte Alla Carraroia; the bridges of Florence were dramatically beautiful, wide and gracefully arched over the broad sweep of the river Arno. Churches raised proud domes on the skyline, and the distinctive Italian bell towers fingered the blue. Even the name for them was musical. Campanile. For all its beauty and its ancient culture, there was a toughness, an arrogance, about Florence which was reflected in the Florentines themselves. Yet it was so difficult to find fault when every street revealed an architectural treasure, with the gleaming river running like silver through the centre and the colossal splendour of the great Cathedral, its bell tower and baptistry dominating the city’s heart. It was the city of the Medicis, the Riveras, the Malaspigas, the workshop of Michelangelo, of Donatello, of Ghiberti. Time was not important, even to the busy Florentines. It was made for man, and not man for time. Eating, not dieting, was the occupation of the women, all of whom seemed to have enormous appetites and superb figures. The vanities were different; sex was implicit without in any way intruding. There were no vulgar hoardings, no suggestive advertising which was so much a part of American life. It was assumed that the men were virile, the women seductive. In contrast with the tourists of all nationalities who crowded the city, the Florentines stood out, dark and sinuous as cats, gracefully sharpening their claws for the exploitation of the foreigner.
    Katharine spoke their language fluently and with a grace that they appreciated, not because she had studied hard, but because it came naturally to her. And a passionate love of the arts had awoken in her. Beauty, visual and tactile, was displayed all round her, in the architecture, the paintings, the rich fabrics, even the food. The waiter at her hotel, who took tremendous trouble advising what to choose on the menu, informed her proudly that French cooking owed its excellence to the importation of her Florentine cooks by Catherine de Medici.
    She could never be a part of these people, her background and attitudes were too different, but now and again something unfamiliar stirred in her, roused by a sight or a sound which was wholly Italian. The moment she saw the Villa Malaspiga, it happened again. The Viale Galileo wound upward behind the centre of Florence on the other side of the Arno. Pine trees stood sentinel over the enormous houses, shielded behind ornamental gates. The road rose higher, climbing steeply, and when they turned into the entrance of the villa, Florence lay stretched out below them, glittering and displaying itself in the sunshine, the roof of the Cathedral glowing red. The crest was everywhere. On the wrought-iron gates, which were twenty feet high, above the pillared doorway, carved in stone. On the mosaic floor of the entrance hall. The coronet, the wreath pierced by the corn shaft. A manservant waited beside her. He wore a white coat and the crest was embossed on the brass buttons. She noticed in amazement that he also wore white cotton gloves. She gave her name and followed him through the entrance hall, which was dominated by a pair of magnificent marble statues. There were massive double doors, elaborately carved. When they opened she found herself