The Lovers Read online

  ‘As you say.’

  ‘Then let me clear the decks for you, sir. I love Giulia. She loves me. I’ve asked her to marry me.’

  ‘And she?’

  ‘Wants to defer the answer.’

  ‘Has she told you why?’

  ‘Only in the most general terms. I haven’t pressed for details. I’ve simply told her we have to get things sorted out before Molloy comes on board.’

  Farnese gave him a thin, grim smile.

  ‘One could say that was a minimal requirement. On the other hand you and my daughter have already bedded each other.’

  Cavanagh flushed and was momentarily at a loss for words. Farnese shrugged.

  ‘Don’t be surprised, Cavanagh. Don’t be ashamed. It was I who contrived the opportunity for you with my little excursion to Orbetello. Just as it was I who seized the opportunity to offer you both this short vacation together, while Lou Molloy is purging his grief over the demise of his friend Hadjidakis.’

  Cavanagh, in total shock, gaped at him and finally managed to utter the single word:

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, strange as it may seem, Cavanagh, I love my daughter and I like you and respect you. You are in a sense my gift to her, my thank-offering, before she is committed to the brute realities of a political marriage – which she does understand and which she has accepted freely.’

  ‘How can she understand it, for Christ’s sake? She’s only a girl!’

  ‘No, Cavanagh. She’s a woman and she knows exactly what this marriage signifies.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll spare her the pain of explaining it to me, because I don’t understand it at all, and I sure as hell need to. Right now I’m like a blind bull blundering around in a shop full of glassware.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Cavanagh! How much can any man be expected to know in his twenties, when he comes from a place where history has only begun to be made? I confess that I am amazed to find you so, so prepared for your grand tour . . .’

  ‘Prepared? God Almighty! Was ever a dumb mick less prepared! But you’re going to explain things to me now, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m going to try,’ said Farnese. ‘But it’s a long story and you’ll have to let me tell it in my own way.’

  ‘Provided you don’t mind a question now and then, to make sure I’m understanding you.’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘The radar’s clean, the sea’s empty, we’re dead on course for Capo Ferro. You have my total attention, sir!’

  ‘You will understand none of this,’ said Farnese, ‘unless you follow the single thread which runs through all European history from the days of Caesar Augustus until now: the concept of imperium, empire, a single unit, or a confederation of units, presenting a united front to enemies, or potential enemies – traditionally characterised as the barbarians. The single, strongest strand in that thread – at least the one that has endured the longest – is the notion of Rome as the head of that empire, the place where the numen resides. You understand numen, Cavanagh?’

  ‘I understand it. Please go on.’

  ‘All the follies of European history have been perpetrated by people who didn’t recognise that power resides in the myth itself, in the folk memory, and not in any given person or set of circumstances. The British are, because of their isolation, natural myth-makers. They have managed to create, out of an obscure German house, a royal family upon whom their imperial dreams – even those which are now toppling into nightmare ruin – have centred themselves. Hitler and our ill-fated Mussolini failed to do that, because they denied what the British have always acknowledged, even on their coinage, that there has to be in every empire a core, a lodestone of divinity. True or false, it doesn’t matter; but the fire must glow, the warmth must be felt. Only then will the complicated machinery of government work, otherwise it will freeze into impotence. So, this is my question, Cavanagh. Where are the essential myths enshrined? Where does the true source of power reside?’

  ‘I’d say it resides in the possession of atomic weapons.’

  ‘Would you go one step further and stipulate that the real masters of the universe are not those who control the arsenals, but those who control their hearts and minds?’

  ‘I would so stipulate, yes.’

  ‘So now take a look at the northern hemisphere. America, victorious, rich, aggressive, has Japan as her eastern bastion and when the French are beaten in Indo-China, she will move in there too. Australia, your country, is available to her as a base of operations. In the west, England is her dependent ally and all Western Europe is her vassal state. Who stands against her? Mother Russia and all her vassal states in the USSR . . . and all the peasant millions of China. So how does anything work? The terror of the mushroom cloud lies over the whole planet. Administration, trade, the commerce of ideas, how do they function?. . . As they did, Cavanagh, in imperial times, through the historic instruments of power, consuls and proconsuls, bankers and traders, whose scrip holds good, and the Roman Catholic Church, your church and mine, with its polyglot population of seven hundred million people growing every day, and its hierarchy, good, bad and indifferent, controlling them all with the oldest numen in existence: the God who speaks through his vicar, the successor of Peter. That voice is heard everywhere, Cavanagh, even in the Gulags of Siberia and the way-stations of the Long March. And, believe it or not, I’m one of its more important functionaries, because I’m a fundraiser, a seller of stocks and bonds in the still vast equities of the Roman Church in Italy. I’m an ambassador outside the diplomatic service, because I speak the universal language of money. People deal with me, as they deal with Galeazzi, because they know what stands behind me . . . Do you understand me, Cavanagh?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cavanagh. ‘But what I don’t understand is why Giulia, your own daughter, has to be part of the trade.’

  ‘In principle,’ Farnese took the question in his stride, ‘the answer is simple. From earliest times, under Roman law – and in Roman practice across the centuries – woman was always a chattel until she passed from the care of her father and her brothers into the possession of her husband, when she finally achieved the status and dignity of a matron. But you’re a lawyer, you know this.’

  ‘I also know it’s bullshit!’ For the first time, Cavanagh’s patience began to fray. ‘I don’t want a potted history of the law. I want the facts about Giulia and Molloy, the whys and wherefores of this bloody travesty!’

  ‘Is it a travesty, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘Yes – and I can prove it.’

  ‘Indeed? Then before you make a total fool of yourself, let me give you what you are pleased to call the facts.’ He waited a moment while Cavanagh checked his heading and switched to automatic pilot, then he resumed his story. ‘There is still a little history yet to absorb. You know that the surrender of German troops in Italy was arranged by Allan Dulles and the Vatican, working with the German SS Intelligence Chief, Walter Rauff. What you don’t know is how many side deals were made during those negotiations – deals that involved the protection, by Dulles and his OSS groups, of men who were guilty of war crimes, but who might be useful to combat the rising power of the European Communist parties. Dulles had a whole group of them whom he kept on ice just outside Munich: men like Gehlen, Barbie and Draganovich. One more step. Italian elections were slated for 1948. In 1946, the Italian Communist Party, with support from Moscow and the Communist parties in Western Europe, launched a full-scale bid to secularise Italy, break the Vatican’s power and destabilise the whole republic. Two things happened. Pius XII threw the support of the Church behind the Christian Democrats. The Americans, urged along by Cardinal Spellman, weighed in with money and the invisible presence of a large Intelligence group, led by the one and only James Angleton. Result? The Communists were defeated. The Christian Democrats were elected in 1948 and have even been able to establish an uneasy working arrangement with the Left. But the fundamental problem still remains. A huge mass
of unemployed people, our industries in disarray – the whole country a massive breeding ground of discontent! End of history lesson! I could use some more coffee. You?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  His brief absence from the bridge gave Cavanagh the chance to compose himself and prepare for a critical hearing of the only matters that interested him: the relations between Molloy and Giulia. Farnese, back with the coffee, gave a temperate and relaxed rendering:

  ‘In February of last year, I was looking around, with Lucietta, for a suitable match for my daughter . . . I see you react against the idea. Relax, man! How do you think these things are arranged? By lottery? By casual encounter in a night club? They are arranged – which does not mean that they are imposed.’

  ‘Please! My reactions or opinions are of no consequence at this moment. I’m listening.’

  ‘My desire to see Giulia settled is known. The match-makers and the noble gossips are busy spreading the news. The Holy Father himself is discreetly interested and makes sure that I am discreetly informed! Now our American Eminence, Francis Cardinal Spellman, arrives in Rome on one of his frequent visits. As always, he brings gifts, substantial gifts. As always, he brings political information and economic proposals, which can benefit both Italy and the United States and drive another nail into the coffin of the Communists. This time he brings Molloy – very rich, very Irish, very Catholic, rabidly anti-Communist, a friend and collaborator of Allan Dulles and General Bedell Smith, well connected on Wall Street and in Washington. He is interested in European investment. He is attracted by the tourist splendours and run-down assets of Italy. He has already worked out how a clever impresario could put value into them. He is also a bachelor, who has reached that certain age of anxiety in which he begins to dream of a young wife and a son to succeed him. In short, as Spellman is eager to point out, the man is a godsend. The Holy Father agrees. I am summoned to a very private audience with His Holiness and His Eminence from New York, who roll out the whole plan before me like a design for a beautiful tapestry! I agree to study it.

  ‘I meet with Molloy and am deeply impressed. He is presented to Giulia, who is both impressed and attracted to him. Now, if you are honest with yourself, Cavanagh, you will have to admit both the man’s power and his charm. He is emphatically not a barbarian. Rather, I see him as one of the great condottieri like Sforza, Brancaccio di Montone and the Englishman, Sir John Hawkwood. Even you, Cavanagh, would have to admit the stature of the man!’

  ‘I admit it freely.’

  ‘And you would admit the importance of such an ally, at this perilous time, to the economic and political well-being of Italy.’

  ‘I have no scale by which to judge those things; but I’ll take your word for them.’

  ‘As Giulia does . . . And now we’ve come to it, let’s talk about Giulia. Quite obviously you see her as being somehow forced into a destructive union with Lou Molloy. You are mistaken, Cavanagh. You have no knowledge at all of the power of the Italian matriarch. Ask any Italian woman; she will tell you that her husband is unfaithful, her children are spoiled, all society is geared to the worship of the male. Don’t believe a word of it! The goddess who rules Italy and the Mediterranean is still Magna Mater – the archetypal matriarch – and in the family, as among the celibates in the Vatican, the exercise of power is the final vindication, the ultimate satisfaction. A trifling illustration: Molloy does not speak Italian. He will never learn. On whom will he depend for social communication, for secret judgment? On Giulia, of course. Don’t you see, he cannot afford an enemy in the house?’

  ‘So you’re telling me that, in the long haul, it doesn’t matter whether Molloy’s a saint or a double-dyed bastard!’

  ‘Exactly. In any contest on Italian soil, Giulia has to win. That’s the way the dice are loaded.’

  ‘And where does love come into all this?’

  Farnese took a sip of coffee and dabbed at his lips with a paper napkin. He was no longer eloquent and emphatic, but gently ruminative, a skilled actor making a sudden shift in the emotional line of his scene.

  ‘Where, how, when, why does love come into it? I tell you truly, Cavanagh, I don’t know. I know only that it does come in the most surprising ways. My father was a monster to my mother, to all his women in fact. But my mother adored him. Once, before she died, I asked her how she could have put up with him. She smiled and told me: “I understand him, Sandro – he was just a big baby. He always needed a teat in his mouth.” The other side of the coin was, of course, that she dominated him through his own weakness and his own guilts. There are two sides to every coin, Cavanagh!’

  ‘Unless the coin’s a double-header,’ Cavanagh smiled, in spite of himself. ‘If Giulia is so bound to Molloy, why is she even bothering with me? Why are you so anxious to placate her that you’re presenting me to her like a gift-wrapped candy-box?’

  ‘Does that displease you?’

  ‘Yes, it does. It presumes that I’m yours to dispose of – another chattel. Be assured I’m not. May I ask you a question now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re Giulia’s father. How important to you is Molloy’s character: his public and his private conduct?’

  Farnese was in no hurry to answer. He sipped his coffee, ate half a croissant, wiped his lips with a paper napkin, pondered the question with theatrical deliberation. Finally he said:

  ‘Molloy’s public conduct is most important to me, to Giulia, to all our patrons and our enterprises. Any threat to his reputation is a threat to us. We will respond to it vigorously. As to his private morals, I am more relaxed about those than you appear to be. Do you find that strange? I’m her father, you’re what? Her Johnny-come-lately lover! So, I ask myself, are your concerns genuine? Or are they simply the carpings of a suitor, jealous of his own interests!’

  ‘I believe,’ said Cavanagh, quietly, ‘I truly believe we both have genuine reason for concern.’

  ‘Have you expressed these concerns to Giulia?’

  ‘I’ve told her I believe she’s marrying the wrong man.’

  ‘But the particulars, Cavanagh? I presume from your remark, that you are able to recite them?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then, please begin.’

  ‘No, sir! Not to you, not to Giulia!’

  ‘To whom then?’

  ‘To Molloy himself, if it comes to that.’

  ‘My dear Cavanagh,’ Farnese addressed him with sedulous moderation. ‘Let me offer you a very important piece of advice. Whatever evidence you have against Lou Molloy, bundle it all up in a sack, put a large rock in the sack and dump it overboard in the deepest ocean trench. When you’ve done that, erase every last line of it from your memory.’

  ‘And where does that leave Giulia?’

  ‘Precisely where she is now – a woman betrothed to a man she has chosen freely. Besides, my young friend from far-away-land, Giulia is a Farnese. In our long family history we have had more than our share of assorted rakehells, satyrs and sexual fantasists. Somehow our women-folk have managed either to bring them to repentance, control them or, when all else failed, to conjure up a convenient assassin – a loyal friend, a devoted page, like you perhaps. Have you ever killed a man, Cavanagh?’

  ‘Some, I guess,’ said Cavanagh, flatly. ‘But in the Navy all our killing was at a distance. So I’m not sure how I’d measure up in a hand-to-hand encounter – or a private execution. Let’s drop the subject, shall we?’

  ‘With pleasure; but where do we stand now? I’d hate to think we’ve wasted all this talk.’

  ‘We haven’t.’ Cavanagh paused a moment to correct a slight drift on the autopilot. ‘First, I’d like to thank you for a civilised chat and for allowing Giulia and me to work our way to our own decisions.’

  ‘But you know those decisions have to be made.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll bow out of Giulia’s life when the time comes?’

  ‘If she wants me out, yes. If she
wants me in her life as a husband, then that for me is final. I don’t leave without her. That’s the best I can promise.’

  ‘I had hoped for more,’ said Farnese.

  ‘I love your daughter,’ said Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh. ‘I’ll not surrender her against her will, especially to a man like Lou Molloy!’

  ‘Whatever he’s been, whatever he’s done, could you not find it in your heart to forgive him?’

  ‘What’s forgiveness got to do with it, for God’s sake?’

  ‘That’s an odd question from a Christian. You did say you are a Christian, Cavanagh?’

  ‘I did say it and I am. But forgiving is one thing – trusting is another. I don’t trust Lou Molloy – not with Giulia!’

  ‘But he trusts you, Cavanagh. He has trusted you with his woman, his ship and his friends. Do you find yourself worthy of the trust? Think about that – and do call me before we raise Capo Ferro.’

  Punctiliously, Farnese gathered up the crockery and carried it down to the galley, leaving Cavanagh to scan the horizon and sort out all the contradictory themes, in what was becoming an elaborate valse macabre.

  Sardinia revealed itself slowly. The islets and headlands were first to appear, black humps rising against a pale morning sky, out of a shimmering sea. Then the headlands were joined by white ribbons of sand and tufted ridges, behind which rose the rock-strewn saddles of the hinterland. The fresh breeze off the land carried the scents of wild thyme and rosemary.

  Cavanagh reduced speed to seven knots to give himself time to match the configurations of the land with his chart and with the images on the radar screen. His first landmarks were clear now: the beacon on Capo Ferro and, opposite, the rocky island of Bisce. A little to the south was the narrow gullet of Porto Cervo and the wide-open approach to Golfo Pevero.

  As he scanned the shoreline through his binoculars, his heart skipped a beat. There, riding peaceably at anchor in Golfo Pevero was the long, grey hull of the Fairmile, Jackie Sprat. At first he could not believe what he saw; then a piece of simple mathematics convinced him. The Fairmile had a speed of 35 knots and a 40-mile radar scan. The Salamandra had loitered for a couple of hours and then run through the night at fifteen knots. The skipper of the Jackie Sprat could have picked her up on his radar anywhere with three hours of Porto Santo Stefano and then, her identity and direction established, outrun her into Sardinia. Farnese was right. The Salamandra was as easy to track as a circus elephant. He called Farnese to the bridge and handed him the binoculars.