by The Adventures Of Una Perrson (and Catherinr Cornelius) (v1. 0)
'Always feel good next day.' The Chinese girl moved like a cat in the bed. She watched Catherine with affectionate amusement.
'It doesn't seem wrong,' said Catherine. 'I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. Do you know what I mean?' She opened a cabinet and found her clothes neatly folded on one of the shelves. The cabinet was full of women's clothes, including underwear that had not been'
In vogue for thirty years. She closed the doors. There was a hand-basin in one corner of the room. It was of black marble. The taps were jade green. She began to wash. 'Are you sure you don't know j what the time is?'
'Early. You not stay with me today?'
'I'd love to, but if I don't go into work the lady at the shop will get in touch with my mum.'
The Chinese girl understood. 'You have large family?'
'No. There's just my mum and two brothers. I don't see my brothers much at the moment.'
'No sisters?'
'No.' Catherine got into her underclothes, pulled up her stockings and secured them. 'Can I borrow your brush?'
'Here.' The girl came across and with a few quick movements brushed out Catherine's crop.
'Will he be angry that I've gone?'
'Mr Koutrouboussis probably be out all day. I am sad. You stay.'
Catherine guessed that the girl was capable of better English but knew that her simplified syntax was attractive. She kissed the girl. 'Can you meet me for lunch? I only get half an hour.'
The girl shook her head. 'I must stay.'
'I'll nip round, then, to see you.'
The girl smiled. 'Nice.' She became grave as she took Catherine's face in her hands and kissed her on the lips. 'You promise.' I Catherine laughed. She was full of well-being. Her body felt lighter, more her own. She felt beautiful. 'I promise. If Mr Koutrouboussis comes back before I do, tell him I'm sorry. Tell him why I had to go.' She left the flat. The street was warm and sunny. Her body ached but there was a spring in her step. She had never been more aware of her body, nor more pleased with it. She turned the corner, entering Shepherd's Market. To her surprise it was earlier than she had guessed. Auntie Edna hadn't arrived yet. She would have to get a watch.
'Well,' said Edna Bowman, turning up five minutes later to unlock the shop, 'you're looking lovelier than ever, my girl. What is it? A touch of spring? You in love?'
Catherine grinned at her, wishing she could tell her what had happened. 'Maybe.'
'Nice young feller, is he?'
'Oh, Auntie Edna . . .' She averted her eyes.
Auntie Edna chuckled. 'Sorry, girl. You keep smiling like that and we'll double our profits. It's amazing how good a smile is for trade.'
At lunchtime Catherine ran round to Hertford Street. The girl answered the door. She was in her uniform again. She took her by the hand. 'He back,' she whispered, 'but not for long.'
'Does he want to see me?' She had hoped not to meet him. She had come to see her new friend.
'He going out.' They entered the sitting-room. He was standing with his back to them, looking at her flower arrangement. It was only with an effort that she could believe that she had known the flat for less than twenty-four hours. As the Chinese girl closed the door Catherine immediately relaxed, became euphoric with a sense of safety. He turned, reached out for her and took her by the back of the neck. 'You are happy, I can see. Tell me, have the orchids arrived at the shop?'
'This afternoon.'
'Bring them on your way home—as it were. Tell your aunt I saw you in the street and asked you to come at five. That means you will be able to leave early. I will be back at seven. It will give you some time alone together.' He smiled fondly at both of them. 'My two little girls. I want you to think of us as the father and the sister you do not have.'
He was dressed in black, for business. He took a gold hunter from his waistcoat. 'I waited to see you, but now I must go. You wish to be with me tonight again?'
She lowered her eyes and nodded.
'Good. It is a shame that I must work in the world.' He looked about the room. 'But it makes this private world so much sweeter.'
'Your business is shipping, isn't it?' said Catherine on impulse, thinking she should respond. 'I love ships.' She hated them. She was always sea-sick.
'Oh, ships are involved.' He laughed as if he guessed that she had lied. 'I am an import-export specialist, you know. Well, that is the conventional term in my trade.' He placed his hat on his head and stroked her hair. 'I am, my dear, an old-fashioned war-profiteer. An exploiter of conflicts.' He ran his thumbnail down her spine.
NINE
In which Miss Una Persson returns to Europe in her efforts to discover the exact Nature of the Catastrophe and the Role of Women in the Revolution
In the Via Veneto the crowds were still marching, having tried to set fire to several buildings, including the American Embassy and Thomas Cook's. The noise was not much louder than that which could normally be heard at this hour, from taxi-drivers, drunks and harlots. Una was grateful that the water was still hot as she turned the heavy chrome taps of the great white tub and used the shower attachment to rinse her short chestnut hair. She was alone in a vast bathroom, full of mirrors and Egyptianate metal, in her suite at the Albergo Ambasciatori, still in her opinion the best hotel in Rome and a fitting headquarters for the Provisional Government. When the phone rang from the other room she was already wrapping heavy white towels around her head and her body; she walked without haste from the bathroom, sat down on the double bed and picked up the receiver.
'Did I wake you, Una?'
'Who's that?'
Tetroff. I just got in.' He was excited, unashamed. They said you might be asleep.'
'But you rang anyway.' It was typical of him.
The phone never wakes you when you're really asleep, Una. Nothing does. Too much gunfire, eh?' He was in a friendly mood. She had absolutely no desire for a sentimental reunion, particularly after his wretched compromising of the San Francisco situation which lost them their foothold on mainland USA and resulted in a complete if temporary victory for the Philadelphians.
'What are you doing in Rome?' She was cool.
'Aren't you pleased to hear from me? I came in my official capacity—for the discussions. And to join in the celebrations, of course. (Have you a beau, currently?) You have won. Aren't you pleased?'
She rarely relished victory. There's a lot of work to do, yet. There have been repercussions, you know, over that Vatican business.'
He was plainly making an effort to sound sober. 'Yes. My people were not happy to hear about it. It was unnecessary brutality. Unfortunate.'
'Well, I might see you later. I'm going to sleep now.'
'You won't be at dinner, tonight?'
'Perhaps.'
'It's your duty to be there, surely?'
'I'm notorious for my moods. But I'll probably see you in the bar, just before dinner.' She immediately regretted relenting, but Petroffs charm had already had its usual effect. She would have to avoid him. She began to dress, furious with him for putting her in this position. She had intended to go out, to visit Lobkowitz who had arrived yesterday. He was too late to be given accommodation in the Ambasciatori and was staying two blocks up, in the St James, a flashy, recently erected place where most of the Balkan delegates had been quartered. Now, unless she wanted to risk bumping into Petroff downstairs, she would have to ring and invite Lobkowitz to her suite when she would have preferred to have met her old friend on neutral ground, in the bar or in a restaurant. She was not sure of his attitude towards her: he might misinterpret her invitation on both political and personal grounds. Already her life was getting far too complicated. One action produced a dozen permutations. The previous day, making her speech in the Coliseum, she was sure that she had seen Jerry Cornelius, Catherine's brother, moving through the audience holding a scrawny stray black and white cat, and she knew that he would not be here without a good reason. There were far too many ambiguities in Rome on this particular May Day. In h
er view they were prematurely celebrating their settlement with the Neapolitans over the Vatican issue.
By the time she had dressed in her Chanel pleated skirt and matching grey pullover she felt much better. Before putting through the call to Lobkowitz she decided to have another look at her notes. She sat down beside her desk, unlocked the drawer and withdrew a fat folder. The notes were even more confused than she remembered; some of them she could not understand at all; some of them referred to events which, she was sure, had not happened anywhere and could not possibly happen in the future. She dismissed, for instance, the whole idea of the Neapolitan royalists taking either Rome or Genoa under their idiot king Alfredo, and it seemed unlikely that they would raise money by selling Capri and Ischia to the Germans and, as a result, receive tacit German military support in their campaign.
The Vatican business was unfortunate, yet she could sympathize with Costagliola's impulse to eradicate the problem at a stroke, even if it had meant an awful lot of Michelangelo and Leonardo going down the drain. It certainly showed that Costagliola meant business and had created a good deal of useful confusion in Naples, as well as Venice, Florence and Turin (whose governments were relatively sympathetic to Rome) and throughout the whole Catholic world. Costagliola had also received a considerable amount of secret support since then; some from quite unlikely sources and, as he had calculated, there were now between ten and fifteen self-elected Popes in Italy alone. She had heard there were at least three in France, one in Ireland, two in America and two in Spain. Greece had a couple of contenders in the field, as did Ethiopia. As yet, there was no news either from Constantinople or Avignon. Already fighting had broken out in Brindisi and Cozenza between supporters of rival Popes. There was, incidentally, a thriving trade in art fakes which the dealers alleged had been salvaged from the ruins of St Peter's.
Perhaps, after all, the Roman situation was sufficiently stable for her to consider moving on. She certainly wanted to convince herself that it was stable: she had had enough of Italy for the moment, though it remained her favourite European country, and it looked as if something interesting was happening in Dalmatia, which was why she particularly wanted to see Lobkowitz, whose election to the Central Committee as Chairman in a free poll throughout Bohemia in the previous year had been one of the most surprising events in an astonishing (and heartening, she thought) pattern. Lobkowitz was probably the only aristocrat holding any authority in Central Europe and had calmly continued to use his title. At one point there had been a movement to ban him from the Conference but Una and many others had been vociferous in demanding that he come. If the main Salzburg-Rome line had not been blown up he would have been here two days earlier.
She decided to phone his hotel.
Picking up the receiver she had to wait for several minutes before someone answered, took the number and told her that there would be a delay for perhaps a quarter of an hour before a line would be free. Patiently, she replaced the phone and returned to her notes. Petroff’s arrival had affected her nerves. That and the glimpse of Cornelius had succeeded in confusing her more than it should have done. Both men were unpredictable, both could possibly make claims on her, as ex-lovers. Cornelius might even be trying to alter the balance of power, working some crazy scheme of his own. She wanted to give all her attention to Lobkowitz and then leave Italy as quickly as possible. It was an effort to maintain her resolve. As it was, she had already allowed Petroff to affect her plans.
The phone rang almost immediately. She picked it up quickly and then regretted her action—it could be Petroff or even Cornelius on the line. But they were calling Lobkowitz's hotel. She asked for him, heard a click, thought she had been cut off, and then it was his voice: Trinz Lobkowitz.'
'Good evening. Your Highness,' she said.
'Ah, Una! I called earlier, but you were asleep. Can we meet?' He was eager.
'I wonder if you would mind coming here, to my rooms. Someone has arrived and I don't want to see them yet. You have a pass?'
They gave me one a few minutes ago.'
‘You'll come?'
'You're alone? Myself, I'm in no mood for general conversation.'
'I'm alone. It's on the second floor. Use the back staircase if you can. The lifts aren't working too well. Number 220.'
'I'll come now, yes?'
'That would be excellent. Again, I'm sorry . . .'
'Of course.' He rang off.
As she rose to go to her bedroom there was a tap on the door. 'Who is it?'
'Message, madam.'
Reluctantly she opened the door. It was one of the young waiters from the restaurant. He held a large envelope out to her. He had probably been tipped to bring it, so she gave him nothing, particularly since she disapproved of the necessity. She thanked him and closed the door, opening the envelope to find a fresh red rose inside. As she removed it one of the thorns pricked her finger. How on earth had Petroff found such a thing in Rome at this time? Or had Petroff sent it? There was no message. She sighed and dropped the rose on top of her folder of notes, continuing into the bedroom to tidy her hair and dab a little eau-de-cologne on her neck and forehead. She took a deep breath and felt more relaxed. Another knock. She was more cautious as she opened the door.
Lobkowitz looked older. His hair was completely grey. His familiar quiet smile gladdened her. He was tall, stooped, gentle. He had not changed.
'Oh, how lovely to see you.' She admitted him. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'You're looking so well. Your journey doesn't seem to have tired you at all.'
'I enjoyed it. I have a superstition about train trips. If the ride is trouble-free then something awful will happen when one arrives. You know the sort of thing. You, too, are looking extraordinarily well, Una. What's your secret of eternal youth?'
'You'd never believe me.'
He removed his soft felt hat and unbuttoned his ulster. 'It's raining. It's hot in Rome now! Have you been downstairs lately? So many people! So many old comrades!' He gave her his hat and coat and she hung it in her wardrobe. 'What a lovely room.'
'I gather yours is not very good.'
'I expected worse. And we have no right to demand luxury, have we?'
'I suspect it's the last we'll have in Rome. I'm making the most of it. Would you like some whisky?' She took the bottle from the drawer in her desk.
'A little one. Thank you.'
'How are things in Bohemia?' She poured some whisky into glasses. 'I'm sorry there's no mineral water. You'll have to drink it as it comes.'
'We seem to be coping.' He sipped the drink. 'I don't know what will happen after the honeymoon.' He shrugged. 'I don't expect to last more than one term.'
'You have popular support.' Una was surprised by his pessimism. 'They wouldn't dare get rid of you!'
'I shan't stay if the rest of the Committee is dissatisfied. It would be pointless.'
'Yes. I see what you mean.'
‘I suppose you do, Una.' A small smile. 'I was surprised at you, in Albania, refusing the presidency after all your good work.'
She rubbed her forehead, amused. 'I'm an international troublemaker, not a national one. I like to move on.'
'You've accepted no position here in Rome?'
'Nothing permanent. It's one of the reasons I wanted to see you alone. I was wondering what you thought about Dalmatia.'
He wrinkled his nose. 'You're going there next?'
'Probably. If they can use me.'
There are very few people wouldn't give you a job, Una. Your experience is legendary.' He unbuttoned his military jacket, pulled up his trousers and sat on the edge of the bed. From the street the sound of the crowds had dissipated so that it was possible to hear the noise from the hotel's ground floor: laughter, shouts, sudden bursts of clapping. 'But you won't accept leadership, will you? Is that the feminine part of you?'
She considered this. 'I know many men who feel as I feel. I gave up Albania for the same reasons that I gave up the stage when I became successful.
It doesn't suit me to be on the winning side, I suppose. I'm embarrassed by lack of criticism. Could that be it?'
'You haven't thought of it before?'
'I've reached no conclusions. Besides, I felt sorry for Zog.'
'You see!' He was not wholly serious. 'You are a woman! You could argue, couldn't you, that femininity is the essence of radicalism? You must be in opposition or you are not happy. You must feel that the force to which you are opposed is more powerful than you.'
‘Are you talking about women in general?'
'Yes.' He frowned, smiling to himself. 'Well, perhaps I'm not talking about Queen Victoria. Unless her petulance was the direct result of her resenting the responsibility she was told she had. Don't all successful revolutionaries similarly resent the power they are given? Is that why they will often invent new enemies, when their original enemy is defeated? Why they never realize that they have ceased to become the least powerful force and have come to be the most powerful one?'
Una lit a cigarette and immediately felt a pain in her chest. She put the cigarette down but did not extinguish it. 'What about Dalmatia?'
'I'm sorry if I seemed condescending, Una.'
'It's not that. Frankly, the discussion bores me. I've had it so often, you see.'
'Yes. Forgive me, anyway.'
'Do you think they have a good chance in Dalmatia?'
'It depends on the Turks. If they give support to the existing regime then any revolution will be difficult. You could help there, of course. You know the Turkish mind.'
'Hardly. I've known a Turk or two, that's all.'
'Well, it would help. Could I have a little more whisky?'
She poured it into the glass he held out. She was glad that his hand was steady. She had seen too many shaking hands in the past few days. 'So you think I'd be useful?'
'Of course.'
'And they wouldn't resent me?'
'Certainly not.'
'Then I'll go. Another couple of days. As soon as the conference is over.'
'It's a relief to know you'll attend the conference at any rate.'
