Murder A La Carte

Chapter 14

I knew there wasn"t a restaurant in nearby Pianella, at least none that I would bring Ilsa to. And I didn"t want to drive as far as Siena or Radda, but I knew of a pleasant, out-of-the-way trattoria in Montevarchi just up the road from Castello dei Trantini. They served amazing pasta and grilled Tuscan meat, but more importantly, the place would provide a certain amount of privacy.

Privacy. I mulled the thought over. Was I looking for privacy because I didn"t want too many people to recognize me taking an employee out to dinner? It was the better reason, but I knew I was really looking for the kind of dark-corner privacy that lent itself to my other instincts.

I arrived at Ilsa"s home at eight o"clock sharp, cringing for a second when I remembered that no Italian arrives anywhere on time, but I pulled the Maserati to a stop and got out. She lived at home with her parents, although she was twenty-six years old, because in this country, the children — especially the young women — didn"t usually move out until they were married.

The sun had just set but left the burnished glow on the horizon behind Ilsa"s house. The air was beginning to cool and the occasional whisper of a breeze would ruffle the leaves of the olive trees next to the building. The house itself was made of stone, as usual in Tuscany, with broad beams that supported the roof protruding from between mortar and stone near the top of the second story. Several large pots adorned the narrow patio in front of the house, each heaped with flowers that were still aromatic at this time of the evening.

I strode up to the door, rapped my knuckles quickly on the solid wooden frame, and waited. Instead of being greeted by the sound of the door opening, a friendly “ciao” hailed me from above. I looked up to see Ilsa leaning out the second-story window, with a broad smile on her face. Thoughts of a Marcello Mastroianni film danced through my head as I admired her appearance in the window. She was wearing a body-hugging white halter-top with only thin straps to hold it in place. Her hair was a luxuriant golden color, brilliant and seemingly on fire from the backlighting in the window, and her skin glowed with the olive and bronze tones of a woman who spends much time outdoors — perhaps in my vineyards. The thought gave me a certain pleasure.

The shutters quickly closed, and I waited only a moment before the door swung open before me. Ilsa stood there, one hand still on the door, her weight shifted insouciantly onto one foot, the other hand resting on her hip.

“But, Signor Filippo, it"s early, and I"m not ready yet.” She said it in a most teasing tone, happy that I could see her “not ready yet,” but chiding me for not observing the Italian custom of lateness.

“I"m sorry,” I said, playing along with her. “Should I go and come back?”

“Of course not,” she said with a laugh. She grabbed me by the elbow, pulled me inside the door, and shut it behind her.

There was no one else in evidence, and I wondered where her mother and father were. Ilsa explained that they had gone out to dinner, and she grinned impishly as she told me she had to convince her father that it was alright for him to be gone when I arrived. As she looked up at me past down-turned eyelashes, I realized that her father didn"t feel a need to greet the “capo” from Castello dei Trantini, but that he needed to be there whenever a man — any man — arrived to see his daughter. I stifled an involuntarily gulp as I remembered that I was in Italy now, not the United States, and the rules of engagement would be different.

It"s not that the Italians aren"t romantic, quite the opposite. And the sometimes animal-hunger that attends their courting is probably the reason Italian culture has included such strict protections for its young women. From early teen years, and usually into very old age, Italian men and women possess a strong and healthy sexuality. It"s in their music, their food, their clothes, and — as I stared at Ilsa, I realized — in their flirting. She let me have that moment to stare, to take her in, and then she was off to finish “getting ready.”

As she walked back toward the steps to ascend to the upstairs bedroom, I had a chance to observe the rest of her wardrobe for the evening. The white halter-top displayed her tanned back, which was visible as she walked away. Below the halter-top she wore a tight black skirt, short enough to reveal a generous portion of her thighs, and on her feet she wore high heels that were each held in place by a single narrow strap from heel to toe.

Breathing in the scent of perfume she left in her wake, I couldn"t imagine what was left to “getting ready.”

I wandered through the parlor looking at the paintings on the walls, the shrine to the Virgin Mary in the corner, and the comfortable furnishings. It appeared that the Cantorini family was financially secure, but not affluent.

After waiting a few more moments, Ilsa reappeared. She looked as good as before, and I couldn"t detect any change, so I wrote it off to female prerogative. She threw one of her brilliant smiles at me, grabbed a large scarf off the rack near the door, and invited me to exit.

The air had cooled still more, justifying Ilsa"s decision to bring a wrap. Although Italy is warm, this was September and, in the countryside, the night air cooled off the day"s heat, adding a freshness to the evening that was welcome after the day"s labor.

I started for the passenger side of the car but Ilsa reached it first, pulling on the handle and letting herself in without so much as a sideways glance. She was clear about her independence, in an American sort of way, but she did it with a certain obviousness so that I would notice. I swung around the other side, slipped into the driver"s seat, and we were off.

The owners of the trattoria I"d chosen, Álbero Verde, knew Nonno Filippo and served our wines. They didn"t know me by sight but recognized my name when I called for a reservation. When we showed up at their door, Aldo and Mira were all smiles, mixing in comments of sympathy at Nonno"s passing, but nonetheless pleased that the Trantino family members were still customers of their restaurant.

Ilsa was seated first, thanks to the deft movements of Aldo as he vied with his wife for the pleasure, and I sat next to her at the table in the corner. It was just the type of darkened corner I had hoped for. The proprietors then quickly backed away toward the kitchen, Mira handing a not-too-subtle rebuke to her errant husband for favoring the pretty girl at my table.

“Signor Filippo,” Ilsa began, but I cut her off.

“Per favore, Ilsa, please, at least call me Filippo, if not Phil as my American friends do. I can"t be "signore" to you while we are sitting together in this wonderful little restaurant.”

Per favoresignoreHer smile combined both girlish innocence and a mature woman"s enticement at my approach, and the total effect was very alluring.

“Certo, signore…oh, I"m sorry, Filippo,” she said almost with a giggle. “Your friends call you Phil? What does that mean?”

Certosignore“Filippo, of course,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders. “It"s just the American version of Filippo. It doesn"t mean anything.”

“Well, that won"t do. I"ll call you Filippo.” Ilsa said this with confidence and comfort, waving the thought away, as if she was well trained in discarding translations that didn"t fit some useful purpose.

“Filippo,” she said, gently laying her hand on mine, “we haven"t had time to speak seriously yet, but I want you to know how much I miss your nonno.” The warmth of her skin sent a small bolt of electricity straight up my arm. “He was a wonderful man, an honest man, who worked as hard as his employees and never forgot one of us. His death has affected us all, and I will miss him greatly.”

I was touched by the depth of her compassion, yet still excited by her touch. She clearly knew the effect of both and wanted both feelings to reach me. In another moment, she patted my hand with friendly affection, then switched her mood to one of gaiety.

“But we want to have fun tonight, si? Tell me, why do you like this place?”

siOur conversation ranged far and wide as we sampled the many wonderful dishes of Álbero Verde. We talked about our families, how mine had moved to America, my bookstore back home, and how Tuscany had changed over the years — and yet still remained the same. We compared our ages — she rolled her eyes and feigned shock that I was “so” much older than her although we both knew the years between us meant little.

“I like working at the Castello,” Ilsa said, “but I don"t know if I want to stay there forever.” Realizing that her English might not have been good enough to convey the proper message, she repeated it. “Oh, I like it very much,” she said quickly, “but I think there are other things for me out there. And sooner or later, I"ll get married and have children.”

“What about going to school?” I asked.

“I attended the university and got my degree in botany, and Signor Basilio often gives me work to do in the vineyard. In time, he says, I should be able to become a vineyard manager, maybe for the Castello dei Trantini.” This last bit she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Turning her attention on me, she said, “And of course, you are staying here now, to be the Castello"s new capo, yes?”

I took some time to explain how that seemed the logical choice and it was, of course, very enticing, but I still couldn"t decide how to manage the re-emigration to Italy. I mythologized my earlier life here in Tuscany and, for years, I would have sold my soul for a chance to move back. But now, with everything laid out for me, I couldn"t decide whether it was the right path.

I probably ruminated on that subject too long, because I felt like I was merely giving voice to my own inner debate on the matter, but I saw that Ilsa was patiently listening to all my “maybes” and “ifs” and “why nots.” Her dazzling smile never left her face, eyes sparkling when I related some favorite memory of mine, and she interjected pointed comments and thoughtful questions throughout, at times laughing at my indecision.

“So, do you remember me?” she asked suddenly.

“Well, yes,” I began, “Of course, I do.” But my slowness in responding gave her doubt.

“No, you don"t,” she chided me with a gentle wag of her index finger.

Remember her? I couldn"t admit to her how much of an impression she always made, the most beautiful woman at the estate, and in all of Castelnuovo Berardenga.

As I pondered what to say, I think she was actually reading my mind, or she had noticed me in early times regarding her from a distance. At that moment, in Álbero Verde, I realized that our evening together had been planned long ago.

We spent a couple hours sampling the best dishes Aldo and Mira had to offer and we talked into the night. I got over my wariness about dating an employee and began to appreciate Ilsa in a different light. She was coquettish like any young Italian woman, yet seductive like their older sisters. She was intelligent enough to understand my dilemma, but playful enough to chide me for not wanting to stay with the family, her family the Cantorinis, and beautiful Tuscany.

After we finished dinner, we walked between the rows of the adjoining vineyard for a while. The moon was bright and the air sweet, and the scent of ripe grapes on the vine brought back many memories. We circled back to the car, settled into positions that were now comfortably closer together, and drove in near silence back to Ilsa"s home.

When we arrived, lights shined through some of the lower and upper story windows and there was enough noise from inside to prove that her parents were already there. Before opening the door, as if she knew that would end everything, Ilsa leaned toward me and laid a soft kiss on my cheek. Her perfume, so near to me all night, was now attached to my skin and I enjoyed the presence of it on the quiet ride back to my villa on the hill.