by Tim Parks
The four shaded platforms of Ancona’s station milled with holidaymakers straining to catch the delays announced over the p.a., while the sun lay bright and white like four hot pokers on the gleaming lines between. A freight train clattered by and the inevitable workmen way up the line leaned on their spades to watch it pass. Morris tried to look at his situation logically. He tried to analyse each step he must make, one by one. But his mind rebelled. It was perilous but he seemed to be losing the desire to really think the thing out, to take it from now, the eye of the storm, right through every possible permutation to the moment when he, Morris Duckworth no less, would be perfectly free to live a life of ease with his ugly name, in an apartment in Rome perhaps, or Naples., or Verona again. (Why should he move if he came out of it right?)
Morris was perfectly happy reviewing the details of the life afterwards - he wanted to write a book, that was definite, and perhaps if he invested the money carefully he might even patronize one or two other intelligent young men from poor backgrounds who thought like himself - it wasn’t impossible. (The Duckworth Scholarship, a year in Italy for budding young writers - that would be an amusing way to meet new people.) Morris enjoyed these thoughts like a cool soothing cream - but his restless mind refused to settle on the next few days and weeks ahead during which his future ease must be earned. (The careers of how many would-be Duckworth scholars hung on his every move.)
He bent down, unzipped a bag and drew out the dictaphone.
‘Dear Dad, it might be worthwhile to compare our two respective futures. Yours stretches away on metalled rails, in an eternity of work, telly, beer and darts. Death will be an accident for you, a sudden hiccup, a derailment not a destination. My future on the contrary, is in the making every moment, as is my character; life for me is a maze where every choice is critical and hence formative (this was very good!). The contrast reflects our different positions vis à vis freedom and courage, I may come to grief but …’
‘Documenti, per favore.’ Morris’s head jerked up like a jack-in-the-box. A tall carabiniere was standing over the only other occupant of the bench, a hippy looking girl. The policeman was heavily built with a pantomime Calabrian moustache, a white shirt soaked in sweat. Three or four other uniformed officers were moving up the platform behind, demanding documents at random (and just when he had really been in form).
Morris turned instinctively to his left, but saw that the platform simply petered away into a maze of rails after another fifty metres or so. Anyway, it would be crazy to get up and go at a moment like this. He slipped the dictaphone back in the bag, opened a side pocket and rummaged for his passport. If somebody had seen him in the hotel lobby and given a description? Or when he was dropping the bag in the river perhaps, if somebody had seen him then? Or even simply eating with Giacomo and Sandra the night before (they had found the restaurant receipt in his pocket, gone over there to interview the waiters, it was obvious). If they had got an identikit of him already and were doing the most sensible thing, combing all trains and train connections out of the city? Why on earth had he travelled by train? It was asking for it. And if they recognized him now? What to do? He would give himself up immediately. There was no point in struggling like an idiot and having himself shot at. Morris could already feel the hard metal of the handcuffs closing on his wrists, could hear himself speaking in court: They were no better than me. Your Honour. Signor Pellegrini made a number of lewd proposals to my fidanzata which, ‘But his fidanzata was Massimina for God’s sake!'
The policeman was turning over and over the small plastic card the girl had given him. He looked her up and down and asked her to show him the underside of her arms. She did so and he grunted, not finding what he was after.
'Mio passaporto,, Morris said with his frankest blond smile and strongest English accent. The carabiniere’s southern face relaxed into an expression of generous servility and at the sight of the very respectable, short-haired, clear-eyed and patently undrugged Morris, he pushed the blue passport away.
‘Niente bisogno, grazie.’
Morris made a cool show of examining his watch for a moment, fiddled in the pocket of his shorts for money, stood up and hurried directly to the ladies’ room which was back towards the main station. He must stop her as she came out of the loo, stop her coming up the platform and being …
But he was too late. Massimina met him halfway.
‘Morri, they’re looking for drug addicts! They …’
‘Did they ask you for documents? Do you have any with you?’
‘I showed my ID card. They’re looking at everybody’s arms to see if …’
Morris put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a resounding kiss on one soft cheek. He felt quite as if she’d done something extraordinarily clever of her own accord: showed her identity card to a carabiniere and not even been recognized! The police in Ancona clearly were not on the lookout for a kidnap victim from Verona. Not wandering free down the platform. It was obvious really, but Morris couldn’t help feeling how marvellous it was. A little miracle.
'The train’s in on platform four. Go and save us a couple of seats while I just dash and make a phone call. ‘ It was so useful having an accomplice. If ever he was arrested he’d swear she’d been in on it all the way and bring her down with him. There were ways of proving one had made love these days. That should stick it up her signora mamma’s arse with her oh so nice educated daughter stuff.
‘But …’
I’ve just thought of a friend’s house we might be able to stay at. I want to phone before we get to Rome. Save us some money maybe.’
Morris found the station S.I.P. by the ticket office. He closed himself in a booth, fished for his address book and dialled directly. It was all instinct now. The thing was to do everything on the upstroke. As it came. That was living.
‘Signora Trevisan?'
‘Si, chi parla?'
‘Sono io, Signora, Morris.’
'Ah, dove sei? She seemed neither irritated nor pleased, but more resigned.
‘In An - Bari,’ Morris remembered. ‘Look, I just wanted to know if you’ve had any more news about Massimina, I mean from her …’ He let his voice trail off, as if overawed.
‘No,’ Signora Trevisan said. She was having to try hard to stop herself from crying, Morris thought, and he felt inclined to be kind to her. God knows if she hadn’t been rude to him in the first place he would never have been anything other than kind and polite to her and most probably none of this would ever have happened. He could have married Massimina and had done. Brought a bit of style into the family. New blood. Good gene mix.
'Is there any hope it might not be a kidnap then, I mean …’
'The police say this is quite usual.’ She was curt-now.
‘If I came back to Verona, is there anything I could do? Because I really would like …’
Signora Trevisan didn’t think so really. The police were following up every line they could and her brother and Bobo had both come to live with them for the duration, for moral support and advice.
‘I see.’
‘But if you want some news you can always phone,’ she added, rather grudgingly Morris felt.
‘Grazie infinite,’ he said warmly and after asking after the rest of the family hung up with a smile.
Then phoned Gregorio. If the worst came to the worst and one had to run, where better than a golden beach in Sardinia?
The phone rang for some minutes and was finally answered by another boy who was not Gregorio. After a moment or two Gregorio came on the line, giggly and clearly drunk. Morris was annoyed (the famous figli di papà, drunk at noon on their sun-drenched veranda) and explained his situation quickly and tersely, not at all begging. He was in Bari but had decided not to go to Turkey for reasons too complicated to go into. Would it be possible for him to stay in Sardinia for a while as offered? He’d be there in a week’s time.
‘But I won’t be here,’ Gregorio said.
His father had to have
a gallstone operation July 1st, and Mother had insisted he be back in Verona to visit and so on and keep her company, because she was always nervous in the house on her own and especially after that break-in when they took the bronze. It was understandable really.
But damn annoying, Morris thought.
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Well. ’
‘No, look, the only problem is I've gone and sublet my flat. Stupid of me I suppose, but now …’
Morris glanced at his watch. Three minutes before the train left.
‘Well, you could always stay with us in Verona. My mother would be delighted. Take her mind off things having a guest you know. She laps up new people,’
‘Thanks, okay, I’ll think about it.’ Morris let his voice fall with just a trace of disappointment. ‘It’s just that I have a rather close friend with me.’
Gregorio laughed a tiddly laugh and shouted something to his friend in the room. Morris, instinctively, had used the word amico, rather than amica. And he was right. After some background laughter, Gregorio said, ‘Roberto here suggests I leave the keys to the house with him and he’ll let you have them when you get here.’
‘Well … only if you’re sure it’s okay, I mean I don’t want to …’
But Gregorio was sure. It was absolutely fine, and he gave Morris Roberto’s address and phone number.
‘Friend from Verona?’ Morris asked in passing.
‘Roberto? No, he lives here. They have a hotel.’
Good. Morris signed off. He should have asked about the exams of course, but time was ticking away. The next occasion would do just as well.
On the train he fought his way down the corridors looking for Massimina. It was packed with soldiers for some reason, all laughing and smoking out of the big open windows. There was nothing Morris hated more than soldiers, most especially slovenly ones, and he elbowed his way quite viciously along the corridor. Then having found the girl he plomped himself down in the seat opposite, breathless, all smiles.
‘Why so late? I …’
Only now he noticed she had used the moments in the ladies’ room to do herself up again. Soft pink lipstick and a dreamy eyeshadow. Too attractive by half with all these soldiers about. But it did give one a certain status. He’d have to find her a different bra though. Something more subdued and natural.
‘My friend wasn’t in, so I called Paola.’
‘Who?’
'Paola, your Paola, your sister.’
‘Oh,’ Massimina relaxed. ‘I was getting worried. When the train started I nearly got off it. I mean, how was I to know you’d made it, really?’
Morris smiled never-mindishly and glanced round the compartment. Businessmen, students, a couple of peasanty women and a soldier. No one they were likely to get into dangerous conversations with.
‘So what did she say?’
‘Well, it seems your mother’s gone off with Grandmother to the mountains, Selva di Valgardena. The doctors suggested it for convalescence, and Antonella and Bobo have gone too.’
‘Oh? So Paola’s alone in the house then?’ Massimina was dubious.
‘No, she’s sleeping at a friend’s place she said and just checking up on things at the house every now and then. That’s why nobody answered yesterday. Lucky I caught her really.’
'That will be Giuseppina,’ Massimina said. ‘Her friend.’
'That’s right.’ Morris noticed she looked rather down. ‘Homesick? Miss them?’
The train plunged into the first of the long tunnels through the Apennines. In the sudden complete darkness and roaring echo of the walls, Massimina leaned across the compartment slipped a hand between his knees and slithered it down to his thighs.
‘Not with you,’ she said, and almost had to shout. ‘Not after last night.’
‘She gave me an address where you can write to Mamma direct,’ Morris said. ‘Why don’t we write her a nice long letter, see if we can’t bring her round.’
They wrote the letter at the station in Terni where the train decided to stop for twenty minutes or so. They wrote it on sheets of lemon yellow notepaper with blue forget-me-nots climbing the left hand margin, which Massimina had bought in Rimini. Massimina said what she wanted to say, but even though he had only been in Italy a couple of years it was Morris who chose the elegant consolatory phrases. What it all amounted to was that they were very happy and would marry on her eighteenth birthday, for which they would like to have Mamma’s consent. All doubts dissolved, they said. Morris signed his name too and wrote a note in his own hand saying how much he regretted that all this unpleasantness had come between them and wished the situation could return to normal as soon as possible. The curious thing was the sincerity and facility he felt: he could really see it all and really did his best to persuade his future mother-in-law. As if nothing had been decided at all …
The train pulled out of Terni towards two thirty and for the rest of the journey Morris hypnotized himself into a state of calm, gazing out of the window at brilliant yellow June corn broken by row after row of vines. If you didn’t move your eyes to focus on any particular spot the effect of the shining green of the vine leaves against the golden carpet of grain became quite soporific and by the time the train pulled into Rome, shortly after four, his mind was completely empty, drained; and perfectly operational.
No sooner were they at the end of the platform than he sent her off to queue in the café, to pick up a couple of cappuccinos and a sandwich and find a table, while he went off to buy the stamps and post the letter. Taking the suitcases with him he found a tobacconist’s just beyond the left luggage office, bought enough stamps to send an espresso, put them on the ransom letter now addressed in lettroset to Bobo and mailed the thing directly. The other letter he tore into the tiniest shreds before leaving it in a waste bin.
14
This was the evening of Friday, June 17th, a week almost to the hour since Massimina had left her home in the village of Quinzano, frazione di Verona, and six days before, according to the instructions in the ransom letter, the Trevisans would be required to place a mere 800 million lire in a holdall in the first class compartment of the 7:52 Milan-Palermo espresso. After which, as far as Morris was concerned, two possibilities offered themselves: on the boat, south and east to Greece, or on the ferry to Sardinia and a more relaxing time at Gregorio’s house - returning to Verona at the beginning of autumn with all tracks well covered. Who knows, he might even accept a couple of hours’ teaching a week for a while so as not to surprise anybody too much.
The night of the 17th was a halfway house then, with everything going swimmingly, so far as Morris could see. It was the morning after, Saturday, June 18th, that he was to wake up with a splitting headache and a fever burning its way well up into the hundreds, his body slippery and stale with sweat, his eyes dry and red, his ears singing like an untuned radio and his bowels ringing out alarms. Morris was ill.
It had been an evening of celebration. Morris had insisted that a first night in Rome was an occasion to live it up a little, so they found a slightly better pensione than usual in the side streets behind Piazza Quirinale. (Who cared if it meant leaving his passport this time? Nobody seemed to be checking where he was and he’d phone the police Monday to say he was in Rome, he’d changed his plans.) They were checked in and had the bags in their room before six o’clock and then set out at once to stroll and wine and dine.
They walked to Piazza Venezia in a balmy evening air. took a look at the decidedly ugly monument to Victor Emanuel II, then followed Via dei Fori Imperiali with the sun throwing long shadows in front of them on the warm tar and colouring the huge curved walls of the Colosseum ahead. He should have kept Giacomo’s cameras perhaps, Morris thought; he’d always wanted to take good photographs; it was something he imagined he would be rather expert at.
(It was the unreality of those murders that amazed him. You realized the world was probably full of murderers, war-criminals, child molesters, who couldn’t believe t
hey’d really done it. The truth was, everybody was capable of doing it, only incapable of accepting they were capable. Every kitchen knife was a murder weapon and everybody had killed a thousand times over in their heads. It was just a question of bringing the two together, the desire, the opportunity. ‘Dad, it amazes me that with a strong character like yours you never killed anyone.’ Unless he had? Skinny Binny had disappeared rather abruptly from his life, hadn’t she? That was food for thought, dictaphone fodder.)
Morris bought a guidebook and after the Colosseum they doubled back to wander around what was open of the forum itself and the Palatine untill the paths were all closed at nine. Massimina chattered her continual amazement, which was tiresome, but not so much so that it could upset Morris’s genuine enjoyment of the ancient city. He had always wanted to come and here it was, infinitely more impressive than the poor weatherbeaten English ruins that cowered in the city centres amongst the fluorescent lights of Co-ops and the stained concrete of the sixties building spree. No, here there was more of a oneness, a cohesion, something that drew together the raging traffic and the ruins sprouting with olives and orange trees, the long burning streets with their splendid names like banners from the past. Via San Teodoro, Via Botteghe Oscure.
Massimina chattered on and he didn’t hear. He was learning perhaps what every husband no doubt learns after the first days of living together, that there is a time to listen and a time to close one’s ears against all that is frivolous about femininity, all he could do without. But even while ignoring her, he realized he was enjoying her company, the promise of her physical proximity. The truth was perhaps that forced cohabitation was doing him a power of good (he was open to anything in the end). And then on the purely practical side, nobody questioned you when you were with somebody else nobody tried to approach you or bother you like they would if you were alone (although in a way in fact he felt more blissfully alone than ever - and never worried about it precisely because there was someone there). Plus she had the impression that he was an authority on everything, which in comparison with herself quite naturally he was, and she asked his opinion on everything they saw, whether it was Michelangelo or a shirt to buy, which Morris found rather enjoyable. Recognition at last. It would be amusing, he thought, to take the girl back to England and present her to his father, have her parade about with her most arrogant of arrogant bras and tell Daddy-0 in her broken English what a genius Morris was.
