‘Oh, Mariella!’
‘I didn’t say that, he did,’ said Mariella. ‘Well, he as good as said it.’
‘Yes, he is like that,’ said Pia, ‘he doesn’t always plainly commit himself.’
‘Hm,’ said Carl, considering his move.
‘There, you mustn’t talk,’ said Mariella to her sister.
Pia watched. Her mother watched. Carl played thoughtfully. Mariella played happily. She wriggled and enjoyed bites at her knuckles, but all her moves were made decisively.
Carl kept saying, ‘Hm.’ But he was relaxing for the first time in months. The firelight was cosy, the atmosphere friendly. His bleakness eased. He smiled at Mariella’s wriggles. Pia covertly watched him. The hard lines of his sunburnt face softened in the glow of the fire, and she thought how fine-looking he was. She could not quite understand some of his moves. Whether he was only a moderate player or simply wanted to make Mariella happy by letting her win, she didn’t know, but certainly his play was either indifferent at times or a little suspect. Mariella kept saying, ‘Mama mia,’ in slightly shocked surprise. She also tck-tcked in sympathetic regret but did not allow this to affect her earnest dedication.
‘Check,’ she said after an hour.
‘Hm,’ said Carl and pondered. Pia thought there was a smile in his eyes. He moved his king. Mariella pounced with her queen.
‘Checkmate,’ she said with sorrow for his downfall and relish for her victory. The one came with a shake of her head, the other with a winning smile.
‘Hm,’ said Carl. He surveyed the Austrian debacle. ‘Mama mia,’ he said.
Mariella laughed, Pia laughed. Signora Amaraldi smiled.
‘Never mind,’ said Mariella.
‘Massacred,’ said Carl, ‘and by my best friend.’
And Pia felt a strange little sadness. His country was in its last desperate fight for survival. He had been soldiering for Austria since 1914 and if Austria went down he would go down too. For four years he would have fought in vain and many of his friends would have died in vain. But there he was, making Mariella happy, a smile on his face. Perhaps against the tragedy of a broken empire he realized defeat in a game of chess meant nothing. As a fervent supporter of the Italian irredentists she should be feeling glad that the Austrian empire was tottering. But she was not. It disturbed her.
Mariella stayed up for the modest dinner and was then happy to go back to bed. Major Korvacs had been very agreeable, especially to Mariella, who was beginning to hero-worship him a little. Pia had not let her nerves show. The harmony had spread to the kitchen, where Corporal Jaafe, with the old soldier’s artfulness, was making astute dents in Maria’s Catholic purity. At the moment he was helping her with the dishes prior to seeing her home on his way back to the barracks.
In the dining room, the meal at an end, Carl suddenly said, ‘Signorina Amaraldi, your father is Pietro Amaraldi – correct?’
Pia, caught off guard, looked startled. Her mother sighed.
‘He is my father, yes,’ said Pia.
‘An irredentist,’ said Carl.
‘Is that what he’s called?’ she asked as casually as she could.
‘Is it?’ said Carl.
‘He has been called a patriot,’ said Pia.
Carl looked at her. It made her feel she had a retarded intellect.
‘By the emperor?’ he asked sarcastically.
She was in dismay. He was cold again. And she was suffering from loyalties confusingly divided now. A few days ago she would have been proudly and defiantly Italian, but it was not so easy at this moment. Her eyes begged her mother for help.
‘Herr Major,’ said Signora Amaraldi calmly, ‘we are good Austrian subjects most of the time. Now and again we are a little Italian and say silly little things, but we are as sad about the war as you are. I will tell you, yes, my husband Pietro is called a patriot. He too says silly little things. About politics. He has gone off with other Italians and left us very embarrassed.’
‘So I believe,’ said Carl. ‘Well, what does it matter now? Austria has tried to hold the empire together, believing it to be more of a blessing than a curse, but the cracks are getting wider and Vienna will fall into the abyss unless a miracle happens. I can’t produce that miracle and you, signora, being Italian, would not wish to. To you it is better to be governed badly by Italy than be governed in any way by Austria.’
‘I have not said so.’ Signora Amaraldi made her point quietly.
‘Perhaps I’m quoting the opinion of Tyrolean Italians generally,’ said Carl. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, though as an Austrian I regret it. With things as they are I see myself bowing to the inevitable.’
‘But Austria is still fighting,’ said Pia, a little distressed. She did not know when she had felt so uncertain about what she wanted. It had all been so simple before, all in sharp, divisible black and white. Now there were so many shades of grey. ‘Major Korvacs, you haven’t given up, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t given up, I’m still in the position of having to obey orders,’ said Carl. ‘With you I’ve merely established my views. I concede your Italianism. So with that out of the way, what is to be done? Might I suggest chess? Would you care for a game, Pia?’
Pia was newly startled. He was smiling. A little ironically, perhaps, but not unkindly. And he had called her by her name at last. Austria was breaking on all fronts, her father was not important to him and he wished to play chess.
‘You aren’t going out?’ she said.
‘Would you prefer me to?’
‘Oh, no.’ Her colour rose. ‘No, of course not, not if you would like to play chess. It won’t be too dull for you?’
‘Pia, do you want to play?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then let us be dull together,’ he said.
She managed a light laugh at that.
‘I will just go upstairs first,’ she said, ‘and see you in the drawing room.’
When she came down a little later her mother was in her fireside chair, Major Korvacs was feeding the blaze with logs and the chess table had been set out.
‘Mariella is sound asleep, Mama,’ said Pia. Her mother nodded and Pia sat down with Carl. Her father had taught her chess and she was excellent. She opened the play. It did not take her long to realize he was a better exponent than he had seemed in his game with Mariella. He had indulged her sister. He did not indulge her. He was absorbed in the play, as if he had set aside the war and what was happening to Austria. He sat with one elbow on the table, his chin cupped, face as weathered as if he had spent a lifetime battling with the winter winds and summer heat of the mountains. He did not look like a Viennese dilettante, nor like the oppressive Austrians her father had taught her to hate. He looked like a soldier in a mood of relaxed peacefulness.
The game began to go her way. He got into difficulties with his queen, made two very good moves to ease the situation and said ‘Hm,’ a little later when the piece again became vulnerable. It was the first time she had heard anything from him since the start of play.
‘You’re not in hopeless trouble,’ she said.
‘I’m pulled out of position,’ said Carl, ‘and hopelessness is just around the corner, signorina.’
She hesitated, then said, ‘I’m Pia.’
‘It makes no difference, I’m still all over the place,’ said Carl. He ran a hand through his hair in the most natural gesture she had seen him make. She willed him to move his queen’s rook to trap either her king’s knight or bishop. He made the move. She had the choice of saving one or the other. She moved her knight, leaving him to capture her bishop. He seemed a little surprised. She knew, and supposed he did too, that two bishops are considered stronger than two knights. In surrendering one of her bishops she could have been guilty of an elementary mistake, especially as she did not seem to have gained any tactical advantage.
‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.
‘What did I do?’
�
��Gave up your king’s bishop.’
‘Major Korvacs,’ said Pia, ‘that’s almost like cheating.’
‘What is?’
‘Trying to make me disclose my tactics.’
He looked up from the board. Their eyes met. Pia felt swamped by weakness.
Carl, taking her bishop, said, ‘Your move.’
‘Yes,’ she said and surveyed the board without seeing it. Several seconds elapsed before clarity came out of turmoil. They played on. It was quite stupid, but she wanted him to win and she knew he was going to lose. At chess she could always instinctively see ahead. Carl had to reflect on the pros and cons. She did not quite know what to do when she eventually saw the opportunity to mate him. She passed it by and made an innocuous move.
‘My dear young lady,’ said Carl.
‘I am happy with it,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the board.
During the next fifteen minutes they made three moves each. Hers were all negative.
‘What are you doing?’ said Carl.
‘Trying to beat you at chess.’
‘Trying not to, you mean.’
She coloured and said, ‘Well, you didn’t try very hard against Mariella.’
He regarded her thoughtfully. She would not look up.
‘Pia, I concede,’ he said with a smile.
‘Would you like a second game?’ she asked.
Carl looked at the china clock on the mantelpiece and said, ‘Perhaps tomorrow? I must go down to the barracks now and see how many of my men are drunk. Thank you for showing me your skill. You’ll excuse me? Signora Amaraldi?’
‘Goodnight, Herr Major,’ said Pia’s mother.
Pia felt it was a little flat without him. She wished he had won, that she had managed to let him. It was silly, but it was there, the wish. Her mother went to the windows, drew back the heavy velvet curtain and looked out into the night.
‘It’s snowing,’ she said.
But they heard Major Korvacs go out all the same.
Signora Amaraldi, settling herself down again, said, ‘Pia, you’re being very nice to him.’
‘Please, Mama, don’t start that again.’
‘No sense,’ murmured Signora Amaraldi, gazing into the fire, ‘no head.’
‘But you must agree,’ said Pia, ‘he’s really rather nice.’
‘We’re both agreed on that now, but there’s no need to overdo it.’
‘I am overdoing it by playing chess with him?’
‘No, by worrying about him—’
‘Who is worrying about him?’ said Pia.
‘. . . and talking about him.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Pia shrugged off the absurdity. ‘Anyway, he’s not the sort who’d appreciate either of us worrying.’
‘Oh, he can stand on his own feet,’ said Signora Amaraldi, ‘he has learnt how to do that, I think. He’s gone down to see his men, and on a night like this. His is the best mountain unit, did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t, and how do you?’
‘Anyone who knows anything about the Austrian troops in these regions will tell you that, if you ask them. Of course, some of us are interested only in the Italian troops. It will be a good thing when this war’s over and Major Korvacs, if he’s lucky, can go quietly back to Vienna, to someone who’s waiting for him.’
‘Someone?’ Pia felt a rush of anxiety. ‘Mama, he’s engaged to be married?’
‘How should I know? But a man like that, there’s bound to be someone wanting him.’
Pia’s relief was such that it alarmed her.
‘Mama, you’re only guessing. First you say waiting, then you say wanting. You’re confusing yourself.’
‘Wanting and waiting, one leads to the other,’ said Signora Amaraldi. ‘And waiting, ah, women do their share of that, as Holy Mary knows. A man, he kisses you, loves you, then goes off somewhere, anywhere, and soon enough he’s having a good time and you’re sitting and waiting for him, knowing he won’t return until it suits him. Your father is that kind of man.’
‘Do you think Major Korvacs is having a good time, knowing he has to go back to the fighting, knowing his country is losing the war?’ The impulsiveness of Pia’s protest made her mother sigh for her.
‘I’m not talking about men like Major Korvacs, but men like your father.’ She shook her finger at Pia. ‘Yes, you may look at me, girl, you’ve always been his echo. I’ve managed to keep my mouth shut, I’ve managed to live with our Austrian neighbours. I haven’t gone around saying that when Austria is beaten everything will be wonderful for us. You’ll see, we’ll all have to work just as hard and the only difference will be that the Italians will take our taxes and tell us what to do instead of the Austrians. Ha! A year after it’s happened you’ll wonder why you were so naive. But all people are foolish, everyone wants something off the moon and will follow anyone who promises it to them. You and your father and others, you’ve promised the moon itself to the Tyrolean Italians, you’ve called the Austrians bitter names and said we must get rid of them. I’ve said nothing, I’ve gone along with you and your father because I’m his wife and your mother. But I don’t believe it’s all going to be wonderful, not because I’m not a good Italian but because I’ve got sense. So has Major Korvacs. You and your father call the Austrians tyrants. Well, now we have one in our house and you don’t know what to make of him, do you, or of yourself? Because you realize he isn’t a tyrant. You’d like him to be, then it wouldn’t be so confusing for you, you could hate him very healthily—’
‘Mama, don’t, oh please don’t,’ said Pia desperately.
‘We’ve never had Austrians in this house before,’ said her mother. ‘Now we have Major Korvacs and I tell you, Pia, from now on we should both make up our own minds about politics and people. We should learn for ourselves without believing what others tell us. No wonder you’re confused, no wonder Major Korvacs makes you feel unhappy. But perhaps it won’t last. Perhaps when he’s gone or eventually gets blown to pieces you’ll be able to tell yourself he was an exception, you’ll be able to forget him and go back to being a proud Italian patriot again.’
‘Oh, Mama, may God forgive you,’ cried Pia and ran from the room. Her mother did not call her back. For too long Pia had been her father’s unquestioning echo, existing in a climate of emotive politics that nurtured the growth of prejudice and violence. It was about time she listened to voices other than her father’s.
In the officers’ club they talked about the rumour that the Austrian High Command intended to make one last great attempt on the pass. Success would relieve the pressure on the Austrian divisions desperately trying to stem the advance of the Italians and British across the Piave.
Carl listened and said nothing. He had heard it all before during the last six months. One more great push to turn the tide. More shells, more men, more determination. He knew what it would mean. The valleys and the chasms would simply receive bigger heaps of dead.
He left the club late. He walked slowly back to the house. He could see no future except that which embraced crushing defeat. In France even the Germans were in retreat, their Hindenburg line broken. He would have liked to turn about, to face Vienna and to walk home, to the gracious home of his parents, to feel clean and civilized again amid the familiarity of all that he had so carelessly taken for granted. He would have liked to see Sophie again, and Anne. Curiously, he felt he would also like to see James again, even if only for James to understand he had come of age now.
Pia let him into the house. He apologized for being so late.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, we—’
‘Goodnight, signorina.’
His abruptness dismayed her.
‘Goodnight, Major Korvacs,’ she said.
He turned at the stairs. He knew he’d been brusque. He had no right to inflict his greyness on others.
‘I’m sorry, I had things on my mind,’ he said. His coat collar was turned up, his tanned face hard from the cold night. ‘We’
ll play chess again tomorrow, shall we?’
‘It must be when Mariella is in bed.’ Pia summoned up a smile. ‘She will be jealous otherwise.’
‘I’ve made a conquest?’
‘Yes,’ she said in a low voice.
‘That’s unfortunate, isn’t it? Someone must remind her I’m Austrian.’
Pia trembled.
‘Oh, how can you! That is so unkind.’
‘But necessary, Pia. Goodnight.’
He fell asleep without effort but when he was awoken he felt he had only just closed his eyes. The noise, a creaking floorboard, had been enough to bring him instantly alert. He lay for a moment, his nerves on edge.
The floorboard creaked again.
He sat up. Silently he slipped from the bed. He rustled into his shirt, trousers and jacket, for the bedroom was chilly. He went to the door. He opened it, slowly and noiselessly. The house was in pitch darkness. But he heard faint, indistinguishable sounds. From above. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, standing at the open door, thinking. Did it matter? Would it affect the course of the war, whatever he found, whoever he found? All the same he was curious.
He silently crossed the landing and took the short flight of stairs to the attic. He saw a dim light under the door of the attic. He walked to the door, and carefully though he trod a floorboard creaked. And another. He found the handle and opened the door. The attic, lit by two candles, was eerie with frail yellow light and flickering shadows. A man was there, a man who stood squarely to the open door and so looked directly into Carl’s face. Pia was there, too, rooted, staring.
‘You, I think,’ said Carl to the man, tall, broad and bearded, ‘are Pietro Amaraldi. A patriot, I believe.’
‘I am the Amaraldi.’ The man’s voice was deep, strong, resonant. ‘And you are an intruder in my house.’
‘But you, if you had any sense, are the one who should not be here,’ said Carl.
Pia was anguished, trembling. Her father was nerveless, purposeful, a dark unmoving figure amid the wandering shadows.
‘The floorboards creak, Austrian,’ he said, ‘they tell me when someone is prowling about. Well, you have done your prowling and finished with it. You just have time to say your prayers.’ He raised both arms. The revolver clasped in his hands pointed at Carl.
The Longest Winter Page 31
