Janus' Limbo
By Riccardo Maffey
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Smashwords Edition 2010
Copyright Riccardo Maffey 2009
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Cover by Joleene Naylor
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Prologue
Rome, Thursday, July 12, 1945
Gone, the last ten lire has gone. In half an hour he's thrown away all his pocket money. And it's so hot here. And dusty. He looks at his knees. Dirty. As dirty as his shoes are worn out. He's dirty and penniless. He'd better go home to have a wash.
The yobbos stand by the drinking fountain now. He tries to duck out of sight once more. They haven't come down to Piazzale Clodio from the shanties of Primavalle only for the funfair; they've come to provoke the local secondary school boys. He cannot fight all of them. Not even one by one. They'd never dream to fight clean and fair; they'd fight dirty, kicking and headbutting if they realized things are taking a turn for the worse. But they must be very stupid indeed if they've bargained on him going down to the fountain to drink.
He mops his brow. The two American soldiers have just finished their chairoplane ride with the two sluts. The sluts look sick and petrified; the soldiers laugh noisily. As they pass him, he follows them out. It doesn't matter that the sweat pouring off him has made him thirsty. He shouldn't drink anyway: could catch pneumonia if he did while perspiring freely. Yesterday Ma ordered twelve bottles of orange juice. He could have one at home after wiping himself dry.
He walks slowly down Viale Mazzini, tailing after the Americans and the sluts. One of the two soldiers turns round and throws him a tube of Charms, shouting, There you go; now just fuck off. Who have they taken him for? It's never occurred to him they could mistake him for a street urchin from Trastevere or the Quarticciolo begging for food and cigarettes to sell to the smugglers. He doesn't pick up the Charms, but enters the strip with benches, flowerbeds, and cypresses that divide the two lanes of the road, marching across the gravel path in the middle of the strip towards Piazza Mazzini... and now he hears it:
Regazzi e regazzine, non pisciate su li lampioni ma bensí suli cojoni de le guardie de città...
Oh God, what can he do? It's them, the bloody yobbos singing the gang's favourite refrain. So they've found him. In no time they'll surround him, call him signorino; some of them will slap him across the face while another grabs him from behind with a low bear hug, making it difficult for him to escape. He doesn't stand a chance of hitting back; he must flee from them now. But if he does, and they catch him, they'll beat his brains out. No, they aren't likely to catch him: he's a swift runner, isn't he? Buck up, for heaven's sake: it's do or die.
He sprints outside the strip, and runs as fast as he can on the pavement of the left lane towards the junction with Viale Angelico. As he reaches it, he stops abruptly, steps inside the big café on the corner, and makes steadily for the lavatory at the back of the tea room, forcing a smile and striving to look calm and dignified.
The window is open. God... it's also quite narrow and high up above the filthy pan. He climbs onto the edge, puts his right foot over the cistern and both hands over the window sill, and pulls himself up. Good, it looks onto Viale Angelico; the yobbos must be waiting for him by the Viale Mazzini entrance. He jumps quickly outside.
* * * *
It should be safer to get home this way. He can only guess, though, what his mates will say if they know he backed off from a fight. There is always an excuse for their failures, but they enjoy finding him at fault. If he scores a goal, he does it by sheer luck; if they mishit their shots, it may well be because of his inaccurate passes. It's their revenge: none of their fathers have ever seen any action as fighting soldiers, and so they cannot swallow the thought that he is the child of a naval commander decorated for bravery several times. But what's the good of musing over his flight and his mates' attitude towards him? Ma told him again and again: They're envious of Pa's war records.
True, but Ma is Irish; she doesn't understand the Italian mind. In Rome only sissies fail to respond to provocations, and quite soon the yobbos will spread the news that a local boy they met at the funfair hared off from them as soon as he scented a challenge. His mates know he planned to go there. They'll take the piss out of him for not taking on the gang leader in a street fight. They know nothing of sea warfare. It's never crossed their minds that the captain of a torpedo boat doesn't attack a squadron, that a captain of a submarine will do his best to shake off his pursuers if he fears that they're likely to sink his ship.
The sun is beating down brutally today, and as he turns to the right and passes by the empty stalls of the street market of Via Monte Santo, the stink of the rotten fruit left on the ground this morning goes to his head. Never mind. In a couple of minutes he'll be home. Luckily, he's made it: he's getting to the corner of Via Sabotino and Via Paulucci di Calboli and the newsagent already is smiling at him.
"Where have you been?"
"Walking around."
"But are you all right?"
"Oh yes, I'm fine, thanks."
"Sure?"
"Sure."
"I've got Il Vittorioso for you."
"I'll have it on Sunday."
"Come on, have it now."
"I've just spent all my pocket money."
"Don't worry. Have it on me."
"Thank you very much, Sor Egidio. But I'll pay you on Sunday all the same." He sees the puppies. "Where is their mother?"
"Don't know. She was here ten minutes ago. By the way, Ferdinando the ironmonger will take two puppies and Aurelio the coalman one." The newsagent pointed to one of the puppies. "Would you like that one? It's a girl."
"I would, but we have a tomcat: he's a bruiser."
"It's all right, don't worry, Cristiano: I'll find a home for her."
"Well, once again, thank you very much, Sor Egidio." He takes the comic, and strides off towards his home.
He's just gone in through the entrance of the block when a dog's bark makes him pause. Beside the pharmacy opposite, Sor Egidio's small bitch struggles to free herself from the grip of a lad whose name he can't remember.
* * * *
Ma opens the door. At last. But what has happened to her? She doesn't let him in. She's still in her dressing gown, her hair uncombed, her pupils dilated, a black smear of eyeliner below her lashes. She hands him five hundred lire.
"There you are. Please, come back later."
"Can't I have a quick wash?"
"Come back later. You'll have your bath before supper."
He descends the stairs. At the desk sits the concierge's eighteen-year-old daughter. He cannot stand her. A nasty, ugly girl who used to tease him. He doesn't look at her. She says have a nice walk, and bursts into laughter.
It's coming up to a quarter past five. He goes to Tiberti's and buys a chocolate ice cream cornet, but unexpectedly realizes he doesn't feel like anything just now. So he dumps it over the tram rail as he crosses Via Oslavia, wondering how he can kill time. What about going to the fields behind Via Timavo? His mates may be there, mayn't they? Perhaps they're playing five a side, or shooting penalties if they haven't found another team on the spot. But he doesn't fancy joining them. Well, why not hire a bike for one hour and ride up to Villa Madama? No, he doesn't fancy that either.
Why? What's wrong with him? But what's wrong with Ma. Does she cheat on Daddy? And if so, who with? The doctor, surely, the only man who comes to see her. How the hell is it possible, though. Ma liking the doctor better than Pa? Pa, a very good looking man; the doctor, an ugly fat-faced beefy chap. No, the doctor couldn't compete with Pa, doesn't stand comparison with him. The doctor, a man who never smiles, who talks very little. Unbelievable. Ma also described him as boring and uninteresting.
Ma loves Pa. She calls him a hero, and also looks forward to his coming back, Speaks always about when the war is over and she and Pa are reunited for good. But then why did the porter's daughter laugh? She must know something, mustn't she? Who was Ma with, and why did she send him away? Why did she look so upset?
* * * *
He's ended up at the damn fields all the same. Can see his mates about fifty yards away. Toto, Mario, and Nanni. And a fourth who is squatting down beside a pole. It's the lad who held the newsagent's bitch. Now he remembers who he is: Angelo, a friend of Nanni's, but older. Must be fifteen, and loos as big and strong as Mario.
He heads towards them. O God, the bitch... Angelo has brought the newsagent's bitch over here; they've tied her to the pole with a long but narrow red scarf. Oh God, oh my God... the bitch is yelping.
"What're you doing to her?" he says.
"Hello, Cristiano," says Nanni. "Have you been to the fair?"
"What're you doing?"
"Did you enjoy yourself? Did you have a chairoplane ride?" says Toto.
"What're you saying," says Mario. "He doesn't take chairoplane rides. Too much afraid of kicking and being kicked... Aren't you, Cristiano?"
"What're you doing to the dog?"
"Don't ask silly questions. Can't you see it?"
"No, I can't. She's Sor Egidio's bitch, isn't she? What're you doing to her?"
"Killing her. She's a communist. Don't you see the red flag?"
"You must be joking. She's Sor Egidio's bitch."
"Of course Mario is joking," says Toto.
"No, Mario isn't joking," says Nanni.
"I ain't bloody joking," says Mario.
"She is the newsagent's bitch," says Cristiano. "He'll kill you."
"We don't give a fuck about the fucking newsagent," says Angelo.
"Why d'you want to kill her?"
Angelo gives a laugh. "Why d'you want to kill her!"
"Answer my question."
"For the fun of it, because she is ugly, because she's useless like all communists."
"She's not ugly. She's not useless... has got puppies. She's a very nice dog."
"They're joking," says Toto.
"Don't say it," says Mario. "Cristiano may believe you."
"They're not joking: they'll kill her," says Nanni.
"Unless you want to kill her yourself," says Angelo.
"Ah, he'd never kill her. He's a chicken... afraid of his own shadow," says Mario.
"I'm not afraid of you." says Cristiano. "That's sure."
"Ah, shut up."
"I'm not afraid of you and I'm going to untie her."
"Be careful: she may bite you," says Angelo.
Cristiano moved towards the bitch, but Mario barred the way. "Why don't you kill her yourself?"
"I don't kill dogs."
"Are you afraid?"
"No, but I don't kill dogs."
Mario handed him a big stone. "I bet you're afraid to throw it at her."
"I'd rather throw this stone at you."
The bitch was still yelping.
Angelo says, "Let's see whether he's able to throw it at us."
Mario turned to his left and joined Angelo, taking him by the arm. "Come on, the choice is yours: throw the stone at one of us or at the dog, if you aren't afraid."
"Stop it," says Toto.
"Shut up," says Nanni.
"You shut up."
"Make up your mind, Cristiano... Chicken, son of a bitch," says Angelo.
Mario says, "Cristiano won't aim at us, since he's a chicken, and won't aim at the bitch, since as well as a chicken and a sissy he's a little son of a bitch."
"Chicken, chicken, sissy, little son of a bitch," says Nanni.
"Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch..." says Angelo.
"Don' listen to them," says Toto.
"Chicken, sissy... son of a bitch, son of a bitch..." says Mario.
Ma... Ma... Who's Ma with now? What do they know about Ma? The concierge's daughter. Angelo and the bitch beside the pharmacy... The newsagent, the puppies... Chicken, chicken... Sissy, sissy... Son of a bitch. They are bigger and stronger; Angelo is older as well as much bigger and stronger... Son of a bitch. Sissy... He's too weak to fight: his hands and legs tremble... Sissy, chicken... Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch... They're laughing at him... Who's Ma with now?
The bitch barks. He turns towards her, throws the stone. She doesn't bark any more, she does not yelp. Blood covers her head and muzzle... Oh God, he didn't mean it: he didn't aim at her...
Angelo unties her. She falls heavily to the ground. Her legs stiffens.
She's dying; she's dead... God, he didn't mean it...
Bravo, you killed her yourself... You weren't joking; we were. Now the newsagent is going to kill you, sissy... You weren't joking; we were... Bravo, sissy... Bravo... Sissy, sissy, sissy, sissy...
He jumps Angelo, landing a straight right to his chin. Angelo reels backwards; and he also gives him a toe-kick in the joint just below the knee, making him lose his balance and fall down.
Nanni shouts, "Coward."
He looks sideways at him, but in a flash somebody grabs him from behind. It's Mario, he senses; he recognizes him by the hands. He snaps his head backwards, and with the back of his head hits him somewhere on the face.
One
Lucca, Assumption Day 1959
He held the lighted match to her cigarette. Good thing the Crawfords had her as a house guest: she fitted in so nicely with the decor, she was every inch an amalgam of Renaissance and First French Empire herself. A make-up artist, or one of the twelve Olympians for that matter, couldn't do any better. If François-Joseph Kinson had had her at his disposal, he wouldn't have needed the original for his painting. The same face, she and Pauline Bonaparte: Napoleon's face that, out of the blue, a wand had turned into a classical, beautiful woman's face. They said Pauline didn't pose in the nude, that Canova used an unknown model for her statue: well, had Germaine been born one hundred and seventy years earlier, she'd have been that stunning model.
"Thank you," said Germaine.
"You look incredibly like Pauline Bonaparte."
She chortled with delight. "How could you tell?"
"Cristiano can," said Mrs Crawford, "Cristiano..."
He looked her in the eye, gave a shake of his head. Hopefully she, and her husband, would say nothing about his film adaptation of Pauline Bonaparte's biography.
"Well," said Major Crawford, "I think Germaine is taller."
"But Cristiano only meant their faces look very much alike," said Mrs Crawford.
"Did he?" Bepo puffed away on his pipe. "We never know what our Cristiano means, do we?"
Our Cristiano. As though they were pals. He remained silent. What a funny lot had been assembled here. Bepo Malavolta, the radical, republican polemicist, dabbling author of a book on the Risorgimento, and his mistress, Claudia, a prosperous boutique owner with permed bleached hair and false eyelashes. And Filippo Paleologo, a son of Bepo's sister and a Sicilian politician notorious for his Mafia connections, who would escort starlets to all fashionable night clubs on the coast of the Versilia. With Germaine Kenneth, a Shakespearian English actress reminiscent of Antonio Canova's Venus Victrix; and with Sarah, John Crawford's daughter from his first marriage, an angry left-wing girl who had been spending her summer in Lucca visiting its monuments only to dub them 'the Roman Catholic weapons against cultural democracy'. All of them in Pauline Bonaparte's Renaissance villa furnished in Empire style; the villa that Mrs Crawford, an Italo-American millionaire of Lucchese peasant origin, had bought to please her husband. All of them struggling to break off now and then into a quick digression from John Crawford's war stories: the stories of a British secret service officer who, during the Italian campaign, would strive to talk the Allied high command into making a deal with the X Mas in order to fight the communists in Carnia.
"Don't you have anything to say, Cristiano?" said Bepo.
"About what?"
"Come on, if Germaine undressed herself, no doubt she'd look superb. We all can see she's got a perfect body. Right: so far so good. But since as far as I know none of us has seen her naked we cannot say, for example, whether her breasts are really shaped like Pauline's."
"I certainly can."
"I don't believe it," said the major.
"Nor do I," said Claudia.
Germaine seemed happy and amused. Cristiano looked her up and down and she smiled at him. How nice it would be to kiss her delicately. A gentle, friendly kiss on her cherry lips. They matched the varnish on her nails. The same shade as the finish of the three nested tables on her right. He hadn't been wrong: everything about her was in keeping with the decor, even with these small pieces of high quality that must have been made for Pauline in Lucca by local craftsmen under the guidance of French ébanistés.
Filippo grinned. "Goodness knows, I wouldn't be surprised if he could. Cristiano can tell many things I unfortunately can't."
"By the way," said Cristiano, "I can also say that Germaine has vivid rosy ears and Pauline did not."
"Ah, you've examined Pauline Bonaparte's ears too?"
"Suvvia, Cristiano, tell us when," said Bepo.
"Nobody had examined Pauline's ears since a famous ball in Paris. She'd had her hair combed like a Bacchante in a painting she'd seen in the Louvre and all the men found her gorgeous. But a French aristocrat, a tall nasty woman with a long nose, said: What a shame, such a good looking woman with such ugly ears; if she had any sense, she'd cut them off. Apparently, Pauline's ears were just flat and deadly pale; but it was too much for her to bear, and so she decided she'd cover them with her hair for ever."
"Typical tale of a parasitic society," said Sarah.
Sad to say Sarah couldn't help being loathsome. Sad to say sometimes he couldn't help being banal in drawing room conversations. A brillant causeur knew better than quote the words, roughly paraphrasing them, of Lyndon Orr's The Story of Pauline Bonaparte in Famous Affinities of History.
Germaine was saying: "She must have been unreasonably concerned about other people's opinions."
"Pauline was unreasonable. She was very emotional and..."
"Typical of parasitic women."
"Sarah..." said the major.
"Which one are you in love with, Pauline or Germaine, Cristiano?" said Claudia.
"Germaine, of course. Everybody has fallen in love with Germaine."
Bepo said. "All right, Cristiano, you fell in love with Pauline and now you've fallen in love with Germaine... even though, surely, you haven't seen her naked breasts?"
"As a matter of fact I have."
"Jove... have you?"
"Good heavens," said Germaine. "Where?"
"Off the coast. They were as beautiful and sexually attractive as Pauline's..."
* * * *
He stands in Catello Caravani's speedboat. They are just off the coast; can see the beach of the Onda Marina, the bathing establishment crowded with the beautiful people who had made the history of Forte dei Marmi. Last year, most of them used to spend their nights at the nearby fashionable Bussola in Marina di Pietrasanta, where he would dance with the comely girls of the Rome jeunesse dorée as an eighteen-old girl from Cremona, the new darling of Italian pop music, sang Un'anima tra le mani with her rich, modulated voice.
There isn't a breath of wind: the sailing boat drifts along quietly and slowly. On its deck a woman lies on her belly. To him, her skin under the midday violent sun looks as faultless as a statue under the powerful spotlight of a museum. With a sudden, agile movement she turns aside and says something to the man at the helm. She is topless. They exchange a few words. Then, resting on her elbow, she raises the upper part of her body and with her free hand throws a towel over her belly. She is now silent and motionless. It looks as though she holds the golden apple the handsome Paris has just given her. Her naked breasts and draped legs are evocative of Canova's masterpiece.
Look, Cristiano, d'you guess who she is?
Actually I know who she is. Venus de Milo, or rather, Pauline Borghese Bonaparte rising from the dead.
You cannot but think about your script, can you? You're besotted with Pauline.
She is my character.
So you don't know who that girl is.
I don't know the name she's taken on once she stepped into this naughty world again, if this is what you mean.
Germaine Kenneth, the English actress.
Oh Signore. What a realistic Pauline she'd make on the screen. She isn't a modern beauty at all: her body is a paragon of the ancient aesthetic tenets. Must have Greek or Roman ancestors.
I'm sorry for you, but I wouldn't be surprised if she was of Saxon descent.
I think I'm going to meet her at the Crawfords on Assumption Day. They told me the actress Germaine Kenneth is staying with them.
Lucky man.
So d'you like her?
Very much so.
Listen, Catello, would you care to come with me to the Crawfords? They'll be pleased to have you.
But I can't. Must go to the lunch in honour of the Duke of Aosta's daughters. And you, Cristiano... you sure like her tremendously, don't you?
In a sense. That is, not the way I suppose everybody else does. Let's say I like her romantically. Incidentally, who's the man with her?
Haven't the faintest idea who he is. Looks like a vulgarian, doesn't he?
* * * *
Were it up to him, he'd offer her the part straightaway, but it wasn't up to him. He'd never had, and perhaps would never have, the ability to act out of character, to impose himself on the environment. Germaine would accept: he felt it. However, the decision was the director's, and the producer's, and certainly their pick for the job would be the ordinary cutie whose good looks weren't out of kilter with the coarse taste of the cinema-going public. Dino Sallustio was a talented director, but would back the production when it came to sacrificing an obscure writer's ambition to the box office. There was nothing he could do: the screenwriter had no say. Yet Germaine, with her blend of neoclassical beauty and captivating sexuality, would be the ideal choice.
He reminded himself of the motto... Ma hardiesse vient de mon ardeur, the words Pauline, at the time forty-three years old, had carved on the stone of the ring she gave Pacini. She was overwhelmed by her passion for that captivating but restless musician sixteen years her junior. So, the scenes of their love called for an impressive, exciting actress capable of convincingly and emotionally impersonating a woman of unique charm on her 'Sunset Boulevard'. Pauline had married twice, also had many affairs, but in her younger years she'd been used to being loved. Now, in 1823–1824 she should be prepared to be the one who loved, the one who was giving rather than receiving. Pacini would soon drop her, would marry another woman, and a year later Pauline would die of cancer in Florence. Thus the actress should play two Paulines: the aging, faithful Pauline, who must adapt herself to the sensitive, grumpy, neurotic nature of her artistic lover; and the younger, self-conscious Pauline, who was adored in spite of her astonishing fickleness and congenital infidelity.
Germaine had done more than that. She played, very successfully indeed judging from the reviews, both the ravishing Ann and the ungainly Sybil in Terence Rattigan's two one-act plays Separate Tables. It would be quite easy for her to switch from the selfish to the selfless Pauline up at the villa, where the scenes of her hopeless love for Pacini were going to be filmed if the major didn't cry off and the director didn't have to find another location. How nice to imagine her, alluringly mature, in a white gown with short puffed sleeves, a square neck and, just below her breasts, a scarf tied in such a way that its ends fluttered provocatively as she, resonant with the marmoreal pulchritude of a Roman statue, walked in the salon decorated with heads of Greek gods, ram's heads, cornucopias, eagles, and laurel wreaths.
Why hadn't he been bold enough to tell her today that he'd like to see her again? Did he fear Bepo's jokes about him falling in love with her? Maybe he did; especially because he had not fallen for Germaine, nor would he ever. Bepo, when not sour or outright malevolent, enjoyed taking the mickey out of him and today failed to understand that his appreciation of her did not stem from physical attraction. It was strictly platonic, almost historical, like his interest in Pauline Bonaparte. He found their beauty intellectually challenging. A type of beauty that, in spite of its innate sexuality, he'd never have a craving for. À beauty too celestial to lend itself to sensual thoughts, a beauty that satisfied his lust for glamour and tradition but not his lust for sex.
How sad to ruminate over these things in an anonymous second-class hotel room. It was like the one where he'd dumped Aileen in Pisa. His friends liked to think he left her alone in the hotel without saying he wouldn't come back and without paying the bill, to punish her for her infidelity. They also liked to think he'd married her for the thrill her anarchic sexuality gave him. Yet he hadn't married her because of her 'anarchic sexuality'; neither did he dump her because she'd been unfaithful to him, nor did he leave the bill unpaid. She was frigid, but he didn't mean to punish her for that. He'd simply had too much of her twisted personality, her delusional jealousy, and he'd married her only because of her gaze.
Unique, Aileen's gaze was unique. As balmy as the gaze of the Mediterranean sun, and all the more touching when it met his eyes since it came from a Highlander. He'd been flattered by it. Thought she gazed at him like that because she was enchanted by his personality; thought she savoured each moment with him, even when he merged in a group of complimentary friends, relishing both what he said and how he said it, and also his quips and banters, and his quotations and literary anecdotes.
But he'd been ruinously wrong. She hated him as a social being. She hated the sight of him talking to anybody of either sex other than herself. She could only be happy when they were shut in a room talking to each other or sunbathing on a solitary beach. In her mind he wasn't her husband but an object of possession. Any woman he knew or met accidentally aimed at replacing her as the legitimate owner of this object; any of his male friends or acquaintances aimed at introducing him to women eager to shag him in order to take possession of him, a feeble man prone to yield to their seductive arts. And he could only imagine the scene she'd have made, accusing Germaine, Claudia, Sarah, and even Mary Crawford of leching after him, if today she'd been with him at the villa.
He checked the time: midnight. Rather early to go to bed; but he must try to catch some sleep all the same. Not too easy, was it? Too many 'ifs'. If he managed to see Germaine again, if she were prepared to do the part, if the director agreed to give it her even though she should be dubbed by a good Italian theatre actress, if they produce the film, if the film was shown on the cinemas, if it was well received, then and only then he could call himself a screenwriter, couldn't he? Yes, but it wasn't so bad even now: good job the script had been accepted; after all, he'd submitted it on spec. Cheer up, Cristiano: the past was gone...
Two
Forte dei Marmi, Tuesday, August 18, 1959
Giada Rovi-Sanlupi closed it in such a way that everybody could see the title on its cover. How come she read Lolita while sunbathing on the beach of the Onda Marina? He liked it.
"Fascinating."
"Me or the novel?" she said.
"What a question. You. The novel, to be blunt, is rubbish."
She gaped at him as an art collector might gape at an antique to assess its alleged rarity. "Oh dear."
Thank God she hadn't shouted: You're a fake. "I imagine you don't dislike it, do you?"
"Catello didn't portray you as one of those bigots."
Bigots... she went as far as to call them bigots. Amazing: a girl born into the black nobility calling the Catholic critics of a book on the Index bigots after flaunting it under the eyes of quite a few jealous little twits ready to bitch about her.
"Of course he didn't."
"But have you read it? It's not pornography."
"I know, Giada. But it isn't that, be sure. I'm an advocate of the permissive society."
"It's a masterpiece."
"Poorly translated, at best."
She opened the book. "Nabokov's written it in English."
"But he thought in Russian. The book sounds like a poor translation from a Russian imbued with French reminiscences."
"I don't think so... I'm getting a stiff neck looking at you from here." She got up from the sun bed and sat in the deckchair opposite his, crossing her legs and patting her thighs. "Tell me why you called it poor?"
"Good Lord, because its forms of expression don't seem English to me. I like the English language too much to appreciate Vladimir Nabokov's flowery diction."
"You don't like the way he engages in word play, do you?"
"It's not that. Shakespeare was committed to word play to such an extent and yet I adore him. But Shakespeare's is great English... the language as it developed from the way people spoke, while Nabokov's English is bookish."
"I don't agree with you. He's a fantastic wordsmith."
"He is. Even so, his language reminds me of the Italian created by those appalling pedants of the Accademia della Crusca. But that's my impression... and I may be wrong."
"Catello told me you're a writer yourself. Isn't it that writers are 'structurally' unable to be fair on other writers?"
"Maybe, but this is not all. I mean, I stick to facts. My genre is historical fiction: true characters in fictionalized scenes for the screen. Aside from that horrifying infatuation with the young girl, the train of events in Nabokov's story is largely unrealistic and..."
"But it's a tragicomedy."
"All right, let's say I don't like tragicomedies then."
She kept silent, as if she'd fallen into a thoughtful mood. Did he talk nonsense? She knew more about literary criticism than he'd expected: was she now planning to deal him the coup de grâce? What a shame, he shouldn't have discussed Nabokov's style: should have told her he admired her cropped coppery hair that made her sparkling green eyes stand out. She was pretty; her legs, so long in spite of the implausible checked swim dress that did its best to make them look shorter, were more desirable than those of a stripteaser.
She tilted her head back, eyeing him reflectively and smiling at him. "You're married, aren't you?"
He'd been wrongfooted again. "Who told you?"
"Is it a secret?"
"Not at all."
"It was Catello."
"I was married. We split up more than a year ago."
"Catello told me that too. None of my friends is a mal marié. You're an exception."
"So we're friends even if I don't like Nabokov?"
"Sure. None of my friends likes Nabokov. At least you've read him, they haven't." She gave him a coquettish wink.
"Does that make me less bigoted than them?"
"Sure. Still you've got something in common with them."
"What?"
"You share their thoughts."
"Which thoughts?"
"Lascivious thoughts."
The right guess: she'd struck. He looked away from her thighs. "You're very hard on me."
"Why d'you care? To you I'm just the whim of a moment." She winked at him again.
"You're wrong. I like you, but not lasciviously. Not only lasciviously at any rate."
"What d'you like of me, beside my body, or my face?"
"Your offbeat stance along with your sense of humour."
"Oh... but I don't think I've got any sense of humour."
"Then you aren't a fair judge of yourself. You do have a sense of humour, and you're completely free from prejudice. I like that."
"Are you serious?"
"I am indeed. The idea I have of you, Giada, is of a girl who'd never conform."
"Which conformities would I never conform to?"
"Come on, you know which ones they are... the set of conformities your enviroment's unsuccessfully tried to impose on you."
"You aren't kidding, are you?"
"Of course not. I take it that you always argue against current cultural orthodoxy."
"Oh... you know, I begin to like you too."
"And what d'you like of me?"
"The fact that you've been married."
"Because it rules out a fling with me, doesn't it?"
"Didn't you say I'm free from prejudice?"
"Yes, that's why I wonder if you'd care to come to the Bussola with me tonight?"
"Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow."
"Afraid I won't be here. Tomorrow morning I must go back to Lucca. A business engagement I can't cancel."
"A night business engagement with Pauline Bonaparte, I bet." She chuckled.
"It was Catello who told you about my script, wasn't it?"
"Catello also told me you've fallen in love with Pauline Bonaparte. I thought he was joking. Now that I know you, I know it was no joke."
"Appearances can be deceptive: I'm still at an impressionable age. If everybody keeps telling me I'm in love with Pauline Bonaparte, I'll end up believing it myself."
She moistened her lips. "Cristiano, I'll tell you what: you don't like me..."
"Don't I?"
"Pauline's second husband, Camillo Borghese, was my maternal great-uncle five if not six times removed. You see, you don't like me: no matter what you say or think, you like me lasciviously because of the image you have of me; the image of a modern girl somewhat related to her."
She fell silent, her expression stiffened. He was on the point of saying he knew nothing about her 'Corsican' connections, but a deep male voice was saying: Giada, it's half one. He faced round: before them stood a man in his early fifties wearing a blue and white striped bathrobe. His face resembled Giada's more than thirty years older. The same green sparkling eyes, the same sharp nose, the same thick lips, the same coppery hair.
"Papà," she said, "Cristiano Belisario, Catello's friend."
"Buongiorno, Marchese."
"Ah... salve. So you're the literary guy."
"I'm certainly a guy. I don't know if I'm also a literary one."
"Catello told us you're bringing Pauline Borghese Bonaparte to the screen."
"Actually, I've only done the script: its production is still a project."
"Aren't you going to do the shooting at Pauline's villa in Lucca?"
"That's the idea, but they've to do the casting yet. Anyway, things're going well."
"Good, good... but don't get an Italian actress. I can't think of any who'd fill the bill nicely... Look, aren't you hungry? Why don't you join us for lunch?"
"Unfortunately," Giada said, "Cristiano's just going to drive down to Lucca."
He hesitated. Fuck, he's going to Lucca tomorrow morning, not now. She'd wrongfooted him again. Must do it as a pastime. "Thank you very much, Marchese: I'd love it, but must be off now for a business meeting in Lucca."
She got up. Her father glanced at the book. He put his arm around her shoulders, but looked po-faced. Would he tell her off for defying his sham rules of propriety when they were alone? After all, he was the man who campaigned for Valentino Bombiani's expulsion from the Circolo della caccia for publishing Pier Paolo Pasolini's epigram against Pope Pacelli, wasn't he?
"I'll see you again, Belisario."
"Yes, Cristiano, do come and see us in Rome." Like her father, she hadn't held out her hand.
"I will, with pleasure." He bowed slightly, smiling. "Ciao, Giada; arrivederci, Marchese."
Her father drew her slowly towards their bathing hut. They were both tall and slender, and the burning sand didn't prevent them walking with long, relaxed steps. They were similar not only in presence, but also in their steady gait.
Three
Lucca, Wednesday, August 19, 1959
He realized he was being served on the wrong side and turned to his right.
"Would you like some pudding, sir?" said a servant.
As he was helping himself from the bowl, he heard Teresa Paleologo saying to Alberto Massarenghi: They don't even know they should serve everybody on their left. OK, the two servants weren't up to much: they didn't know how to serve at a dinner party in a private house. She must have hired them from a local hotel just for this occasion, and both of them also had the knack of describing and offering the food as they were used to doing at their hotel's restaurant. Signora Paleologo wasn't any wiser, however: a good hostess shouldn't draw her guests's attention to the poor quality of the service.
She eyed him with know-all intensity. "Why are you so taciturn, Cristiano? You haven't spoken a word." Her hooked nose now seemed even longer, and sharply contrasted with her tawdry make-up and heavy neck sporting a prosperous golden chain.
He said, "I've just been listening to Donna Vittoria's sweet voice and to the equally sweet one of your daughter."
"Cristiano is anything but taciturn, Mamma. I learned quite a lot about last century's Lucca from him," said Elena.
"I agree." Donna Vittoria Mercadante had a seraphic expression. "He's very charming."
Bepo giggled. "Vittoria always feels so exhilarated when she sits next to a young man."
"Young men have long ceased to chat me up, my dear. Cristiano talked about Harold Macmillan."
"Don't play down your sex appeal, Vittoria. Cristiano was barely a teenager when Macmillan was in Italy. What could he have told you about him?"
"Quite a few things." She grinned. "Also that the patrician Mr Macmillan's detachable shirt collars are made of cardboard."
"Of cardboard?" said Filippo Paleologo.
"Yes, of cardboard."
Claudia broke into laughter.
Alberto also laughed. "None of my two grandfathers would have dared to wear them. Would any of yours, Cristiano?"
"That I can't tell. I can only tell paper collars look better than plastic ones."
"Let's talk about the politician." Bepo cleared his throat. "D'you know, Cristiano, that in 1944 I interviewed Harold Macmillan at the Fifth Army Headquarters in Florence?"
That was all he needed... a discussion with them about Macmillan. Only Filippo's dropping Germaine's name among those of the guests at his mother's, and the hope that he could drive her back to the Crawfords, had persuaded him to accept tonight's invitation. Bepo's cattish spirit of contradiction got on his nerves, and the cantankerous indelicacy of his sister, who last week even had the impudence to refer to Pa dying bankrupt, was not just unpleasant but heavily insulting. They could not exchange opinions without turning the discussion into a heated argument: if there was now going to be one over such a controversial topic as British politics, Filiberto Bennati, who, as a columnist with L'espresso, must share Bepo's outlook on foreign affairs, would be on their side, and so would certainly Claudia, given her unbounded esteem for her idol's trivial remarks coupled with her abysmal but bumptious ignorance.
"I like Macmillan," said Germaine. "Do you, Cristiano?"
"Better than Eden."
Teresa Paleologo smirked. "I didn't think you were a conservative, Germaine."
"Nor did I," said Filippo.
Bepo shook the forefinger of his right hand towards Cristiano's face. "And of course he is one too."
"Why 'of course'?" said Filiberto Bennati.
"Because he's bewitched by Germaine."
"Oh... is he?" said Teresa Paleologo.
Germaine said, "I take it that Cristiano's political ideas don't flow from mine. Besides, I'm not a conservative."
"Neither am I, as a matter of fact. Anyway, Macmillan is a conservative, but he's also a bit of a Keynesian."
"Keynes was Labour." Bennati fiddled with his fork.
"Yes, he was." Alberto smiled from ear to ear. "And he wouldn't have dreamed of wearing paper collars."
"I'd call Macmillan a diehard capitalist," said Bepo.
"Me too." said Bennati. "Macmillan also had double-edged feelings about British imperialism. At the beginning he supported Eden over Suez, then he distanced himself from him."
"But at the same time seeking to equip Britain with an H-bomb."
Claudia teeheed. "A reactionary, in other words."
Teresa Paleologo winked at her. "What d'you say to that, Cristiano?" she said.
"Wouldn't call him a reactionary. It's true that he wants to make Britain a nuclear power, but as I said, he's a bit of a Keynesian. He's against monetarism: his economic policy aims at full employment. In a sense, Keynes's strategy and Harold Macmillan's policy aren't so far away from the ideology of such Italian lay centre-left parties as 'your' republicans."
Bepo sniggered at him. "Nonsense... nonsense. You're bound to defend him because you're a conservative."
"Right you are." Claudia glanced round as if looking for consent.
Donna Vittoria said, "Why doesn't Germaine tell us which Italian politicians Macmillan is like?"
"Yes," said Elena, "that would be extremely interesting."
"But I know nothing about Italian politicians. I only met your former King Umberto once," said Germaine.
"Did you?" said Donna Vittoria.
"Where?" said Claudia.
"In London. At a dinner party hosted by an American-born British writer and politician called Chips Channon."
"A well-known homosexual." Bennati wiped his mouth.
"Was he?" said Alberto.
Teresa Paleologo smiled broadly. "Like King Umberto."
"King Umberto struck me as a very engaging personality, of the kind of gentleness some royals have to the highest degree," said Germaine. "I didn't know he was a homosexual. Did you, Cristiano?"
"Some people held he was, but without ever producing a shred of evidence."
Bepo said, "Germaine's opinion of him reminds me of Macmillan's. When I interviewed him, he more or less said the same thing. But at least Macmillan had to say it, since his government supported the monarchy as only the monarchy would guarantee a conservative postwar Italy."
"It's quite possible. Even so, he was dead right."
"Dead right? Why?"
"Umberto di Savoia is a kind man. Much kinder than most politicians."
"Are you also a monarchist, Cristiano?"
"What else d'you think I am as well as a monarchist and a conservative?"
"I think you fail to concede he's a homosexual because you admire him."
"I'm sorry, but you miss the point. It doesn't matter to me whether he is a homosexual or not. I'm not prepared to invest the word homosexual of any particular political significance. To me, it means no more than heterosexual or bisexual."
"Oh God," said Claudia. "So you wouldn't mind a homosexual at the Quirinale, would you?"
"Not at all."
"Unbelievable, unbelievable," said Teresa Paleologo.
"I agree with Cristiano," said Germaine.
"I don't," said Bennati. "Not for moral reasons, but because the head of state, a king or a president, it doesn't matter, must represent the majority, and the majority is made up of heterosexuals."
"That's right," said Filippo.
"Well, I must admit I'm a monarchist," said Donna Vittoria, "but I'd be more tolerant anyway."
Bepo shook his head. "I wouldn't. Filiberto is quite right. Our tolerance oughtn't to go beyond the principle that our leaders should share the taste, any sort of legitimate taste, of the average man."
Claudia said, "Very good: legitimate is the word. It seems to me that by using it Bepo has shown us that Filiberto's stance is unassailable, hasn't he, Cristiano?"
There would be no replying: he'd seen enough. They'd finished the pudding. Donna Teresa gave the lead and some of them began to smoke. It was his turn now for a puff: a servant was on his left with the cigarette box; he took one and the servant put a match to it.
It was hot, and the atmosphere had already become smoky. The windows seemed too small to allow the cool night air to circulate freely throughout, but the room was lovely. Looked like an early nineteenth-century English dining room, with an Edwardian china cabinet, a Victorian oak chiffonier, and, above a Victorian cast iron stove, a white-framed wall mirror embellished by candle lighting and a vase shelf. Nothing comparable to Pauline's villa, but in line with the style of the ones that several upper-middle-class English lovers of Lucca had bought around here in Vallebuia.
The servants were serving a dish of figs. He heard Bepo and Filiberto Bennati pontificating over Tomasi di Lampedusa's The Leopard. Donna Vittoria gave them a blank stare, perhaps because she was a Sicilian aristocrat and thought they knew nothing about the Sicilian aristocracy at the time of the Italian unification. He decided against joining in the conversation, and turned to her.
"Have you seen Separate Tables?"
"Yes, I did. Last year. Gianni Santuccio and Olga Villi were very good."
"Apparently, Germaine's performance in London was extraordinary."
"So I've been told... I'd like you to meet my husband. He's very keen on young intellectuals. Give me a ring in Rome."
"I will indeed. Thank you so much."
Donna Teresa got up. As he was leading Donna Vittoria to the garden, he overheard Bepo whispering to Alberto: Cristiano Belisario's a fairy.
* * * *
Sissy... fairy, fairy... is he going to smash that wanker? They called him sissy and he smashed one of them... He also killed a harmless little animal... Sorry, sorry, dear little bitch... he's never forgotten her muzzle; has always reminded himself of her legs stiffening while her pretty muzzle bled to death, has always been sorry for her... Sissy, sissy... The little dear harmless bitch died and he smashed one of them, but at least they simply meant to insult him...
That wanker doesn't even have the courage to insult him, he just tried to make him pass for a fairy, for a queer... and he cannot smash him, he cannot smash him here, he cannot even tell him a piece of his mind in front of everybody... There is Donna Vittoria, there is Germaine. Germaine is English. The English value restraint, they admire people who refuse to be provoked... He cannot even wait for that wanker outside and take him on or insult him, for it would be the same thing: they'd know it, and Donna Vittoria would judge him a thug, and he's a social opportunist who'd like Donna Vittoria to think of him as a gentleman...
Social opportunist? There's more at stake than that: he ought to calm himself. The English are bloody right. A man, whether a gentleman or not, must show self-control. A man who starts a fight at a dinner party, a man who doesn't have any respect for the other guests, is a loser... To have the others watch his violent outburst, his brawl with another man caused by something they may know nothing about, would be like fighting a losing battle.
Cool it, Cristiano. A man must also come clean with himself. What is he after, what is he up to? A writer owes, as it were, a duty of care to his work. He's spent a great deal of time and energy over his script. He feels sure Germaine is cut out for the part of Pauline. If he's a social opportunist for fear Pauline wouldn't accept the part, for fear Donna Vittoria, the wife of an influential literary critic, would turn against him, well... then social opportunism isn't so bad.
Look who's talking. That wanker of Bepo calls him a fairy, a monarchist, and a conservative as well, though he's not a member of the British conservatives and not even conservative in outlook. That wanker speaks of him as a spiteful man of the street with a grudge against him would. He's a conservative because he said Macmillan is for full employment; he's a monarchist because he regards King Umberto as a kind man, kinder and nicer than most Italian politicians; and maybe he's also likely to be a fairy since he said there's no evidence of Umberto's homosexuality.
But who is Bepo Malavolta? A man whose masturbations used to appear in Cinema, the magazine edited by Mussolini's eldest son. Who is that prophet of the centre-left intellectuals? A man whose masturbations cheered the Italians up with Oggi, the magazine edited by him and that other wanker of Filiberto Bennati, stating in 1940 that Italy had to go to war to continue the work of the Risorgimento; that the problem for Italy, as the Duce had said, was the problem of her frontiers; that Italy wasn't Switzerland, that Italy wasn't Greece, and could only have remained neutral at the price of forfeiting her dignity and her status as a world power.
* * * *
A few olympic torches with their real flames added a late baroque nuance to the park. He'd seen this model only in France, and as far as he knew, it wasn't available in Italy. Wouldn't be surprised if the major had the torches shipped from there along with the canisters of gas.
He helped Germaine out of the jeep: the noise of the engine would wake the Crawfords and so they'd better walk across the lawn to the villa.
"Enchanting," he said.
"I wander for an hour or so around here every night."
"Do you?"
"Yes, I sleep much better after that."
"D'you normally find it difficult to sleep?"
"Only when I'm abroad."
Hardly an encouraging sign, damn it. So she was likely to turn down his offer; would prefer to get back to London to sleep quietly in the cold than do Pauline. When would he learn not to pin his hopes on a guess?
"I thought you liked it here."
"I do."
"Even if you don't sleep well?"
"I do after a walk, and also have a nap in the afternoon. Lucca is marvellous."
"So you wouldn't mind living here for a while, would you?"
"I'm happy to spend my holidays here... Tell me: it's a joke that you're falling in love with me, isn't it?"
"Why d'you ask?"
"Because they say you are."
"Who wouldn't?"
"No, be serious. Why d'you think they keep saying that?"
"All right, I'll make a confession. I'm like the god of war: both of us have a weakness for Venus and your breasts remind me of Venus Victrix."
"Cristiano, be serious."
They approached the villa. It was a bit chilly now, and she wore a long shawl over her naked shoulders. The flames allowed him to see the ruched bodice and pleated waistline of her party dress, and its panelled skirt that enable her to walk with girlish agility in spite of her high-heeled shoes. How old was she? Not older than thirty-five, he reckoned.
She stopped just a few yards from the entrance and sat on a bench. "Sit down," she said. "I want to talk to you."
"What about?" He sat beside her.
"You've dramatized Pauline Bonaparte's life for a film production, haven't you?"
"Who told you that, John Crawford?"
"Never mind who told me. Is it true?"
"It is." And it was also true that if she hadn't learned it from the major, she had from Sarah..."I wish you'd do Pauline. Actually, I should have suggested your name to the director, but since I like you so much, I wanted first to see if you were available."
"Who's the director?"
"Dino Sallustio."
"Ah."
"D'you know him?"
"Not personally."
"Would you be interested?"
"By all means ask Sallustio to get in touch with me if you feel to, but I can't tell you straightaway if I could do a movie in Italy."
"You'd be a more convincing Pauline than Pauline herself if she were alive."
"Oh sure. On the stage or on the screen only because I happen to be a professional actress and she was, or had become, a lady of leisure."
"But doesn't the idea of playing her tickle your fancy?"
"Look, my approach to work is pretty straightforward and down to earth. Normally I read the script: if I like it, I'm inclined to say yes. This time..."
"I can let you have it by lunchtime tomorrow."
"Hang on... OK, let me have it. But there are some problems this time, and what I think of the director isn't the main one."
"I see. So you don't like Sallustio, do you?"
"As I said, I haven't met him. Don't know what he's like... on the set I mean... don't know whether we could work together, whether I can trust him... I didn't contemplate a spell in Italy. The thought of living here for a few months frightens me. It might even damage my career on the stage, especially if Sallustio makes it a commercial movie."
"With you it couldn't be a commercial movie."
"It's very kind of you to say so, but even if it wasn't a commercial movie, the experience might well be disastrous for me."
"Why, because you don't like living here for a while?"
"Let's put it like this: I'm not enthusiastic about the idea for personal reasons, but there's more to it than that."
She fell silent. He lit two Astors and handed one to her. Her profile in the dark seemed carved in relief, a last century beauty's cameo with the two layers of the same chiaroscuro. She'd never be a box office winner. Not in Italy, at any rate. Not in a country whose people's only dream was a Seicento to drive blowing the horn repeatedly. Perhaps she sensed that.
"You find Italy too messy, too dusty, too noisy, don't you?" he said.
"I do, in a way, but that's nothing to do with my hesitations in doing a movie here."
"But you still want to see the script and, if you like it, meet Sallustio, don't you?"
"Sure."
"Why don't you tell me what worries you about the project?"
"Two things. One is that it wouldn't help me professionally. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I doubt an Italian historical movie with Italian actors would have a wide circulation in Britain and the US, and my name in the leading role is not so popular to make it an international success."
"But you're highly thought of everywhere."
"I don't see myself having an impact as Pauline on both sides of the Atlantic without a partner with romantic appeal and at least another actor of calibre in a supporting role. Who's going to do Napoleon, who's going to do Pauline's partner? Have you got a Charles Boyer? Have you got a Gérard Philipe?"
"Well, I see your point. So you've already made a decision."
"Not really. I'll have a word with Sallustio. Needless to say, I won't tell him what I've told you. I like you, and I've been very direct with you. But ironically, just the fact that I like you creates an almost insurmountable hurdle."
"Good God, why?"
"You see, I've got the uneasy feeling that you may fall in love with me if you haven't already."
"Uneasy feeling? Why uneasy?"
"I like you, but Cristiano, let me be sincere: I could never completely fall for a man. Do you understand what I mean?"
He waited. "Yes, I do."
She stood up. "Now go back to your jeep: I'm going inside. And remember to let me have your script tomorrow." She blew him a kiss, and left.
Four
Rome, Monday, September 21, 1959
He left the Baretto and lit a cigarette. It was a bit early. He'd walk to Rosati's at Piazza del Popolo and then back for the appointment with Dino in Via Margutta. A stroll and another espresso would help him keep a clear head.
Dino Sallustio seemed to know what to do for the best, though. He'd approached Dirk Bogarde for the role of Giovanni Pacini and Michael Redgrave for the role of Prince Borghese. It would be nice if they accepted. That might dispel Germaine's fears that the movie wouldn't be received well in English speaking countries. On the other hand, she and Dino had hit it off straightaway. He liked her English composure and she his exuberant imagination.
She was bloody wrong, he was nearly right. To a Latin, everybody who didn't speak with their hands looked outwardly composed; but Dino was not at all imaginative, or creative. Not for him reinterpreting the original of a literary work for a dramatization as Luchino Visconti did with Senso by putting the relationship between the two lovers in the background in order to give prominence to the historical context. Dino was a good director who, however, did everything by the book: in Visconti's shoes, he'd have stuck to Camillo Boito's story.
It couldn't be better: he wasn't going to reinterpret Pauline, he'd stick to the script... But weren't these sentiments too rose-tinted? To start with, should Bogarde and Redgrave say yes, one of them or both might ask for more money than the production had budgeted for, and so might Germaine. And assuming that the production could offer a satisfactory contract to three foreign actors, it was by no means on the cards that it could also afford another expensive contract with a fourth foreign actor for the part of Napoleon. Yet, since the few suitable Italian ones had already declined the offer, Napoleon must be played by a foreign actor.