‘Only, he doesn’t seem to be in Moscow any more,’ I pursued. ‘Does that surprise you?’
She shrugged and said, ‘You too, Tonto, you are supposed to be tied up in some cellar in Caracas, are you not? Yet here you are, and do I look surprised?’
‘No. And that surprises me,’ I replied.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘You are not a man to be easily surprised, I think. Not like the little boy who followed me everywhere in his great-grandmother’s villa, with eyes wide, and with ears wide too, I suspect.’
‘I was in love with my great-grandmama’s pretty maid,’ I joked. ‘When I found out she was my sister too, I was even more in love. I didn’t know about not loving sisters, not then.’
‘You were bored,’ she said flatly. ‘On the days your father did take you sailing, you did not follow!’
‘I’m not sailing now, and I’m not bored,’ I said. ‘I’m very interested once again in my pretty sister. Shall we get to the point, Teresa? Have you heard anything lately of, or from, my—our—father?’
She glanced around. The restaurant was now crowded, every table full. Vasco, who was the sole occupant of a table for four, was venting his spleen, which seemed plentiful, on the waiter who was trying to dislodge him in favour of some new arrivals. Teresa said something to him, too fast for my rusty Italian, and surlily he rose and came and sat down next to me. The waiter said, ‘Grazie, signora,’ and to my surprise, Teresa ordered coffee. I was only two-thirds of the way through my veal and she’d hardly touched her ham. I opened my mouth to speak and she gave me a little warning shake of the head, so I stuffed another forkful of food into it instead. A moment later the coffee arrived. As the waiter set it on the table Teresa grasped my arm and said, ‘Come.’
I rose, protesting. Vasco was protesting too and, though another incomprehensibly rapid burst of Italian reduced him to a proper filial silence, he sent expressive looks of hate and anger after me as I allowed Teresa to drag me away.
‘Why does that boy dislike me so much?’ I asked as we dodged through the Grand Prix traffic on the Via dei Fori Imperali.
‘I told him to take care of the bill,’ said Teresa.
It hardly seemed a sufficient explanation. I assumed the suddenness of our departure was to throw any unwanted observers into confusion. It takes a very good man to get away from an Italian waiter without settling his bill!
Across the road, Teresa kept going and led me through the entrance to the Roman Forum. Ungraciously I let her pay. Whatever she was going to tell me would have to be good to compensate for exchanging the shady vines and chilled Orvieto at Angelino’s for the high oven temperature of the Forum. The ruins soaked up heat and threw it back like the radiants of a gas fire. Too much of this and I’d either melt, crack, or come out permanently glazed. I tried to head for the nearest shade but she steered me across past the Temple of Vesta into the atrium of the Vestal’s house, that central court with its statue-ringed pools round which presumably the Virgins did whatever virgins do when they’re off duty. The only other lunatics out in the sun were a party of Germans whose courier was obviously bent on proving the master-race could get round the Forum faster and sweatier than any non-Aryans.
‘For God’s sake, let’s get into the shade,’ I begged as she sat down in the full blast of the sun on a fragment of wall close to the statue of the Vestal who had her name scrubbed off the plinth for being naughty. It was possibly Claudia, the scholars say, who got herself converted to Christianity.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d merely told the head lady she was pissed off with standing out here in the heat.
‘In a moment. There are people there,’ Teresa answered.
‘You can bet your Vestal virginity there’s people there,’ I replied. ‘It’s cool. It’s healthy.’
‘Here is healthy too,’ she answered. ‘Healthy to talk.’
She had a point. The Germans were moving on. There were a few people lounging in the shade on the other side of the atrium, but apart from the rather Neanderthal silhouette of what was probably a German archæologist poking around beyond the ruined wall towards the three columns of Castor and Pollux, no one else was stirring. Unless Claudia’s ears were bugged, we were safe from eavesdroppers.
‘Now, little Tonto,’ she said, very big sisterly, ‘what is it you want?’
I looked into those calm brown eyes, thought rapidly of a dozen good lies with at least three plausible variations on each, then incredibly found that my mental computer was printing out the truth.
I said, ‘I want to see my daughter, that is all I want.’
If I’d hoped to take her unawares, I was disappointed.
She nodded calmly and said, ‘To see Angelica? Nothing more?’
‘That’s all,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘I swear it.’
She returned my pressure for a moment, then cried out in protest as it intensified to the edge of pain. I put my face close to hers and murmured, ‘And now, dear sister, tell me how you happen to know my daughter’s name.’
She glanced around, I thought nervously, then pulled herself free and rose abruptly.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Let us walk back to the trattoria.’
She set off as she spoke but I wasn’t ready to be so easily brushed off. She’d brought me here to talk and I was a long way from being finished. I jumped up and caught her alongside the statue of Claudia. I grasped her arm and jerked her round. She resisted and tried to push me away.
‘Please, Tonto,’ she said urgently.
There was a slithering sound close to my ear, like silk-stockinged legs being crossed, and some patches of what could have been coarse-grained talc drift across my face.
I looked up. Claudia’s slightly bent left knee had a long graze running along it. I looked round. The archæologist with the Piltdown head was leaning across the distant ruined wall as though to steady himself for a photograph. But that was no Leica he was pointing.
Then, heat or no heat, I was off and running. Blood might be thicker than water but I had no intention of giving my half-sister the ocular proof while she held me steady in the sunlight. She was shouting something behind me but all I had to say to her just now was et tu, soror.
I overtook the German tourists and plunged into the middle of the party, ignoring their curious glances. American Presidents know that their only real protection against flying bullets is the flesh of fat security men. What was good enough for Ronald Reagan was good enough for me. It was obviously lunch-call for the Germans and they take their food even more seriously than their culture. We moved at a rapid pace towards the southern exit and when we had climbed up to the Arch of Titus, I felt safe enough to break away and look back.
I though I could make out Teresa on the Sacred Way with what could be Piltdown the sharpshooter. They looked to be heading for the Via dei Fori Imperali. I turned and overtook my Germans. I had no intention of trying to follow a man whose intentions could be so homicidal on such a short acquaintance. All I wanted was to get back to a cool shower in my hotel. But when I chanced straightaway upon a taxi dropping a pair of pale and relieved Americans outside the Forum, I directed him back up the Via dei Fori Imperali, telling him to take it easy. My notion was to get a closer look at Teresa’s friend so that I could avoid him in future. As ‘taking it easy’ meant only a negligibly minute reduction in speed to my taxi-driver, I doubt if I’d have spotted them if there hadn’t been some minor shunt at the junction with Via Cavour which brought the traffic to a brake-squealing halt.
At the other side of the road I saw Teresa and Piltdown, who was a burly middle-aged man looking very hot in a crumpled dark suit. They were standing by a Fiat X1/9 two-seater, bright red and covered with honourable scars and dents. Vasco standing beside the open driver’s door was adding to them as he beat on the roof to emphasize whatever point he was angrily making. His mother was replying in kind, but Vasco brought the discussion to an end by sliding into the car and sending it screaming
into the traffic, which was still flowing on his side of the road. A moment later, amid a celebration of horns, our side started moving too.
‘Piazza Barberini,’ I said to my driver. ‘And you needn’t take it easy any more.’
Naturally he drove me there with all the sedateness of a Victorian landau.
12
… ruined for nothing …
I entered my hotel with some little circumspection. Even a dying man begins to feel that two attempts on his life in a single day are worth taking note of. What I proposed doing was what Cæsar should have done on the Ides of March—i.e. take to my bed. He ignored the auspices and look where it got him.
I felt quite relieved to see Reilly lounging in the lounge but I didn’t stop to talk. She overtook me at the elevator saying, ‘Welcome home, Tonto. Kemo Sabe would like a word, I think.’
The Brigadier was waiting in my room.
‘Have a nice lunch?’ he asked.
‘Very pleasant,’ I replied, stripping off my sweat-soaked shirt.
‘Saltimbocca,’ said Reilly, smacking her lips. ‘Scrumptious. But you shouldn’t bolt your food. Bad for the stomach, they say. And all those mushrooms. And peppers!’
She shook her head, tut-tutting. Even the Brigadier found this distasteful and shot her a reproving glance. There was a knock at the door and the Brigadier opened it and took a tray from the waiter who stood there.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed your meal,’ he said. ‘Pity you didn’t have time for coffee, though. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some now.’
They’d obviously been keeping a close eye on me in Angelino’s at least. Reilly busied herself with the coffee in an untypically housewifely fashion while I dug into my bag for the bottle of scotch which was what I really needed. This time it was the Brigadier who tutted and I compromised by putting a schlurp into my coffee. The Brigadier refused my offer and I didn’t bother with Reilly.
‘Tell me, Swift,’ he said. ‘What happened in the Forum? We rather lost contact with you after you left the restaurant.’
‘Not much,’ I said. ‘It was rather hot.’
They exchanged glances.
‘Did Signora Carducci say anything to you?’ said the Brigadier.
‘Like I say, the temperature wasn’t really conducive to conversation,’ I replied. My experience with the pursuit of truth in the Forum hadn’t recommended it to me. Lying keeps you mentally alert and stops you getting too close to your sister.
‘Come on, my bucko!’ exclaimed Reilly. ‘The signora didn’t drag your nose out of the trough just so you could gawk at a heap of old stones. What did she tell you? What does she know?’
‘She’s particularly interested in the worship of Vesta and has some interesting theories on the symbolism of the Holy Fire,’ I said. ‘Did you know, for instance, that Ireland’s so damp because God decreed that the holy flame of virginity should never burn there?’
The Brigadier sighed and finished his coffee.
‘We will talk again later, Mr Swift. But I do beg you to remember that time is of the essence in our contract. For you especially, time is of the essence. Till later, then.’
‘Ciao,’ I said.
He left. Reilly followed, pausing at the door to say, ‘What he means, bucko, is that there’s a stop sign ahead for you, and not too far neither. And you’d best bear in mind that you’ll start slowing down fast before you get to it, so you’d better look for the action while you can. So be a wise little Indian, Tonto, and tell us what that other Bessacarr bastard told you, eh?’
I said, ‘Hi-yo, Silver, away!’ and waved dismissively.
She shrugged and went.
She was right, of course. There was precious little I could do myself, especially as every time I entered the streets of Rome there seemed to be someone waiting to be unpleasant towards me. My one consolation was that health-wise I seemed to be enjoying a period of remission and was even beginning to hope that perhaps I had more time than the medicos and the Brigadier realized.
The benevolent deity who created cancer and all things noxious heard my pious hope, smiled, and hurled a very small but very hot thunderbolt into my belly.
‘Jesus!’ I croaked, collapsing on to the bed.
The thunderbolt hissed and steamed in my pancreatic juices, sending little rivulets of lava dimpling through my midriff. I drew my knees up under my chin, adopting the foetal position which gave me most relief.
I heard the door open and Reilly’s voice say, ‘And there’s another thing you ought to be thinking … hey, Swifty, me boyo, that’s a lousy shade of make-up you’ve started using.’
Her tone was alarmed and she came quickly to the bedside and bent over me.
‘Are you feeling bad?’ she asked idiotically but with what sounded like real concern.
‘No, I’ve just decided I’ve changed my mind about being born,’ I gasped.
‘Well, you’re certainly getting back to position A,’ she answered. ‘Where’s that stuff the quack made up for you?’ She rustled around in my chest of drawers, then went into the bathroom and returned a moment later with a glass of water and two bi-coloured capsules.
‘Take these,’ she ordered.
‘Orally?’ I asked.
‘Oh Jesus, Swift, stop being a brave little Indian, dying with your jokes on. Take the tablets and rest in peace.’
I gulped the capsules down. God knows what they contained but after a while the pain eased and I drifted into an uneasy sleep. Not all that uneasy, it seemed, for a little while after waking I realized that my trousers had been removed and a sheet drawn over my body.
‘How are you going on?’ enquired Reilly’s voice.
‘Is that an angel?’ I asked.
She came to the bedside and leaned over me, heavy breasts pendant beneath her thin cotton T-shirt. I reached up and pulled her down till their warm weight straddled my face. She lay there a moment, then laughed and drew away.
‘Quite the little Romulus, isn’t it?’ she said.
I pushed back the sheet and carefully moved my legs off the edge of the bed. Slowly I sat up, then stood up.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
‘All right,’ I said cautiously. In fact I felt fine, but I’d done enough deity-baiting for one day.
‘You don’t look too bad,’ she said, examining me critically.
‘You neither,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Reilly,’
I meant it, both parts. The memory of bedding her in London came strong into my mind. In my half-dressed state it showed and she grinned and said, ‘Save your strength, Swifty. And don’t be eating any more fancy food. We need you fit and well a little while longer, remember?’
It was callous, but I could hardly complain. I’d opted out of empathy years ago.
‘Go stick a safety-pin through your tongue, Reilly,’ I said.
I got showered and dressed. It was getting to be a habit with Reilly around. I glanced at my watch. It was after six o’clock.
I said, ‘What’s the word from the Brigadier?’
‘No word,’ she said. ‘I’m off to meet him now.’
‘I thought we might have dinner together, Reilly,’ I said, part genuine, part probing.
‘Sorry, bucko, but I can’t and mebbe you shouldn’t,’ she said. At least, stick to the risotto alla Milanese.’
She made for the door.
I said, ‘Hey, Reilly. What am I supposed to do tonight, then?’
‘Don’t worry. Whatever it is, we’ll keep in touch.’
She was gone. I felt strange, feared for a moment it was a symptom, then realized it was loneliness. I hadn’t let myself feel lonely in ten years. Perhaps it was a symptom after all.
I finished dressing and found myself trying to work out ways of leaving the hotel unobserved. For a man who only a few hours earlier had been longing for nothing more than a chance of relaxing in his bed for a day or two this might seem odd. But God had reminded me that in the not too distant future I’d have all the
time in, and out of, the world for relaxing. In the end I eschewed ingenuity and went boldly down the stairs and through the great marble lounge which would have made a good mausoleum for a dead hero. A pianist sat in one shady corner playing dirge-like ragtime on a baby grand. A handful of guests sat quiet as mourners on huge sofas beneath erotically religious murals. They regarded my swift passage with what might have been deadly hatred or merely the envious resentment of the bored tourist for the purposeful passer-by.
My purpose at that moment was simply to move quickly enough to make a poor target but by the time I reached the street I was more positive about my plans. Reilly was right, callous but right. I didn’t have any time to play around with. God knows, and I didn’t, what I was going to do if and when I came face to face with my father, but I couldn’t afford to let hours slip by unused, not when I was counting my future in days. I had to act and, unhappy though I was at the thought of Piltdown, my only point of possible contact was my half-sister, Teresa. She had a lot of explaining to do. Perhaps I had been judging her too harshly. Perhaps she had simply contracted to have a bullet put into the half of me she wasn’t related to.
I spent the next half-hour dodging in and out of traffic. I had a few near misses, but it seemed the best way of shaking off any tail. No one can cross a busy Roman street and keep his eye on someone he is following without fatal consequences. I didn’t spot anyone in close pursuit on foot, but in the Piazza Venezia as I leaned on the bonnet of a taxi which had almost killed me, a Lambretta went buzzing by and I was sure I recognized the slightly perplexed academic features of my scooter-driving friend from that morning. His thin face with its chin slightly out of true reminded me of a scholar of Trinity I’d known vaguely twenty years earlier. Perhaps it was him; perhaps like so many others he’d been recruited into Security at Cambridge!
I silenced the near hysterical taxi-driver by getting into his vehicle and giving him Teresa’s address. As we moved away, I kept an eye open for my Trinity scholar, but there was no sign. Coincidence or mistaken identity, I told myself.
Traitor's Blood Page 10
