Mazzocco

By Hugo

Italy, The Roaring Twenties...

Suffering a shock defeat in the trial of the year, a young lawyer returns home to a town ravaged by luxury and excess. Caught between the failure that hangs over him and the pressure of his family's expectations, will he be able to make sense of his life once more?

Through grit and ambition, a bereft Cuban immigrant brings growth and prosperity to the small town that elected him mayor. But with the wolves of the Fascist Party baying and his Socialist values under threat, is there a more sinister reason for the clash between his daughter and his best friend?

Hounded by a violent, deranged stalker, will a successful art collector manage to escape the terrible fate looming over him? After months with no news, will a desperate father manage to track down the son he almost lost to the Great War? In Italy to expand their jewellery empire, will a wealthy, influential Indian family find their troubled daughter the help she needs?

And through it all, will the murder of a beloved doctor bring fractured families together, or widen the rifts between them beyond repair?

With people dropping around him like flies, join young Mario as he gives free rein to his analytical curiosity and cuts his investigative teeth on the mystery of the year. Get ready to laugh, sigh, gasp, and get caught up in a murky, tangled web of intrigue, murder, and suspense. Buy Mazzocco now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jan 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781547566044

Book preview

Chapter 1

The year 1924,

Nice, France...

Arthur, have the champagne ready, please! Mario should be showing up any minute, said Fabrizio, eager to see his friend.

He was waiting for his lawyer friend to get back from the courthouse, a victory in hand. With a scandal spanning whole months, during which time even the press had got a taste for this shocking trial, Mario was the topic of the news broadcast on the radio. He was being mobbed by reporters trying to get a statement out of him, but the man didn't even pause on his way to his car, rushing down the courthouse steps as quick as he could.

Oh, listen to that... I can picture that haughty air of his now... He's refusing to give a statement.

As it happened, Fabrizio was wrong about his friend's attitude. Aware that Fabrizio wasn't fluent in French, his butler offered to explain the facts of the matter to him, as outlined on the radio.

Master Fabrizio, if I may, I don't think there's call for a celebration...

What, you mean we're not popping open the bubbly? he asked, astonished, bottle of champagne in hand.

Unfortunately, Master Mario Rocchi has lost the trial.

Lost... that's... not possible. I mean... How? Looking at his butler, he felt as though the man had switched from French to Italian, as though he was laughing at his friend, the friend who was now making his way down the courthouse steps in shame, hounded by reporters.

Will there be anything else, sir? the butler asked, his slightly raised eyebrows hinting at his derision.

At the end of the day, Mister Arthur didn’t much care for the two Italians, whom he found ‘boorish, and lacking all self-awareness’. He couldn’t stand the thought of being in their service. However, Fabrizio’s father, an influential businessman currently in Nice to expand his holdings, held the opinion that his son’s friend was welcome in their home. And so Arthur had to comply.

Speechless, Fabrizio took his leave under his butler’s smug gaze. His friend’s car could be seen through the front door window pane.

What happened, Mario? he asked as soon as he wrenched the door open, rushing down the steps towards the car that the young lawyer was getting out of, face twisted in scorn.

Keeping mum, the young man tried to rush inside, as though to hide from the embarrassment as quickly as possible. All the while, Fabrizio wouldn’t stop pestering him.

Go on, Mario, spill, what happened? I don’t get it, you had them on the ropes.

The lawyer slammed the car door then jogged up the stairs, not saying a peep in return.

I can’t believe this; there must be some mistake!

Overset, Mario made a beeline for his room. Behind him, Fabrizio wouldn’t let up.

Don’t worry, though, we’ll take care of it... We’ll stop at nothing to restore your name... your HONOUR.

On hearing that last word, the young lawyer slammed the door to his bedroom closed, leaving Fabrizio hanging.

With the door closed behind him, Mario could get fully lost in his thoughts. He took off his hat, lay it on a chair, then slipped off his coat and unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt, loosening it around his neck, recalling how close he’d come to feeling like he would faint from the heat in the courtroom. But he was back home now.

He’d have much preferred, of course, returning with a win in hand. All the same, he really didn’t want to think about this trial any longer. It was turning his stomach. He hopped onto his bed, sinking his body fully into the mattress. And, seeing the filled sugar bowl on the nightstand, he couldn’t help himself. He sat up and took a lump.

Elsewhere, Fabrizio, who knew what his friend was like, knew of his habit of secluding himself for a quiet, reflective spell. That evening, he didn’t come down for dinner. He opted for solitary contemplation. The young man’s coping mechanism set Fabrizio’s teeth on edge. He thought it was a tactic ‘fit to upset the stomach, ruminating so much you’re digesting your brains’.

The next morning, the bags were packed and ready to get loaded into the car, and the butler’s perennially-expressive face was wreathed in incredible satisfaction. It was the same kind of joy he’d felt when his two grandkids had departed following a long winter holiday spent at their grandfather’s home. Today, Mister Arthur felt he was rid of two other spoiled little brats. He hastened to stack their luggage in the car.

Sat at the table out in the garden, having his breakfast and gazing in suspicion at the butler’s borderline euphoric behaviour — which altered right quick when he felt those eyes on him — Fabrizio was waiting for Mario, who soon made an appearance. Seeing his friend was still in the doldrums, he cracked a joke, meaning to make light of the situation and pull him out of his sombre mood.

Ah, how goes our monk?

Can you please not start! Mario retorted. Wiped out after a sleepless night, he was having trouble stirring his sugar into his steaming cup of tea.

C’mon, Mario, no reason to get upset, just because you lost a measly little trial; there’ll be others, you know...

Fabrizio, it isn’t some ‘measly little trial’. An innocent girl is going to jail for life for a murder she didn’t commit... And my defence of her failed... and now she’s in jail... and I’m never going to be able to forgive myself! The teacup he was holding was running the risk of spilling over from how hard Mario’s hand was shaking, so he set it down with difficulty in order to get himself under control.

Calm down, Mario, don’t get yourself so worked up! Fabrizio said, patting him lightly on the back. You did everything you could. That’s the most important thing.

Maybe I didn’t do enough. I never should have become a lawyer. But I couldn’t let mother down, make her miserable. No! I went and made myself miserable instead...

The two friends’ conversation was interrupted by Mister Arthur, who, now sporting a serious mien, let them know everything was ready for their trip. Fabrizio and Mario got up from the table and climbed into the car.

The former was eager to take a trip aboard a luxury yacht, to have his fill of leisurely pursuits, fine meals and even finer drinks. The latter imagined that, rather than a vacation, he deserved a traipse down the streets of Paris, feet locked in chains, to be dragged down through the dust, booed by all and sunder, egged...

And then he pictured himself on a scaffold, a noose tight around his neck, feeling the coarse rope against his skin... And right at the climax, Fabrizio’s voice tore him out from the clamouring crowds and brought him right back to reality.

This is going to be the best trip. I’ve never been on a yacht before. We’re going to be home soon!

‘Oh, that’s right!’ thought Mario, feeling like he’d left behind heaps of bad memories in France. If only this lost trial had been his only unpleasant memory here; how nice that would have been. There was another, however. A peach-scented ‘remembrance. An odour he could swear he smelled in the air even now. Closing in... and closer... and closer still. Shutting his car door in a hurry, chilled, Mario felt like he needed to purge himself of... Of that ‘remnant...

Right at that moment, the driver got them on the road. A road that would take the two to Nice harbour. 

Chapter 2

That morning, Nice was boasting the sort of magnificent weather befitting the capital of the French Riviera, and the crowds were soaking in the slightest drop of sunlight and making the most of the otherworldly vistas in sight.

Gazing on the horizon, Mister LeBlanc saw nothing auspicious coming his way. There’d been no relaxing on this holiday. And, to go by the fact there was a sole Cuban left in his intricately-handcrafted wooden cigar box, one could easily deduce that something was eating at him. For now, that something took the shape of a letter. A crumpled piece of paper.

He kept rereading those hard, pregnant words. Those words that had come to hollow out his soul and strike fear into his heart. With a heavy hand, Mister LeBlanc nevertheless pulled the letter back out; he was holding a cigar in his other hand, almost as though to tamp down his fear. Gathering his courage, he perused it one more time. He pored over it, letter by letter, feverish... again and again.

Closing in with his suitcase in hand, Mister Hato hailed his old friend.

LeBlanc! he called out delightedly as he came closer.

Pierre, there you are! Mister LeBlanc replied, emerging as if from a trance and quickly folding the letter and tucking it back into his pocket so his friend wouldn’t see it. Plastering on a fake smile, he made an effort to mask his apprehension. So good to see you again. You’re right on time!

Good to see you, as well... Goodness, but you’ve lost weight! 

Eh, being an art critic is hard work.

Too true. I guess you’ve done your share of running from one gallery to the next... By the by, rumour has it the Mazzocco crowd won’t paint anymore. Any truth to that? 

As soon as the topic was brought up, Mister LeBlanc felt as though the letter was stabbing him in the ribs. Putting on that same fake smile, he puffed on his cigar and tried to change the subject.

Could be... you know what those artists are like... There’s a little nugget of rebellion at their core... that’s all there is! he said, forcing an ironic little laugh past his lips.

Might be interesting to check up on things once we get to Italy. Am I to take it we can already board? Pierre Hato asked, gazing in admiration at the splendid ‘Saints Louvigne’ yacht gleaming in the sun.

That magnificent specimen belonged to Mister LeBlanc, and he habitually set up meetings with various prominent members of high society on board. This gave him the opportunity to discuss anything from economics, politics, and most importantly, art investments, something that still discomfited him.

In his youth, he hadn’t credited works of art as worthy of being called ‘investments’, to his shame. But gone were the bohemian days of his youth... He was fifty-five years old now. An age where he’d come to see the conceits of his youth as poppycock.

Grasping how impatient his friend was getting, he replied,

Certainly, right away! Fabrizio and his friend should be here any minute, as well as the special guests I mentioned on the phone.

Right! That rings a bell... of sorts... Can’t say I recall their surname.

It’s Padmanabhan. A wealthy, reputable family from India. I met them... rather, I met Mister Mohim Padmanabhan when I travelled to Delhi last year. He’s the head of the Budhabar Jewels enterprise...

Mister LeBlanc was interrupted just then by a female voice echoing from aboard the yacht. They both raised their gazes. Mister Pierre Hato was stunned.

Did anyone say ‘jewel’? 

We were talking about you, Miss Babineau! said Mister LeBlanc, feeling his friend spear him accusingly with his gaze.

And accusing, Mister Hato’s gaze had every right to be. For when he saw her, he knew what a long and awkward trip it would be. Yes, awkward. She brought to his mind that old seafarers’ superstition that bringing a woman aboard a ship was bad luck. Certainly that held for Miss Babineau, who was misfortune itself.

Didine Babineau was a nosey, if not outright vicious sort of woman. She lived for gossip, machinations and scandals. And she found nothing quite so delectable as bringing all of the above to light. It was why, with the aid of her well-reputed, well-liked editor father, she’d founded her own magazine, ‘The Cat on the Wire’, the pages of which she splashed with juicy morsels about the people of the hour. And if she wanted to get at their dirtiest secrets, she had to investigate.

Doing this investigative work made her think of herself, ironically enough, on equal footing with the reporters who risked their lives on the frontlines and reported back from the war. This was something Mister Hato found profoundly distasteful, as did he the fact that his friend had forebore from mentioning the small matter of Miss Didine Babineau’s presence on board. The young lady was just then coming down the steps to join the two men.

What were you thinking, inviting the menace on board?! Mister Hato whisper-scolded.

"Keep you calm, Pierre! No need to worry! She won’t be any trouble, I had words with her earlier. She needed to reach Mazzocco as soon as possible, and when she got wind of our trip, she rang me and asked me to bring her with. Next thing I knew, she was on my doorstep. She’d taken the morning train from Paris; what choice did I have?

Oh, there! Mister Padmanabhan’s car is here, said LeBlanc, cutting his conversation short and rushing over to greet his guest, who was accompanied by his wife and two children.

That left Mister Hato in Didine’s clutches.

Good morning, Miss Babineau! 

Good morning to you. You look like you have travel on your mind...

You might say that, yes...

I bet your head must be wary, since you’re looking to unwind!

No! The only thing wearying my head, Miss, is my hat! Nothing else. Mister Hato cut her off at the pass, having sussed out where the young lady was subtly leading him.

Miss Didine Babineau had little choice but to laugh at Pierre Hato’s wisecrack, despite her burgeoning irritation. Any further conversation between them was cut off by Mister LeBlanc, who had come to introduce them to the Padmanabhans: the wife, Narmada, the daughter, Gopika, and her younger brother, Tadi, accompanied by their paterfamilias, of course, Mister Mohim.

How delighted we are to make your acquaintance! said Didine Babineau, bringing her hands together in the traditional Indian greeting, to the manifest appreciation of their foreign guests, who answered in kind — all save Gopika who, shy, stood back at a distance, holding her little brother by the hand. You’re going to just love Mazzocco. It’s a wonderful town, and you’ll be just surprised at how lovely and opulent it is.

I’m sure that is so, Miss. It’s been praised as far and wide as India, reaching even my ears! said Mister Mohim.

It brings us great honour to hear that! Pierre Hato interjected quickly. Standing next to Didine, and exchanging furtive glances with her out of the corner of his eye, they found themselves in a ridiculous competition to outmatch each-other as hosts.

Mister LeBlanc, the actual host, had almost been cast aside. The two latecomers’ car pulling up gave him an opportunity to reassert himself. Seeing Fabrizio and Mario stepping out of the vehicle, he hurried over to greet them.

Ah, at last! You’re right on time.  We were on the verge of weighing anchor.

"Our apologies, Captain," said Fabrizio with a roguish smile.

Come, get yourselves settled in, the ‘Saints Louvigne’ awaits. Leave your luggage there, my staff will take care of it. Come!

He swung a friendly arm across both the young men’s shoulders, one at either side of him, and led them to the stairs leading aboard. The remainder of the guests were climbing them already, led by Mister Hato, who was happily showing off the yacht, having come ahead of Miss Babineau there.

Dismissing the thought of playing guide, she stayed back and climbed aboard at the same time as Mister LeBlanc. Finding themselves momentarily alone, they had a few private words.

Please, go right aboard, their host told the two Italians as they climbed and joined the others. Go on, Miss Babineau!

Martin, how polite... said the young woman, slinking in closer for a kiss.

Please, Didine, not here! entreated Mister LeBlanc, lightly pushing her away, embarrassed at the fact she’d called him by name and panicking at the thought that they could be seen by the guests he could hear talking and laughing on deck.

Stung by his reaction, Miss Babineau told him,

Stop stressing like this. You’re already getting on my nerves. Calm down!

I’m not stressing. I’m merely trying to keep up appearances.

Well you’re doing it poorly, Didine retorted. She’d already turned her back to him and was making to climb up the steps. LeBlanc caught her by her arm and stopped her in her tracks.

And what is that supposed to mean? he asked her.

If you want to look unwound... Put that damn letter aside!

Taken aback, Mister LeBlanc stood frozen like a statue as Didine climbed the steps. That was something he hadn’t expected her to throw in his face. Just at that moment, as he glanced down at the now-extinguished cigar in his hand, he felt another wave of hollowness in his chest. 

Chapter 3

Aboard the yacht, the guests were settling into their quarters, some already tired from getting ready at home, and others serene at the thought of heading back to the motherland after a long time abroad.

Mario Rocchi was putting his things away in his cabin, outwardly calm. His inner voice, however, wasn’t giving him a moment’s rest. From the second he’d laid eyes on the yacht and realised they’d set sail across the sea, he’d felt a niggle, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. And every time he felt close to untangling this state of mind, Fabrizio’s voice tore him from his mired thoughts.

Mario, are you ready yet? Come on, everyone else is up on deck. It’s time for lunch!

In a moment, said Mario, carefully stowing away his clothes.

And you could dress a little sharper...

Why?! he asked, taken aback.

I hear that little redhead has her eye on you, said Fabrizio, looking to get a rise out of him.

What, Didine? I’ve heard of her. If she does have her eye on me, it isn’t that.

Meaning?

Eh, like you haven’t cottoned on. She needs a fresh topic for her gossip mag, and I fit the bill just so.

Oh, I don’t believe that. Fabrizio tried to soothe him.

Let’s not kid ourselves. Everyone’s whispering about how dismal I was at defending my client, who’s now in jail. The whole affair is a farce. So let’s just face facts. She can’t wait to corner me and pester me with questions. And you know what I’m going to do?

No, what’s that?

I’m going to spill the whole thing. To everyone, as a matter of fact, because I’m certain she’ll start asking questions at lunch, with everyone there. I’m not going to do any sidestepping. What’s done is done. Case closed, trial over... and I’m a loser, said Mario, flinging a shirt that he’d been trying to fold down onto the bed.

Come on, Mario, calm down! Not long until you’re back home, and you’ll get to see your mother after such a long while...

"Oh, yes! I can’t wait for her to tell me how ‘proud of me’ she must be, after this whole business. Did you know she used to push me incessantly? ‘Oh, Mario, you’re my only son; how I’ve run myself ragged for you. I work night and day!’ And more important still, her favourite refrain: ‘Don’t let me down!’

Oh, yes! She’s been saying that to me ever since father died in the war. She sent me to France to read Law and she had to shoulder me all the while. God, I’m under so much stress... said Mario, bringing a hand to his forehead as he felt his head beginning to ache.

Fine, fine, let’s just drop it. Mister LeBlanc is waiting for us at the lunch table.

In the next cabin over, little Gopika was helping her five-year-old brother unpack his things. At the same time, she was carefully stowing away her own things in her room, taking particular care with the scented herbs she was putting on the nightstand at the side of the bed, just as she did at home. She set them aflame in a very special bowl, and their scent soothed her to sleep, sweetening her slumber. Once they were done, she and her brother Tadi rushed out onto the deck, where their mother was calling them out to lunch.

Outside, everyone had taken their seats. She saw their father at the head of the table, while the other seat was taken by their host, Mister LeBlanc. Gopika and Tadi were the last ones to take their seats. The little boy’s seat was on his sister’s left, while she sat somewhat shyly next to Mario. At the other side of the table, the seats were taken up by Fabrizio, Mister Hato, Mrs Narmada Padmanabhan, and Miss Babineau, who, rather ironically, was seated right across from her chosen ‘victim’.

Over in Mazzocco, in an unremarkable office tucked away at 73 S. street, a little alleyway camouflaged by the profusion of green shrubbery and trees around, a whispered conversation was taking place so quietly it was scarce louder than the wind. The low words were mingling with cigarette smoke in a darkened room, its yellowing, mildewed walls hung with myriad degrees and awards for studies in areas such as Biology and Psychiatry.

I see him there every Thursday! For two months, now. I keep asking him where he’s been, and he just keeps lying. I’m at my wits’ end... Please help me out! said a voice heavy with pain, while a hand was stretched out over the desk, lightly shuffling the papers on it.

Calm yourself! I’ll help. This treatment has provided relief to all the patients who’ve followed it. No need to worry, the other voice said calmly, rearranging the papers that had been put into disarray.

The cigarette smoke rose over the two speakers’ heads, enveloping them in a fine haze. One of them withdrew a small purple packet out of a drawer and laid it on the table.

I recommend that you take one tea from this each evening before bed. You’ll see the effects in one week. You’ll feel them.

Thank you so much, the other voice replied, dazed by the whitish shroud of smoke and its strange, slightly peppery odour. I’ll come back in a week, then!

Oh, no, no... I’ll be away on business. I won’t be in. My regrets.

So when will I find you in, then? the other person asked as they were politely being shown to the door.

I’ll let you know. These business trips can be highly unpredictable, and I don’t know when I might be back.

I see. Well, thank you again! 

Thank you, as well. Goodbye! 

After the door was firmly shut, a phone call was placed, and a brief conversation ensued.

Hello! I was just about to tell you where to meet me. See you on the platform at West Station. Don’t forget the ‘sweets’. And afterwards, don’t ever let me see you again.

The receiver was slammed back in its cradle with a metallic sound that reverberated through the whole room. A final puff of cigarette smoke was blown into the air, while the shape lurking in the darkness of the room moved closer to the window, though not so close as to be made out. It gazed upon the slim figure that had darted out of the office. It was now tiptoeing along the alleyway, with its cover of trees and shrubs, and had reached the main street and its flood of sunlight. Not wanting to be made out, the figure sped up.

Hey there! 

Recognising that tone of voice, not looking back, it darted between the nearby parked cars, nearly tripping over its own feet. Behind it, the voice calling out had turned slightly indignant. A step to the left. A turn around the corner. It had got away.

On the ‘Saints Louvigne’, lunch was coming to a surprisingly pleasant close.

That was delicious, save for that mouldy cheese. ‘Delicacy’, I tell you, said Fabrizio as he and his friend Mario were making their way back to their cabins.

You’re right. It was nice!

See, and there you were, worrying about getting ‘grilled’.

Don’t forget there’s also dinner, my friend! Don’t forget there’s also dinner! Mario retorted sardonically, recalling the gleam in Miss Babineau’s green eyes, the way it practically screamed for a new scandal she could smear all over her ‘The Cat on the Wire’ magazine. 

Chapter 4

While he fixed his bowtie, Mario gazed at himself in the mirror. He was the fastidious sort. He paid heed to the slightest detail: hair combed just so, suit impeccably brushed, shirt ironed to perfection, shoes shined to a gleam. As he thought on all these things, his mind’s eye conjured the ‘remembrance touching his shoulder and whispering sweetly in his ear in a soft voice. ‘You fuss too much, and what use is it? It’s Yichud, tonight!’ And, becoming slightly dizzy, he started sliding into his dreamlike state. And that peach scent... that peach scent that enveloped him...

I have to pull you out of your own private world every time, don’t I? Fabrizio broke into his reverie. I swear, ever since we left France, and not just since then, really, you’ve been acting really off!

What can you possibly mean, Fabrizio? asked Mario while stepping away from the mirror in mild irritation and pulling on his suit jacket.

No offense, but when we got to Nice, you were very happy. Afterwards, you changed.

How’s that? he asked his friend as he buttoned up his jacket, striving to maintain an outwardly-calm appearance.

I dunno. You’re so...muddled! Fabrizio said with a laugh.

How do I look? Mario attempted to change the subject.

I think I know what’s got you like this.

What’s that? He already felt his whole body start to tingle, like his entire suit was one step away from bursting into flames, at the thought that he’d been found out.

You’ve gone and fallen in love, you fox! You’ve gone and taken a fancy to the redhead when you heard you caught her eye, that it?

What, Miss Babineau?! 

Maybe you thought I didn’t catch the way you were avoiding her gaze. You must have been overcome with nerves. Why, her name may end up Rocchi, soon enough, said Fabrizio, making his way out of the room, howling with laughter.

Mario had gone quiet, but he was laughing inwardly at his friend’s fertile imagination, as well as his naivety. ‘Imagine that, me and Didine!’ he thought, but he breathed a sigh of relief that it hadn’t been as he’d feared.

After gazing in the mirror one last time, he felt ready to join the other guests at the party. He took off at a trot down the corridor leading to the deck.

I would be beyond delighted to print a few words of praise. The rest would take care of itself once my readers laid eyes on those remarkable jewels! said Miss Babineau.

Oh, I have no doubts as to your magnanimity, Mister Mohim Padmanabhan replied, gazing entranced at the emerald flecks in her eyes. Do you know, I find your eyes most enchanting. They inspire me to creative heights. And with that, he took her hand with a graceful flourish and pressed a lengthy kiss to it, bringing a dusky pink tint to her cheeks.

Taking in the scene, Mister LeBlanc insinuated himself, politely but firmly.

Mister Padmanabhan, won’t you allow me to introduce you to the best wine Italy has ever produced. I promise you, as soon as you take the first sip, you’ll never want to leave Mazzocco!

And so Mister Mohim was persuaded to head over to the sideboard in the company of their host, excusing himself from Miss Babineau, who could still feel the heat in her cheeks. Just at that moment, her ‘prey’ was making his way past her.

Young Mario! 

Good evening, Mister Hato! 

Pleasure to see you again. We didn’t have a chance to talk during lunch.

That’s all right. Mister LeBlanc was too busy regaling us all with tales of his trips through India. Not to mention all his complaints about the monkeys that stole all the artwork he’d gone to the trouble of collecting.

I rather think it was the money he invested in all that art that he missed, said Mister Hato with a smile. "I’m glad you decided to visit your mother. She’s going to be very happy you did. I know it’s coming on five years since your father passed away.

He was like a brother to me, but since I also lost my only son in that war, things have taken a turn for the strange... I forebore from getting in touch with you or with your mother, and for that, I must ask your forgiveness! avowed Mister Hato in a pain-filled voice.

No! No forgiveness needed! You helped us so much. If it hadn’t been for you taking me to France to get a better education, who knows what sort of Mazzocco ghetto I’d be trapped in right now! 

It would surprise you to learn how much the town has changed since you left! 

I’ve heard rumours here and there. That may be so! said Mario doubtfully.

‘Mazzocco’...  it really has turned into the name on everyone’s lips! At any rate, there are so many things I’d like to share with you once we get there.

By all means! We haven’t talked for a long time. Mother would love to have you for tea one afternoon!

All that while, Gopika had been standing somewhere apart from everyone else, without her little brother Tadi, who, feeling off that evening, had stayed behind in their cabin under their mother’s watchful eye.

Noticing the way she stood in the corner like a wallflower, Fabrizio decided to start a conversation with her. As he got closer, the ‘spirit of India’ was revealed to him: the olive skin, the long, ebony-black hair that flowed like silk over her deep purple sari, and the small stones embroidered in it that glittered their multi-coloured sparkles in the moonlight.

During his perusal, a mysterious pair of eyes was peering at him from beneath a thick set of arched eyebrows.

Oh glorious evening, where the moon reigns the sky... where the sky will only suffer two beneath it to sit... to admire, to attend, to whisper forbidden nothings! Fabrizio declaimed lyrically, carefully stressing every word, trying to impress the girl whose astonished gaze had settled on him, unblinking.

Can you understand what I’m saying, or ought I to learn your language? Because, you know... It doesn’t matter what language you say it in... love is never any less sweet! 

At that, the girl who had resembled a statue since the start of the evening suddenly grew legs.

Hold on, where are you going? shouted Fabrizio, disheartened.

The sight of that whole funny episode reminded Miss Babineau that she, too, had ‘prey’ of her own to catch. Sweeping her gaze over the deck, she saw ‘it’ chatting with Mister Pierre Hato, who was now making his way over to the sideboard alongside his friend and the guest of honour, who looked as though he’d imbibed rather too many glasses of wine. They were all expected at the table for the evening meal.

The kitchens were a hive of activity, with everyone getting ready to plate each of the carefully-selected, painstakingly-prepared dishes. The chef himself was happy with the result: ‘the chicken à la Provence will leave them all speechless,’ he told himself. The delicacy was sent out to be feasted on by the guests who seemed exceedingly merry already, and whose clamour appeared matched in tone to Mazzocco’s finest wine, the praises of which Mister LeBlanc sang so thoroughly.

Dear friends, I must confess how exceedingly... he paused for thought... flattered I am by your presence aboard my... humble little dinghy...

Mister LeBlanc, we do appreciate that you’d want to make a toast, but the chicken is growing cold, said Mister Hato, trying to overcome the awkward moment.

Oh, give me a moment, Pierre! I have to express my gratitude for the fact that... he hiccoughed... Mister Mohim Padra... Panda... Papa...

Padmanabhan, Pierre Hato supplied.

’S right... that he accepted my invitation, and brought his lovely family along. At that, he raised his glass, looking right at Mister Mohim, who was seated at the other end of the table, next to his wife and children, gazing at him with the same gleaming eyes, speaking the self-same language...

And, of course, to our two young men. One of whom is following in his father’s footsteps, and looks to inherit a large constructions business... And the other, a respectable and ‘fearsome’ lawyer, said Mister LeBlanc, laughing and swaying lightly on his feet, glass of wine clutched in his hand. Caught on to who I mean, yet?

Mario Rocchi, that youngest and bravest of attorneys! said Didine, intending to tease him.

So that’s what you’re going to label me in your famous magazine, said Mario in a supercilious, arrogant tone. He’d been expecting her ‘opening salvo’ at dinner, just as he’d told Fabrizio. She’d had her eye on him since lunch. Every time he’d opened his mouth, he hadn’t been able to help the feeling that he was choking down her cutting glance right alongside each morsel, and that it kept getting stuck in his throat.

Who, Miss Babineau? Oh, she’s quite a talented woman... said Mister LeBlanc.

I had been meaning to write about you, but I’ve changed my mind. You’re not worth the praise. I wouldn’t have enough words, Didine retorted in a