Page 17 of Under a Dancing Star

“I’d rather go to the university’s botanical gardens,” I say eagerly. “I expect you’ve been so many times that the novelty has worn off, but I would find it fascinating. The Empress Maria Theresa had it built in 1754 for the practical study of medicinal plants, but it has grown so much since then, and I believe that the greenhouses hold a particularly interesting collection of carnivorous plants.”

Klaus looks startled. “Indeed. I am sure it would be a fascinating experience.”

A now-familiar voice joins the conversation. “Of course you’d be more interested in the man-eating plants than the amusement park.”

Ben. He stands beside the table, one hand in his pocket. I notice that he has not made any effort to smarten up his clothes for dinner – and somehow he makes everyone else look overdressed.

“They’re not man-eating,” I try and correct him. “They largely eat insects or other arthropods.”

But a chorus of delight greets Ben’s arrival, swallowing up my response. Even Ursula unbends enough to favour him with a slow smile.

“Ben.” Her voice is throaty as she holds out a hand to him, which he takes and squeezes in his own, before greeting the others.

“He is charming, our Ben, no?” says Klaus, close to my ear.

“So everyone keeps saying.”

“It seems you are the only one immune to him.” Klaus grins, watching the blonde girl move to make room for him, smiling and fluttering at his attention.

“Yes, he was quite keen to assure me of that.” I meet Klaus’s gaze and roll my eyes.

Klaus chuckles and Ben’s eyes flicker in our direction. “What are you two talking about?” he asks.

“You, of course.”

“What could be more interesting?” he says smoothly. He turns to the girl on his left and for the first time I see his famous charm at work. He turns it on her like a spotlight, laughing at her jokes, teasing her, drawing her out so that soon she is laughing and blushing.

I watch for a while with great interest. It reminds me of the way birds preen and sing during courtship rituals. Ben glances across, and I arch my eyebrows appreciatively, congratulating him on what is, after all, a brilliant performance. He looks startled for a second and then there’s a reciprocal gleam of laughter in his eyes and that devastating, easy smile, the one that reveals his dimples.

“And so, now I have the two lovely cousins to myself,” Klaus says, pulling my attention back to him and drawing a giggle from Hero, who has dragged her own chair closer so that Klaus sits between us. He teases us and tells us stories as the sun dips lower and lower and the sky fades from orange to a deep violet blue. I lean comfortably back in my chair, half expecting to hear my mother hissing at me to sit up straight. I realize that hours and hours have passed without any comment on my behaviour or my manners. It feels dizzyingly liberating.

We light flickering candles in glass jars and the lemon drink is followed by earthenware tumblers of red wine, warm and spicy on my tongue. The two older men reach a crescendo in their argument, and the others wade in, while I try to keep up with the flow of words about artists I haven’t heard of before. They are so animated, so alive. The argument ends when one man leaps to his feet, and utters a stream of furious Italian, stalking away to whoops and cheers from the others. It couldn’t be further away from the stilted small talk I am used to.

Klaus laughs and translates some of the conversation for me. I lean forward, eager to hear more. It’s hard to explain the feeling of heat in my veins, the way that all these noisy people, talking so passionately about interesting things, makes me feel. It’s like when you come inside from the freezing cold and your limbs start to come awake again – an almost painful kind of relief.

Eventually we are interrupted by a jubilant exclamation from Uncle Leo. He greets Rosa, who bustles towards the table with a tray heaped with baskets of warm, cinder-crusted loaves of bread, fat green olives, tissue-paper-thin sheets of tender pink ham and meltingly soft cheese flecked with bright, green herbs. After several return trips to the kitchen, the table groans under the weight of all the food and we fall upon it with enthusiasm. I bite into a tomato, so sweet and ripe that you can eat it like an apple; the juice runs down my fingers, leaving me sticky and gleeful as a small child.

By the time we finish eating, the sky is a blanket of stars and I can’t shake the feeling that this is all some wonderful dream. Some of this must show in my face, because Filomena’s eyes light on me.

“What is it that makes you look like that, Bea?” she asks. “You are like Saint Cecilia in ecstasy.”

The others chuckle. I don’t understand the reference, but the sentiment is clear enough.

“It’s just so beautiful.” I try to find the words. “Sitting underneath the bougainvillea and all the stars, eating this food and being with you. It’s … it’s … almost too much. If I wasn’t seeing it myself I wouldn’t believe such a place was real.”

Klaus nods. “I understand,” he says. “It is why it is the perfect place to make art. It is a thrill, yes, for all the senses. As if you are seeing everything in brighter colours.”

He is right, of course, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of what it might be like to be an artist, just a little of what they are doing here. And the feeling is delicious.

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the lull that follows the impassioned argument, where conversation breaks down into quieter, more intimate chat, Leo turns to Ben. “I was going to ask you how the painting was going, my boy,” he says. “But I hear it met with a slight mishap.”

“I suppose you could call it that,” Ben says dryly, his eyes meeting mine.

I give him the slightest grimace. “I was very sorry to hear about the painting,” Filomena commiserates. “I know you were excited about it.”

“Such is life,” Ben says. I am a little surprised; I had more than half expected him to throw the blame at my feet. He turns to my uncle and Filomena. “I am sorry for the delay, though.”