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Man on Fire
By Quinnell, A. J. Avon Books
ISBN: 0060586109
Chapter One
She looked out through the French windows and across the lake. The lights of the Hotel Villa D'Este on the far bank shimmered on the smooth water.
She was a woman of classic Neapolitan beauty. But petulance showed in the mouth. Wide and full-lipped, it dominated her face, which was set in a series of curves. High cheekbones, large, slanted eyes, and a cleft chin balancing exactly a rounded forehead. Heavy ebony hair hung straight and ended in one inward curve to her shoulders. The curves continued down through a slim neck to a body narrow-waisted, long-legged, and full and high in the breast.
She wore a simple, straight dress tied at the waist and cut square across the shoulders. Its richness came from the texture of knitted silk and dark printed pattern in shades of blue. Her skin had a depth, like velvet under glass.
Her beauty controlled her mind. From an early age it had allowed her to tread different paths from most women. It was a weapon, and a vehicle in which to travel through life. An armored vehicle, protecting her from discomfort and indignity. She had a good mind and in a body even slightly less beautiful it would have been free to expand and develop and see beyond the circle of light which her beauty illuminated. But when the vehicle moved, the shadows were pushed back and she could not see them.
Such women have to be self-centered. Eyes watch them, ears listen. If the character is strong enough to survive until the beauty fades, it may emerge independently; but such transitions are rare. The fading beauty is usually accompanied by a grievance that nature should take away what it had earlier bestowed.
The door opened behind her and she turned as the girl came into the room. They could only be mother and daughter, the child an embryonic cameo of the woman, but still leggy and skittish. The face pale and animated, as yet unaware, open in its innocence. There was no sign of petulance, although her mouth was tight and her eyes angry.
"I hate her, Mama! I hate her!"
"Why?"
"I did the algebra. I did the best I could, but she is never satisfied, that one. Now she says I have to do algebra again tomorrow for a whole hour."
The woman embraced the child. "Pinta, you have to try harder or else when you go back to school you will be behind the others."
The child looked up eagerly. "When, Mama? When do I return to school? I hate having a governess."
The woman released her and turned to look again across the lake.
"Soon, Pinta. Your father gets back tonight, and I shall talk to him about it. Be patient, Cara, it won't be much longer."
She turned and smiled.
"But even at school you will have to learn algebra."
"I don't mind," laughed the girl. "At school the teachers have to ask lots of girls questions, but with a governess I get everything myself. It's no fun, Mama. Try to make it soon, please!"
She reached up and hugged her mother.
"It will be soon," came the reply. "I promise."
Ettore Balletto drove from Milan to Como with mixed feelings. After a week away he missed Rika and Pinta, but the homecoming was going to be stormy. Decisions had to be taken and Rika wouldn't like them, and for her dislike and acceptance were incompatible. He drove the big Lancia quickly through the evening traffic, with only automatic attention to the road.
In thirteen years of marriage he had learned not to underestimate the difficulty. He thought about those years and asked himself whether he regretted them; but the question had no answer. While he was married to her he was an addict. Never off the drug and so unable to question its effect.
He didn't see himself as a weak man, and neither did his friends. It was a simple situation. He had a beautiful, willful and self-centered wife. He knew she was not going to change, so he could either accept her or leave her. He had long ago discovered that the decision was clear-cut. Acceptance was possible, leaving her was not. There could be no cold turkey withdrawal, no methadone treatment.
In the early marriage it had been physical more than mental. A tactile sating, a conscious abandonment. Now it was the knowledge of possession that held him. The intense pride of ownership and the counterpoint -- the mirror to reflect envy and even respect from men who did not possess her. He was a willing and complacent addict.
The Lancia turned right as the road forked at the lake, and his thoughts turned to Pinta. He loved his daughter. The emotion was definite but narrow. In the spectrum of his feelings the strong colors were absorbed by Rika. He didn't see the girl as a separate entity but as an appendage of her mother. A child might split a father's emotions, even compete for them, but for Ettore, Pinta was a daughter loved in the shade.
The three sat at dinner, Ettore and Rika facing each other across the wide mahogany table with Pinta between them. The maid served. It was a stylized, formal setting and lacked family warmth. This was because meals for Rika were something of a ceremony and on this occasion a tenseness anticipated a confrontation.
Rika had greeted her husband affectionately, mixed him a large martini and listened with decent interest about his trip to Rome. But while Pinta was out of the room, she had told him that the girl was unhappy and something must be done. He had nodded emphatically and said, "We'll discuss it after dinner, when she's gone to bed. I've made up my mind about it."
So she knew an argument was inevitable and sat through dinner preparing her tactical dispositions. Pinta sensed the atmosphere and the cause of it and kept silent ...
Continues...
Excerpted from Man on Fire by Quinnell, A. J. Excerpted by permission.
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