Angelo said in a subdued voice, ‘Perhaps your husband is a brave man?’
‘He is quite fearless,’ answered Annunziata. ‘He has been in prison three times for fighting, he is beautiful and strong and absolutely courageous.’
‘I am not in the least like that,’ said Angelo.
Annunziata let down her skirt. ‘But you are very kind,’ she said. ‘You have helped us greatly, and I hope you will be rewarded by good fortune. – No, I must not talk any longer, for my father-in-law is watching us, and he is very stern. Goodbye!’ said Annunziata.
Angelo thought very earnestly indeed about her suggestion, and the more he considered it, the more he hated the prospect of going anywhere near the firing-line. He lay awake all night and frightened himself into a fever by picturing the horrors of war. He saw himself dying in dreadful agony, unable to rise from the little icy pool in the cup of a bomb-crater, while Lucrezia in her lonely bed lay weeping three hundred miles away. His fever broke, and a cold sweat bedewed him. When morning came he felt so weak that he could hardly get up.
But during the day he thought: How else can I escape? There isn’t the smallest chance of running away from here, for I am quite ignorant of this part of the country, I shouldn’t in the least know where to make for, and the English and the Americans – who are still fighting along the river Volturno, they say – might as well be in the moon for all the help they can give me. This business of liberation, about which there was so much talk, is going to be a slow process, and I may grow old waiting for it. The sensible thing, if it were not so dangerous, would certainly be to go and meet it half-way. Ah, if only I had the dono di coraggio!
During the day some of the prisoners heard a rumour, and quickly spread it, that they were to be taken to Germany and set to work at clearing the damage in some cities which had lately been bombed by the Royal Air Force. – That will be Essen and Cologne, said some. Berlin and Stettin are more likely, said others. Or Munich, suggested a third party.
Angelo’s fellow-prisoners at this time were all Italians, and whenever they heard that a German city had been bombed they were delighted, for they hated the Tedeschi and also it was worth remembering that bombs which fell in Germany could never be used against Italy. But none of them had any wish to go and see for himself what damage had been done. The idea of being sent to Germany was their greatest fear, and no one was more profoundly affected by it than Angelo.
He slept that night, for he was too tired to stay awake, but his sleep was haunted by a dreadful nightmare in which he saw himself labouring in the horrid ruin of a German street, while a monstrous armada circled in the white-striped sky above, and the roar of its engines for ever threatened the louder roar of an exploding bomb. He woke, and felt more tired than ever. The nightmare had been even worse than his waking thoughts of war.
The greater fear diminished the less, and now that the alternative, as it seemed, was to labour like a slave in Germany, he longed to be engaged upon a battlefield in Italy. He decided to take Annunziata’s advice as soon as the opportunity occurred.
He had not long to wait. About a week later an elderly German major arrived, the prisoners were paraded, and the major made a speech about the honourable profession of arms, and the still enduring friendship between Germany and Italy, the crimes that were daily being committed by the Allies, and so forth. Then he asked for volunteers to serve at the front in a pioneer regiment.
Angelo was the first to step forward.
CHAPTER SIX
‘WE DO NOT get enough sleep,’ said the Count.
‘What is sleep?’ demanded the Marchesa. ‘pure negation, and why you should want to enlarge a mere nothing, I cannot think. It is, moreover, so boorish. It puzzles me that you, who are otherwise courteous, should be so ready to turn your back upon a friend.’
‘I have two friends,’ said the Count with a gentle yawn, ‘and the other is repose.’
‘I think of sleep as a rehearsal for death,’ replied the Marchesa, ‘and as I feel sure that when the last night comes I shall wear my coffin with conviction, I see no purpose in wasting time on unnecessary practice.’
‘I have a simpler mind than yours, and less vitality. I enjoy both the prospect and the process of going to sleep; and I need a great deal of it.’
‘People in our position should not require very much. It is different for the poor, of course. Their life is so horrible that naturally they do not wish to endure consciousness for more than a few hours at a time. But we are different –’
‘We have become like the poor in one respect: we are equally vulnerable nowadays.’
‘Our life remains interesting. It is precarious, perhaps, but still furnished with beauty.’
‘It is possible to over-furnish either a room or your life,’ said the Count.
‘That would be foolish, of course.’
‘It is always surprising to see how many fools win the love, or at least the companionship, of beautiful women. – Or is it surprising? Perhaps not. Let us admit that a beautiful woman may be the desire of the noblest, and should be the reward of the bravest among us. But a woman requires to be wooed, and who make the best wooers? Fools, because they have the time for it, and the necessary frivolity of mind.’
‘I dislike you when you grow introspective, dear Agesilas.’
‘I am sleepy,’ said the Count.
Among her many excellent qualities the Marchesa owned a single disability. She had an unusually quick digestion. She ate heartily and often during the day, and she rarely passed a night without waking for a meal in the middle of it. Sometimes she would be satisfied with a glass of milk and a biscuit or two, but generally she wanted something with more bulk and substance in it. The Count had never quite reconciled himself to this idiosyncrasy, and since his release from prison he had found it more and more trying. He had recovered his health but not all his equanimity, and he blamed his own weakness as much as hers for the annoyance he suffered. But to be fair about it did not, he found, diminish the annoyance.
A maid, who had been roused for the purpose, brought into the little drawing-room a tray that bore a large omelette well stuffed with mushrooms and ham, a loaf of bread and a dish of butter, a bottle of wine, a small decanter of brandy, a bunch of grapes, and some pastry. For friendship’s sake the Count accepted a small portion of the omelette and a glass of wine. It was an excellent white wine from Orvieto, and presently he began to feel more cheerful. He drank a little brandy, and started a discussion on political life.
‘Mussolini was my friend,’ he said, ‘and I shall never conceal or deny it. Nowadays he is being adversely criticized by people who are as devoid of gratitude as they are incapable of memory. They have, for example – these ingrates – entirely forgotten the ubiquitous, the general, the inescapable corruption that made the life of Italy shameful, and so crippled our resources before the advent of Fascism.’
‘There was plenty of corruption under Fascism.’
‘But how tidy it became! In the same way as he drained the Pontine marshes he drained great lakes of bribery and peculation, and canalized their flow into official channels and official pockets. You must admire the magnitude of his work.’
‘He was vulgar,’ said the Marchesa.
‘What else would you have had him? No person of true refinement can take a prominent part in public life, except perhaps, as an unwilling martyr; by no possible chance could such a person become a dictator. A dictator, being the product of social indigestion, is by nature as vulgar as a smell. You must not hold it against Mussolini that he made no effort to conceal his origin. No, no! The man was my friend, I tell you.’
‘You are no better for his friendship now,’ said the Marchesa, and helped herself to the last of the omelette.
‘I am a little wiser, I think, and if others shared my perspicacity they also might be wiser. He did excellent work – this you cannot deny – in bringing the business of government into disrepute. This was desirable because popular ed
ucation has been accompanied by, if it has not deliberately promoted, a growth of superstitious faith in government. The people have come to believe that government can procure for them, not merely prosperity, but happiness. Side by side with this nonsensical delusion there has marched the increasing professionalism of government. Many astute people have seen the business of government as a business indeed, and therefore, into the council chambers of the world, there has come a great deal of rascality. Now Mussolini, with real genius, perceived this tendency and pushed it to its logical extreme: he created a government that was frankly criminal, and then for universal enlightenment – or so I think, for I believe the man to have been misunderstood – he led it by a route congenial to criminals, a route congenial, that is, to certain elements in every government upon earth, to a destined and complete disaster. For that disaster, of course, we ourselves are fundamentally to blame, because our ridiculous credulity let us repose in his government all the faith a savage African has in his wooden idol, and with as much reason. Mussolini – and the world will remember him for this – exposed our folly to the depths, and like another Moses cast down the idol of total government. The corollary is obvious: We must grow up, we must cultivate ourselves. Our goal must be a world in which every man is his own republic –’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed the Marchesa. ‘Who are you?’
A man stood in the doorway. He was tall and well built. His light brown hair was streaked with grey and in his left eye he wore a monocle of clouded tortoiseshell. He closed the door as quietly as he had opened it, and came into the room.
‘I have some disturbing news for you,’ he said.
The Marchesa had risen in alarm. Her breast rose and fell, her nostrils were slightly dilated, and she pulled her saut-de-lit more tightly round her with hands that slightly trembled. The Count remained in his chair, apparently calm, having adjusted his dressing-gown to conceal the agitation of his knees.
‘Who are you?’ repeated the Marchesa, while the Count declared, a little hoarsely, ‘This is an extraordinary visit, sir! What do you want?’
‘My name is Fest,’ said the stranger. ‘Some weeks ago I became acquainted with a protégé of yours, a young man called Angelo –’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. He was taken by the Germans, and, I believe, drafted into one of their labour battalions. But I have failed to discover what has happened to him. It was while I was seeking information about him that I heard of a new intention to arrest you.’
‘Me?’ exclaimed the Count. ‘But that is impossible. I have already been arrested, and also set free.’
‘You paid too handsomely for your release,’ said Fest. ‘You gave Hammerfurter five million lire to get out of prison, and now Brilling, the new chief of the Gestapo here, has heard of that and is going to have you arrested to see what he can squeeze for himself.’
‘No, not again!’ cried the Count. ‘I have been squeezed enough. I cannot endure it again!’
‘I thought as much. And so, if you will take my advice –’
‘But who are you? What is your purpose in coming here? Why should you go to the trouble of warning me, and incur danger to help me?’
‘I have a hobby,’ said Fest, ‘a simple hobby that gives me, nowadays, all the pleasure I know. It is to annoy the Tedeschi.’
The Count no longer made any attempt to conceal his perturbation. He walked up and down, wringing his hands, and glancing sideways at Fest in a grimacing alternation of anguish, appeal and suspicion. The Marchesa, who had been standing silent and still, now asked him, ‘When are they coming?’
‘Within a few minutes,’ said Fest.
‘What are we to do?’
‘Find him a hiding-place.’
‘My house is very small. There is nowhere a man can hide and be safe.’
‘Nowhere,’ exclaimed the Count. ‘I know every inch of the house, and there is not room to hide a dog. My late father, in similar circumstances – a jealous husband was looking for him – once hid behind a woman’s skirts, but nowadays that is quite impossible. The modern architect and the contemporary dressmaker have no sense of responsibility. Their creations are paltry, they offer neither protection nor concealment. No, no, I am already a prisoner!’
‘The modern woman,’ said Fest, ‘is appreciably bigger than her mother. You have given me an idea. Lie down on that sofa.’
The Count was suspicious, a trifle querulous, and foolishly concerned about his dignity. Fest, however, disclosed a masterful temper, and the Count yielded. The sofa was long and broad. He lay down and was covered with cushions, of which there were many in the little drawing-room. The Marchesa took her place in the tableau with a look of restrained indignation. Fest instructed her to recline on the cushioned sofa in the attitude of Madame Récamier in the portrait by David; but he was dissatisfied by the picture she represented. She lacked repose, and the displacement of a cushion revealed one of the Count’s feet and gave her the appearance of possessing three.
‘Have patience,’ he said, and went into the adjoining bedroom, from which he returned with a hairbrush and a mirror.
‘I concealed some clothes belonging to the Count,’ he said, ‘and now we must make adjustments here. It is absolutely necessary to cover his feet, and if you will take off your dressing-gown I shall drape it carelessly over this end of the sofa.’
‘My night-dress is very thin,’ said the Marchesa coldly.
‘You need have no fear. Even the Gestapo has admitted my self-control.’
With manifest displeasure the Marchesa put off her dressing-gown and resumed her seat. Fest gave her the mirror.
‘The Germans,’ he explained, ‘are incurably sentimental, and take immoderate pleasure in the contemplation of domestic bliss. I propose to show them a romantic scene in a homely setting. You, with pardonable vanity, must look at your mirror while I, with a delicate and adoring hand, brush your hair.’
‘In your overcoat?’ asked the Marchesa.
‘I was about to remove it,’ said Fest, and threw it on a chair. The Marchesa loosened her hair.
‘You are not without practice,’ she said, as she felt the first strokes of the brush.
‘But my pleasure, if I give you satisfaction, is without precedent.’
The Marchesa settled herself more comfortably. ‘Poor Agesilas,’ she said. ‘I hope I am not stifling him.’
‘Be calm now,’ said Fest. ‘Here they come.’
The front door of the Marchesa’s house was stoutly built, but the lock yielded to the blow of a sledge-hammer, and this rude entry woke the maid, now dozing in the kitchen, and set her screaming. It woke another in an attic room, who piercingly replied. Male voices roughly exclaimed, and heavily booted feet drummed upon the stair.
‘Sit still!’ said Fest.
‘I have not moved. It is Agesilas,’ whispered the Marchesa.
Three Germans in dark uniform, an officer and two others, entered the room with unnecessary violence. With a protective hand on the Marchesa’s shoulder, the brush still engaged in her dark hair, Fest turned toward them his glaring eye and a face that was apparently convulsed with rage.
All three pointed their pistols at him, and the officer brusquely inquired, ‘Are you the Count Piccologrando?’
Fest answered him in German. His voice was harsh and arrogant. ‘You blundering misbegotten fool!’ he said. ‘You ill-advised untimely ape! What in the devil’s name do you mean by bringing your insanitary press-gang into a lady’s house at this time of the morning?’
‘I am acting under instruction. My orders are –’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Bloch.’
‘Have you no manners, Bloch? Has no one ever told you how to address a senior officer?’
Lieutenant Bloch grew unhappy and perplexed. His face, gone pale about the mouth, was patched with red over the cheek-bones. He appeared to swallow a crumb or two, then straightened to attention and saluted.
&n
bsp; ‘That’s better, Bloch. Now take off your hat and tell me what you want.’
‘I have come here to arrest the Count Piccologrando.’
‘And why do you suppose that I am interested in your miserable ratcatcher’s job?’
‘You are not he?’
‘God in his scorching heaven, do I look like an Italian? Do I sound like an Italian?’
‘I was told that I would find him here,’ said Lieutenant Bloch, and looked at the Marchesa, and looked away again, embarrassed. His two policemen stared at her without shame.
‘And now that you have discovered your mistake,’ said Fest, ‘I suggest that you leave us, Bloch, and take your dung-rakers with you.’
A third policeman, a stolid sergeant, appeared in the doorway and reported that he had searched the lower part of the house and found no one.
‘So your flatfeet have been rummaging, have they?’ demanded Fest.
‘My orders were to search the house, and I cannot leave until that has been done.’
Fest confronted him with a deeper frown, but Bloch muttered, ‘I cannot!’
Then the Marchesa spoke. ‘Let them go where they please. They will find nothing.’
Fest raised her hand to his lips and said loudly, ‘I apologize for the manners of my fellow-countrymen. – Hurry, Bloch, and get your rummaging finished.’
Lieutenant Bloch spoke in a low voice to his policemen, who, after looking behind the curtains, went into other rooms. He himself remained, awkward and uncomfortable.
‘Sit down!’ said Fest sharply, and to the Marchesa: ‘I am inexpressibly sorry for this outrage. Tomorrow, in other quarters, I shall have more to say about it, but tonight I am dumb with shame.’
‘It is a lunatic world,’ said the Marchesa, ‘and I am no longer surprised by its oddities. You must not fret yourself. – Dear friend, you had promised to brush my hair. You have not forgotten?’
‘In such gracious employment I may forget my anger,’ said Fest.
Softly but strongly, with earnest but caressive strokes, he began to brush her darkly gleaming hair from brow to the curving crown of her head, from crown to the hidden nape of her neck. She held her head high, straining a little against the pull of the brush. She lifted the mirror and looked at her reflection and the youthful sharpening of her features as the muscles tautened. Then, stooping as the brush went down to her neck, she made little forward movements like a bird preening.
Private Angelo Page 7
