The Lovers Read online

  ‘Tell me what you see, please.’

  Farnese studied the vessel for a few moments, then set down the glasses.

  ‘It’s no surprise. I’ll report their presence when we get in to Maddalena. No point in broadcasting the news. That’s Capo Ferro ahead, isn’t it? Would you like me to take the wheel?’

  ‘Your ship, sir.’

  Cavanagh noted the time and wrote an entry in the log: ‘Prince Farnese, at his own request, piloting vessel into La Maddalena. Cavanagh remaining in effective control.’

  Farnese smiled and asked:

  ‘Covering your tail, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘Always.’ Cavanagh was equally good-humoured. ‘You’ve done Navy service. Somebody has to take the kicks. It’s either the cabin boy or the ship’s cat. By the way, sir, what’s your programme in Maddalena?’

  ‘Lunch with the Commandant, his officers and their ladies. We’ll be back on board for siesta. A light meal would probably suffice for the evening. What about you, Cavanagh?’

  ‘We’ll be cleaning ship. Chef will be shopping. We’ll give the crew time off to see the town. Somewhere in all that I’m going to sleep . . . I take it we’ll be leaving here tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Probably not. We may return the Commandant’s compliment by inviting him and his staff to join us on a day run tomorrow, down to Coda Cavallo, or even over to the western end of the Straits, if the weather holds good.’

  ‘There’s a north-wester promised. That could make for a bumpy trip.’

  ‘Then we take the lee side of the island. It’s no problem; but in any case be prepared for visitors and a picnic, and probably a second night in port here.’

  ‘Whatever you decide, sir. I just need to give Chef enough notice to prepare the food.’

  Their talk was crisp and formal. They were heading now for the promontory called Capo d’Orso. Farnese was watching for traffic in the enclosed space. Cavanagh was making swift, nervous sketches of the new landscapes that presented themselves. One half of his mind was concentrated on his sketchbook, the other was dealing with a new revelation.

  With surgical precision, Farnese had just subtracted two days from his private time with Giulia and there was not a word he could reasonably say to protest it.

  By the time he had snugged down the ship in the Italian Navy pens, issued his orders for the day and consigned the Farnese party into the care of the Commandant of Maddalena, it was eleven in the morning and he had lost all desire for sleep. So he decided to go ashore with the Chef and help him with the marketing. It was a simple, homely occupation which opened the town to him and opened the Chef, too, into a whole litany of confessions.

  ‘. . . I fell into pieces yesterday, Cavanagh. You must understand that I am haunted by the thought of a sudden and lonely death. I made a bad exhibition of myself. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Come now, Chef!’ Cavanagh tried to soothe him. ‘It happens to everyone at least once on a voyage. The days are long. The sea’s always murmuring in your ear and you don’t know whether you’re hearing a lullaby or a siren song. The only way you can escape it is to get drunk or jump overboard – which is not recommended.’

  ‘I was mad with you too, Cavanagh.’

  ‘Everybody’s mad with me, Chef. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘How can I not worry? I see you, all lit up with passion for our little Princess, riding madly into battle with my old friend Molloy. I think you’re crazy – that’s the privilege of youth. I don’t blame you for anything except stupidity. But Molloy – that’s a horse of another colour . . .’ He broke off, to test the lettuce on a market barrow, to press the peaches, smell the melons and deliver himself of a totally irrelevant piece of wisdom. ‘. . . Always in Italy they do the same thing – they put the spoiled fruit at the top of the pile, so that it will sell first. By the time you get to the bottom of the pile, that’s gone off too! I tell them to sell the bad stuff at discount and make up on the good stock. But will they listen? Never! They have been doing it this way since Nero . . . Here, you can make yourself useful. Hold the sack open. Two dozen oranges, four kilos of peaches, then we’ll take a look further down. It pays to spread the custom!’

  As they strolled among the market stalls, Cavanagh steered him back to the subject of Lou Molloy and his strange wooing. Chef expounded in his grumbling fashion:

  ‘You’re too young, Cavanagh. Your country has not even two hundred years of history. You’re just out of university, just done with a war. The future is spread like a magic carpet under your feet. Sex is wonderful, love is wonderful. The world is a garden of girls! And yet you’re breaking your neck to get married. Why? This is the big game, Cavanagh, the one they play in the salle privée with the doors closed and all the hard men sitting around watching the jackpot get bigger and bigger. You’re out of your class! You’re going to get hurt. Your Giulia’s going to be left bleeding for you; and Molloy will have the whip-hand over her for the rest of her life . . .’

  ‘Not if she comes away with me.’

  ‘She won’t. She can’t.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I say it, my young friend, without malice, with sadness for you both.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘I know. You don’t dare to believe me, but I know Molloy; I know the Farnese and their like.’

  ‘So explain Molloy to me.’

  ‘No! You’ll have to learn him yourself, line by line as you first learned to read . . . He comes from a new world too; but it’s older than yours and richer and much more ruthless. Pass me one of those figs. Try one yourself . . .’

  After a while they separated. Chef walked back to the ship, accompanied by a scrawny youth carrying his purchases. Cavanagh completed his circuit of the old town with its pink-and-white houses, ornamented with iron scroll-work. In an alley behind the main street he came upon a narrow shopfront whose window carried the legend ‘Antichità’.

  Most of what was displayed behind the glass was old naval material – a telescope, a quadrant, an officer’s dirk, a pair of duelling pistols, gilded buttons, medals and decorations . . . He went inside. The shop was empty. He was browsing quietly among the knick-knacks when an elderly, white-haired man appeared from the rear door and asked:

  ‘May I help you, sir?’

  ‘Thank you. I was just browsing, but perhaps you can help. I was looking for a gift for a lady – something curious, out of the ordinary.’

  ‘A young lady, sir?’

  ‘Yes. A young lady of good taste and education.’

  ‘I understand. This may need a little patience, but let us see what we have.’

  From under the counter he produced a series of cardboard shoe-boxes, from which he brought out in turn – an antique tear-bottle of Roman glass, a tiny nuraghic bronze figure, a gold locket in the Hungarian style, an enamelled scent-vial from Vienna, sundry rings, bracelets, brooches and pendants. It was a pendant which finally caught Cavanagh’s eye: a medallion of yellow gold, held in a milled circlet of the same metal and attached to a woven chain of gold filaments. The medallion was finely wrought. It carried on one side the image of a winged Mercury, under which was an inscription: Vocatus extemplo adsum. On the obverse was a representation of the Three Graces embracing each other in the traditional pose.

  The old man watched as Cavanagh fingered the piece. He smiled, nodded and said:

  ‘It pleases you, sir, yes?’

  ‘It does. What can you tell me about it?’

  ‘Not much more than it has already told you. The medallion is older than the circlet and the chain; I would say seventeenth-century Florentine. The setting and chain are nineteenth century. It was sold to me by a young naval cadet, whose aunt had left it to him in her will. That’s all I can tell you. The piece is genuine.’

  ‘How much?’

  The old man cocked his head on one side like a quizzical parrot and asked:

  ‘How much is it worth to you, sir?’

  ‘How much do you want for it,
padrone?’

  ‘How will you pay?’

  ‘In lire.’

  ‘Then the price is thirty thousand.’

  ‘That’s fifty dollars.’

  ‘For American currency I could make a better price.’

  ‘I’ll give you twenty-five dollars.’

  ‘Make it thirty-five.’

  ‘Make it thirty.’

  ‘D’accordo!’

  ‘And you’ll find me a nice box for it and wrap it in fresh tissue.’

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure, sir.’

  While the old man was rummaging amongst his junk for a jewel box and wrapping paper, Cavanagh looked at the medallion and pondered the inscription: ‘I come instantly to your call’. For the moment at least, Giulia was wearing another man’s ring; but, if she accepted this pendant, it would lie between her breasts and assure her that, like the messenger of the gods, he was, and would always be, instant in her service. On which there followed a sour little afterthought: he had only his love to give him wings. Lou Molloy was much more potent, with messengers, minions and men-at-arms always at his disposal around the world.

  He was therefore touched and surprised when the old man took his money, handed him the medallion, carefully wrapped, then presented him with the little glass tear-vial as ‘a small gift for the fortunate lady!’ When Cavanagh tried to thank him, he waved him away with a laugh.

  ‘I am probably the only man on Maddalena who knows what it is: a fragile trifle from long ago. In any case you will need it. Even in the best of loving there are tears, but they too should be kept as a precious memory.’

  It seemed a double omen, when, turning back into the main street, he found himself ten paces behind Lenore Pritchard and Rodolfo. They were holding hands and laughing at their own disjointed talk. A few paces further on, they stopped dead in their tracks and exchanged a lingering kiss. Cavanagh, too, was forced to stop and concentrate his attention on a display of hanging sausages in a salumeria. The last thing in the world he needed at that moment was to involve himself in another love triangle – which, whatever its outcome, had to be much less complicated than his own.

  He waited long enough for the pair to be done with their kissing and get another twenty paces ahead of him. By that time the country sausages were beginning to assume phallic shapes and the fatigue of the night-watch had caught up with him.

  He patted his pockets to make sure he still had his purchases, then hurried back to the ship. The Italian Navy had posted a courtesy guard at the gangway. Cavanagh returned the lad’s salute and identified himself. He popped his head into the galley to let Chef know he was on board. Back in his cabin, he stripped, shaved and showered, and slept like the dead for seven hours.

  He was awakened by a cabin-to-cabin call from Farnese.

  ‘I hope I didn’t spoil your siesta, Cavanagh.’

  ‘No, sir. It’s time I was up anyway. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just wanted you to know we’ve brought two guests on board. I’ve asked Miss Pritchard to make up Galeazzi’s cabin for them. That has two bunks. They’ll be quite comfortable.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Mr Jordan, whom you met in Calvi, and a friend of his from the Italian Navy.’

  ‘I’ll need their documents for the ship’s manifest.’

  ‘I think you might waive that formality,’ said Farnese smoothly. ‘They’ll only be with us while we’re in Sardinian waters.’

  ‘Who assigned them to us?’

  ‘Wrong question, Mr Cavanagh. These are our friends.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘On the afterdeck. It’s cocktail time.’

  ‘I’ll be up shortly, to offer them a welcome. By the way, are we expecting more guests tomorrow?’

  ‘No. The Commandant and his people will be welcoming a destroyer from the Sixth Fleet. So our picnic cruise is off. If you like we can leave here in the morning. Our guests have suggested some interesting places to visit.’

  ‘Have they indeed? I’ll be most interested to hear them.’

  As he washed and dressed, Cavanagh felt the now familiar pang of resentment at being so openly manipulated by Farnese. Yet it was difficult to frame a justifiable complaint. Farnese, friend and father-in-law-to-be of his owner, was the only conduit he had into that underground world from which they were all threatened, and from which their protectors, too, had obviously emerged. So, he chided himself: ‘Keep a still tongue in your head, Cavanagh! Listen and nod and smile and learn to be as practised a plotter as the rest of them!’ He was just brushing his hair when Lenore Pritchard gave a perfunctory knock, stepped immediately into the cabin and announced:

  ‘I thought you should know. Farnese’s brought a couple of heavies on board.’

  ‘He called me a moment ago; he told me they were guests.’

  ‘Whatever he calls them, I’ve just been down to their cabin with towels, soap and bottled water. There was a big canvas bag pushed under the bunk. I looked inside it.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Wet suits, spear guns, pistols, hand grenades . . . other gear I didn’t recognise.’

  ‘You didn’t disturb anything?’

  ‘Hell no! I just zipped up the bag again and shoved it back under the bunk.’

  Cavanagh shrugged.

  ‘At least we can be sure they’re on our side.’

  ‘I hope nobody’s going to start a war, just when I’m beginning to enjoy the cruise.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen. Molloy and Farnese are simply taking out insurance policies. That means the ship and crew have to be covered.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Did you do any shopping today?’

  ‘Not much. A few postcards, a couple of pieces of local embroidery. Rodolfo and I . . .’

  She broke off, blushing and embarrassed. Cavanagh chided her gently:

  ‘Come on now! Why the blushes? I saw you both in town. I thought you made a very handsome couple.’

  ‘I can do without the blarney, Cavanagh!’

  ‘It’s not blarney. I mean it.’

  ‘Rodolfo makes me feel like a girl again.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Damn it all! I’m old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘The boy’s got good taste. What’s wrong with that? Enjoy what you’ve got, while you’ve got it!’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing, Cavanagh?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m trying to hang on to what I think I’ve got. I want to marry Giulia; but everyone’s trying to warn me off the course.’

  ‘Naturally enough, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I guess so. Molloy has to be the odds-on favourite.’

  ‘What’s Giulia’s point of view?’

  ‘She loves me. I love her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve told her I’ll marry her at the drop of a hat – and to hell with Farnese and Molloy and Papa Pacelli and all the rest!’

  ‘So now you’re just waiting for someone to drop the hat?’

  ‘If you put it like that, yes.’

  ‘Who, for instance?’

  ‘Giulia, for Christ’s sake! I’ve asked her to marry me. She has to answer.’

  Lenore Pritchard gave a long, low whistle of surprise.

  ‘Jesus! Do you realise what you’re laying on the girl? I know she’s bright. I think she’s brave. I’m prepared to believe she loves you, but you can’t leave her out there, standing in the eye of the hurricane, waiting for the big winds to blow! It’s inhuman!’

  ‘I don’t see that!’

  Then you’re blind as a cave bat and you don’t deserve the woman!’

  ‘So, help me, please! Explain to me where I’m wrong.’

  ‘Oh brother!’ She perched herself on the edge of the bunk and made him sit beside her. ‘You really are beyond redemption, Cavanagh. You must know all the raw power that’s stacked up against you.’

  ‘You’re damned right I know it!’

/>   ‘Then don’t you see? You’re opting out: you’re leaving Giulia to face it alone. You’ve constructed a situation where she has to accept you, and then explain herself to Molloy and her family and the Pope and all the other interested parties! If she breaks, you’ll blame her and leave. She’ll be a victim to Molloy and her family for the rest of her life. You’ll be fired, of course. You may even be beaten up in a dark alley. So what? You’ll be home free. Your life will go on. Hers will be finished . . .’

  ‘You can’t say that!’

  ‘The hell I can’t! In my own small way, I’m in the same position with Rodolfo. I’m good enough in bed to keep him happy for quite a while yet; but that’s not the point. For him, I’m the rich lady because I earn ten times as much as he does and I know ten times as much about the big wide world. I’m as good as a widow because I’m used merchandise and he doesn’t owe me any fidelity. Even so, he expects me to call the tune, make the decisions for both of us; but I know that the day will come when he knows, or thinks he knows, more than I do, and he’s found someone twice as rich and half as old as I am. Then it’s finito! Kaputt! . . . What I’m saying, boyo, is that if you want to hold your lady – and by me she’s quite a lady, even if sometimes she acts like a spoiled brat – you have to make the moves. You have to pick some pebbles out of the brook and fit them to your sling and go challenge Goliath yourself . . . My father used to give me that advice; but his way was to get drunk and leave the giants, like the rent collectors, to my mother. She beat ’em too, in her own biblical way. She took ’em to bed and then cut their balls off – or was it their heads? It’s hard to remember. Have you got a drink here?’

  ‘Scotch?’

  ‘Whatever.’