The Lovers Page 16

  ‘That makes you a very dangerous player, Mr Cavanagh.’

  ‘Not really. My resources are so small you can bid me out of any hand.’

  ‘You could borrow to raise your stake.’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You could conspire with another player.’

  ‘With whom for instance?’

  ‘Are you open to an offer, Mr Cavanagh?’

  Cavanagh was silent for a long moment, scanning the empty sea and the white mass on the radar screen that marked the mainland to the east. He turned off the autopilot and corrected his course by five degrees west, then reset the pilot. Finally, he said almost casually:

  ‘I have to tell your Highness I’m not open to offers and the game itself is too rich for me. Count me out please!’

  ‘A wise decision,’ said Farnese. ‘You can always come back when you’ve saved enough money for the table stake.’

  Half an hour after Farnese had left him Chef appeared on the bridge with bouillon and crackers and his usual benign smile.

  ‘It’s a long time to dinner. I thought you could use some nourishment.’

  ‘You’re a messenger from heaven, Chef! Sit down. Talk to me! Tell me I’m not going crazy!’

  ‘Tell me first what ails you, young Cavanagh!’

  Cavanagh told him of his talk with Galeazzi, of his passage-at-arms with Farnese, of the interlude with the women at the hotel, of Molloy’s concerns for Hadjidakis. He made no mention of the black book, but asked cautious questions about Lou Molloy and his political activities.

  The Chef heard him out in silence; but instead of answering asked a question of his own.

  ‘Where did you spend your war, Cavanagh?’

  ‘First on a corvette, then on a destroyer in the South Pacific.’

  ‘A good life, the Navy, eh?’

  ‘Looking back on it, sure! A hell of a good life. Much better than slogging through bloody jungles, holing up in muddy foxholes. At least the combat was clean and there was a lot of sea to hide in . . .’

  ‘And not too many people to dispute it with you, eh?’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And after the war, how was it?’

  ‘Well, once the prisoners were home and the first grief for the lost ones was over, it was an exciting period. We realised for the first time, I think, what a big country we had, and the enormous opportunities we had to develop it. We were no longer tied to Britain’s apron strings. We had fought our own war. We had new and powerful allies in the United States. Migrants were coming in by the shipload. So, yes, it was a good time – a lucky time, for men of my age at least!’

  ‘Now tell me what you have seen in Europe?’

  ‘Not much. The coast from Genoa to Antibes . . .’

  ‘The best of it. The part that suffered the least in physical destruction, in the displacement of populations . . .’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen the rest of it – the Ruhr, the Rhineland, Dresden, Vienna? You’ve never been in a camp for Displaced Persons?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you can have no conception of what it is still like to be a conquered people, living under the law of the occupying powers, subsisting upon their bounty, while all the time, even six years after the armistice, you are trying to put together the remnants of your life, trace your scattered family – collect the shreds of your own identity!’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Chef?’

  ‘That you are a lucky young man.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘But because you are lucky, you can also be arrogant and opinionated. You talk sometimes as though life can be run by convent-school ethics and the dos and don’ts of the Roman catechism. How can I explain it to you? I am a Swiss, a neutral, more privileged even than you. I have seen the war like Wagner’s Twilight of the Gods, from a box seat. Even though the opera is over, the set is still standing. The skyline of middle Europe looks like a mouthful of rotten teeth. Tens of millions are dead, millions more are rootless and in despair. It is left to the womenfolk to survive, to nurture the children, to find new partners with whom to breed again. Read the magazines and the newspapers and you will see column after column of advertisements for husbands, love partners, a dozen different designations. And in the east, in Germany, Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia, the USSR itself, it is even worse. The USSR lost twenty million dead. Now the Party has murdered liberty itself . . .! On this little ship, Cavanagh, you are living in a time bubble, removed and remote from all the tragedy on land. Even so, part of the drama – and no small part of it either – is being enacted under your eyes. As always, money and power are the keys to change. Both are represented here – with one notable addition, the potency of the Roman Church; the perennial survivor, organised as efficiently as the empire of Augustus, with a codified faith that promises an explanation, if not a cure, for every human ill.’

  ‘I know what you’re telling me,’ Cavanagh was very subdued. ‘I’m not really as stupid as I must sound. I know I’ve got little to be arrogant about – and that one-liners are no answer to the world’s mysteries. But what I don’t understand is why I’m being drawn into all this – given that I’m the village idiot, which I’ve just admitted!’

  ‘The answer to that is the simplest of all. You are young, you are virile. You have an education and a future. More than that, you are a man from a new country which is accepting migrants from all over Europe. Your signature on a marriage contract is worth whatever you want to charge for it, because it means, for the woman and her close family, a passport to a new life. There is a name for that kind of arrangement, a white marriage, and there are brokers who arrange them every day.’

  Cavanagh laughed. ‘At least it’s a solution if I run out of funds!’

  ‘The trick,’ said Chef, good-humouredly, ‘is to pick a woman who can pay for the privilege! Let me tell you a story – a true story, which illustrates how things are in Europe. Last year, at the end of summer, I came down to spend a couple of weeks in Sorrento with an old friend of mine who runs the Hotel Tasso, right on the cliff edge. He told me that three of his young waiters had made a pool of their money and each agreed to assist the others to find, court and marry an American heiress – a visible, provable and substantial millionairess! The one who succeeded would put the others on his payroll and sponsor them to America. You laugh? One of them did find and marry an heiress. He and his two friends are now happy executives in a large cosmetic company in New York. The same scenario is being played out in comedy or tragedy all over Europe. So, you must take yourself very seriously, young Cavanagh! Put a good price on yourself. You’re not only a good stud stallion. You’re a hedge investment, a small stock with great potential, negotiable in all European markets!’

  Suddenly, a well-spring of suppressed humour burst inside Cavanagh and he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. He was still drunk with self-mockery when the beacons of Porto Santo Stefano showed clear and bright against the huddled lights of the little harbour town.

  The port of Santo Stefano was putting a brave face on an unpromising spring season. There were coloured lights strung along the harbour front, tubs full of spring bulbs and, along the balconies above the storefronts, a trailing of wisteria and bursts of lilac bloom. There were few vessels in the harbour and they were mostly small run-abouts and thirty-foot cruisers and old-fashioned day-sailers, against which the Salamandra bulked large as an ocean liner.

  The welcome she received was eager and almost regal. The harbour-master himself came to shepherd her into the berth. There were two men to take her lines. The proprietor of the Pipistrello had waiters standing by with offers of spumante and savouries and a guitarist to play the company into the restaurant and make music for their meal. Even the dour Galeazzi smiled and nodded approval:

  ‘The times are hard but we still make a ceremony of service. This is where our strength resides, Molloy! This is what you are buying with your investmen
t dollars!’

  ‘Sure, it’s a grand piece of theatre!’ Molloy’s humour was on the sour side. ‘While we’re waiting for our first dividend we’ll take ’em on tour in an opera.’

  To which Cavanagh added the silent tag-line: ‘And call it no doubt, The Bartered Bride!’ Almost as if he had heard, Molloy rounded on him with curt commands.

  ‘Chef tells me the crew have had their meal. Set a deck watch and give the rest a few hours ashore. Have ’em back on board at midnight so they don’t disturb the guests. You’re coming with me to the post office. We have some calls to make. Alessandro, Enrico, would you be good enough to escort the ladies to dinner. I’ll join you later!’

  ‘I’ll come with you, my love.’ Giulia moved to his side and took his arm. ‘Good news or bad, I’d like to be with you when you call Naples.’

  Molloy’s answer was hardly above a whisper; but it was instant, cold and hostile.

  ‘Please Giulia! This is my business, let me transact it in my own fashion. I’ll see you at the Pipistrello.’

  It was like seeing a fragile leaf stripped from a tree by a bitter wind. Giulia paled, but uttered no sound. She seemed to float away from Molloy into the protecting presence of her aunt. Cavanagh, embarrassed and angry, removed himself abruptly, to pass instructions to the crew. Lenore Pritchard detained him just inside the saloon for a private word.

  ‘Batten down, Cavanagh. It looks as though we’re in for stormy weather. Our little Princess is very unhappy. Her father is obviously putting pressure on Molloy, who is in a foul temper because of Hadjidakis. Tonight may be the night you’ll have to rescue me . . .’

  ‘Make sure you can shout loud and fast.’ Cavanagh was still rocking with anger. ‘God! How I hate that surly brute!’

  ‘When he’s like this he’s as dangerous as a wounded bear!’

  ‘I know. I’ve just heard him snarling at Giulia. Christ knows why she takes it!’

  ‘Because she’s bought and paid for, lover! Even so, I feel sorry for her.’

  ‘Cavanagh!’ Molloy shouted across the deck. ‘Step lively!’

  ‘Coming, sir!’ He added a muttered postscript for Lenore’s benefit. ‘And may he choke on fire and brimstone, the black Boston bastard!’

  When they arrived at the post office, they discovered they had no gettoni for the public telephone. Cavanagh had to race back to buy a couple of handfuls in the restaurant. Then Molloy ordered him to make the call to Naples.

  ‘I’ll go crazy if I have to listen to that “Pronto! Pronto! Aspetta un momento” routine. When you’ve got the American medico on the line, call me into the booth and I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  It took nearly fifteen minutes to establish the connection, by which time Molloy was pacing the cobblestones of the dock and threatening to tear the instrument out of the wall. When the doctor came on the line, Molloy snatched the receiver from Cavanagh and waved him away. Cavanagh walked to the edge of the dock, perched himself on a bollard and watched Molloy mouthing and gesticulating in the booth. A long time later, he put down the receiver and began walking towards the water. His gait was slow and ataxic, like that of a sleepwalker. His eyes were fixed on some distant star in the eastern sky. Cavanagh stood up to intercept him and to ask the vital question:

  ‘How is Giorgios?’

  Molloy’s answer was flat and toneless.

  ‘He’s in intensive care. He hasn’t regained consciousness yet. His vital signs are very low. The doctor says he’s still at risk of total collapse or of serious residual impairment. He wouldn’t go into details on the phone. He did suggest that Giorgios’ family be informed. After that it was just mumbo-jumbo. He was stroking me, trying to calm me down . . . I’ve got to get to Naples. I’ve got to get there fast, Cavanagh. How do I do it? Think man! Think!’

  Molloy was obviously in shock, struggling with a welter of emotions which he could not, or dared not, express. Cavanagh tried to talk him through the confusion.

  ‘I’ve already worked out some options, sir. While we’re talking, why don’t we stroll down to the end of the dock? You’re in no shape for company yet.’

  ‘That’s for sure, boyo! Between marriage plans and covering my arse with all these high-toned hucksters, I’m besieged, beleaguered . . . And the thought of losing Giorgios – even having him maimed and out of the game – that’s the last straw! Do you ever read the Bible, Cavanagh? We micks don’t as a rule. But being at sea gives you a taste for it and an understanding. Giorgios and I are like David and Jonathan, close as peas in a pod.’ Suddenly, like an old-fashioned preacher, he began to intone: ‘I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me. Thy love was wonderful, passing the love of woman . . .’ He broke off, to challenge Cavanagh brutally: ‘Shocked, Mister Cavanagh?’

  ‘No, sir. I understand your distress. I’m here to help if I can . . . Let’s talk about your travel arrangements.’

  Molloy fell into step beside him and they strolled slowly down the quay towards the harbour-master’s office. Cavanagh, bland as butter, went on with his exposition.

  ‘From here to Naples by sea is about two hundred and twenty miles. If we left at midnight we could have you there in fifteen hours – mid afternoon tomorrow. That would be the most comfortable way to do it.’

  ‘Not for me it wouldn’t!’ Molloy flared into sudden anger. ‘On board every move I make is scrutinised. Giulia complains because I don’t give her enough attention, while I’m hard put to keep my hands off that beautiful body of hers. God damn it! If I did what I feel like doing, we’d be bedded every night, having some fun and to hell with the Pope and the whole bloody College of Cardinals! Instead we’re playing this old-fashioned comedy of virgin bride and noble-spirited suitor, while her daddy’s going to be screwing me in daylight and Miss Aurora Lambert at night. As if that isn’t enough grief, Galeazzi and his Vatican investors are driving hard and complicated bargains, a different one for every location and project, because they say the underlying titles, leasehold or freehold, are all different. My lawyers are struggling to keep up with the translations and the legal costs are escalating . . . I said it before, Cavanagh, I’ll say it again. I’m beleaguered! When Giorgios was here he’d laugh and say that the pair of us could screw anything on two legs or four. Without him, I’m adrift, Cavanagh, and after what happened to him, I’m scared too. Would you believe that? Lou Molloy scared?’

  ‘Yes, I’d believe it. It would surprise me if you weren’t . . . I know I can’t match Giorgios Hadjidakis; but you can trust me to run your ship and care for your guests . . . So you don’t want to travel to Naples on the Salamandra. The next option is to drive. It’s eighty miles from here to Rome, a hundred and fifty from Rome to Naples. If you like, we can summon a taxi from the harbour-master’s office. You’d have a six-, seven-hour drive, but you’d still be in Naples for breakfast . . . The final option is to drive to Rome and have a charter flight waiting at Ciampino to take you to Naples at first light.’

  ‘Now tell me how I can arrange a charter flight from Rome in this neck of the woods at this hour?’

  ‘Ask Count Galeazzi. He works closely with the Pope’s nephew, Prince Carlo Pacelli, who runs the Italian airline!’

  Molloy stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Now aren’t you the clever one, Mr Cavanagh! How did you figure that out?’

  ‘I learn from my elders and betters,’ Cavanagh grinned in the darkness. ‘Sometimes they forget I speak Italian. Galeazzi’s the money man. He’s got Vatican funds spread across every enterprise in Italy. Pacelli’s the front man for those interests, and he’s numero uno in Italian airlines, which is a glamour stock in spite of their early accident record.’

  Molloy stood for a moment staring up at the velvet sky, sprinkled with faint stars. Finally he shook his head.

  ‘No! At this stage I do favours, I don’t ask ’em, especially not from anybody at the Vatican. They have to see me as the white knight riding in
to save ’em from the Red Menace. Spelly taught me that. Rome is like any other political capital. You have to give to get. The trick, Spelly taught me, is to be first up with the donation . . . So! It’s a taxi ride to Rome, then I’ll pick up a limousine at the Grand Hotel and ride to Naples in comfort. Let’s finish our stroll and have the harbour-master call us a cab. Then I’ll go back to the ship and pack.’

  ‘It’s none of my business, sir, but have you thought that the Princess might like to go with you?’

  Molloy surveyed him in silence for a moment and with cool deliberation gave him his answer.

  ‘Yes, I have thought of it, Cavanagh. I’ve decided that the last thing in the world I need at this moment is the company of my betrothed. If I needed a woman’s company, I’d much rather take Lenore Pritchard, but you need her on board. In any case, a telephone call from the Grand Hotel will get me the best call-girl in Rome. I hope you’re bright enough to understand where I’m at. One way or another I stand to lose a man I’ve loved since we were snot-nosed kids alley-brawling in Boston. Part of him dies, part of me dies too . . . That’s what love means, Cavanagh, to me, to him too if he lives and if he can still remember. Marriage? It’s a social contract, and a sacrament of the Church too if you want to be theological about it. I’ll honour the sacrament. I’ll cherish the bride and the children we make together. I’ll kiss the chains, but I don’t have to love ’em. So how do you like them apples, Mister Cavanagh?’

  ‘I think they’re green and sour, Mr Molloy sir. I know they’d give me colic; but I didn’t grow them and I don’t have to eat them.’

  ‘Talking of sour, boyo, your own tongue’s got an edge to it I don’t like at all. But we’ll talk about that another time. You rustle up the taxi. I’ll go aboard and pack. I’ll poke my head in at the Pipistrello to say goodbye. After I’m gone, you can take my place at the head of the table and settle the bill. Look after my little family, Cavanagh. They’re almost as important to me as I am to them.’