The Lovers Read online

  Then, mercifully, the little interlude was over. With a nod and a murmur of thanks, the couple left the bridge. Ten minutes later Molloy returned, alone. He asked:

  ‘What time are you due to be relieved?’

  ‘In about ten minutes.’

  ‘Good! I’d like you to join us for cocktails. I need some help.’

  ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘Giulia says your Italian’s very good. I want you to help me entertain her aunt. She says she doesn’t like speaking English, although she can rattle along in most European languages. The fact is she doesn’t like me. She thinks I’m too old for Giulia, too American, too vulgar – but still rich enough to be tolerable. The dislike is mutual. I happen to think she’s a royal pain in the arse. Like a lot of Italian women with too little to do, she’s always complaining about her liver, her migraines, the weather, the decline of manners and morals. However, I’ve got to put up with her for Giulia’s sake. Also, I’ve got serious business to discuss with Farnese and Galeazzi. I can’t have the old girl moping about like Lady Macbeth. So, you’re elected to keep her happy. If it gets too tough, maybe you can enlist Leo and Jackie to amuse her for a while.’

  ‘You hired me as a bridge officer, Mr Molloy, not as a lady’s companion.’

  ‘Correction, Mr Cavanagh!’ Molloy gave him a wide shark-toothed smile. ‘I hired you as a bridge officer on a pleasure cruise. That entails certain social responsibilities. This isn’t an ocean liner. It’s a small, private world – my world, Cavanagh – and it runs to my rules. Remember our first talk in Antibes?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You offered me your skill in languages.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Now I’m calling on it. So why the fuss?’

  ‘You took me by surprise: I was out of line. I apologise. I’ll do the best I can.’

  It was his first admission of defeat and it lay bitter on his tongue. Molloy laughed and clapped a comradely hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You never know what you can do until you try. It’s my risk, not yours. Besides, you’re not the only one doubling in brass. Miss Pritchard has to help entertain the males of the party, at least until Galeazzi leaves us. He’s the laconic type, hard going at the best of times, but Pritchard will handle him. She’s good value.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. We haven’t had too much time to get acquainted.’

  ‘It would be a kindness if you’d spend a little time on her. She’s the only woman in the crew. She’s got all the guest cabins and two ladies to look after. I’m sure she’d appreciate a little tactful attention. A word now and then, that’s all that’s needed.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good man!’

  Abruptly as he had come, he left. Cavanagh cursed him in a silent tirade:

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are? What the hell do you think I am? The cruise has hardly begun and already you’ve set me up with a whole dance-card. I’m navigator, interpreter, surrogate lover to your surrogate lover and fan-carrier to an elderly Italian lady with a melancholy disposition! God damn your Irish eyes Molloy! God damn you!’

  It was Lenore Pritchard who described the first cocktail hour as ‘a sticky mess, like over-cooked rice’. The Countess Sciarra-Tebaldi anchored herself in a deck-chair and forced the rest of the party to coagulate around her. The talk limped along until Molloy ordered background music and Miss Pritchard mounted a frontal assault on the uneasy little group. It was she who instructed Cavanagh on the tactics.

  ‘You take the Countess. Get her out of that damned chair. Walk her round the deck and show her the moonrise. The lovers can take care of themselves. I’ll draw off the males. I’m interested in Farnese anyway. He’s a handsome brute with a roving eye and a nice, crooked smile. Galeazzi’s closed up like an oyster at low tide; but I’ll try to prise him open. Christ! Three months of this and I’ll be overboard and swimming with the dolphins. Let’s move!’

  Together they converged on the group with smiles, champagne, canapés and coaxing. Within three minutes, Lenore Pritchard had Farnese and Galeazzi leaning on the taffrail on either side of her, while Cavanagh and the Countess perched themselves on the rope-locker on the foredeck and watched Leo and Jackie play out a chess game on the hatch-cover under the rising moon.

  After two glasses of champagne the Countess was a changed woman. Her liver trouble seemed to have subsided; her migraine was in remission; her down-drawn mouth twitched upward into a smile and her talk became more voluble and less discreet.

  ‘. . . Your Mr Molloy thinks I’m just a crotchety old woman who talks fashion and fiddle-faddle . . . I do that just to annoy him because he annoys me so much I could scream! . . . He is so certain of everything – including himself. America is the saviour of the world. The dollar is a passport to heaven . . . I think this is the thing that angers me most of all. He has no curiosity about anything that does not touch his own affairs . . . That’s why my brother and Papa Pacelli and that terrible little American Cardinal Spellman have been able to put a ring through his nose and lead him round like a stud bull. He trots wherever they tell him – which is always to the bank for more investment to create employment, to keep the Communists from taking over the country . . . Stalin is the big black bogeyman. Communism is the reign of the Antichrist! What everyone’s conveniently forgotten is that it was Churchill and Roosevelt who handed him half of Europe on a platter . . . My brother would kill me if he heard me talking like this; but I find you very sympathetic. You don’t tell tales out of school do you?’

  ‘No, Contessa, I don’t tell tales. But you must do something for me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Smile a little! Enjoy the cruise. This is a beautiful vessel and you are a beautiful woman – especially when you smile.’

  ‘It’s hard to smile when I think of my lovely Giulia marrying that . . . that crude upstart.’

  In spite of his anger against the man, Cavanagh was moved to defend him.

  ‘I don’t know Mr Molloy very well. I’ve only been working for him for a few days, but I think you do him less than justice. It’s one thing to inherit a great name and a long history and a clear place in an old society; but to carve out a career in the new world of industry and commerce, that requires a special kind of talent – courage too, and toughness. Your own family had it in the old days. They were upstarts too. They were soldiers, adventurers, traders, rough fellows with strong women as well . . . Besides, with great respect, Contessa, your Giulia is a free agent. Surely she can marry whomever she chooses.’

  ‘Naturally, you would think that. You’re a very young man. You live far away at the end of the world and your history is very short. My country is old. It’s been overrun many times by many invaders. Now, once again, it has been reduced to ruin; but it still survives, and the secret of that survival is the family. The family isn’t just a bloodline. It’s a whole complicated network of relationships, of debts, favours, duties, insurances against future disaster . . . Giulia is as closely bound as anyone, more so perhaps because of the attachment to her father . . . I have said enough. This is a painful subject for me . . . I like you, Mr Cavanagh.’ She held out her hands so he could steady her as she stepped on to the deck. ‘I like young people. They’re so full of hope and bright illusions. Will you walk me back please? I’m feeling much happier now!’

  As the guests filed in to dinner, Cavanagh helped Miss Pritchard to reset the afterdeck and clear away the glasses and ash-trays. It was a function of the small closed economy of shipboard that no task should be deferred, no mess should be allowed to accumulate.

  Pritchard asked: ‘How did you make out with the old girl?’

  ‘I liked her. She relaxed and seemed to enjoy talking. She’s much shrewder than she looks.’

  ‘Like all of us,’ said Pritchard with dry malice, ‘she needs a little attention.’

  ‘You seemed to be commanding quite a bit of it yourself – and I mean that as a compliment.’

  �
�Thanks. Farnese was easy. He’s a very accomplished womaniser. All the words, all the moves! With Galeazzi it was like talking to an abacus. I know he works at the Vatican. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask whether he had to be celibate too. Luckily Molloy came along and rescued me . . . Can I ask you to take the glasses to the galley?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ve got to go below, straighten the cabins and bathrooms and turn down the beds. After that we could have supper on the foredeck.’

  ‘Not tonight I’m afraid. I have the midnight watch. I need some sleep.’

  ‘You still have to eat.’

  ‘There’ll be sandwiches and a thermos of coffee for me on the bridge. You can join me there if you feel like it.’

  ‘After midnight? You must be joking. By then I’ll either be sleeping or screwing Molloy. He won’t know and I won’t know until he’s put the gentry to bed. That’s the only problem when you go on the game this way – you’re a disposable item!’

  To which Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh had no adequate response; but it gave him something to muse about as he climbed into his bunk, set the muted alarm on his wristwatch and slid gratefully into sleep.

  At five minutes before midnight he woke, sluiced his face, ran a comb through his hair and climbed into the thermal jumpsuit which he had bought in Singapore, and which was both light and warm enough to be comfortable in the chill of the small morning hours.

  To reach the companionway which led to the deck level and thence to the bridge he had to pass Lenore Pritchard’s cabin. Above the steady throb of the engines, he heard voices and then a burst of woman’s laughter, quickly stifled. He paused for a fraction of a second then climbed up to the deck to breathe in the sharp night air and take a quick turn around the deck before going up to the bridge.

  It was an old habit. On a small ship the new officer of the watch made sure that all was secure topside before he took over the bridge. On the deck there was another combination of sounds; footsteps in brisk rhythm, a low voluble exchange of talk in Italian. Galeazzi and Farnese were making a circuit of the deck together. As Cavanagh approached, Farnese greeted him.

  ‘Good evening Mr Cavanagh. I hope we have not disturbed you?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. I’m just taking over the watch from Mr Hadjidakis.’

  ‘What time do we arrive in Calvi?’

  ‘If you’ll give me five minutes, sir, I’ll be able to tell you exactly and show you on the chart where we are. Why don’t you come up to the bridge when you’ve finished your stroll?’

  ‘Thank you. We’ll do that. A presto: see you shortly Mr Cavanagh.’

  Cavanagh turned about and hurried up to the bridge. Hadjidakis was just making the last entries in the log. Cavanagh interrupted him.

  ‘I think we’ve got a problem Georgy-boy.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Farnese and Galeazzi are taking a stroll on deck. Molloy, I think, is screwing Miss Pritchard in her cabin. A meeting might be embarrassing.’

  ‘You’re damn right it would! What makes you so sure it’s Molloy?’

  ‘The Chef and the boys are asleep. You and I are here. Who else is there? I’ve invited Farnese and Galeazzi up to the bridge when they’ve finished their stroll. As soon as I’ve got rid of them I’ll buzz down to Lenore’s cabin; but you’d better warn Molloy when you go below.’

  ‘I will.’ Hadjidakis was weary and irritable. ‘Christ! This was a crazy idea from the start; but it’s the way Molloy has always played the woman-game.’

  ‘A pretty risky game!’

  ‘To him? Not at all. His motto is that if he’s rich enough to pay, he’s rich enough to play.’

  ‘He’s engaged to a beautiful young woman for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘His answer is that she’s not available to him yet; so why should he sleep alone?’

  ‘And if she or her family finds out?’

  ‘They’ll be like the three wise monkeys: no hear, no see, no say. There’s too much money at stake. Molloy knows that. Therefore he resents the way they try to patronise him, especially the Countess and Galeazzi. So he cocks a snoot at them, gives them his own whore as a chambermaid!’

  ‘A pity she’s a whore.’ Cavanagh quoted the old tag. ‘I like her.’

  ‘So do I.’ Hadjidakis was equally frank. ‘She makes no secret about what she does; she’s amusing and gives value for money. Molloy likes her and trusts her; which is good for us all. When he’s out of humour, he’s dangerous. Farnese doesn’t know it yet, but he’s riding a tiger.’

  ‘And you’d better get below and tweak the tiger’s tail!’

  ‘This is nothing,’ Hadjidakis shrugged. ‘We’ve both played wilder games than this one, in much more dangerous places.’ He switched on the small spotlight to illuminate the chart-table: ‘Our heading is a hundred and twenty-five. We’re forty-five miles off the Calvi light, which has a ten-mile visibility and occults to green every six seconds. You should pick up the loom about sixteen miles out. I’ve slowed us down to eight knots so we can drop anchor by six. We’ll stand off in mid harbour, because the dock is reserved for mainland ferries and freighters . . . The best spot looks to be about two cables offshore, right in front of the Hôtel de Ville . . . All systems are functioning . . . I’m out of here.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’ Cavanagh offered a sober compliment. ‘It’s a pleasure to take over from a tidy watch-keeper, and that’s not bullshit, Mr Hadjidakis!’

  Hadjidakis gave him a swift, suspicious glance: then his drawn, sallow features relaxed into a rare smile.

  ‘You show a certain promise, yourself, Mr Cavanagh . . . She’s your ship . . . Goodnight!’

  When he had gone, Cavanagh switched off the chart-light so that the view outside became clearer and the only illumination on the bridge was the faint glow from the binnacle and the instrument panel. The radar was masked, but when he thrust his face into the mask he could see only the sweep of the vector across a blank screen; but somewhere in the next half hour the first outlines of the Corsican coast would show up on the outer rim. Outside, the sky was black velvet and the stars were like a runnel of diamonds.

  He toyed with the idea of taking a star-sight, just to refresh his mathematics; then he decided against it and addressed himself instead to the coffee and sandwiches. The Chef had scribbled a note on the napkin: Hai fatto una conquista. La contessa canta i tuoi lodi. Sei bello, cortese, colto . . . You’ve made a conquest. The Countess is singing your praises: you’re handsome, courteous, well educated . . . Molloy, of course, takes the credit. He recognised all your good qualities at first glance.’

  Cavanagh chuckled over the message, then crumpled the napkin and wiped his lips with it when he heard Farnese and Galeazzi mounting the steps to the bridge.

  He offered them a light-hearted greeting and what he was pleased to call ‘the five-dollar tour of the nerve centre of the vessel’. Farnese entered immediately into the spirit of the moment. He moved around the chart-table and the console, examining each item with a practised eye. Galeazzi pursued a line of private inquiry.

  ‘You interest me, Mr Cavanagh. I understand you have seen war service and that you now have a degree in law.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, yes sir.’

  ‘And what sort of career do you plan for yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m here, doing something I know, while I cope with all the things I don’t know. The whole world’s in a mess; but sooner or later the mess has to be sorted out. Diplomatic relations have to be normalised, trade patterns established and enforced. I’d like to be part of that process. How, I don’t know yet . . .’

  ‘Good!’ Galeazzi was suddenly alive and interested. ‘I like that! Did you hear, Alessandro? Here is a young fellow who doesn’t know! Splendid! May I offer you some advice my young friend?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So long as you can work and eat you should keep travelling and learning. Come to Rome and I will find you a scholarship of som
e sort to study Canon Law for a year. Go to France, master the Code Napoléon. Go to Russia too, see how closely the Soviets have copied the Codex Justinianus . . .’

  ‘It’s late, Enrico,’ Farnese interrupted. ‘You lay too much all at once on our young friend.’

  ‘Please! I’m grateful, believe me. I’m very much the innocent abroad.’

  ‘I believe you are,’ said Galeazzi. ‘Therefore I seek to instruct you before you lose your innocence – as inevitably you will.’

  ‘I suggest,’ said Farnese with smiling malice, ‘he may have lost it some time ago. What say you, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘I’ll say anything you want, sir,’ said Cavanagh, amiably. ‘So long as you don’t require it to be the truth.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Galeazzi, calmly, ‘Mr Cavanagh is offended. I can’t say I blame him. He invited us to the bridge. He did not offer us his private confession.’

  ‘Then we should apologise. We do, most humbly, Mr Cavanagh.’

  ‘No apology is necessary, sir. I am employed to navigate you safely and, in between times, serve you in any way I can. For the rest, my private life is exactly that – a reserved matter. I’m sure that’s a familiar phrase to you both.’

  ‘Very familiar, Mr Cavanagh.’ Galeazzi gave him a sour smile of approval. ‘We thank you for your five-dollar tour. It was cheap at the price. Goodnight.’

  ‘Before we go.’ Farnese was suddenly a commanding presence in the narrow space. ‘This man you are taking us to meet tomorrow, what do you know about him?’

  The question caught Cavanagh off guard. ‘What man? What meeting?’

  ‘Mr Molloy told us . . .’

  Instantly Galeazzi cut him off.

  ‘Whatever he told us, Alessandro, he has not yet communicated it to Mr Cavanagh.’

  Cavanagh was in command of himself again. He gave them a smile and a shrugging gesture of deprecation.