The Lovers Page 10

  ‘During the war, yes. When the Germans were here in force, yes. All of us lived behind some kind of mask. But now that the war is over . . .?’

  ‘What was once my mask, Lucietta, is now my everyday face. I could not shed it, even if I wished.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘You must. Think Lucietta! Who am I? What do I do?’ He waited a long moment for her answer. When none came, he talked on, sombrely and persuasively. ‘I am the treasurer, the financial comptroller of a monarchy, whose subjects number more than five hundred million people, all over the globe. They all pay tribute, through the parish, the diocese, by levy and donation, and the funds come finally into my hands to be managed and invested in viable securities round the world. But consider something else – and you too should meditate on this my young friend from the Antipodes! – What am I? I am a layman in a court full of celibate clerics, for whom the exercise of power is the only indulgence left, and intrigue is the most fashionable diversion. I have the ear of the Holy Father, I am the keeper of his public and private purse. So I am the natural object of jealousy, the readiest target of intrigue. My lightest words are memorised, reported, weighed . . . A single indiscretion on my part could start a run on the stock markets of the world. My master is a proud and princely man, an ascetic, an intellectual, an absolutist. No whiff of scandal has touched his private life – yet his household is dominated by a German nun, Sister Pasqualina, who has been with him since his diplomatic days in Munich and who, more rigidly than any Lord Chamberlain, controls the approaches to his sacred person . . . I can handle her because she is afraid of me. I am the silent one in the golden mask who comes and goes and offers no more than a nod of recognition. The prelates on the other hand depend on her favour: some of them fawn, some offer presents, none dares risk a hostile encounter. Do you understand me, Lucietta?’

  ‘I understand; but I pity you, Enrico.’

  ‘Better you should pity than hate me. And you, Mr Cavanagh, what comment do you have on my sad little tale?’

  ‘None at all sir. Like you, though in a much lower grade, I am a servant of the servants of God. I too go about my task masked and silent!’

  He laughed as he said it, turning the joke against himself. The Countess laughed too and said:

  ‘Now there’s a courtier for you Enrico!’

  ‘More than a courtier,’ said Galeazzi with cool humour. ‘A man with a risky talent for irony. Are you a gambler too, Cavanagh?’

  ‘A modest one, so far, because I’ve played with my own life and my own money. Could I be tempted further? I guess so, if the stakes were high enough . . . I’m going to get myself some coffee. May I bring either of you a cup?’

  They both declined and turned immediately to their private talk. Cavanagh took himself off to the galley where the Chef and Lenore Pritchard were having their own Kaffeeklatsch.

  ‘We’re pulling in to Porto Azzuro,’ the Chef told him. ‘With luck we may get a night ashore.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Cavanagh.

  ‘Sounds even better to me,’ said Lenore Pritchard. ‘You can take me dining and dancing in Porto Azzuro!’

  ‘If there’s dining and if there’s dancing, you’re on, Miss Pritchard!’

  ‘A miracle!’ said Lenore Pritchard in mock wonderment. ‘A true, bloody Roman Catholic miracle! And you’re a witness to it, Chef!’

  ‘No miracle! It just looks like one because it always happens on the third day out. Intimacy sets in. Two more days and you’ll find it hard even to get people off the ship. They’ll take a turn around the docks of whatever port we’re in, then they’ll be back on board, content to look at the world from over the rail. You must have seen this Lenore, even on the big Cunarders?’

  ‘I know it, Chef . . . I know it by heart. It’s the back-to-the-womb syndrome. We’re all locked in this floating world, and we really don’t want to be born again – until of course we enter the stage of prenatal conflict, where we’re ready to scratch each other’s eyes out . . .’

  ‘And when you’re bored even with my cooking!’

  ‘Hard to believe that could happen, Chef!’ Cavanagh sat relaxed over his coffee.

  ‘Nevertheless, it does, my young friend. Then even I, the most calm of men, am tempted to run mad with a meat cleaver.’

  ‘I’m told our Giulia is indisposed?’ Cavanagh tried to make the question as casual as possible. Lenore’s answer had more than a touch of malice in it.

  ‘Our little Princess is suffering from a variety of complaints. She is bored to tears with a fiancé who is spending all his time discussing business with her father, and all his sexual energies with me. I have to tell you this is the weirdest wooing I’ve seen. Whether the bride-to-be is virgin or not – and I’ll stake my salary she isn’t – she’s still a lusty young woman and she’s getting precious little relief from Lou Molloy. I don’t know what surprises either of them expects to get or deliver on the wedding night, but they’ll need to be big ones . . . I see her every day. In spite of myself I like her, but sometimes I feel I’m watching a package being gift-wrapped for delivery . . . Hell! why should we care? It’s not our wedding!’

  ‘I feel sorry for the girl,’ said Cavanagh.

  ‘I don’t.’ Pritchard was suddenly snappish. ‘She’s as much a party to the bargain as Molloy. She’s marrying rich and she’s got youth and family on her side. Molloy’s marrying a title and a whole cartload of new liabilities, not least of which will be a discontented Italian wife in a society he only half understands. No matter how hard he plays – and he does and he will – he’s going to end up a lonely and bitter old man. I’d hate to see that . . .’

  ‘So would I.’ Suddenly the Chef was back in the talk. ‘I’ve known Molloy a long time. He’s hard and he’s wild; but he enjoys life. He savours every mouthful, as if it were one of my meals. I don’t agree with Lenore. I think he’ll manage this Princess of his. I think in the end it could turn into a love match – or at least into a very comfortable matrimonial contract! More coffee, Cavanagh?’

  ‘Why not? I’m wide awake now. I’ll have my sleep when everyone’s off the ship.’

  ‘I’ll see you’re not disturbed,’ said Lenore Pritchard. ‘And I’ll polish your dancing shoes. I need you bright-eyed and bullish for a night out in Porto Azzuro!’

  Which seemed to answer the question he had asked himself on the day of their first meeting: what would he do when she beckoned him into her cabin? Accept, of course, enjoy; be grateful and gracious and leave no smouldering embers of anger or disappointment to mar the new intimacies of their little floating world. That decision, once made, put a new complexion on the conduct of Declan Aloysius Molloy. His was more calculated, because he could afford the extra care; but it was based on the same logic: keep the conventions and keep the peace, don’t compromise a complex business arrangement by a sexual solecism. And let no one talk too loudly about the morals of it, because morals, like politics, were the arts of the possible – as the Farnese had learned very well down the centuries.

  It was a real web of casuistries, conspiracies and consents; but all the threads unravelled when the Salamandra d’Oro was moored stern-to in Porto Azzuro and Lou Molloy addressed his crew on the foredeck:

  ‘. . . My guests and I will be out of your hair for forty-eight hours. Enjoy yourselves; but make damn sure there’s a deck-watch night and day and the ship is clean as a new pin when we come on board again. Chef, you get your shopping done and take a rest from the galley. The crew will eat ashore. Mr Hadjidakis will pay each of you twenty dollars per diem, which in this place, at the present rate of exchange, will keep you a long way from starvation . . . Miss Pritchard, you will collect and list the ship’s laundry. Have the boys deliver it ashore and collect it before you leave port. Mr Cavanagh . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re coming with me. Pack an overnight bag. Bring the charts and pilot books for Elba, a sketchbook and pencils, a notebook. Giorgios, get him a wetsu
it and a tank. Your papers say you’ve had scuba training.’

  ‘They do, yes. But . . .’

  ‘But me no buts, Mr Cavanagh. You live by the book, you die by the book.’

  ‘Yes sir, Mr Molloy.’

  ‘That’s all. The rest of you have a nice day and a pleasant night.’

  ‘I’ll work on it,’ said Lenore Pritchard, glumly. ‘But my guess is that Leo and Jackie will score long before I do.’

  The conference at the Marina di Campo provided new surprises for Cavanagh. The Farnese party had taken over one whole floor of the Club Hotel (seventy rooms, golf, tennis, heated swimming pool!) and there were already in residence two architects, a Roman advocate, an American attorney, two representatives of the Comune, a provincial official from Livorno and two senior members of the Ministry of Marine.

  They all boarded a hotel bus and rode down the winding road to the bay where the architects laid out their plaster models on a flat rock and talked eloquently of the fashionable haven which would soon spring up under the sheltering bulk of Capo Poro. Molloy listened in silence, while Farnese translated the architects’ explanations. Then, abruptly, he summoned Cavanagh and instructed him in an undertone.

  ‘I want you to get into your wetsuit and do a square search of the area marked for moorings. Tell me what the bottom’s like, and whether there are any outcrops that could constitute hazards. How much air have you got in your bottle?’

  ‘Forty-five minutes.’

  ‘You’ll be back in twenty. You don’t have to bust a gut. This is just a softening-up exercise. One more thing – before you enter the water, make a big scene about studying the models . . . Got it?’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘On your way!’

  While Cavanagh was making his undersea circuit, Molloy conducted a critical examination of the models and the accompanying plans. His interrogation was curt and impersonal and he would not leave any point until it had been clarified to his satisfaction.

  ‘The link road from the town of Marina di Campo to the new port area is presently gravel.’

  ‘An all-weather surface, yes.’

  ‘No sir! Already it’s rutted and harmful to traffic. It will need to be tarmac. The cost must be built into the estimates.’

  ‘At a later stage, of course, but . . .’

  ‘At stage one, my friend. This is to be a yachting port. Supplies will have to be trucked in – fuel, foodstuffs, liquor, everything. That road, short as it is, will be a vital artery . . . Next point, where is your water coming from?’

  ‘The reservoir behind Monte Capanne.’

  ‘That’s clean drinking water?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘Does it ever have to be rationed?’

  ‘Very occasionally in the height of summer.’

  ‘Are there any other sources of fresh water?’

  ‘There are bores and wells, but the water is not potable.’

  ‘Could we sink a bore anywhere within our area?’

  ‘Quite probably. The water table is not overly deep.’

  ‘Then we should do so. The bore water can be used for flushing toilets, washing decks and sluicing down the docks. Make a note to get a hydrographer on the job . . .’

  ‘All these prescriptions are very costly, Mr Molloy.’

  ‘Not half so costly as an empty port if everybody’s parking on the mainland because our facilities are substandard. This is an island, for Christ’s sake! People will have to be seduced to leave their vessels here! Now let’s take a look at the dockside layout . . .’

  And so it went on for the best part of thirty minutes while Cavanagh finished his circuit of the mooring area, slipped off his gear and returned to make his report. This time Molloy conducted the questioning for the benefit of the whole audience.

  ‘What’s the bottom like, Mr Cavanagh? The answers in English if you please, Prince Farnese will translate for our colleagues.’

  ‘The bottom is weed and sand, good holding ground, except close inshore where there is a continuous rock shelf, less than a metre below the surface.’

  Instantly the senior architect was on the defensive.

  ‘The rock shelf is known and calculated into my plans. It is in fact the foundation of the retaining wall of the promenade area.’

  ‘According to the plans and models,’ said Cavanagh, ‘the retaining wall is on the inner edge of the shelf. There is a further projection into the harbour area, three metres wide in some places. I swam right along it. That means that any vessel with a draught of a metre cannot moor stern-to on the buttress wall.’

  ‘That means gentlemen,’ said Lou Molloy, ‘you have to put your buttress wall four metres further out and back-fill to enlarge the promenade.’

  ‘More cost!’

  ‘More space also for shore installations – which we still have to discuss. Any other comment, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘None that falls within my competence, sir.’

  ‘But you obviously have a question?’

  ‘Yes. The bottom is as I have said, weed and sand. I have no means of knowing how deep that deposit is, or what kind of rock foundation lies beneath it.’

  ‘Gentlemen?’ Molloy faced his experts with the problem. Their answer was a shade less than precise.

  ‘We estimate an average sand depth of two metres. The underlying rock will, of course, be the continuum of the central rock structure of the island: eocenic serpentine, porphyry and granite.’

  ‘Upon which you propose to lay out a series of stone finger wharves, to provide an enclosed harbour basin.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Have you considered the possibility of a pontoon construction, which could be erected quickly, would be easily extendable and would almost double our carrying capacity? It would also enable us to begin the major structural work on the dockside development.’

  ‘Frankly, no. The idea was not presented to us in those terms.’

  ‘Then we’ll table it for discussion this afternoon. Now let’s walk over the shore site itself . . .’

  As they moved away Cavanagh heard the Countess berating Farnese.

  ‘I don’t know how you can put up with that man. He’s a peasant, a boor and a bully.’

  ‘Who will save us, and make us a great deal of money.’ Farnese silenced her angrily. ‘I am tired of academic fools who still think they are designing immortal monuments to their own talent!’

  ‘I agree with Papa,’ said Giulia Farnese. ‘These are the moments when I most admire Lou. He is so much the man in command . . .’

  The next moment they were out of earshot and Molloy took Cavanagh’s arm to steer him away from the group heading to the proposed construction area.

  ‘Next job, Cavanagh. Get your sketch book. Go back to where we were standing and try to visualise a series of pontoon mooring pens – walkways to give access to all craft, to carry water and power lines, with enough turning room for entrances and exits. Use the new retaining wall as the dock space for vessels over twenty metres. Can you do it?’

  ‘I can try . . . but don’t expect Leonardo da Vinci!’

  ‘I’ll settle for a lesser name, Van Vitello, maybe? All I need is something I can slap on the conference table and say, “There gentlemen! That’s what you should be thinking about . . .” You wouldn’t think you’d have to tell ’em that the moment you put down rock and concrete, you’re going to change the whole configuration of the waterway. Mediterranean tides aren’t big, and the currents are minimal, so these dumb bastards have decided to discount ’em . . . Then when they see the results, the Marine Ministry will start suing us for reparation of irreparable damage. Anyway that’s the shape of the problem – get working on the sketch . . . See if you can have something half-way presentable by three o’clock . . . You do know what a goddamn pontoon walkway looks like, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, sir. The Navy even taught us to make ’em. I just hope I can remember.’

  Molloy gave him his widest grin an
d clapped him hard on the shoulder.

  ‘I told you I used to write Navy reports, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sometimes they’re bullshit; but if you present ’em in evidence, as you did boyo, you have to live with ’em. But, courage Camille! You’re not doing too badly!’

  ‘Damn nice of you to say so, Mr Molloy, sir!’

  ‘I’m the nicest fellow in the world, so long as I get what I order.’

  He threw back his head and laughed so loudly that the group ahead turned to look at him and the sea birds rose screaming from the crannies of Capo Poro. Cavanagh didn’t blame them. His own rage against the man was rising fast. Nonetheless, he delivered the drawings at the hotel five minutes before the meeting.

  ‘They’re the best I could do in the time. I used the admiralty chart for the harbour plan and a school ruler for working out the scale. There are three drawings: an aerial plan, a perspective elevation of the walkways and a sketch of the typical pontoon float and coupling, Navy-style.’

  Molloy, preoccupied and irritable, studied the sheets in silence, then offered only a grunt of approval.

  ‘Not bad. They’ll serve the purpose.’

  ‘Do you want me at the meeting? I could . . .’

  ‘Hell no! I’ve got my Rome attorney and Farnese; he has to fight his section of the battle, or he loses the deal. I won’t invest and Galeazzi won’t put in a nickel of Vatican money unless the contracts are all our way and tighter than a fish’s arse. You can do me a favour though. Meet Lucietta and Giulia for drinks in the bar at seven-thirty and take ’em to dinner at eight-fifteen. We may or may not join you at table. I’m going to work this bunch until their eyes are popping, and we’re not leaving the conference room until our version of the agreements is accepted.’