The Woman at the Window by Emyr Humphreys Page B

girls will be very excited by it. Your glass is empty, Griff. Shall we have another? This place isn’t too bad, is it?’
    Marloff was keen to initiate their habitual competition in generous entertainment. It was one way that had developed over the years through which they could express some regard for each other. Griff lit another of his small cigars on the pretext it would help to keep the gnats away. There were other guests still out on the terrace, some moving with unselfconscious grace between the shadows and the lamplight. The houseboy in his white jacket brought them more brandy, shuffling his shoes in the gravel.
    â€˜A few years back I dropped in there on my way to Rome and there she was, the fair Annette, on top of a ladder plastering a hole in the dining room wall. High up it was. I was quite alarmed for her. But she was laughing like a schoolgirl on holiday. Working as hard as her grandfather ever did with his automobile spare parts. She had never been so happy. She said so. Such energy. With these German genes hard labour conquers all, including an inclination to slide into depressions. Vennenberg was so proud of her. You could say she gave him new life. He was borrowing her youth. Smiling and smirking at her he was, all through lunch. I felt quite an intruder. They were totally absorbed in the house and the garden. And each other.’
    â€˜A Garden of Eden just made for two… and now enter the snake.’
    With lugubrious humour Griffiths waved his cigar over the image of Mario in the photograph.
    â€˜Not at all. At least not in the way you seem to anticipate, Pastor Griffiths. Vennenberg never knew Master Mario. Or if he did, only as a peripheral relative of the egregious Salvatore.’
    â€˜A different snake?’
    â€˜Nothing of the kind. An employee. A general factotum and fount of local wisdom. Vennenberg used to repeat Salvatore’s comical pronouncements. You could call him a cunning clown, but he wasn’t a snake.’
    Griffiths’ face clouded with suspicion. He wanted to know more about Marloff ’s sources of information.
    â€˜I saw a lot of Vennenberg that year. He was a very good host when he could take his eyes off Annette.’
    â€˜So you stayed there?’
    â€˜Once or twice. Very cultivated chap, Vennenberg. Laid down an excellent cellar. And he took a real interest in dialects as well as medieval history. Very good on Belli.’
    â€˜Who’s Belli?’
    â€˜Roman dialect poet.Vennenberg wanted to turn Capestri into a late medieval version of the Garden of the Hesperides with lemons instead of golden apples. The vineyard of course and the almond orchard. And the dogs. A breed of white shepherd dogs from the Maremma.’
    â€˜So where’s the bloody snake?’
    Griffiths was irritated by his own ignorance. If there were snags in the enterprise ahead he wanted to be made fully aware of them. Myfanwy and Marjorie were enthusiastic gardeners and liable to be dazzled by vivid evocations of the fecundity of the Capestri district. There was too much un- diluted pseudo-medieval romanticism being allowed to pass unchecked.
    â€˜Well there you are.’
    Marloff took his time to relish Griffiths’ undivided attention. At least as long as the pause lasted the wealth of information equalled the capital resources Griffiths controlled.
    â€˜Not a character you see. Not a person. The cruel blow came from Providence disguised as our old friend Impartial Nature. Without that they could have gone on enjoying the fruits of the earthly paradise for many a long year. Vennenberg, poor chap, was struck down by the very enemy within that destroyed his brother. So that you could say, if you were looking at it with cold scientific objectivity, the very cell that brought him great wealth also sealed his fate.’
    Griffiths resisted the temptation to dispute Marloff ’s use of the word Providence. It was a concept that had worried him