The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro Read Online Free Page B

he deftly complimented me—Gräfin and Haroun spoke to him in French, to which he replied in fluent French. I smiled and nodded and stepped aside. I understood a little of what they said, but my study of Italian had driven the French I knew out of my head. I could hear what was being suggested. The Italian olive baron was urging us in French to come inside and look around and to relax.
    I said in Italian, “I need to walk a little after that long ride.”
    â€œYes, you are welcome,” the man said in English, which disconcerted me. “Over there is a little pond, with ducks. And many flowers for you.
Bellina.
”
    Haroun said he would come with me. We walked to the ornamental lily pond. Haroun picked a flower and held it to his nose.
    I said, “He's right. It is
bellina.
”
    Haroun shrugged. “The flowers, yes. But the trees. The frantoio. The storage and cellars.” He crumpled his face, which meant,
I am not impressed.
“It is not great quality. Toscano is better. But this villa is charming—very comfortable. And the Gräfin wants it. She likes the business.” He made a gesture of uncorking a bottle and pouring. “`This is my olive oil. I grow it. I press it. You eat it’—she is a romantic, you see?”
    He had a way, in speaking of Gräfin, of being able to turn his criticism into a compliment, which made me admire him for his loyalty.
    I plucked the petals from the flower I was holding and said in a stilted way—I had been practicing the speech: “This is nice, very pleasant. And you have been very kind to me. But—forgive me if I’m wrong—I feel you expect something from me. That you are arranging something. That you want me for some purpose. Tell me.”
    I was glad we were outside, alone. I would never have been able to say this back in Taormina, at the palazzo, where he had made me a guest. This setting, the olive groves, made me confident.
    Haroun looked away. “See how they dig and scratch the roots to fertilize the tree. Some of these trees are hundreds of years old. Maybe here in Norman times.” He walked ahead of me, and he glanced back at the villa in which Gräfin had vanished with the elegant olive man.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked.
    â€œYou are very intelligent,” he said. “I like that. Very quick. Bold, too, I can say.”
    Two things struck me about this speech. The first was that he wasn’t telling me what he really felt—that my intelligence made him uneasy. Second, even then I knew that when someone complimented me in that way, he was about to ask a favor.
    As a way of defying him, and taking a gratuitous risk, I told him this.
    â€œYou are my guest, so you should be a little more polite to me,” he said, laughing in a peculiar mirthless way to show me he was offended.
    So I knew then that what I had said was true and that his reply was a reprimand. Given the fact that I had accepted his hospitality, I should have felt put in my place, but I resisted, wishing to feel free to say anything I liked.
    He said, “What do you think of the Gräfin?”
    â€œI don't know anything about her.”
    â€œExactly. You are right,” he said. “She is a great mystery. That is why I love her.” He came closer to me. I seldom noticed anything more about Haroun than his beaky nose, yet his nose was so big and expressive it was all I needed to notice. “But when you see the Gräfin, what do you feel?”
    What did this man want? I said, “I feel curious. I feel she is very nice.”
    â€œShe is fantastic,” he said, another reprimand. “She has everything. But do you believe me when I say to you she is lonely?”
    â€œI believe you.”
    â€œBecause you are intelligent. You can see.”
    â€œBut you’re her friend. So how can she be lonely?”
    â€œThat’s the mystery, you see,” Haroun said. “I am her friend,