Daughter of Silence Read online

  The wine was brought and they drank a toast to mutual happiness. They talked a while of simple things. Then Valeria took Ninette inside to find her a dress while Landon went in search of Carlo to borrow a clean shirt for dinner.

  He found him rubbing the sleep out of his eyes in a small room that must have been his retreat when the marital chamber was too cold for comfort. Rienzi greeted him cheerfully, lit a cigarette and then said, laughing: ‘There’s a commentary for you, Peter! I stage a great triumph. My name will be in every newspaper and I end like this – sleeping in my underpants in the spare room!’

  ‘Just as well, laddy. You have a big night ahead of you.’

  ‘I know.’ He frowned in distaste. ‘I’m not sure I want to face it.’

  ‘Nonsense, man! It’ll do you good. And besides it’s a graceful gesture and you’ve got to accept it gracefully.’

  ‘It was the old man’s idea, of course.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. It was Valeria’s.’

  He gave Landon a sharp look. ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. She and Ninette cooked it up between them. Ascolini simply telephoned the invitations. I was there. I should know.’

  ‘She means it then,’ he muttered, moodily.

  ‘Means what?’

  ‘A new start. An attempt to patch up our marriage.’

  ‘Yes, she does mean it. I hold no brief for her, as you know, but I’m convinced that she’s sincere in this. How do you feel about it?’

  Rienzi chewed on the question a moment, then lay back on the bed and blew smoke-rings towards the ceiling. He said, slowly: ‘That’s a big question, Peter – and I don’t know how to answer it. Something’s happened to me and I don’t know how to explain it, even to myself.’

  ‘It’s simple enough, for God’s sake! You’re tired, played out. You’ve fought a big case at a critical time of your life. Now you need rest and a little readjustment.’

  ‘No, Peter. It’s more than that. Look!’ He heaved himself up on his elbow and talked eagerly. ‘You know the way I used to imagine this day – the day of my first success? I’ll tell you: just as it happened in the court. The decision, the acclamation, the congratulations of my colleagues, Ascolini’s surrender. Then? Then I would come to Valeria and take her in my arms and say: “There it is I I’ve tumbled the stars in your lap. Now stop being a child and come to bed and let’s make love and start a baby!”’ And she would come happily and there would be no more fighting – except lovers’ quarrels that would still end in bed.’

  ‘That’s exactly as she wants it at this moment. If you don’t believe me, try it!’

  ‘I know,’ said Rienzi, flatly. ‘I don’t need you to tell me. But don’t you see? I don’t want it any more! I don’t have the feeling. You know what it’s like.’

  Landon knew, but he could not find words to tell Rienzi, who hurried on, explaining himself in an urgent tumble of words: ‘When I was a student in the first year of law, we had a great party. It was the night when the results were posted and I had passed. We got drunk and sang songs and felt twice as large as life. Then we all decided to finish the evening at a house of appointment, the biggest and most luxurious in Rome. Wonderful! We were young, full of sap, puffed with success. Then, when we got there, eh! It was nothing. I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t innocent, but the thing was a cold transaction. Too many feet had walked over the doorstep. Too many fools had walked up the same stairs.’

  ‘Did you go to bed?’

  He laughed wryly. ‘No. I walked home and held hands with the landlady’s daughter, who was so innocent she thought a kiss would make her pregnant.’ His face clouded again. ‘But seriously, Peter, that’s how I feel now with Valeria. I just don’t care. I have no interest. What do I do?’

  ‘Lie a little. Give it time. Blow on the coals long enough and you have fire again.’

  ‘But if there are no coals, Peter – only charcoal and ashes?’

  ‘Then you’re in a bad way, brother! There’s no divorce in the Church or in this country, and you’ve got no talent for a double life. So give it a try, man, for pity’s sake I You’re not a baby. You know the words. And women are happy to believe what they want to hear.’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’ He jerked himself off the bed and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Except that I’m a bad liar and Valeria knows the words backwards. Still…vesti la giubba! On with the motley and see what son of a play we make! Now, let’s see if we can find you a shirt.’ He burrowed in a drawer and came up with a beautiful creation in cream silk which he tossed to Landon with a grin. ‘Wear it to the wedding, amico, and drink a toast to the reluctant groom!’

  It was a bad joke, but Landon let it pass. This was no time to read Rienzi a lecture on marriage and the joys of fatherhood, so he let that pass, too. He thanked Rienzi for the shirt and walked back towards the guest-room to get ready for dinner. He wondered why Rienzi had said no word of Anna Albertini, and he asked himself, cynically, whether the boyhood history were not repeating itself in fantasy: the shamed man and the little white virgin holding hands at the top of the stairs while the big lusty world rolled on about its business.

  The first act of Ascolini’s dinner party was a formal success. More than twenty people sat down in the big dining-room: local pundits and their wives, a member of the Chamber of Deputies, a brace of legal eminences, the doyen of the Siena press, Professor Galuzzi, and an astonishing marchesa, fragile as a Dresden doll, who scolded Ascolini with the frankness of an old lover.

  Ascolini gave one of his bravura performances. Valeria smiled and directed the whole affair with a deft hand. Carlo walked through his part with a vague charm that disarmed the men and left the women crooning with satisfaction. Ninette was radiant and besieged by elderly gentlemen who had discovered all too late an interest in art. Landon had small talent for this kind of social charade and he was rescued from complete boredom only by Professor Galuzzi, who proved himself an urbane and witty talker and a satirist of formidable dimension.

  When the meal was over, they took their brandies out on to the terrace and watched the moon climb slowly over the distant ridges of Amiata. Valeria’s nightingales were not singing yet, but Galuzzi was a diverting story-teller and Landon did not miss them at all. Inevitably, Galuzzi worked his way round to the Albertini affair and, after a cautious glance to assure himself that they were still alone, he delivered himself of some disturbing reflections.

  ‘One day, Landon, this young Rienzi will be a very great jurist. But there’s a flaw in him somewhere and I cannot put my finger on it.’

  ‘What kind of flaw?’

  ‘How shall I define it? A confusion, a conflict still unresolved.’

  ‘The conflict’s clear enough, I think. It’s not a very happy marriage.’

  ‘I’ve heard this before. It’s common talk. One observes the incompatibility, but this is not what I mean. I’ve watched him closely with this client of his, a curious relationship, to say the least.’

  ‘How-curious?’

  ‘On the girl’s part,’ said Galuzzi carefully, ‘it is, shall we say, normally abnormal. The mind in disorder seeks a focus for its dissociated faculties, a relief from the burden of its fears and frustrations and infirmities. It demands a scapegoat for its guilts, a protector for its weakness, an object for its ailing love. This is what Rienzi has become for the girl. You know as well as I how this kind of transference works.’

  Landon said uneasily: ‘Carlo’s quite aware of that part, I think.’

  ‘I know he’s aware of it,’ said Galuzzi tartly. ‘I warned him.’

  ‘How did he take the warning?’

  ‘Very well. And I must say that his conduct has been professionally impeccable. But it is precisely at this point that the flaw begins to show: an arrogance, an attitude of possession, a subtle conviction that he exercises a benign influence over this girl, a too great readiness to assume responsibilities beyond his function.’

  Everything that G
aluzzi said Landon was prepared to echo and affirm. But the nagging sense of guilt made him attempt at least a token defence of Rienzi. ‘Isn’t this a fairly normal reaction – the first client, the first big case?’

  ‘On the face of it, yes. But there is another element which I find it hard to define.’ Galuzzi sipped his brandy in meditative fashion, and then lit a cigarette. He went on, slowly: ‘You know what I think it is, Landon? A tale of innocence and the lost paradise…I see you smile – and well you may! We are cynics, you and I. In our profession we have to be. We lose innocence early and seldom regret it until we are old. It’s a wasteful way to live, because we spend a whole lifetime getting back to the first point of departure. But it’s a very human way – and for most of us it’s the only way we learn to tolerate ourselves and tolerate others. We come in the end to forgive because we cannot endure without forgiveness for ourselves. We learn to be glad of half a loaf and not too proud when we achieve half a virtue.’ He laughed and threw out his arms in a spacious gesture. ‘Why should I read you a lecture on innocence, Landon? You have as much experience as I have. Fellows like you and me can pick a virgin at twenty paces and an honest man blindfolded. There aren’t too many of either! The world is full of half-virgins and near-liars.’ His face clouded again and he went on: ‘Rienzi is no more innocent than most, but he has never been able to forgive the lack in himself or in the world. He wants the moon and the sixpence too. He wants to be loved by a virgin and solaced by a whore, because each in her own way gives him the illusion of virtue. His ambition is nourished, his whole career is built on other men’s sins. But this is not enough. He must play the little priest and read sweet lectures to his client in prison. A fellow like this is impregnable! Nothing can touch him because everything is food for his delusions!’

  ‘By the same token,’ said Landon sombrely, ‘nothing can make him happy.’

  ‘I agree. Nothing can make him happy because he judges everything in the light of the lost paradise.’

  Abruptly, Landon faced him with a new question: ‘Do you propose to let Rienzi keep in touch with the girl?’

  Galuzzi smoked for a moment in silence and then answered slowly: ‘I’ve thought about that a great deal. I doubt whether I could prevent what is a reasonable contact between lawyer and client. I doubt also whether I would want to. To this point, Rienzi has been good for the girl. He may continue to help her for a long time. So I have decided to compromise.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘I’m trying to have Anna Albertini transferred to an institution at Castel Gandolfo, just near Rome. That may take a little time. For the present, she will be placed in the care of the Sisters of the Good Shepherd who run a similar, but smaller, mental home near Siena. I’ve told Rienzi he can visit her there immediately after she has been admitted. Then I want her left alone for a while so that I can keep her under my control and devise a regimen of analysis and treatment.’

  ‘How did Rienzi take the idea?’

  ‘He had to take it, but he didn’t like it.’ Galuzzi shrugged, flipped away his cigarette, and stood, a dark, imposing figure against the rising moon. ‘How does one draw pictures for the blind? How does one fight the potent magic of self-deception?’

  Bluntly, Landon faced him with the last question: ‘Do you think Rienzi’s in love with the girl?’

  ‘Love is a chameleon word,’ said Galuzzi, absently. ‘Its colour matches a gamut of diverse experiences. Who can say that, even when we protest it most nobly, we are not loving ourselves?’

  On that comfortless thought they left it and walked inside to join the other guests.

  The party was tapering off now, fragmenting itself into little groups which, having exhausted their stock of civilities, were busy with local gossip and provincial reminiscence. Landon rescued Ninette from a too talkative politician and suggested that they arrange a ride back to Siena with the first party to leave. Carlo wandered up at the same moment with a glass in his hand and waved away the suggestion: ‘Nonsense! You can’t leave yet! Let’s get rid of this stuffy bunch and we’ll finish the evening together. Then I’ll drive you back myself.’

  His eyes were glazed, his voice slurred, and Landon had no intention of letting him get within fifty feet of a car, so he grinned and said: ‘Not tonight, Carlo! You’re tired and you’re tipsy and it’s time you went to bed!’

  ‘To bed?’ He gave a drunken chuckle and gagged on another mouthful of liquor. ‘Everybody wants me to go to bed! Valeria, the old man, and now you! Nobody asks me what I want. I’m just a stallion, that’s all! A noble sire led out to service. You know what they want me to do?’ His voice rose higher and the liquor slopped from the glass on to the polished floor. ‘People the place with advocates – great advocates, like Ascolini and me!’

  It was time to do something. Landon took his arm firmly and steered him towards the door, humouring him as best he could. ‘That’s fine, Carlo! Nobody wants you to do any thing that doesn’t suit you. Ninette and I will stay around, but you’ve got to sober up a little.’

  ‘Who wants to be sober? This is a great day. I’m a success! And I’m going to be married again!’ Landon had him out of the salone now and was working him up the stairs, out of earshot, when Valeria appeared on the landing above them. Rienzi raised his hand in a maudlin salute: ‘There she is! The little bride who wants to be the mother of the Gracchi. How many children do you want, darling? Shall we have them all at once or in easy stages?’

  ‘Get him to bed, for God’s sake!’ said Valeria bitterly, and tried to hurry past them down the stairs.

  Rienzi reached for her, but Landon fended him away and wrestled him back against the banisters. He surrendered with a drunken laugh.

  ‘You see, my friend, she despises me! You don’t despise me, do you, Peter? You know I’m a great man! Little Anna doesn’t despise me either. I saved her, you know that! Nobody believed I could do it, but I saved her. Poor little Anna! Nobody’s giving her a party tonight.’

  He leaned against the banisters and began to cry. Half-pushing, half-carrying, Landon got him up the stairs and into the small bedroom, laid him on the bed and took off his jacket, shoes and tie. He was still moaning and mumbling when Landon closed the door and went downstairs. Ninette signalled to him from the door of the library and he went in to join her while Ascolini and his daughter farewelled the last of their guests. She kissed him and said: ‘Thanks, chèri. You did that very neatly. I don’t think anybody saw too much. Valeria’s going to drive us back to town. Poor girl, I feel very sorry for her.’

  ‘It’s a bloody mess, sweetheart. But this one they’ll have to clean up for themselves.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Carlo?’

  ‘He’s tired. He drank too much. And he’s all mixed up, like a country omelette.’

  He told her of his talk with Carlo and of Galuzzi’s uneasy diagnosis. She sighed and made a shrugging Gallic gesture of despair. ‘What more can one do, Peter? What is there to say? Is there any hope for these people?’

  ‘None at all!’ said Ascolini from the doorway. He was leaning against the door-jamb – a white-haired, grey-faced old man in a dinner-jacket that seemed suddenly too large for him. ‘We never forget anything and we never forgive anything. There’s a blight on us. Worms in the fruit and weevils in the wheat I Go home, my friends, and forget us.’

  He crossed the room with a slow, tottering step and slumped into a chair. Landon poured him a glass of brandy and he drank it at a gulp, then sat, slack and listless, staring at the floor. Valeria came hurrying in with a coat thrown over her dinner-frock and a small suitcase in her hand. She was white with anger.

  ‘We’re going now, Father. Don’t wait up for me. If Carlo wants to know where I am, tell him I’ve gone to ask Lazzaro to have me back. He’s no great prize – God knows – but at least he’s a man!’

  ‘Please, child, don’t do it!’ A last flush of anger and animation galvanized the old man. ‘Let our friends take the car. You sta
y here and wait out one more day with me.’

  ‘With you, Father?’ Her voice was high, harsh and bitter. ‘You told me last night I must stand alone now; you had your own life, you said, and I must live mine and take the consequences! Well, I’m doing just that! Carlo doesn’t want me. You’re tired of re-living the dead years through me! So I’m free. Goodnight, Father! I’ll see you two in the car.’

  Without a backward look, she hurried out. Landon shook the old man’s limp hand and muttered a phrase or two, but he did not seem to hear. Only, when Ninette bent to kiss him, he stirred himself and patted her cheek and said softly: ‘Bless you, child! Look after your man – and be gentle to each other!’

  ‘You’ll come to see us in Rome, dottore?’

  ‘In Rome …? Oh yes – yes, of course.’

  They left him then, shrunken and defeated, in the big chair, and walked out into the cold moonlight where Valeria was waiting for them at the wheel of the car. Her face was wet with tears, but she said nothing and slammed the car fast and dangerously down the drive and out on to the moonlit ribbon of the Siena road. For the first mile or so, she was silent, wrestling the car savagely round the curves of the hill, while the tyres screamed and the offside wheels spun dangerously in the gravel of the verge. Then she began to talk – a low, passionate monologue that brooked neither comment nor interruption.

  ‘Dear Carlo! Dear sweet Carlo! The noble boy with the great talent and the great future and the wife who didn’t love him! You didn’t believe me, did you? You thought I was just a cold bitch who was warm to everyone but her husband! The music was the trick, you know! Soft music for bleeding hearts. Nocturnes for unrequited lovers. God, if you only knew how much I hoped from that man! I was my father’s girl. He gave me everything and I was grateful, but the one thing he couldn’t give was myself. He couldn’t surrender that, you see, and I didn’t know how to take it from him. He made himself a partner, even in my foolishness. That’s what I wanted from Carlo: what you two have and what I hated you for – partnership. I wanted him to stand with me, match me with love and anger, tame me and make me free at the same time! But he didn’t want that. Not Carlo! He wanted possession, surrender – to grind me small and boil me down and swallow me up so that there was nothing left. He wasn’t strong enough to do it one way so he tried another! The wilting smile, the melancholy mood, tantrums and tenderness. Take me back to the womb and let me eat your soul out like a grub in a walnut! …’ The car lurched and skidded as she wrenched it round a hairpin bend, but she talked on, heedless of Ninette’s cry and Landon’s protest…. ‘I thought today his pride – or whatever it is that drives him – would be satisfied and I could go to him as a woman. But he doesn’t want a woman! He wants a doll to play with, to croon over and spill the sawdust out of when he feels strong and cruel. That’s why he’s fallen for this Anna, a poor, empty, pretty child, with nothing inside but what he’s put there. Well, he’s welcome to her. I’m free of him now – free of my father, too! I’m my own woman and I don’t care what …’