The Lovers Page 19

‘And tell me, Luchino,’ the Countess had her own lines of inquiry, ‘how is la Magnani behaving herself?’

  ‘As always!’ Visconti’s expression was more eloquent even than his words. ‘A little crazy, but God, what talent! It pours out of her like lava from Etna – then when the flow stops she is morbid and unhappy until the energy builds up again. Ask again our Tenn, here, our genius of the outer edges; he spends much time with her.’

  ‘. . . But such time! Every conversation is a play in itself. Then she hauls me off to the Colosseum to feed the stray cats – hundreds of them, ghostly in the moonlight, and she’s like a ghost herself – a heroic figure from another age, doomed to endure this one!’

  Miss Aurora Lambert was awed by the talk, but could find no entrance into it for herself, while Farnese was seated too far away to offer any help at all. Then as the meal went on and the wine flowed, both Visconti and Williams became aware of Leo and Jackie who were serving them with theatrical grace. The stock questions followed: where had they come from, what were they doing on board, what were their prospects after the summer? Their answers were so voluble and their body language so eloquent that Cavanagh felt obliged to intervene with a good-humoured caution:

  ‘. . . I can give them the highest recommendations, gentlemen; but for the present they’re contracted to the owner, Mr Lou Molloy, who I’m sure would press his prior claims to their services. However, I know they’ll be happy to give you the address of their agent before you leave . . .’

  For the first time during the meal, Visconti gave formal recognition to Cavanagh’s presence at the table. He asked, with a mildly patronising air:

  ‘And where did you learn your Italian, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘Where I got the rest of my learning. At home in Australia. My teacher was an old man who had been a friend of Pirandello – had travelled with him on his world tour in the early twenties . . .’

  ‘And how, may I ask, have you landed here in Porto Santo Stefano?’

  ‘The luck of the Irish. There I was standing on the dock in Antibes when Mr Molloy came sailing into harbour. I begged him for a job and after a certain amount of palaver he gave it to me.’

  ‘Ireland is still ultima Thule to me, I’m afraid. I’ve never been there; though I have bought horses from Dublin.’

  ‘Which is about the riskiest occupation you have engaged in! I hope what you bought held up to your hopes.’

  ‘Some of it, Mr Cavanagh, only some of it. And where do your own ambitions lead you?’

  ‘None of them, at this moment, points me past this summer. This is the year of my grand tour.’

  To which Giulia added her own provocative postscript.

  ‘Don’t take him too lightly, Luchino. He was a naval officer during the war. He has a degree in law, and a long list of other accomplishments – including a very good voice.’

  Whereupon the teasing began, the quiet poisonous bitchery of the seasoned professionals. Williams suggested:

  ‘Luchino’s doing La Locandiera in Venice this year. You should audition for him. Even as an understudy it would be a marvellous experience.’

  ‘I’m sure it would be, Mr Williams – and a privilege to work with the great man himself . . . but I’m strictly a bathroom baritone.’

  ‘Not without skills in Irish balladry,’ said the Countess.

  ‘And a quick study in Neapolitan,’ said Farnese.

  ‘Qualis artifex pereo,’ Cavanagh declaimed the old tag. ‘What an artist perishes in me! Sorry I’m not available, but Miss Lambert here has a very long list of triumphs in theatre and films, which I’m sure Prince Farnese could recite for you at length.’

  ‘It’s the least you can do, Papa!’ Giulia picked up the cue swiftly. ‘Miss Lambert has been singularly modest and reticent so far.’

  Cavanagh and Giulia exchanged caresses under the table while they watched Farnese walk himself into a series of honey-traps: a recital of Aurora Lambert’s many but modest accomplishments, the ever-present problem of angel money for new productions and a final snare set and baited by the Countess herself when she announced blandly:

  ‘. . . Of course Alessandro may not agree with me, but I believe that Lou Molloy is exactly the kind of person Luchino should have as a major investor.’

  ‘I am of course happy to put the idea to him, Lucietta; but there are, as you know, certain political problems . . .’

  ‘The fact that he leans further right than Andreotti and Scelba, or even Papa Pio?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘But don’t you see, Alessandro, that’s the whole virtue of my suggestion. As an American, Lou Molloy subscribes to a constitution which guarantees free speech. Freedom of the press is the cornerstone of American democracy, which they’re trying their damnedest to sell in Europe and Asia. Think about it Alessandro! It’s such a beautiful paradox, it just might work.’

  ‘I most certainly shall think about it, Lucietta. I promise I’ll discuss it with Molloy. However, I cannot make any commitment on his behalf.’

  ‘On the other hand, my love,’ Aurora Lambert was suddenly a presence in the argument. ‘Maybe you could persuade this Mr Molloy to invest in a London or even a New York vehicle for me. That would be strictly unpolitical, wouldn’t it? Perhaps Mr Williams would agree to write it and the great Visconti to direct it!’

  In the sudden silence that followed, Cavanagh gave Giulia a furtive pat on the thigh and then made a more or less graceful exit.

  ‘You must excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I’m due on radio-watch. This is just about the time one might expect Mr Molloy to call. Happy to have had you aboard, gentlemen. With your permission, ladies . . .’

  Before he had stepped out of the door the conversation had begun again and with it, the slow incineration of Miss Aurora Lambert by two very practised destructors. Farnese, in his own interest, would have to shield her from the worst of it, but Cavanagh asked himself what kind of a job these sophisticated folk could do on him if they really set their minds to it.

  That question extended itself into an infinity of others, like ripples spreading across a dark pool. Was he truly in love with Giulia Farnese? Was she in love with him? Or were they both pretenders: he, in the vulgarest sense, to sexual conquest of a reigning beauty; she to the exaction of every last tittle of interest from the bargain she had made with her father for pre-marital amusement and post-marital liberty, the latter of which would provide a convenient plea for annulment if the marriage collapsed and a case were presented to the Holy Roman Rota.

  Among the Catholic aristocracy of Europe such legal devices were well known and widely practised. From early times the Roman Church had secured a monopoly on marriage. It had outlawed divorce and created its own fictions of legal annulment, administered by its own courts. However, in spite of all protestations to the contrary, marital rearrangements were much more available to the rich and knowing than to the poor and ignorant.

  Halt there! Reject such cynicisms out of hand! Accept that Giulia Farnese and Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh are truly in love, that given an hour of privacy they will become lovers in body and soul. Then Cavanagh, the brash suitor from the end of the world, the scholar gipsy makes his proposal: ‘Pack a knapsack. Let’s make a run for it. I’ll marry you as soon as we can find a minister to make it legal. Then we’ll go wandering together. I can fend for both of us. When you’re tired of travelling and you feel like making a baby, I can start my career . . . That’s not so hard is it?’ Well, maybe it is a mite harder if you’re Giulia Farnese, with all that history weighing you down like a jewelled cope and a father who’s trading you off to restore his fortunes, and a godfather in the Papal Court and noble cousins, in various degrees, scattered like dandelions all over Europe.

  And then there’s Lou Molloy. We haven’t talked much about him, have we? Strange that, because he’s your fidanzato: the accepted candidate for your marriage-bed and I’m a junior officer running his ship, responsible for the well-being of his crew and his guests. I’m al
so in possession of a whole catalogue of unpleasant facts about him – which I’m still too proud to reveal – but, by God, I could be tempted if the game got too rough. Which reminds me, my beautiful Giulia, that you have been singularly reticent about Molloy and your own feelings towards him. Of course I understand that there’s an honour in your silence, just as I claim there is in mine; but I’m getting jealous now. I want to know what attraction he has for you. You’ve admitted that it exists. I want to know what secret roots the man has thrust down into your soul, how friendly is the soil, how deep the tendrils may go when they are nourished by money and power and – let’s have it out in the open – the stimulants of long and exotic sexual experience?

  Then came the final question: when would the issue be resolved? In his own mind there was no doubt at all. There would be no better time than this voyage to Sardinia, the wild island, with Molloy absent, Farnese occupied with his actress and his land deals and the Countess, for the moment at least, a declared collaborator. So be it then! Time, place and circumstance were all favourable. When they weighed anchor at midnight the final gambits of the love game would begin.

  When he came to the bridge he found another game in progress. The radio, tuned to Portishead, was chattering out an interminable list of mechanical supplies for an oil-rig in the Persian Gulf. Lenore Pritchard, who was sitting watch during the luncheon service, was bent over the chart-table with Rodolfo beside her. She had drawn a series of crude sketches: a cottage, a girl, a boy, and a few animals. She was teaching Rodolfo to put English names to them in print and in sound. When she saw Cavanagh, she blushed like a schoolgirl and held up a warning hand.

  ‘Not a word out of you, mister! Not a sparrow’s chirp. He’s a good boy and he wants to learn English. I’m teaching him . . . Clear?’

  Cavanagh, caught flat-footed, fumbled his return.

  ‘I haven’t said a word! It’s a good idea! It helps! Thank you . . . Now tell me where we’re at with radio traffic?’

  ‘Shopping lists, most of it: construction sites, ship movements, cargo manifests, personal messages to or from crew – births, deaths, marriages, divorces even! . . . Nothing for us so far . . . How was your lunch?’

  ‘What you might expect: show talk, in-group gossip and scandal . . . Fortunately I had an excuse to leave.’

  ‘How would you like it as a steady diet?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It’s written all over your freckled face. You’re head over heels and gone for Giulia Farnese. You’re racking your brains for ways to get her: abduction, elopement, ritual rape like they have in Sicily . . . I wish you the best of British luck!’

  ‘Thank you, and the same to you Miss Pritchard. You’re both relieved. You might introduce Rodolfo to the galley and teach him how to wash the dishes . . .’

  ‘Isn’t that just a tiny bit waspish, Mr Cavanagh? Just because you’re feeling put out you shouldn’t take it out on the rest of us.’

  ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t. I apologise, but Rodolfo’s rostered for pot-scouring anyway.’ To Rodolfo he said in Italian: ‘Keep up the lessons! Miss Pritchard is a very good teacher. You are privileged to have her interest.’

  ‘I know it, sir.’ A hint of a smile showed on his handsome young face. ‘I am very privileged indeed. I should sign off the log now?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Do I write anything?’

  ‘Yes. “No messages received during watch.” Then you sign it.’ His handwriting was a traditional Italian cursive, beautifully and fluently executed. Cavanagh wondered how much it had cost him in tears and rapped knuckles to learn this dying art of calligraphy. He said to Lenore Pritchard:

  ‘You’re right. He’s worth teaching.’

  She gave him a swift, suspicious glance and then relaxed.

  ‘So, no jokes, no nasties, promise?’

  ‘I promise. I didn’t mean to be unpleasant. That luncheon party threw me.’

  ‘Let’s hope it taught you something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  She picked up the sheet of drawings and held it up for his inspection. She pointed to the male figure and parodied her own role as teacher:

  ‘This is the head. This is the heart. These here are the cock and the balls. The head is for thinking. The heart is for feeling. The others are for screwing, as you damn well know. But if you’re set on having a noble affair, never never let your heart or your balls run away with your head . . . How do I know? I’ve travelled a lot further and a lot longer than you Cavanagh – and first class is where you meet the monsters . . . Come Rodolfo. Let’s you and me go scour the cook-pots!’

  Twenty minutes later, while he was working through the pilot book for the Straits of Bonifacio and the ports and havens of northern Sardinia, Portishead radio gave out the call sign of the ship: MUHY.

  ‘. . . Mike Uniform Hotel Yankee . . . This is Portishead calling Mike Uniform Hotel Yankee. Do you read me?’

  Instantly Cavanagh turned up the volume and began transmitting.

  ‘This is Mike Uniform Hotel Yankee. I read you loud and clear. Mike Uniform Hotel Yankee standing by.’

  A moment later Lou Molloy was on the air. His voice was flat, toneless.

  ‘This is Molloy.’

  ‘Cavanagh here, sir.’

  ‘Listen carefully. No questions or comments until I’ve finished. I’m not sure I can get through this without cracking up. Giorgios Hadjidakis died two hours ago. It’s a mercy he was taken. If he’d lived he would have been a vegetable . . . I’m flying his body back to the States as soon as I can arrange it and I’ll be attending the funeral with his wife and children.’ His voice cracked and he fought to get his emotions under control again. ‘Galeazzi has told me about the arrangements for your cruise. I approve them. I’ll meet you in Ischia harbour ten days from now. Until then I’ll be out of contact. See that Gieorgios’ things are crated, ready for dispatch to his family . . . I’m told by the CIA that the risk situation for the rest of us still exists. So all present precautions remain in force. In the right-hand locker in my cabinet you’ll find the ship’s firearms. I want you to carry a handgun at all times, and if you’re swimming in lonely places, have a man on watch with the rifle. Jackie’s a good shot. That’s all. Now you can talk.’

  ‘I’m grieved for you, Mr Molloy, as everyone else will be.’

  ‘Pray for Giorgios. Pray for me. That’s all anyone can do now.’

  ‘Would you like to speak to Princess Giulia or to her father?’

  ‘No. You tell ’em what’s happened. Explain that I’m in no shape for talk. Give Giulia my love. Tell her this is not her grieving. I don’t want to inflict it on her, because I want us both to make a new start. Will you do that for me?’

  ‘I’ll try. Any message for the Prince?’

  ‘Just tell him to expedite all the Roman arrangements. He’ll understand. How are things on board?’

  ‘All’s well, sir. We’ll look forward to seeing you again in Ischia. Would you like me to have a Mass said for Giorgios?’

  ‘I’ve already arranged it.’ Molloy was beginning to break up. ‘Giorgios always said he wanted to be prayed out by the Orthodox and not by the Romans. The Mass will be celebrated in his own parish. I’ll be there. But thanks for the thought . . .’ He was in tears now. ‘Sorry! This is all I can take, Cavanagh! Over and out!’

  Which left Cavanagh standing speechless with the microphone in his hand, while Portishead called in a freighter to pick up a miscellaneous cargo from Tunis: dates, camel hides and barrels of local wine for blending in Europe. The guests were on the afterdeck now, chatting over their coffee, the talk attenuating itself to small shrill bursts and lengthening silences.

  For Cavanagh, the presence of strangers on board created an immediate problem. He could not announce a death on the tail-end of a luncheon party. He could not risk a tale of recent murder and present danger in the company of fashionable gossips. Least of all could he pass Molloy’s private message to Giulia and e
xplain it to her in terms that would leave him some shred of honour to wrap around his shabby self.

  For the moment the bridge was his refuge, the chattering radio was his camouflage. He resumed his study of the pilot book and then set down his pre-departure checklist: the fuel and water tanks had been topped up, Chef had bought supplies of fresh fruit and vegetables. If it were not for the late delivery of the ship’s laundry, he could cast off and be out of Santo Stefano before sunset. For everyone, seafarer or land-lover, that single act of detachment was a rebirth from the womb of the past into a new, mysterious future full of perils and promises. The sudden discontinuity could be confusing or consoling, healing or destructive. The outcome depended in large part upon the voyagers themselves, but much also upon the skipper under God, the reader of skies and winds and tides and charts, who must also have some skill in the reading of minds and hearts.

  Did he, Cavanagh, have such skill? Could he cut through his own confusions to provide a light for his shipmates and the guests – not to mention his love, Giulia Farnese. The sea had its own ghosts. Seafarers had their own superstitions. Death for them wore always a face, different from that which he presented to land-bound folk. So the first decision had to be made: how should he announce the death of Giorgios Hadjidakis?

  Luchino Visconti and Tennessee Williams left the ship at four-thirty. As the Farnese family came back on board, Cavanagh made an announcement over the PA system.

  ‘This is Cavanagh speaking. Would all guests and all crew members please come immediately to the saloon . . . All crew members, all guests to the saloon, please!’

  When they were assembled, curious and uneasy, he made a formal announcement.

  ‘I regret to tell you all that our first officer, Mr Giorgios Hadjidakis, died today in the US hospital in Naples. This news was passed to me about an hour ago by Mr Lou Molloy, who was so deeply distressed that he was just able to sustain the short conversation. I offered him condolences from you all. He gave me the following directions. He wishes us to continue our cruise. He will accompany the body back to the United States, attend the funeral with the Hadjidakis family and meet us in Ischia ten days from now. Meantime, US Intelligence has told him that our passengers and personnel are still under threat, so this cruise is very timely. Ship’s crew will be further instructed on the voyage. I now have private messages for the Farnese family, but before you go I’d like you to join me in a short prayer for our shipmate Giorgios Hadjidakis.’