‘Not personally, no. But I have a . . . friend who does. Anyway,’ she said, recovering somewhat, ‘it sounds as though getting on that plane was the best thing you’ve ever done. Now, you still haven’t told me about this gorgeous Brazilian you had in tow. I think Ma rather fell for him. When I arrived earlier, she could talk of nothing else. He’s a writer apparently?’
‘Yes. I translated his first novel for him. It was published in Paris last week to rave reviews.’
‘You were with him there?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I . . . like him a lot.’
‘Marina says he liked you too. A lot,’ Ally emphasised. ‘So, where do the two of you go from here?’
‘I don’t know. We didn’t really make any future plans. He has a six-year-old daughter, you see, and he lives in Rio, and I’m here . . . Anyway, how about you, Ally?’ I said, not wishing to discuss Floriano any further.
‘The sailing’s going well, and I’ve been asked to join the crew of the Fastnet Race next month. Also, the coach of the Swiss national sailing team wants to put me through my final paces. If I’m in, it would mean training from autumn with the rest of the squad for next year’s Olympics in Beijing.’
‘Ally! That’s fantastic! Do let me know, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will.’
I was just about to question her further when Marina came out onto the terrace. ‘Maia,chérie, I didn’t know you were home until I saw Claudia just now. Christian gave me this, I’m afraid I forgot to give it to you.’ Marina handed me an envelope. I looked down at the writing and recognised it instantly as Floriano’s.
‘Thank you, Ma.’
‘Will you two girls be wanting supper?’ she asked us.
‘If there’s any going, absolutely. Maia?’ Ally looked at me. ‘Will you join me? It’s not often we get the chance for a catch-up these days.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, standing up. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’m going back to the Pavilion for a while.’
The two women looked at me and the letter knowingly.
‘See you later,chérie,’ said Marina.
Back at the Pavilion, my fingers trembling, I opened the envelope.
I drew out a piece of tatty paper that looked as if it had been hastily torn from a notepad.
On the boat
Lake Geneva
Mon amour Maia,
I write to you in what you know is my bad French, and although I cannot be poetic in the language the way that Laurent Brouilly was to Izabela, the feeling behind the words is just the same. (And forgive the bad writing, the launch is a little bumpy across the water.) Chérie, I understood your distress this morning and wished to comfort you, but perhaps you still struggle to trust me. So I will tell you in writing that I love you. And even though we have spent such a short time together so far, I believe our story has only just begun. If you’d stayed with me long enough this morning before I left, I would have told you that I wish more than anything for you to come to be with me in Rio. So we can eat burnt bean stew, sip undrinkable wine and dance the samba together every night of our lives. It is a lot to ask of you, I know, for you to give up your life in Geneva and come to me here. But, just as Izabela had a child to think of, so do I. And Valentina needs her family close. Certainly for now, at least.
I will leave you to think about it, for it is a big decision. But please, I’d be grateful if you could put me out of my misery sooner rather than later. Tonight is too long to wait, but, under the circumstances, will be acceptable.
Also, I enclose the soapstone tile. My friend at the museum finally managed to decipher the quotation that Izabela wrote for Laurent.
Love knows not distance;
It hath no continent;
Its eyes are for the stars.
Goodbye for now. I’ll wait to hear.
