The Lovers Page 20

  Dredged up from memory, the archaic words had a strange, moving quality.

  ‘. . . Lord enter not into judgment with your servant Giorgios Hadjidakis, our brother and our friend. Keep him always in the light of your countenance and bestow your consolations on those whom he has left, his wife, his children, his friend Lou Molloy, and on us his shipmates. Eternal rest give unto him O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.’

  The last Amen rippled around the small assembly. Giulia and Lenore Pritchard were weeping. The Countess and Miss Lambert sat stony-faced. Farnese gave a nod of approval. Cavanagh added a small postscript:

  ‘Jackie, we’ll fly the flags at half-staff until sunset. I’m sure you’d all like us to get under way early. So let’s make shipshape and see if the laundry can be ready any earlier. Crew are dismissed. Thank you all.’

  When the crew had filed out, Cavanagh offered an explanation:

  ‘. . . I regret springing the news on you like that; but I couldn’t go whispering it about while your guests were still here.’

  Giulia came instantly to the attack.

  ‘But you could have called father and me to the bridge and let us speak with Lou! How could you be so thoughtless, so . . . so presumptuous.’

  ‘I was neither thoughtless nor presumptuous, Principessa.’ Cavanagh was very calm with her. ‘I asked Mr Molloy whether he would like me to fetch you and your father. He said – and I quote his own words: “Tell them what’s happened. Explain that I’m in no shape to 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.” I asked was there any message for the Prince. He said: “Tell him to expedite all the Roman arrangements. He’ll understand.”’

  ‘It seems you have a very good verbal memory.’ The Countess’ voice was dry as pebbles rattling in a gourd.

  ‘It’s my training, madam. Sometimes people’s lives depend on an accurate rendition of orders. I am not called upon to defend Mr Molloy; but I do have to tell you all that he was deeply moved, that he spoke with great effort and dissolved into tears at the end of the conversation. He did however inform me that US Intelligence considers that we are still at risk and – even on this trip – we must take adequate precautions. That’s all I have to tell you – except for a personal explanation. If my handling of this news has upset or angered you, I apologise. It was not my intention to do so. A ship is a very small society and the relationships between crew members are often very complicated. The passengers are better served if the crew’s feelings are respected. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  ‘Mr Cavanagh!’ Farnese’s voice stopped him half-way to the exit.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Be assured we are offering you our thanks – not our reproaches.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that, sir. The last thing we need at this moment is contention or misunderstanding . . . Oh, by the way, the Chef will be serving a light supper this evening, but if there are any special requests he’ll be happy to take care of them . . .’

  Then he left them, to comfort the small huddle of people around the galley where Chef was dispensing a medicinal dose of cognac and coffee. Chef himself was the most shaken. His hands were unsteady, his speech rambling and incredulous:

  ‘. . . A man like that, so tough, so knowing, kicked to death in a whorehouse, while his shipmates are two rooms away . . . It makes no sense! There will be a big black hole in Molloy’s life from now on – in mine too, for that matter! Giorgios was a real Ulysses, straight out of Homer! To have him end like this is intolerable.’ He whipped off his cap and apron and flung them across the galley. ‘I’m not working any more today. I am in mourning. I’m going to pour libations to the old Gods and then get drunk . . .!’

  The others stood silent, waiting for Cavanagh’s reaction. He laid a hand on Chef’s shoulder and said gently:

  ‘Take the rest of the day off, Chef. We’ll have supper sent across from the Pipistrello. Do me one favour though: if you leave the port area let me know where you’re headed. I’d like to cast off at 2100 hours, if we can get our bloody laundry back, and I don’t want to leave you behind!’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve always said you have a sense of the proprieties . . .’

  He stumbled over the last word, but he held his head high, and marched himself out of the galley like a guardsman.

  ‘He’s drunk already,’ said Lenore briskly. ‘He won’t be going anywhere except to bed. Don’t bother about the restaurant. Jackie and I will make supper.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

  ‘May I make a suggestion, Mr Cavanagh?’ This from Leo, suddenly deferential.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Well sir, we’ve had grim news; but I still don’t think we should start our cruise like a coffin-ship. I’m damn sure Giorgios wouldn’t want it like that. For everyone’s sake, I think we need to put some life into things, beginning tonight.’

  ‘How do you suggest we do that?’

  ‘Very simply. We set up supper on the afterdeck, but we turn it into a supper dance, with everyone joining in – except the helmsman of course! We turn up in dress whites, we pick a good programme of dance music. Let’s see how they react.’

  ‘You’re talking about a wake.’

  ‘If you want to call it that, sure.’

  ‘Fine! What have we got to lose? It’s going to be a long ten days if we all settle into the miseries! Rodolfo, stroll across to the laundry, offer them twenty dollars bonus if we get our stuff back, dry and ironed before nine-thirty!’

  ‘Immediately, sir.’

  As soon as he had left, Cavanagh gave Leo a quick briefing.

  ‘You and I will share the night watch. I’ll be on until midnight which should have us out of harbour and away from the coastal traffic lanes. You do twelve till four. I’ll bring us into anchorage between four and eight . . . I’ll have Rodolfo with me, so I can start breaking him in.’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’ Leo was faintly hesitant. ‘But I do think you should put in an appearance at the dance, if only to get things going . . .’

  ‘True. So why don’t I take us out and then you relieve me for say half an hour.’

  ‘As long as you want. I’ve looked at the charts. It’s an open run to Sardinia. Until we get close inshore, the only hazards are coastal traffic. One more question, Mr Cavanagh.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now that Hadjidakis is dead, where do we stand with Mr Molloy and with you?’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Jackie and I.’

  ‘Right now we’re adrift and we’re scared.’ Jackie added his complaint. ‘You must understand that.’

  ‘I do, but I can’t speak for Mr Molloy. For my part, I was not an eyewitness, I am in no position to make a judgment. You’re both doing your job. So long as you continue to do that we’ll have no problems.’

  ‘Thank you. Jackie and I both needed to hear that.’

  ‘And you both need to hear this too. The threat continues. The danger is real. And you’re at risk with the rest of us. You are also a risk to us. No matter where we are you can’t afford to go catting around with the rough trade – or the carriage trade either! At least you’ve got each other for company . . . but remember what happened to Giorgios, and how simply and quietly it was done. Are you reading me, Leo?’

  ‘Very loud, very clear, sir.’

  ‘And you’re not going to argue yourself out of it are you, the first moment you get the hots for a stranger?’

  ‘No sir. At least not unless he’s so devastatingly beautiful that . . .’

  ‘Get the hell out of here! Start work on the saloon and then move onto the afterdeck. Dismiss, the pair of you.’

  They went off at a trot, leaving only Lenore Pritchard to offer an ironic salute:

  ‘You’re growing up buster! They’ll soon let you play with the big boys!

  ‘And the best of the day to yourself, Miss Pritcha
rd. You’re a big girl already!’

  He left her then and went out on deck, just in time to see Farnese, the Countess and Aurora Lambert walking across the dock to a waiting taxi. He hurried after them and detained Farnese.

  ‘Do you mind telling me where you’re going, sir?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m taking the ladies for a little drive, round the peninsula, on to Orbetello – and back again. They’re upset by the news of Mr Hadjidakis’ death. A break will do them good. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Where is your daughter?’

  ‘She’s resting. She was very disturbed by Molloy’s refusal to talk to her. I can understand it; but she finds it difficult to accept; she’ll calm down.’

  ‘With great respect, sir, you will remember at all times that we are deemed to be at risk of further violence.’

  ‘I am well aware of it, Mr Cavanagh. This cane is in effect a swordstick and I am carrying a Beretta automatic . . . Even while we are strolling, the taxi is instructed to stay with us. But thank you for your care and your vigilance.’

  ‘My duty, sir. Have a pleasant outing. If the laundry’s ready, we may be out of here early.’

  He handed the ladies and Farnese into the taxi, watched them drive away down the dock, then went up the gangway at a run. After a quick glance to determine the positions of the crew working around the vessel, he hurried down to Giulia’s cabin and knocked softly on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ Giulia’s voice was muffled and drowsy.

  ‘Cavanagh.’

  ‘Wait a moment.’

  He waited for what seemed the longest ten seconds of his life until Giulia opened the door, drew him inside and bolted the door behind him.

  The next moment she was naked in his arms, crazed as a bacchante, smothering him with kisses, pulling him onto the bed, undressing him with urgent violence, turning each movement into an act of phallic worship, almost unbearable in its intensity. The few words they spoke were swiftly stifled. Naked together, they played through every movement of the love-suite to a climax that left them panting and exhausted, begging for respite even while they gathered themselves for yet another reprise.

  This time, the rendering of the maenad music was different. The rhythm was more measured, the harmonies fuller, the moments of emotion more tenderly explored.

  Spent at last, Giulia lay in the crook of his arm. Her hand lay slack on his belly. His face was buried in the perfumed forest of her hair. He told her with drowsy wonder:

  ‘I promised you we’d have a wild ride.’

  ‘To the edge of the world and back, you said.’

  ‘You weren’t disappointed?’

  ‘No, no, no! I’m still out there dreaming. And you?’

  ‘I feel like the king of creation . . . but let me tell you something, my beautiful one. I am glad this coronation day is over.’

  She heaved herself up on one elbow and challenged him:

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Until today it was all hope and guesswork for both of us. Now we know: the loving works for us. We fit each other. We don’t have to explain or argue. We make music together. It isn’t always like that for everybody. We’re the lucky ones.’

  ‘We are, my love. Now all we have to do is enjoy each other.’

  ‘Not quite all, Giulia mia! There are a few other things we have to think about, like . . .’

  ‘Not now!’ She laid her fingers over his lips. ‘We’re still at the end of the earth. Let’s stay here for a while.’

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when they heard, through the half-open port-hole, the sounds of arrival; car doors opening and slamming, women’s voices, footsteps on the gangway. Giulia went off into helpless laughter. Cavanagh cursed, grabbed his clothes and darted naked across the corridor to Molloy’s suite, where he dressed and tidied himself in record time, and then began laying out the ship’s armaments on the coffee table. When he heard the Farnese party entering their cabins, he buzzed Lenore Pritchard in the galley. He told her:

  ‘Our guests are back on board. If they ask for me I’m in Molloy’s cabin, checking the arms cupboard.’

  Lenore laughed, a lusty, husky sound.

  ‘I presume all the weapons have been thoroughly tested.’

  ‘Yes they have.’

  ‘Now of course they have to be kept clean and oiled for instant action.’

  ‘That’s the drill. You’ve been well trained, my dear Miss P.’

  ‘Like yourself, Mr C.’

  ‘What’s the word on the laundry?’

  ‘We’ll have it back inside the hour.’

  ‘Great! How’s the Chef?’

  ‘Out like a light. I’ve taken off his shoes and covered him up. I never realised how old he looked. How is the beautiful Giulia?’

  ‘When last I saw her, very well, very happy.’

  ‘I’d be ashamed of you if she weren’t.’

  Cavanagh surrendered to her cheerful mockery.

  ‘That’s why they call it the little death. You get a return ticket. You’re born again, fresh and beautiful after every encounter. At least that’s what I’m told.’

  ‘That’s half the truth. The other half is what happened to Hadjidakis; the big death, the one-way ticket to no place . . .’ The mockery was over now. Her tone was suddenly sombre and brooding. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this, Cavanagh, but I wish you both well. Enjoy yourselves. Make the most of your honeymoon! Don’t waste an hour of it!’

  It was just after eight in the evening when, briefcase in hand, he marched down to the harbour-master’s office to pay the mooring fee, the water levy and the port tax for the Salamandra d’Oro. As he neared the office he noticed a new arrival backing into the quay: a weather-beaten Fairmile flying the Red Ensign. The name on her transom was Jackie Sprat.

  He had seen her like in other Mediterranean ports; bought from the Navy at war surplus auctions, hastily refitted and then put out as work horses in the Mediterranean contraband traffic. As vessels they were always suspect and sometimes highly dangerous. They were fuelled by petrol, and driven at high speed. Leaky fuel tanks, dirty bilges, short circuits in the electrics, incautious smoking habits on the part of the crew, were all constant hazards.

  Their captains were generally ex-Navy types, their crews an assortment of dock-rats and discharged deck hands, all dedicated to the pursuit of a fast buck and not too particular as to how they made it. Whenever they came into port, the Customs and Immigration people gave them a scouring. Most of the time they came up empty, because the trans-shipments of contraband – drugs, cigarettes, spirits, warm bodies – took place at sea, outside territorial waters. Occasionally there were intercepts, generally due to poor navigation on the part of the smugglers. More often there were armed encounters between rivals, when one group tried to muscle in on another’s territory.

  As Cavanagh came level with the berth, the seaman on the afterdeck hailed him in English.

  ‘Hey mate! Take a line, will you!’

  Cavanagh set down his briefcase, caught the two stern lines and made them fast round the bollards. More from courtesy than from curiosity he waited until the vessel was winched in and the gang-plank run out. The seaman gave him a laconic acknowledgment.

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘You English?’

  ‘No. Australian.’

  ‘You’re a long way from home.’

  ‘You can say that again. Where have you come from?’

  ‘Today? Elba. We laid up for a couple of days in Porto Ferraio. Which is your ship?’

  Cavanagh jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘That one. The Salamandra d’Oro. We’re leaving tonight.’

  ‘Where are you heading?’

  ‘South.’ The lie was prompted by sudden caution. ‘Anzio, Naples, that-away. Wherever the owner wants. You know how it goes.’

  ‘Don’t I just. Tell me, is there any good crumpet around this place?’


  ‘I’m sure there is, but I’ve been too busy to chase it.’

  ‘Too bad. In Porto Ferraio they were touting it on the docks, perfumed cards and all. We went to one place, very posh, where half the girls were boys. Our skipper and his mates liked that. I didn’t. I left and found another place. I’m all for home comforts – I like a lot of butter on my crumpet . . . if you know what I mean. Come to think of it though, we met some of your fellows at the first place. Two pretty boys and a real hard-nose – Greek name, American accent. When I left, he and our skipper were getting along like a house on fire . . . Our man’s a Corsican but he speaks fair English . . .’

  ‘Simmons!’ There was a shout from somewhere below decks. ‘Stop your gabbing and get your arse down here!’

  The seaman gave a shrug and an embarrassed grin, then scuttled down the companionway. Cavanagh picked up his briefcase and walked on to the harbour-master’s office. As he was paying the bills he remarked casually:

  ‘I see you’ve got a new one. Jackie Sprat. English.’

  ‘Oh that!’ The official made a sour mouth. ‘She’s bad news, a smuggler – cigarettes, scotch whisky, all the high tax items. She picks ’em up in Tunis or Casablanca and sells ’em in any port round the Tyrrhenian Sea where there is a market. Nobody minds that too much. People have to eat. And state tobacco in Italy is like camel dung anyway. But the captain has a bad name, one that people speak very softly. For instance, some time ago he was arrested by Customs off Gaeta in the south. There are those who say it was an arrangement, a put-up job. What happens is this. The Customs men hail and board him. He’s way inside Italian waters. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t fight. He surrenders peacefully. His ship is impounded, with all its cargo. He himself is given a small fine and freed. Now comes the pretty part. Under Italian law the ship – that one down there – is put up for public auction. Who wants a piece of scrap like that? No one except the captain, who puts in a personal bid and gets it for next to nothing. But he’s a Corsican, so he doesn’t want to register it in France. The taxes are too high! No sir! So, he gets his old British syndicate to register it in their name, put up all the money for new merchandise, and buy back half the vessel at twice what he paid for it. Now he’s back in business, but with a new twist this time: prohibited migrants from Muslim countries, political people who are on the run – and always the hard drugs.’