Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

not yet mentioned the ladies who give themselves to me because they believe me to be Faust, or Hoffmann, or Lohengrin, or Otello. You think I should turn away all those eager ladies, and practice abstinence for the sake of their poor souls? But they do not care a whit for their souls, and I am no fool, to refuse a gift freely given. However, lest you think that I am utterly without self-control, I must point out that I do not accept the favors of every woman who makes her interest known: for one thing, there would not be enough time in this life; and for another, since I can pick and choose, I limit myself to those who are the most attractive.”

      “Are you certain you should be telling me this, signore?”

      “You are my attorney now. My confidence is safe with you. And someone besides Stafford should know the truth. And, just perhaps, when you are next at your club you could put in a kind word for me, to counter all those rumors: poor Mario Alfieri—so many women, and not one of them but sees only her own reflection in his eyes.”

      “Forgive me, signore,” Buchan says quietly. “But isn’t that what each of us sees in another’s eyes?”

      Alfieri shakes his head, smiling. “We must speak of this further sometime, Mr. Buchan, at length, preferably over dinner. But now,” he says, going to the attorney and holding out his hand, “I will leave you to your work. I am still unknown here, and free to walk about the streets like anyone else. I must take advantage of that happiness while I can.”

      “But the rest of our discussion?”

      “All the rest I leave in your hands, Mr. Buchan. I trust you wholeheartedly. Stafford will stay and give you any further information you need. No, please do not get up, either of you. The day is lovely, and my time has so rarely been my own …”

      The door closes behind him.

       Chapter Five

      A MOST UNUSUAL MAN, Stafford,” the attorney says.

      Dyckman looks at Buchan reproachfully, breaking his silence at last. “And also very discomposed, just now. He is not accustomed to having his motives questioned, Daniel. In Europe he is treated like royalty—no one would dare to throw his behavior in his face like that!”

      “He took it well enough.”

      “As you said, he is a most unusual man. He is also a gentleman, in the old sense of the word. Was it necessary to bring up such matters?”

      “Regrettably, yes. How else was I to get to know his nature on such short acquaintance?”

      “You might have asked me.”

      “Stafford.” Buchan looks at him mildly. “He is your friend. You are naturally biased in favor of the man, and while I trust your opinion, I needed to find out for myself what he is really like.”

      “And your little test did that for you?”

      “Admirably so, yes.

      Buchan leans back in his chair, settling himself comfortably. “Tell me how you came to meet him. I’ve never heard the story.”

      Dyckman relents finally, annoyance overwhelmed by memory. He is a pleasant-featured young man of twenty-eight, fair-haired, gray-eyed and tall, though not so tall as his friend Alfieri, and his smile now is tinged with embarrassment.

      “It was during my first trip to Italy, just after college. Mario rescued me,” he says, flushing slightly, “from a rather elderly—and extremely tipsy—lady of the evening.”

      To his credit, Buchan does not laugh. “Not an everyday predicament, to be sure. Would you care to share the full story with me?”

      “On one condition, Daniel, and that is that you not tell my family. I’ve succeeded in keeping it from them all this time, and I have no intention of having them learn it now.”

      “As shameful as all that?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. But Mother would be shocked beyond words, and even Father would find it less than amusing—the Dyckman name, you know. Truly a shame,” he says, with a grin, “because it really was very funny … although I was the last one to think so, at the time.

      “I had only been in Italy for about three weeks, you see—this was in Milan—and I had developed the habit of walking about late at night, in order to take in as much of the atmosphere of the city as I could. On this particular night, right behind La Scala, the opera house, someone hooked an arm through mine, and there I was, with this creature hanging on to me.

      “I was pathetically green, remember, and knew no Italian. I tried my best to extend my regrets, and tell her that I wasn’t interested, but she wasn’t having any of it. Finally, in sheer desperation—well, I pushed her away. It was far from gallant of me, I admit, but I simply didn’t know what else to do. At any rate, she stumbled, being none too steady on her feet. She didn’t fall, and nothing but her pride was injured, you understand—but that was more than enough. She began to scream—gathered quite a crowd.” Stafford laughs. “I had no idea of what she was saying, of course, and the people in the crowd were definitely less than helpful—some of them undoubtedly knew English, but didn’t want to spoil the fun—and when the guardia came I had visions of spending the night in jail, and having to send to the American consulate in the morning …”

      His eyes narrow, smiling at the memory. “And then, suddenly, there was Mario. He had sung that night, and was just leaving the opera house, but he stopped to see what the commotion was about. I had no idea who he was, of course, but the crowd certainly did—it parted like the Red Sea to let him through, applauding madly all the while. He offered to translate, listened first to the woman, then to me, and had the whole thing sorted out in five minutes. It seems, by the way, that what my lady was announcing to the assembled populace of Milan was that I had enjoyed her services and then refused to pay.

      “Mario paid her, of course, out of his own pocket … not to have done so would have meant that he knew she was lying, and Mario would never offend her that way.” Stafford is thoughtful. “Just as an aside, do you know what she did with the money? She kissed the bills, tucked them inside her bodice, just above her heart, and said that she would put them by her statue of the Blessed Virgin and never spend them because they had been given to her by il signore con la voce degli angeli, the man with the voice of the angels.”

      The young man shrugs and smiles. “Mario never told me that, by the way. It was told to me later by someone else. All Mario said was that I was a menace to his country, and then he invited me to join him and a few friends for dinner the following evening. And that,” he says, “is the true story of how I met Mario Alfieri.”

      Buchan nods. “You are very fond of him.”

      “He is my dearest friend. He has been very good to me—and for no other reason than pure kindness. But that is Mario’s way.”

      “What are his people like?”

      “Very much like him; very generous, very open. His family is large, although not very, not by Italian standards. His mother died when he was small, and had no other children, but his father remarried when Mario was ten or so, and the present Signora Dottore Alfieri has more than filled the breach. He has a host of half brothers and sisters—four brothers, three sisters, to be exact—all very much younger than he, and a perfect army of little nieces and nephews.”

      “Do you know them well?”

      “I’ve met them all, at one time or another. I know some of them better than others.” Dyckman reddens slightly.

      “Did you say, by the way, that he’s never been married?”

      “I never said anything about it, but yes, it’s true. He’s never been married. Most people, of course, think it’s because he has no need to be … the plethora of ladies, you understand …”

      The lawyer cocks his