back on the stone gallery i waited for the storm to break. at last it came in a solid wall of gray wetness across the valley. nearer and nearer it came till it deluged my villa and drove me inside.
the woman was lighting candles. i took one from her hand.
"i want to look through the house," i explained.
she made no protest; so i started exploring the first floor. one room was evidently the sleeping-quarters for the servants; another was the kitchen, and the remaining two might have served in the old days for dining-room and drawing-room. there was little furniture, and the walls were gray with time and mold. one flight of stone stairs led upward to the bedroom, another to the cellar. i decided to go downstairs.
they were steps, not made of masonry, but apparently carved out of the living rock. the cellar was simply a cubical hole in the mountain. it all looked very old. i had the uneasy feeling that originally that cellar had been a tomb and that later the house had been built over it. but, once at the bottom, there was nothing to indicate a sepulcher. a few small casks of wine, some junk, odds of rope and rusty iron, those were in the corners; otherwise, the room was empty, and dusty.
"it is an odd room," i commented to myself. it seemed in some way out of place and out of shape and size for the villa above it. i had expected something more, something larger, gloomier. walking around, i examined the walls, and then something came to my alert senses.
three sides of the room were carved out of rock, but the remaining side was of masonry, and in that side there was a door. a door! and why should a door be there except to lead to another room? there was a door, and that presupposed something on the other side. and what a door it was! more of a barricade than a partition. the iron hinges were built to support weight and give complete defense and support. there was a keyhole, and if the key corresponded with the size of the hole, it was the largest that i had ever heard of.
naturally, i wanted to open the door. as master of the villa, i had a right to. upstairs the old woman seemed unable to understand me and ended by telling me to see her husband. he, in turn, seemed incapable of following my stream of talk. at last, i took him to the door and pointed to the keyhole. in english, italian and sign language i told him rather emphatically that i wanted the key to that door. at last he was willing to admit that he understood my questions. he shook his head. he had never had the key to that door. yes, he knew that there was such a door, but he had never been on the other side. it was very old. perhaps his ancestors understood about it, but they were all dead. he made me tired, so much so that i rested by placing a hand on the butt of the upper hinge. i knew that he was deceiving me. lived there all his life and never saw the door open!
"and you have no key to that door?" i repeated.
"no. i have no key."
"who has the key?"
"the owner of the house."
"but i own it."
"yes, you are the master; but i mean the one who owns it all the time."
"so, the various masters do not really buy the place?"
"they buy it, but they come and go."
"but the owner keeps on selling it and owning it?"
"yes."
"must be a profitable business. and who owns it?"
"donna marchesi."
"i think i met her yesterday in sorona."
"yes, that is where she lives."
the storm had passed. sorona was only two miles away, on the other side of the mountain. the cellar, the door, the mysterious uncertainty on the other side intrigued me. i told the man that i would be back by supper, and i went to my bedroom to change, preparatory to making an afternoon call.
in the room i found my hand black with oil.
and that told me a good many things, as it was the hand that had rested against the upper hinge of the door. i washed the hand, changed my clothes and drove my car to sorona.
