The Ibex Trophy

As Renzo descended the staircase, he began to think of a way to establish a one-on-one conversation with the young woman. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, feet solidly planted on the floor, looking assured and somewhat defiant. Her curt responses from their earlier conversation, along with her dazzling beauty and regal composure, intimidated Renzo. With his eyes fixed on her, he miscounted the number of steps on the stairway. As he reached what he thought was the last step, his knees buckled under. He wound up sprawled on the shiny checkerboard-tile floor, with one leg twisted under his buttocks and the other against the wall in the opposite direction. His first-aid kit skidded noisily across the floor, coming to a stop under the concert piano. Renzo was mortified. No bones were broken, but his pride was shattered. His plans to impress her had crumbled. He struggled to his feet and apologized for his clumsiness. He was afraid she might laugh at him but hoped she would show some pity. She did neither. Instead, she looked at him with a cool, expressionless glance. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “No. I’m fine.” Renzo brushed and straightened his uniform. She turned and proceeded toward the kitchen, indicating that Renzo should follow her. A row of neatly arranged hand-hammered copper pots hung above a wood stove with four furnaces. The dinner table was neatly set. A plateful of roast lamb and a round, freshly baked loaf of bread was waiting for him. A bottle of sparkling red wine stood next to a brightly lit kerosene lamp. “Please sit down,” she said. “Grandmama wants me to serve.” She suddenly stopped and corrected herself. “Grandmama wants me to give you some dinner.” Her voice and manner were calm and sure. Renzo sensed he was facing a proud Corsican woman who had trouble with the word “serve.” Renzo became ill at ease. He wanted a way to open the avenue of communication, but in contrast to Madame Santi, who was friendly and approachable, this young woman appeared to be wrapped in a mantle of ice. Renzo attempted to ingratiate himself. Without sounding flattering or patronizing, he tactfully complimented her skilled piano playing. “That was one of the finest Chopins I’ve ever heard; quite an emotional approach. I sensed controlled aggressiveness and fiery excitement,” Renzo said, happy to have been able to string together so many words in French. “Well!” she said. They both stood next to the table, and she looked at him with her intense, almost burning eyes. “I didn’t know that Italy has sent music critics along with all the murderers and marauders.”