The Lovers Page 18

  ‘I agree. I’ll talk to Giulia and Lucietta today. I expect less trouble from them than from Molloy, who has certain grandiose ideas about the ceremonies. Meantime, I’m happy to accept your suggestions, Mr Cavanagh. We’ll put to sea this evening, after Lucietta’s guests have gone.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll discuss the itinerary with you later.’

  As he stood up to take his leave, Farnese stayed him with a gesture.

  ‘If my daughter wants to go ashore, will you be good enough to ensure that she is always accompanied by a member of the crew?’

  ‘She will be going ashore, sir, to buy a wetsuit and diving gear. I myself will be going with her.’

  ‘Then I’m sure I can count on your care of her.’

  ‘Yes sir, you can. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘Until later then, gentlemen!’

  He was perhaps four paces away when he caught the tag-end of a remark by Farnese.

  ‘. . . He’s always so certain of himself . . .’

  To which Galeazzi added a rider of his own.

  ‘The arrogance of youth, the raw confidence of the new world! Be patient with him – and pray that Molloy returns quickly.’

  He did not hear Farnese’s mumbled reply. He was moving in a daze, a man who had just read the warrant for his own damnation.

  The purchase of Giulia’s wetsuit and diving gear was a long-drawn ceremony, performed under the critical eye of the Countess. By the time it was over, Cavanagh was dry-mouthed, short-tempered and convinced that he was being made to pay in blood for his evening’s escapade. While the salesgirl was writing the docket and Giulia was counting out lire in large denominations, he made his escape and hurried back to the ship, forgetful of his promise to guard Giulia against all harm and villainy. Fortunately, Farnese and Galeazzi were already on their way to the port site, so his only critic was Lenore Pritchard, who came to join him on the afterdeck as he stood watching for Giulia and her aunt to come out of the store. Lenore had a housekeeping problem.

  ‘A full change of bed linen and towels. At the local laundry they tell me they can’t have them dried and ironed before midnight. You tell me we’re sailing straight after dinner. What am I supposed to do? Save the stuff for a week? Beat it on the stones myself?’

  ‘We’ll wait for the laundry, love. It’s no big deal!’

  ‘Will you help me carry it ashore then?’

  ‘Where the hell’s Rodolfo?’

  ‘In the engine room. Where else?’

  ‘Get him to do it . . . Better still, you call him. I’ll explain what you want done. Does that make you feel happier?’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Cavanagh! Don’t go away, I’ll find Rodolfo; then I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘I know. You’ve just been! And you’re bored out of your mind shopping with the two noble ladies. I read you like a book, Cavanagh! . . .’

  He waited while she fetched Rodolfo and sent him staggering down the gangway with bundles of sheets and towels, then she rounded on Cavanagh again. This time, however, she was much more subdued.

  ‘You got my note last night?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I wasn’t begging and I wasn’t bitching.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘But you are the talk of the ship – fore and aft.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  ‘You’re babes in the wood, the pair of you! Do you have any idea how many enterprises are being built on this marriage, how much money is invested in it?’

  ‘I can only guess.’

  ‘Then double your guess and double it again!. . . Molloy talked to me about it in bed; so I have half an idea at least. Ask yourself whether anyone’s going to let you ride in like bloody Lancelot and snatch the reluctant bride from the altar steps? They’ll kill you first, Cavanagh! They’ll tie you in a sack with stones and dump you in a thousand fathoms of water . . . Look up there! What do they call that mountain?’

  ‘Monte Argentario: why do you ask?’

  ‘Because Farnese was telling me about it while I was making up the cabins. In the last days of the war those woods were a guerrilla hide-out, from which the partisans would swoop down, ambush the coastal road, kill a bunch of Fascists and Germans and then head back into the bush. Those were bloody times; but here and now we’re not so far away from them.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘Back off! Go into reverse! Disengage!’

  ‘And what do I tell Giulia?’

  ‘That your conscience is bothering you. You’re betraying a trust, coveting your neighbour’s wife-to-be. She’s a good Roman Catholic. She’ll understand all that. Use me if you want. You’ve done me wrong.’

  ‘The hell I have!’

  ‘I know you haven’t. It’s just a “for instance”, if you want out.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then watch your back, Cavanagh! And may God have mercy on your simple soul!’

  The next moment she was gone, hurrying through the saloon and down to the guest quarters. Cavanagh stood leaning on the rail, watching the shopfront until Giulia and the Countess appeared, followed by a small boy staggering under a mountain of packages.

  Before he left the ship, Galeazzi asked Cavanagh to come to his cabin. He handed him four envelopes and explained their contents.

  ‘. . . Letters of introduction to persons of significance in Paris, London, Rome and New York, who may help you to further your ambitions in the law. Present them at your own convenience.’

  Cavanagh was touched, but troubled. His facile eloquence deserted him. He stammered his thanks.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m – I’m deeply grateful, but . . . but . . .’

  ‘But you feel a certain guilt, yes?’

  ‘Guilt?’ He repeated the word curtly. ‘No sir! Hesitation, yes. You and I are, in a certain matter, adversaries.’

  Galeazzi smiled and bent to strap his suitcase.

  He asked amiably, ‘But is that not the whole nature of the law? Today you prosecute. Tomorrow you defend. That should not be a bar to personal friendship or professional respect. You have been open with me. I shall be clear with you. I wish with all my heart that Giulia could make a life with you or someone like you. I know it will not happen. I do not grudge either of you one moment of whatever happiness you may find in each other. I pray that my godchild may be spared too much grief. But be sure my friend, the grief will come to both of you.’

  Cavanagh acknowledged his good will with an embarrassed smile and a time-worn tag:

  ‘We who are about to die salute you!’

  Galeazzi was not amused.

  ‘It’s a poor joke, Cavanagh! The omens are bad enough already.’ He fished in his pocket and brought out a fifth envelope which he offered to Cavanagh. ‘A small something for yourself and for the crew.’

  Cavanagh declined the gift.

  ‘Thank you sir, but no! We are not permitted to accept gratuities. Mr Molloy takes good care of us. We are honoured to serve his guests.’

  Galeazzi put the envelope back in his pocket and said with mild surprise, ‘You protect the man’s honour as a host; but you have no hesitation about stealing his woman!’

  ‘Correction, sir! She is promised. She is not yet Molloy’s woman.’

  Galeazzi stared at him in astonishment. ‘You’re a phenomenon, Cavanagh! A Mediterranean absolutist born far south of the equator . . . No! Don’t be angry! I’m paying you a compliment. Believe it or not, I wish you luck!’

  ‘Thank you. I wish you a good journey, sir. Let me take your bags.’

  On deck, he handed the baggage to Jackie and consigned Galeazzi into the care of the Farnese for the final rituals of farewell. This piece of stage-management made Cavanagh responsible for five minutes of small talk with Miss Aurora Lambert, star of West End theatre and the J. Arthur Rank film organisation. It was a strictly unmemorable interlude. Miss L
ambert was overawed by the ambient nobility and was, in consequence, over-playing her role. Her voice was pitched half a tone too high. Her gestures were too broad, her poses too studied. She was so eager to impress that she babbled, and the babble became an unstoppable torrent of words. Cavanagh listened in a kind of hypnotic gaze, admiring the physical beauty of the woman, wondering how long her peaches-and-cream complexion would survive the wind and sun of a Mediterranean summer and how long Farnese would endure the endless inanities of back-stage gossip and sound-stage trivia.

  He was soon answered. The moment Farnese returned, Miss Aurora Lambert was transformed into a girlish lover, leaning for support upon his noble bosom, sighing out her love in short bursts of well-rehearsed Italian phrases, in which Farnese himself had obviously coached her. He threw a protective arm around her shoulders and led her below decks. The Countess gave a long sigh of exasperation.

  ‘My God! How that woman prattles! Luchino will carve her up and eat her for lunch!’

  ‘On the contrary.’ Giulia had other ideas. ‘He’ll drown her in charm, then have her begging for a part in his next production. That’s when the torture will begin. How Mister Tennessee Williams will behave is another matter altogether . . . I’m sorry, Cavanagh. Now we’re prattling! We’re talking about Aunt Lucietta’s luncheon guests. Luchino Visconti and Tennessee Williams. You’re familiar with their work, of course.’

  ‘With Visconti’s hardly at all. He is not well known in Australia. Tennessee Williams, of course. I saw The Glass Menagerie and Streetcar.’

  ‘Visconti has directed both for Italian theatre. His own latest film, the one he finished last year, is Bellissima. It stars Anna Magnani . . . That should give you a start for lunchtime conversation.’

  ‘We expect you there, of course,’ said the Contessa hastily.

  ‘You must forgive me, Contessa,’ Cavanagh was quite firm on the matter. ‘I’ll be happy to join you for a pre-luncheon cocktail; but I beg you to excuse me from the meal.’

  ‘For God’s sake, why?’ Giulia’s protest was sharp.

  ‘Because I think it’s neither proper nor opportune to intrude myself into a family gathering at this moment.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  ‘No. There is one other. Because of what happened to Hadjidakis, because of the absence of Mr Molloy, the crew are uneasy and off balance. I need to be with them. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Of course, but you don’t have to sound so formal about it.’

  ‘On the contrary, my dear,’ said the Countess tartly. ‘That’s exactly how he must sound unless you want your father running mad with a carving knife. When are we leaving Porto Santo Stefano, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘Tonight, at midnight, Contessa. The Prince suggests we make an overnight run to Sardinia. He tells me the country is beautiful and unspoiled and is now, mercifully, free of malaria. He also wants to look at some of the areas where new developments are proposed: Porto Cervo, Romazzino and Golfo d’Aranci.’

  ‘And you’ve heard nothing yet from Lou?’ The question came from Giulia.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect it today. In fact I doubt he has yet arrived in Naples. We’re keeping radio-watch from six in the morning until nine each evening. That was the arrangement he requested. I’ll let you know the moment his call comes through; but just remember, lots of other people on other ships will hear your conversation . . .’

  ‘That’s embarrassing.’

  ‘It can be, yes. By the way, I’ve told Chef to serve lunch in the saloon. It’s air-conditioned. You won’t have passers-by gawking at you or paparazzi shooting pictures from the dock.’

  ‘You’re very thoughtful, Mr Cavanagh.’ This from the Countess.

  ‘I think he’s a clown,’ Giulia teased him. ‘Always in costume, always with a big painted smile.’

  ‘It’s the role to which he’s condemned.’ Cavanagh put on a face of mock mourning. ‘Court jester in love with the beautiful princess. He can’t possess her until he sheds the grease paint and is recognised as a courtier in his own right.’

  The Countess laid a cool hand on his wrist and gave him a quiet warning.

  ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry, Cavanagh. The follies of a jester are easily forgiven. A courtier who makes a fool of himself may well lose his head.’

  ‘All the more reason to skip luncheon, wouldn’t you say? Excuse me ladies.’

  In spite of all his special pleading he found himself, two minutes later, cornered and bidden to the meal by Farnese himself, whose rank was much higher and whose reasons were far more cogent than his own.

  ‘. . . There will be much talk in Italian. Luchino and Lucietta will dominate it. Miss Lambert will feel put upon unless she has someone to keep her in touch with the dialogue or distract her from it! Mr Tennessee Williams is a unknown quantity to me. He is rich, successful and notably uninterested in women. Rumour has it that Luchino is so fascinated with his work – and with the man himself – that he has even begun to imitate his dress and style . . . A word of warning, however. Luchino is trying to raise finance for a new film, but because he’s a member of the Communist Party and writes for L’Unità, Papa Pacelli and the Christian Democrats don’t like him and place all sorts of obstacles in his way. I don’t much like him either; but I do respect him. He has great talent and during the war displayed much courage as a member of the underground. Lucietta has promised him that I’ll try to tap Molloy for some investment funds. I will try, of course, but not very hard – just enough so that the Visconti and the Farnese do not become enemies. However, the point I am making is that this part of our conversation should not be translated to Miss Lambert. She, too, is looking for a patron to finance a new play for her and I am most definitely not interested in that method of losing money. So, when the subject is discussed, do your best to divert her attention to other subjects.’

  ‘Do you have any suggestions, sir?’

  ‘Miss Lambert has three abiding interests: herself, sex and money. The first quickly becomes boring. In the second, she is full of agreeable surprises, and for the third, her demands are interminable. You must know, Cavanagh, that every day we are at sea I am saving money, and the scenery in Sardinia costs a lot less than the jewellery in the Via Condotti!’

  ‘What can I say?’ Cavanagh spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘I make no promises. I’ll do my best. It’s all part of the service on the Salamandra d’Oro!’

  ‘So far,’ said Farnese, ‘the service is holding up very well. It’s understated, discreet, but very efficient.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll pass that on to the crew.’

  ‘The compliment was intended for you also, Mr Cavanagh. I am aware that your discretion has been sorely tested by recent events . . . By the way, it is possible that the date of Giulia’s marriage may be brought forward. I am anxious therefore that she should enjoy what is left of her holiday. Sardinia, for example, will be a splendid place to begin her diving lessons. The waters are clean, the sea growth and the fish abundant. There are interesting underwater sites where Phoenician and Roman pottery have been found . . . I’ll mark some of them on the chart for you . . .’

  ‘That would be a great help; thank you.’

  ‘One small matter: Miss Lambert will be coming ashore with me to look at development sites. You and Giulia will have to look after Lucietta . . . Make a picnic of your diving excursions. It would be quite unfair to leave her moping about on board.’

  ‘Be sure we’ll look after her. If she wished, I could teach her to dive too. There’s no real age limit.’

  Farnese laughed boisterously.

  ‘I doubt you need to go that far, Cavanagh; but I’m sure she’d appreciate the offer, just as I do. I have to confess, my dear fellow, that you continue to surprise me. I told you once you had a lot to learn; I was not prepared for your quite charming simplicity and directness.’

  With singular effort Cavanagh managed a shrug and a rather lopsided grin.

  �
�It comes and it goes. As it says in the Bible: “Be wise as serpents and simple as doves.” With the Irish what you get depends on the weather.’

  ‘Which at the moment and in the absence of Molloy is mercifully calm.’

  ‘And may God give us the wit to enjoy it,’ Cavanagh quoted from some buried folk memory.

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Farnese fervently. ‘My father used to say that we surrender our youth to purchase wisdom. What he never told me was how badly we get cheated on the exchange rate!’

  The strategy of the luncheon table had been set by the Countess. Farnese sat at the head with Visconti on his right and Lucietta on his left. Next to Lucietta was Tennessee Williams, raffishly elegant in a seersucker suit, hollow-eyed and pale. Opposite him Giulia sat, with Cavanagh on her right, facing Aurora Lambert. The effect of the arrangement was to support Aurora Lambert with two English speakers, and to give Visconti an attentive and understanding audience of his own. Most importantly from Cavanagh’s point of view, it enabled him to engage with Giulia in a surreptitious tactile dialogue under the shelter of the tablecloth.

  The table talk was lively and passionate, Visconti railing against ‘i puritani’ and ‘i papalini’ of the Christian Democratic Party, who were reviving all the old machinery of censorship. Mario Scelba, Minister for the Interior, had refused visas for Bertolt Brecht and the Berliner Ensemble. Even his friend de Sica was sliding into fantasy and sentimentality in his choice of material . . . ‘The Americans, notably my friend at this table, are the only ones getting it right . . . They have the courage to renounce the bourgeois certainties for the doubts, the fears, the agonies of those who live always on the dangerous outer edges of existence.’

  ‘As we do ourselves, let’s face it.’ Williams was swiftly touched by liquor and emotion. ‘They call Rome the Holy City – that’s defined by Concordat, mind you! – but when you peel off the cellophane and wave away the incense, it’s such a mess of worms that it frightens even me . . . If Luchino were not here I doubt I’d want to stay.’