The Lovers Read online

  ‘I wish you luck.’

  ‘Luck has nothing to do with it.’ Declan Aloysius Molloy recited his act of faith. ‘You know what you want. You know how much you’re prepared to pay for it. If you can’t cut the deal you walk and never look back.’

  To which Cavanagh added a small comment.

  ‘I guess the trick is to judge the moment to get up from the table and head for the door.’

  ‘You might say that, yes.’

  ‘I wish I could be there to see it.’

  ‘Not tonight.’ Molloy’s voice was suddenly flat, his eyes cold and dead as agates. ‘Don’t reach too high too fast, young man! There are vultures in the tree who will nip your fingers off. Just do what you’re asked, when you’re asked – and keep the ladies happy until we’ve finished our business. Understand?’

  ‘Aye, aye sir,’ said Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh – and hated the man’s guts.

  As the afternoon wore into evening, Cavanagh’s anger against Molloy cooled, and his hatred congealed into a small pellet of ice at the root of his brain. Reason, frozen into calculation, now told him that he had no one to blame but himself. He had been well and truly warned – by Lenore Pritchard, by Molloy himself, for God’s sake! Nevertheless, he had persisted in his wide-open, smilin’-Irish-laddie approach, which almost invited a clip on the jaw. Molloy had delivered it, with curt brutality. Amen! So be it! But never again, by God! Henceforth he would comport himself with politeness and reserve, working out his bond-service with total detachment, which he admitted, with a wry grin at the fellow in the shaving mirror, would be no easy matter for Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh.

  When he came to the bar, a few minutes before seven-thirty, he found the Countess already settled, with a bottle of champagne and a dish of canapés and a waiter hovering by her table. Cavanagh offered an apology for his lateness. She laughed it away.

  ‘Nonsense! I am early. Giulia is having one of her tantrum days and I’m too old for amateur theatricals. Champagne?’

  ‘Please.’

  The waiter was instantly at his elbow pouring the liquor. The Countess raised her glass.

  ‘Will you make a toast, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘I wish you, my dear Contessa, the best that you wish for yourself.’

  ‘Altrettanto . . . I wish the same for you.’

  They drank. There was a moment’s silence before she laid down the challenge:

  ‘I would guess, my young friend, that you’ve had a bad day.’

  ‘Let’s say I’ve known better.’

  ‘Mr Molloy is an impossible man. He’s boorish, brutal and . . .’

  Cavanagh, rich in new, cool wisdom held up his hand to stay the conversation.

  ‘That’s your privileged opinion Contessa. Unfortunately, I’m not free to discuss it. I am paid to serve Mr Molloy, not to pass judgment on him.’

  ‘I am reproved, Mr Cavanagh!’ She laughed and made a great ceremony of submission. ‘You must have had a very bad day!’

  ‘So why don’t we give it a happy ending and change the subject.’

  ‘Certainly, what would you like to talk about?’

  ‘Something romantic.’ Cavanagh grinned at her over the lip of his glass. ‘Yourself for instance, and the man who risked his life to spend nights with you on this island.’

  ‘Now you’ve stepped over the line, young man!’

  Cavanagh was instantly penitent.

  ‘When I’m out of sorts – which I admit I am, because it was a lousy day – this tongue of mine runs away with me. I apologise. Now please, may we start again?’

  ‘Certainly. Try one of these canapés. They’re very good . . . And remember, I’m a very old hand at the conversation game – much better than you’ll ever be, Cavanagh. I can make love in six languages and be a bitch in two or three more.’

  ‘You should have warned me.’ Cavanagh dabbed a crumb of paté from his lips. ‘You win, Contessa.’

  ‘You’re warned now! So, let’s reset the board and begin the game again. I move first. You had a bad day, we all did, because your Mr Molloy was being rude and boorish. He is also a bully and I hate bullies.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You’re not asked to make a comment. I haven’t finished yet. Your Mr Molloy, whom I hate, is about to marry my niece whom I love dearly, in spite of the fact that she is spoilt, wilful and obstinate. She’s a high, proud spirit and I’d hate to see her broken by marriage to a beast.’

  ‘Do you want a comment on that, Countess?’

  ‘If you have one to make, yes!’

  ‘Marriage is a free contract.’

  ‘In these circumstances? The hell it is!’

  ‘Please! I haven’t finished yet. Your niece whom I know only slightly . . .’

  ‘But who likes you very much.’

  ‘That’s pleasant to hear, but it doesn’t change the facts. Your niece is, in law, a free agent and she’s chosen to marry Lou Molloy. I can believe she’s been pressured by her father, who, if I read the situation even half correctly, has much to gain from this alliance. But Giulia’s not blind and she’s not stupid, and nobody in this day and age can force her into marriage.’

  ‘In short,’ said the Countess mildly, ‘you’re almost as upset about it as I am.’

  Instantly Cavanagh was on guard again. This was a more formidable adversary then he had expected. He set down his answer very carefully.

  ‘I have no standing in the matter, my dear Contessa. Therefore, I can have no cause to be upset. However, there are no secrets on shipboard and everyone has an opinion about everyone else . . . This is, to say the least, an exotic union. It could hardly fail to excite the interest of the crew. It must have raised comment already in the Italian press.’

  ‘It hasn’t been announced yet . . .’

  Cavanagh gave a long whistle of surprise.

  ‘Now I begin to understand . . .’

  ‘You don’t understand a fraction of it! How could you? This is a piece of theatre, stage-managed by Alessandro Farnese. Why are we travelling? So that the gossips can’t reach us, so that Molloy and Alessandro and Galeazzi can complete their investment plans and present themselves as strong financial contributors to the new Christian Democratic Italy. Thereupon the Pope confers a knightly order on our vulgar American, the marriage is celebrated with a certain pomp but a great degree of privacy at Mongrifone. It’s a business deal made in heaven, which will turn, very soon, into a hell!’

  ‘But Giulia is a signatory to the contract.’

  ‘I know, and I will tell you a secret, young man! If I could persuade Giulia to elope with a decent young fellow of her own age, I would willingly spend what’s left of my inheritance to finance their flight.’

  ‘I’d keep that offer to myself, if I were you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because then you’d be setting another snare, and what you’d catch would be every fortune-hunter from Rome to Hollywood! Any man who would accept an offer like that would be a pretty poor specimen . . . Besides, the more plans you make for your niece, the more she’ll delight in frustrating them.’

  ‘You’re a very astute young man,’ said the Countess.

  ‘I’m an idiot,’ said Cavanagh with feeling. ‘I shouldn’t have let you seduce me into this game.’

  ‘You’re not a bad player, Cavanagh; but you do, most definitely, need practice. Are there any women in your life at this moment?’

  ‘None that I’m breaking my heart over. I’m in what you might call the transit of Venus.’

  ‘The transit of Venus! What a beautiful phrase!’

  It was Giulia who spoke. He slewed round in his chair to find her standing behind him. He fought back a sudden surge of anger and managed a reasonable facsimile of a laugh.

  ‘For my part, Principessa, I seem to be caught in a Venus fly-trap!’

  ‘I’ve often wondered about that,’ said the Countess. ‘How does it feel to die at the heart of a flower?’

  ‘I imagine it might be qu
ite pleasant, dissolving into sweetness and then turning into a flower oneself.’

  ‘There! I told you he was a poet, didn’t I, Lucietta!’

  ‘I seem to remember that you did, child. Please join us.’

  Giulia sat down beside Cavanagh. The waiter hurried to fill her glass, while she bit into an elaborate canapé. Then, still eating, she demanded to know:

  ‘What was this deep discussion about anyway?’

  ‘I was trying to seduce him,’ said the Countess. ‘And if you hadn’t come along I might have succeeded!’

  ‘Now he must choose between us!’ Giulia raised her glass in a mocking salute. ‘If we were on offer, Cavanagh, which of us would you take?’

  ‘It’s a dilemma,’ said Cavanagh amiably, ‘but it’s familiar to any man with a drop of Irish blood in his veins. Tommy Moore even wrote a song about it. It doesn’t scan too well in Italian but in English it says: “How happy could I be with either, were t’other dear charmer away!” It sounds even better when you sing it . . .’

  ‘There’s a piano in the alcove,’ said the Countess, ‘why don’t we take our drinks over there. You can give us a session of Irish songs – a contribution to Giulia’s education for marriage.’

  ‘A most necessary part.’ Cavanagh was beginning to enjoy himself again. ‘We Celts are very much like the Italians: vulnerable to music and to tender sentiment, but hard as nails in pursuit of money. Shall we go, ladies? The waiter will bring our drinks over to the alcove.’

  It was there that Molloy came upon them, high on melody and champagne, with Cavanagh at the piano, leading them, con molto sentimento, through the final chorus of ‘I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen’. Cavanagh spotted him first, glowering over the piano lid. He was not encouraged by what he saw; but he finished the song with a flourish and an announcement:

  ‘Ladies, my duty is done. Mr Molloy is here.’

  As the women turned to greet him, Molloy’s expression changed. Instantly he was the smiling lover, sweeping Giulia into his arms, bestowing a cousinly kiss on the Countess, and offering a double-edged compliment to Cavanagh.

  ‘You’re full of surprises, Cavanagh! An Irish bard in a bar on Elba. That’s one for the books!’

  ‘You shouldn’t be surprised, sir, you auditioned me before you hired me.’

  ‘Did I indeed?’

  ‘You did, sir. You heard me singing “The Low-backed Car” and you bet me five dollars I didn’t know all the words.’

  ‘I remember now. And – God bless my soul! – I never paid you, did I?’

  ‘No, sir, you didn’t; but I always knew you would, one day.’

  ‘And what better day than today, when we’ve just got our first project signed, sealed and delivered. You had your own part in that Cavanagh: a bigger one than you know. I’d like you to join us in a celebration dinner with our colleagues.’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ said the Countess.

  ‘Please,’ said Giulia the Beautiful, ‘and maybe afterwards we can have a session of Italian songs.’

  ‘If you’ll forgive me, sir, ladies,’ Cavanagh was studiously formal, ‘I’ll beg to be excused. There’s work to be done on the Salamandra before you come on board again tomorrow. Also, I promised to take Miss Pritchard dining and dancing in Porto Azzuro. If she hasn’t already found another partner I’d still like to do that. I’m sure you understand. She’s the only woman in the crew and you did ask me to pay her some attention.’

  ‘Very thoughtful of you, Cavanagh. Just sign out at the desk. The concierge will call you a cab. Thank you for the art work and for entertaining these two dear ladies.’

  ‘My pleasure, sir.’

  ‘Oh, before I forget.’ He fished out his wallet and riffled through the notes until he found a five-dollar bill which he presented to Cavanagh with a wide, white smile as a bonus. ‘The bet was five dollars. The ladies will witness that Lou Molloy always pays his debts.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be leaving now.’

  ‘We’ll miss you,’ said the Contessa. ‘Thank you for your company and for the music.’

  ‘Enjoy your evening Cavanagh,’ said Giulia Farnese, ‘and be kind to the admirable Miss Pritchard!’

  ‘Goodnight, Principessa,’ said Cavanagh; but what he really meant was an untranslatable Irishism: ‘the back of me hand to yez all!’

  It was after ten when the taxi dropped him on the dock at Porto Azzuro. The gang-plank of the Salamandra d’Oro was down; there was a light in the saloon and the sound of a Mozart symphony played at low level. He walked up the gang-plank and peered into a scene of touching domesticity. The Chef and Lenore Pritchard were curled up in armchairs sipping coffee and cognac and listening to the music. The Chef’s eyes were closed and he was beating time to the score. Lenore had a book laid face down on her lap. Under the muted light they looked like father and daughter in an old-fashioned genre picture. It seemed a shame to disturb them. Cavanagh waited until the movement was finished, then he tapped quietly on the door and walked in.

  The welcome they gave him was like the mood in the picture, warm but muted. Lenore grinned and said:

  ‘Hi, Cavanagh! We’ve had dinner but you’re welcome to drink with us.’

  Chef stirred only a fraction in his chair and told him:

  ‘We wondered whether you might be back. Lenore cooked me scrambled eggs for supper. It made a change from haute cuisine.’

  ‘And what about you, lover-boy?’ Lenore set coffee and brandy in front of him. ‘Tell us about your day.’

  He told them, in bardic style, glad at last to translate his angers at himself and Molloy into a Gaelic comedy.

  ‘. . . I was like a featherweight up against the champ. The moment I thought I was getting close to him, he’d pop me one, right on the snout, and then haul off and give me that big toothy grin . . . Then to cap everything, the Contessa gave me a bumpy ride; but she put some fun into it. I like that woman. I didn’t mind it when she swatted me around like a shuttlecock. You should have seen Molloy’s face when he saw us singing our heads off in the bar. I thought he was about to blow a fuse. But sure as be-damned he won the last round. He invites me to dinner with all his entourage. I decline gracefully. I tell him I’m taking Lenore out to dinner. He pays off his bet as if he’s tipping a bloody janitor . . . and tells me to sign out at the desk! I wanted to kill the bastard; but I couldn’t even shake him. What’s the matter with me?’

  ‘Youth,’ said Chef, with a smile. ‘You’ll be cured of it in time.’

  ‘Money’s another problem,’ said Lenore, amiably. ‘Take my word. It’s very hard to bite the hand that feeds you. Don’t worry, Cavanagh. I’m rather proud of the fact that you came back to take me to dinner. If you like, I’ll make you scrambled eggs too. I’ve got a limited repertoire, but what I do, I do well.’

  ‘Not for the moment thanks. I’ll sit with the coffee and cognac. Where have the others gone?’

  ‘Brothel-crawling,’ said Lenore.

  ‘Here? In Porto Azzuro?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Lenore. ‘Boys will be boys; girls will be girls!’

  ‘Here on Elba they don’t call them brothels.’ This by way of explanation from the Chef. ‘They are houses of appointment, and because summer’s coming in and times are hard and the Comune is angling for the tourist trade, a couple of rather stylish places have opened up – big, old villas on the fringes of Porto Ferraio, with discreet driveways and sheltering gardens . . .’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Hadjidakis sent the boys ashore to scout the scene. They found a place that welcomes all three sexes. Expensive but agreeable was how they described it. However, with the favourable exchange on the dollar, and some cartons of cigarettes from the ship’s store, they figured they could afford a night out. So Hadjidakis has gone ashore with them. In case we want to go to bed, he told us to lift the gang-plank. One of the boys can shinny along a mooring line to lower it.’

  ‘Very athletic, they are.’ Lenore sippe
d meditatively at her brandy. ‘I hope Hadjidakis can stand the pace.’

  ‘He’s not a boy any more,’ said the Chef, ‘but he’s tough, like an olive tree. He’ll be on deck in the morning – how do the Americans say it? – bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  ‘Bright-eyed and sore-tailed, more like.’

  ‘Whatever.’ The Chef shrugged, indifferently. ‘Every man to his taste. Every woman to hers.’

  ‘Is Hadjidakis married?’ It was Cavanagh’s question.

  ‘Sure. He has a wife and two beautiful daughters in Boston. He’s very proud of them.’

  ‘He can afford to be,’ said Lenore acidly, ‘when they’re three thousand miles away, and he’s catting around with Molloy and the dancing boys!’

  ‘So what’s new?’ Chef shrugged off the whole debate. ‘His ancestors were forced to be either dirt-farmers or deckhands. They sailed to Africa with the north winds. They were away six months of the year. Provided they survived the infidel and the terrors of the deep, they came back with the first southerlies of winter. That was their life: to survive and provide. No one asked what they did with their spare time, if indeed they had any.’

  ‘You’re scolding me, Chef.’ Lenore was embarrassed.

  ‘You’re a big girl,’ said Chef, mildly. ‘You should know better . . . But I forgive you, because you do make good scrambled eggs and you do enjoy Mozart. I’m off to bed. Goodnight children. Golden dreams!’

  He got up stiffly from his chair and walked out, a man with the first chill of age around his heart.

  Cavanagh said, tentatively: ‘You’ve had dinner. Would you like to go dancing?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m too comfortable here.’

  ‘More brandy?’

  ‘Just a touch.’

  He poured for her, then topped up his own drink and made the toast.

  ‘Slàinte!’

  ‘Slàinte!’

  They drank. There was a small embarrassed silence. Then Lenore said calmly:

  ‘Do you know what I’d really like, Cavanagh?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Some old-fashioned, strictly-for-pleasure sex. No strings, no regrets, no heartburn and no scuttling about like midnight mice afterwards. What do you say?’