Ravelli

The Flycatcher

Love me – Leave me

Translation: Paul Evans

TVF International
TVF International Books
Ravelli Publishers

The names in this novel are fictitious with the exception of some historical figures, who are portrayed as themselves. Furthermore, the character of the central figure was inspired by the diaries of the Dutch monk and recluse Linders. Any other resemblance to names or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher.

The name of the author(s) is an element of the story and forms part of the mystery surrounding The Flycatcher.
Those involved will therefore remain anonymous.

Copyright 2011, R. Felderhof / Ravelli Publishers NV / TVF International BV
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photo print, microfilm or any other means, without written permission from TVF International BV, PO Box 162, 1260 AD Blaricum, The Netherlands.

First edition, September 2011
Original title: De Vliegenvanger – Verzamelaar van verboden liefdes

© 2013 English translation TVF International BV
Translation: Paul Evans
Cover design: Studio Jan de Boer
Interior design: CO2 Premedia, Amersfoort
Editors: Marjolein Westerterp, Cees Baan
Production: Agneet Dirkmaat, Marjolein Westerterp
Marketing & sales: Erik Felderhof

ISBN 978-90-821462-0-2

11

1944. After three years, Peter was back in Rome. After they’d arrived in the capital, he spent a week working for Colonel Schultz, a high-ranking German officer. This work consisted of translating from Italian to German or English. It wasn’t a bad job, although he was in the unpaid service of The Third Reich. But above all, he was a flycatcher and prisoner, with a death sentence hanging over his head. A double role that few would aspire to.

He was most impressed by a visit to one of the cellars of the Vatican, where thousands of works of art were stored. Apart from the opportunity that this offered to view so much art at close quarters, he could now claim with full conviction that he’d been a guest at the Vatican. He’d finally arrived at his destination, even if that were in a different capacity than he’d wished, but still…

After a week, he felt it was time to take his leave and decided to resume his own life again. Without saying a word, he walked out through the gates. The soldiers of the Swiss Guard even jumped to attention. There was no sign of any Germans. That’s how simple it was.

Afterwards, he hid himself away for two weeks, to subsequently reappear as a beggar. He hadn’t heard anything from Colonel Schultz. The reverse was true too, but this was hardly a surprise.

He soon swapped his German uniform for a pair of blue trousers and a white shirt; the only things that he carefully kept were his military passport and his ID tag. You never knew what they might be useful for. On the other hand, it was a risk to0. It was possible that he could be condemned in the Netherlands for collaboration with the Germans at some later time. Completely unjustly. Through his forced employment as an interpreter and flycatcher, he’d been given the opportunity to travel to Rome rather than be executed.

‘What would you do in my place, your honour? The choice surely isn’t that difficult?’

The war had gone so dramatically for Peter that he was determined to distance himself from that dark period. In Holland, he was seen as a hero, but Peter considered himself a coward. A courageous coward, it must be said.

After the war, Peter Johannes Wanders was to be decorated as a resistance hero in his absence. He was given a high award for extremely heroic conduct during the resistance to the Germans. His sister Geertje accepted the award on his behalf from the hands of His Royal Highness Prince Bernhard at the palace in Soestdijk.

From the moment that he was free, Peter called himself Paolo again. It gave him the opportunity to shake off his soiled identity. In recent years, he’d been habitually addressed as ‘der Peter’, and this didn’t hold any pleasant memories for him.

Peter lay down on the steps of the basilica of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, his familiar begging spot of a couple of years ago. And there he stayed, glancing around pathetically, his feet turned inwards, spastically, and with a crippled hand – to tempt the churchgoers into an act of kindness.

‘Ecce homo – behold the man – your fellow man – and be charitable, as the Bible instructs. Let the words of Jesus take possession of your heart and offer a helping hand to the unfortunate. Behold the man – behold the beggar, lying here before you on the steps of the House of the Lord.’

Peter adopted an even more wretched position. He knew all too well how to make skilful use of the Biblical message.

‘What you give to the least of us, you give to me. Those are the words of Jesus.’

A number of the churchgoers remained standing where they were and nodded affirmatively. The poor man was right. That was the true message of the Gospels.

Peter stretched out his healthy hand to signal the cap that he’d laid there as a collection sack.

‘Grazie.’ It rained down coins and more coins.

‘God will bless you.’

More and more of the faithful congregated to celebrate the mass, as the pastor at home in Limburg liked to phrase it. Today, the service would be adorned by the singing of a celebratory choir from Naples, as had been announced on the poster attached to the great wooden church door with drawing pins. Although he was genuinely looking forward to the hymns that they were going to sing, for the time being he devoted his attention to the churchgoers on the square.

He could already see her approaching from a distance. She stood out because of her waddling gate, caused by a defect of her left foot.

You couldn’t miss her in the street scene, certainly not if you were searching for her longingly, as Peter was, anticipating the generous act of charity that she’d show him. A princely banknote, which she’d conjure from the sleeve of her frock, a gesture that was always accompanied by a cheery smile and the wish: ‘Vai con Dio. Go with God.’ A weekly ritual that had been repeated every Saturday since Peter had taken up his begging spot on the steps six weeks earlier.

Sofia Partizani was a wealthy young woman of around forty, a privileged descendant of a family of jewellers and diamond merchants. She and her twin sister Cato were the only heirs to the fortune that their forefathers had amassed. Although it’s true that the family members had a lot of money, they also had weak hearts. Many uncles and aunts had keeled over during a walk, a tennis match or simply over a cup of tea. Some had even fallen out of bed during copulation and never got up again. In short, the family had been rigorously thinned out – also partly in thanks to the Spanish Flu. The two sisters and their mother had been spared and lived alone, separate from one another.

‘Buongiorno, good day, handsome boy.’ The soprano-like voice of Sofia Partizani rang out clear and warm. She slipped him a banknote.

‘Wait for me, dear man, until after the Holy Mass, I’m going to make you an attractive proposition.’

‘What could that be?’ Peter wondered. He had no idea at all.

‘A piu tarde, see you later.’ The lady leant over him and gave him a friendly pat on the head.

Sofia had an engaging face and a fabulous bosom. With pink nipples as big as apricots, Peter fantasised, as the baroness slowly dissolved into the shadows of the church doorway.

A quarter of an hour later, he walked into the church. He moved forwards through the semi-darkness of the side-aisle, so that he had a view of the choir and the marble statue by Michelangelo. An imposing work of art, depicting a young man cradling a small Golgotha cross in his right arm. The cross was too short to be crucified on. A miscalculation on Michelangelo’s part, Peter felt. Jesus was also wearing an out-of-place, gold-coloured loincloth, which had been added much later by the church, out of considerations of chastity. Peter had some sympathy with that. A depiction of naked genitals didn’t belong in a church. Jesus might stir entirely different thoughts in people. Pious nuns with unbridled fantasies about that beautiful body would no longer be able to restrain their pent-up chastity.

‘That would be exciting,’ Peter thought, ‘nuns coming out dancing on the lawn after the mass, longing for deliverance, hunkering for delight.’

He would immediately and happily link arms and draw the nicest of the sisters into the rhododendrons, to play naughty games for the rest of the afternoon.

Delicious thoughts came to his mind about the religious girls, giggling as they tried to cover their breasts. Bare, white buttocks finding sanctuary in the hands of their new friend, Paolo Wanders.

Peter reluctantly shifted his attention to the men’s choir that stood up in the pews to break into a solemn Gregorian chant. It sounded beautiful, they sang their praise to the Lord in low tones, the sounds unexpectedly filling him with an indefinable sense of religiosity.

‘Don’t be such a hypocrite,’ he reprimanded himself. ‘A moment ago you were holding a nun’s buttock in your hand and half a minute later you’re supposedly possessed by a religious reverie.’

And yet he couldn’t deny the impression it made on him. The ‘Sanctus Deus’ forged a mighty path through the basilica and deferentially floated up to the painted ceiling, which offered a surprising perspective on the hereafter. A peaceful landscape, with serious-looking saints, floating by on white clouds, surrounded by angels with satin wings, serenely fluttering over blue rivers with soft green banks. Peter was quite attracted by the idea, but for the time being he’d rather seek his refuge among the rhododendrons.

During the final hymn, Peter left the basilica and resumed his position on the steps by the entrance. He lowered himself down into his begging position, his feet turned inwards and his paralysed hand dangling from his coat sleeve.

After the mass, signora Partizani, baroness by birth, leant over him kindly and invited him to come to her house. That same afternoon at around five o’clock, if that were convenient.

Well, it was convenient for Peter.

She handed him a visiting card, which – after she’d left – he read with a smile. The address sounded very promising: Piazza Navona 25, the famous square with the Bernini Fountain.

‘No slum indeed,’ Peter laughed to himself, ‘this might turn out well for Paolo from Goat Lane.’

That same afternoon he went to the Piazza Navona, where he’d spent so many wonderful hours with Daniela and where her father, the puppeteer Salvatore, had died.

After his return to Rome he’d immediately gone to Il Caffè Luigi to drink an espresso. He hoped Daniela would still be working there, but she’d left for Genoa with her policeman. The owner was also able to tell him that they’d had a daughter.

‘Look, the card’s hung over there.’

Peter walked over to the bar, where the birth notice was pinned above it. We are happy and proud on the birth of our daughter…

This is where Peter stopped reading. He was surprised by the girl’s name. Pietra Paula Maria. Daniela surely wouldn’t have…No, that would…Had she been named after him, Peter Paolo? He was moved. He hoped it was true, in any case he didn’t want to hear that it wasn’t true.

‘I’m not going to make enquiries,’ he decided firmly.

‘Someone’s been named after me,’ he said to himself proudly.

‘A lovely name,’ he said to Luigi, and ordered another doppio to celebrate the memorable event.

Peter allowed himself the time to take in the monumental building that stood at number 25. That’s really not too bad. Tall windows, surrounded by sculpted ornaments. A front door of such regal proportions that you could gallop through with two horses side by side, and in the past that must surely have happened.

He pressed the brass bell a little too long. After a few moments, the door opened. A charming girl appeared in a blue dress and white apron. She greeted him amiably.

‘Signora Partizani is expecting you in the salon on the first floor, I’ll show you the way.’

They crossed the great hall, with a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling with hundreds of gleaming prisms, and climbed the broad stairs that traced a wide curve upwards. The maid knocked on the door and after a clear ‘si, entra’ rang from inside, he was allowed to enter the room.

‘Ah, there’s my friend, the handsome man,’ the baroness greeted Peter warmly and offered him a heavily ringed hand that he took carefully.

‘It’s a privilege, signora, to be able to exchange thoughts with you, thank you for your invitation.’

She smiled engagingly.

‘I sense that your paralysed hand isn’t as paralysed as you make it seem on the steps of the basilica, old charlatan!’

A rolling laugh with a surprising volume escaped her round mouth.

Peter laughed back warmly.

‘You’re right, do allow me to explain.’

With no embarrassment he began to provide a commentary on his deception.

‘My handicapped hand is an essential part of my mise-en-scène. In a certain sense, it represents the catastrophe that has overcome me in life, an image further magnified by my malformed legs. The whole thing together sketches the deplorable circumstances in which I find myself and ensures that people generously supply me with donations.’

Sofia shook her head in admonition.

‘Sit down, poor beggar and tell me what your name is.’

Peter walked briskly to the armchair that she’d indicated and in the meantime allowed the pompous surroundings to sink in. Solid furniture, dressoirs with silverware on display and imposing paintings with portraits of well-dressed notables, looking down on him arrogantly. Ancestors of the baroness, he suspected. Strict ladies with thin lips and high-necked collars. Older gentlemen with heroic moustaches, dressed in uniforms, covered in medals and other colourful decorations.

Peter cleared his throat politely.

‘My given name’s Peter Wanders and my cradle stood in Holland.’

Sofia nodded stiffly, she was apparently not entirely satisfied with the answer.

‘We’ll have to do something about your name, we won’t get far with that in Rome. You might perhaps have a suggestion yourself?’

‘In Rome, they also call me Paolo and I like the name.’

‘Paolo?’ She took the name in her mouth and sloshed it around like a full-bodied wine.

‘That sounds rather good,’ she said, ‘and now your surname. Don’t you have any Italian ancestry?’

She began to speak to him more intimately, on a first name basis. ‘You look so Mediterranean, Paolo, a Tuscan background would certainly help and what’s more you speak the language fluently. I’d like to be able to introduce you with a respectable name, one that speaks for itself.’

Peter didn’t have the impression that Wanders was an out-of-place or disreputable name, but apparently people here thought otherwise. He decided to behave diplomatically and to trade in his surname for a better life and an exemplary family surname. What difference did it make?

‘I do have Italian ancestors as it happens,’ he said to satisfy her, ‘but we have to travel far back in time.’

The baroness nodded with satisfaction.

‘And what family name are we to imagine?’

‘Ravelli,’ Peter said without blinking once.

‘Yes, Ravelli,’ he repeated the name with satisfaction. ‘I have an aunt and a cousin of the same name. The family line runs through my mother.’

‘Ah, bravo, Paolo Ravelli, I like the name a great deal.’ Sofia clapped her hands with delight. ‘Signor Paolo Ravelli!’

Peter raised his hand as a sign that he wished to have her attention for a moment longer: ‘I’d also like to add that the family has noble blood running through its veins. Perhaps you might be able to do something…?

He gave a slight bow.

‘I knew it, I knew it,’ the baroness crowed, ‘my insight into human nature seldom fails me.’

A triumphant smile spread across her face. She leant towards him and pinched his cheek.

‘Someone with such refined features could only stem from the nobility.’

This could well turn out to be a very pleasant couple of months for Sofia Partizani. Seldom had a young man so quickly understood what she expected of him. This Paolo Ravelli sensed acutely that life was meant to be acted out. A performance for the like-minded. An opera with a full cast, a remedy for the monotony of everyday life.

‘What am I to imagine?’ signora Partizani asked, ‘a dukedom, a countship…a…’

‘A countship rings a bell,’ Peter smiled with an aristocratic nod and added with satisfaction: ‘although my eldest brother bears the worthy name of Hertog, or Duke, Jan, the title of count recurs more frequently in the family history.’

‘Well from this moment on, sir, you will be…’ she gave him an earnest look, ‘conte Paolo Ravelli! I will immediately give orders for visiting cards to be printed. You are going to move in better circles. And you’ll be able to make the right contacts. Take a piece of advice from me: If you’re not in the place where Camembert is being sliced, then you won’t be eating any Camembert. You’ll just have to make do with punta di fromaggio, cheesy feet.

Peter laughed politely, he was enjoying this lady.

‘Oh, won’t my friends be jealous,’ she smiled, ‘come over here, conte Ravelli and give me a bacio.’ Peter got up, bent over the baroness and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

‘That feels good, I’ll have another.’ Peter planted a second kiss on her forehead.

‘May I ask what you have in mind, what the meaning of our being together is?’ He looked at her questioningly.

‘Listen,’ Sofia began enthusiastically, ‘I would appreciate it very much if one were to take up residence in this house, if one were to come and live with me, as it were.’

She had imperceptibly switched to a more formal tone again, she evidently felt that this sounded more solemn.

‘I will ensure that one is provided with good clothing and access to company that would otherwise be entirely inaccessible to persons of a modest background. Perhaps spectacles would suit too, they have an intellectual air. In addition, one will receive a monthly remuneration, a substantial financial contribution and, of course, all further expenditures will be to my account. Board and lodging, delicious wines, travel tickets, books, shoes and, of course, walking sticks – if desired. In return, I will expect one’s company and to be escorted to the theatre and the opera, and not least that one divert me, in the broadest sense of the word. What does one think of that?’

‘That would be no hardship at all, signora.’

‘From now on, you will call me Sofia, is that clear, Paolo, conte Ravelli?’

‘Crystal clear, Sofia.’

From this moment on, Peter Wanders was ennobled and would continue through life as conte Paolo Ravelli, residing at Piazza Navona, number 25, with a view of the Bernini Fountain.

After a long bath, a shave at the barber’s and a change of clothes, which an obliging assistant at a nearby gentleman’s outfitter’s had selected on Sofia’s instructions, he was allowed to pull up a chair next to baroness Partizani in the salon and raise a glass to their liaison, as it’s termed in polite circles.

‘To us.’

Sofia looked at him triumphantly, she had a kindly, almost beautiful face. A shame that her ample derrière, a body part indisputably considered the highest form of beauty in some cultures, was less to the taste of count Ravelli.

‘To us,’ he toasted and gave her a refined smile in return.

During the meal that followed, Sofia confessed that she’d had him followed for some time and was therefore appraised of his lifestyle, a statement that required little further elaboration.

‘You were able to pleasantly combine your work as a beggar with drinking coffee on terraces,’ she said in an animated fashion, ‘and with reading books from the library, which you’ve been a member of for a year. And a little violin playing on the Piazza della Rotonda. And your regular niche, where you read the papers every morning is known to me too. As for the rest, you lead a rather peaceful existence, in as far as I’ve been able to ascertain. From now on that will be very different, my dear Paolo.’

He was startled to hear the word ‘dear’, he’d have to get used to that.

This was going to get a lot more intimate, he feared.

The coming days were spent on reparatory work, as Sofia called it. His image required a makeover, or rather he would need an entirely new image. Sofia had a drastic restyling in mind, with the aim of transforming her protégé into an extremely charming dandy.

The renovation would begin immediately. Handmade shoes were purchased on the Via Fratelli. A prominent tailor – who’d carefully taken Peter’s measurements – threw himself voraciously into the commission of delivering six made-to-measure suits to house number 25 within a week. In addition, he was to add twelve handmade shirts of the finest materials to the order. Little wonder that this man with a slight stoop – a very common deformity in the tailor’s gild – was cringingly obsequious to the baroness and her companion.

If Peter were still in possession of the pastor’s suitcase, he would immediately have needed to throw it away. Its volume was grossly inadequate for storing the newly ordered wardrobe.

A unique opportunity was being offered to him today to change the course of his life, even if only financially. A nice roof over his head. The opportunity to move in better circles, enjoy good meals and take pleasure in a lovely hot bath every day.

‘Let’s go and have a delicious ice cream coupé.’ Sofia’s cheerful voice interrupted his musings. ‘Malaga ice cream with raisins, that’s my favourite.’

They walked arm in arm to a terrace with white parasols, which was famous for it’s extensive assortment of ice creams. Sofia made the effort to conceal her slight handicap and limped on his arm as inconspicuously as possible.

‘Which flavours do you like?’ she asked, as they took their seats at a table on the edge of the square.

‘Pistachio and lemon would appeal to me, but without cream. That muddies the taste.’

‘Oh, listen to that, we’re in the company of an ice cream expert,’ Sofia laughed. ‘A gentleman of taste, I like that. Does il conte have any more wishes or can we place our order now?’

‘A pithy type this Sofia, she was really up for life,’ Peter thought.

The sun was shining, the sky was blue and the ice cream matched their expectations.