by Gill Paul
Chapter Seventy-Four
Several days went by and still Scott hadn’t heard from the editor about his article. He was surprised because he knew it was good writing and he believed it was a compelling story that would concern American readers, because a lot of the drugs that ended up on their city streets were coming via Italy. So why the delay? Could his editor be on holiday perhaps? But he never took holidays. Were they debating the best way to break the story for maximum impact?
The call came on a Monday evening, just as Scott was about to leave the office.
‘It’s a brilliant piece of writing, Scott. And you’ve obviously been very brave – some would say foolhardy – in your research. But unfortunately we can’t print it.’
Scott sat down hard in his chair, the wind knocked out of him. ‘You’re kidding! Why not?’
‘First of all, the legal team have been through it with a red pen and there’s very little left. You can change the names and disguise them with asterisks but anyone who ever reads a newspaper in Rome would know who you were talking about and that makes it libellous – unless you can prove your allegations, which you obviously can’t.’
‘I’ve just found out that Luigi’s dead, so he’s not going to sue,’ Scott argued.
‘Yes, but the meat of the story is at the top of the tree where the Ghianciaminas are bribing government ministers and you simply can’t say that, can you? They’ll either kill you or they’ll sue you or both.’
‘They might try to kill me but they wouldn’t sue because that would be like putting their hands up and admitting “Yes, it’s us, we’re the crime family he’s talking about.” Don’t you see? That’s the beauty of it.’
There was a hoarse laugh. ‘You’ve given me a few headaches over the months you’ve been in the post, but believe it or not I’d rather keep you alive. I don’t want any of my reporters being gunned down if I can possibly help it.’
Scott cast round desperately for arguments. ‘You have to print it. I’ll resign if you don’t. I’ll walk out, just as Bradley did.’
‘If you walked out I would simply appoint a new correspondent in your place and nothing would have been achieved. Look, Scott, don’t throw your piece away. Save it. Turn it into a book about the Mafia one day. Widen your research while you’re there, and send it out to publishers once you’ve left Italy and are safely ensconced elsewhere. Meanwhile, my Berlin correspondent is moving on this autumn and the job’s yours if you fancy covering the front line of the Cold War.’
That stopped Scott in his tracks. He’d love to be in Berlin, where the government of the German Democratic Republic had started building a second wall several yards from the first, creating a no-man’s land in the middle. But still he wanted his story published. ‘If I can get more evidence against the Ghianciaminas would you print it then?’
‘No.’
‘What if I offer it elsewhere, to a magazine?’
‘I suppose I wouldn’t stop you, even though it’s in breach of your contract. But wait till the autumn and let me get you out of Rome before it’s in print. Is that a deal?’
Scott agreed that it was, but he decided to start looking into a magazine publishing deal straight away because it might take several months to come to fruition. He didn’t have any contacts in that world and was reluctant to ask his father for help. Instead, he decided to go to the Eden Hotel bar and ask among the foreign press hacks to see if anyone could give him a lead. He hoped they still drank there. It had been weeks since he bothered to look them up, but he guessed they were creatures of habit.
There was a surprise waiting for him as he walked out onto the rooftop terrace and called ‘Hi guys!’ to the assembled crowd.
A short, baby-faced man wearing round black glasses turned and looked at him quizzically. ‘Well, he’s a handsome one. Who’s going to introduce me?’
Joe stepped forward. ‘Truman, this is Scott Morgan of the Midwest Daily. Scott, meet Truman Capote.’
And that was unmistakably who it was, all five foot three of him, with his high-pitched, effeminate Southern accent and his pinstriped suit with a silk kerchief spilling from the pocket. Scott was stunned. So Joe had been telling the truth about their friendship after all!
‘Enchanted to meet you, Scott Morgan,’ he proclaimed, holding Scott’s hand for much longer than was comfortable.
Truman continued relating an anecdote he had been in the midst of before Scott arrived. ‘Poor Elizabeth is simply beside herself with this pesky woman who simply won’t let go. She does a wicked imitation of her, by the way. “Rich-ard, come and take the trash out, Rich-ard.”’ He adopted a falsetto that came out as a squeak. ‘She called me and said, “Come to Rome, darling, and we can do some witchy spells to make Sybil slither back to the rain-soaked mountains of Wales.” So that’s what we’re doing – making spells!’ He gulped the remainder of his drink and called the bartender across. ‘I’ll have a Justerini & Brooks, darling. Make it a big one.’
‘That’s a J & B whisky,’ Joe whispered to Scott. ‘He gets mad if bartenders don’t know it. Luckily this one has served him before.’
‘So what’s the news with you, Spike?’ one of the other hacks asked, and Scott’s nickname was explained to Truman Capote.
‘Have you been spiked recently?’ he asked, with a lascivious twinkle.
‘Actually, I have,’ Scott began, before cottoning on to the innuendo. ‘Yeah, yeah, have a good laugh, boys.’ He waited till they had stopped chortling before he carried on. ‘I was going to ask if you guys know any magazine editors who might be interested in a new journalism piece about the drugs trade in Italy? My editor won’t touch it.’
‘Drugs? Naughty, naughty. Have you been doing personal research?’ someone asked.
‘I don’t suppose you could get me a little something, could you?’ Truman Capote asked. ‘Some co-ca maybe?’
‘Sure,’ Scott agreed. ‘I’ve got some in my office. We could stop there afterwards if you want.’
‘Isn’t he charming?’ Truman addressed the group. ‘Someone’s mummy taught him how to share. I like this boy a lot.’ He put an arm round Scott’s waist, having to stretch up to reach it. With his other hand, he beckoned Scott to bend down so that he could whisper in his ear. ‘Why not let me read your story, Scott, and if I like it I’ll show it to my publishers? They never consider anything without an introduction but I could press your case for you.’
Scott was delighted. This was the man who had written Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and was generally considered one of the wittiest writers in New York. Having him on his side was bound to help. ‘That would be wonderful!’ he exclaimed. ‘The next Justerini & Brooks is on me.’
Soon the drinks were flowing fast and freely and an argument flared up about President Kennedy’s policy of spraying Agent Orange over the forests of Vietnam, in an attempt to deprive the Viet Cong of cover from which to attack the Southern Vietnamese. One of the hacks argued that it was against the Geneva Convention to fly over someone else’s country and destroy their crops, but Truman Capote was fiercely in support of it. Scott got the impression he had a crush on President Kennedy as he seemed to believe the man could walk on water.
‘Remember Bay of Pigs,’ someone cautioned.
‘Dear boy, the CIA set him up. It was an inside job. Everyone who’s anyone knows that.’
There was no arguing with someone quite so adamant. Truman could quote all kinds of authority, from his friend Norman Mailer to his great friend Dashiell Hammett. He dropped a name in virtually every sentence.
Scott was only drinking beer but he had an empty stomach and somewhere around the fifth round he began to feel sick. He went to the men’s room to throw up and when he came out of the cubicle, Truman was waiting for him.
‘Shall we head off now? I told Elizabeth I wouldn’t be late, but I’d very much like to accompany you to your office first.’
‘Sure. I’ll take you there.’
‘Let’s slip off and leave those
deadweights with the bill, shall we? I have a feeling the evening is going to get rather tedious from here on in.’
Scott grinned. ‘Sure thing. Have you got your own car or would you like a lift on the back of my Vespa?’
‘Ah, the Vespa! Symbol of la dolce vita. What an enticing offer!’
As they drove to the office, he clung tightly around Scott’s hips, his hands uncomfortably close to his privates, and Scott was glad they didn’t have far to go. Up in the office, Truman exclaimed over the ingenious design of the cubbyhole, and when he saw the three packs of pristine cocaine, nothing would do but for him to try a couple of lines straight away. Scott refused to join him. Helen’s experiences had put him off.
‘Here’s a copy of my article,’ he said, pulling it out of the cubbyhole. He had made three carbons and sent the top copy to the editor so he still had a couple left. ‘And I’ll write my telephone numbers on it so you can tell me how it goes. How should I get in touch with you?’
Truman held out a white business card that simply had his name and a Manhattan phone number. ‘You’re honoured. I don’t give these cards to many but I believe you have potential, young Scott. I think we should keep in touch. We may be able to work together in future.’
‘How soon do you think there will be any news about my article?’
‘I’m flying back to New York on Thursday and I’ll see my publisher within a week. He can be a little slow but you will definitely hear within the month.’ Truman wiped his nostrils with a finger.
Scott was disappointed. He’d hoped things would move faster. But then, he couldn’t have the piece published while he was living in Rome anyway, so maybe it was all for the best.
‘Don’t worry, darling. You have me as your champion. If you are any good at all I’ll get you into print. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a taxi back to Elizabeth’s. Thrilling as it was to ride on your Vespa, I don’t believe my nerves could stand any more of it. Goodnight, my very charming friend.’
It was only after he left that Scott remembered he hadn’t offered any money for the three packs of cocaine he’d pocketed. Oh well. It was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Two days after their dinner with Elizabeth and Richard, just long enough for Diana’s hangover to subside, she and Trevor set off for Ischia. They took a Rapido down to Naples, then caught the hydrofoil boat across the bay. Diana felt a twinge of guilt as she identified the islands on the horizon for Trevor, remembering an evening when Ernesto showed them to her, long before anything had happened between them. That had been the beginning of the seduction, she realised. He had been playing a long game, prepared to wait for the right moment rather than leaping on her during their stay on the island.
It was a bright, sunny June day. The Mediterranean was an extraordinary cerulean shade of blue, while the sky was more of an azure, but on the horizon they blurred together in a misty haze. The sea breeze made the temperature comfortable. Everything would have been perfect, if only Helen hadn’t died and the future of Diana’s marriage wasn’t up in the air.
‘Let’s just enjoy this,’ Trevor said, and she got a spooky sense that he’d read her mind. He must know she was no longer interested in him sexually. He didn’t seem interested in her either. They hugged in bed, but that was all.
‘Yes, let’s,’ she said, and meant it.
Most of the cast and crew were to be billeted at the purpose-built Pensione Cleopatra, but the production staff were based in the nearby Jolly Hotel. Its ballroom had been converted into an office with desks, typewriters and telephones, and through the glass doors Diana could see the glint of a swimming pool. They left their luggage in their room, but Diana was impatient to get down to the harbour and inspect the boats, and Cleopatra’s and Antony’s in particular. How had the master boatbuilders realised all the final details?
As their taxi wove down into the little cove, she could see Cleopatra’s barge, the Antonia, from afar, the gold-painted hull resplendent in the sunlight. The Antonia was huge and ornate, with purple sails furled round the masts, and numerous statues and urns at prow and stern. It was moored in deep water but connected to the jetty by a series of floating planks with a rope running along as a handrail. It all looked rather precarious, but they got out of their taxi and made their way towards it.
One of the boatbuilders recognised her as she walked along the jetty.
‘Signora Bailey, cosa pensi della nostra creazione?’ – ‘What do you think of our creation?’ He gestured with a sweep of his arm.
‘Magnifico,’ she proclaimed. ‘Better than the real thing.’
He told her that after she had looked round Cleopatra’s barge, he would take her out in a motorboat to Antony’s ship, which was moored further round the bay.
She and Trevor stepped onto the slippery planks, which tilted under their weight, threatening to tip them into the sea. She clung to the rope, stepping carefully over gaps between planks. Some large silver fish circled below as if expecting to be fed. When she reached the gold-painted side of the barge, there was a rope ladder to climb up to the deck.
‘Are they seriously expecting Elizabeth to do this in full Cleopatra costume?’ she called over her shoulder. ‘That’s one sight I absolutely have to see.’
When they got on deck they saw that every single surface that could possibly be decorated had curlicues, incense burners or carvings of Egyptian gods. It wasn’t historically accurate but it was spectacular – like the eighth wonder of the world, Trevor said, with only a hint of irony. The local boatbuilders had been working on it for six months since she last saw the basic shape and advised on the masts, and it had been transformed into a floating palace worthy of any queen, whether from ancient Egypt or modern Hollywood.
There was no point in criticising anything because there was no time to change it. Diana made a few notes about where the different scenes would be filmed and highlighted some issues that the continuity staff would have to look out for, but she could see this was going to be the pièce de résistance of the whole movie. It was the physical manifestation of the budget over-spend.
They clambered down the rope ladder and into the boatbuilders’ launch to travel out to Antony’s more utilitarian battleship, with huge steel spikes protruding from the front. Everything was just as she had envisioned it, and she was delighted. They toured the other boats that would take part in the sea battle of Actium, and Diana pronounced them perfect.
‘That’s it!’ she announced. ‘My work is done. Now all I have to do is relax for a week until the cast and crew arrive.’
They spent the week walking, swimming in secluded bays, eating and drinking in local restaurants and bars, and Diana felt the tension in her muscles slowly dissolve away. With the combination of warm sun and gentle exercise Trevor’s back stopped bothering him, and his skin tanned, making him look healthier. The island got busier as the week progressed. Foremost among the new arrivals were some young men on motor scooters wielding huge cameras.
‘Here we go,’ Trevor sighed. ‘They’re gearing up for the Liz and Dick Show.’
‘They’ll have no privacy here, except within the walls of their hotel room – if there. Someone told me that a new chambermaid at the Regina Isabella Hotel, where Richard and Elizabeth have suites, was discovered to be a journalist from Novella magazine.’
However, it seemed the couple had given up any hope of privacy because, instead of sailing to the island on a private boat, their arrival was heralded by the whirring of a helicopter resounding through the skies. The noise became deafening as it got closer then dropped down to land at the island’s only heliport, five minutes from their hotel. Every paparazzo on Ischia was there with cameras primed before the helicopter doors opened and all got plenty of shots of the world’s most famous couple.
The filming of the sea battle went according to plan, and on 23rd June they were to film the Antonia arriving at Tarsus – an event that had marked t
he beginning of Cleopatra’s affair with Antony. Of course, like every outdoor scene, it was split into panoramic shots, long shots and close-ups, and there was stopping and restarting whenever the camera angle changed. The gold barge should have proceeded slowly into port, its purple sails fluttering and palm trees swaying on deck, to the sound of fifes, harps and flutes, but there was no music. Instead spectators heard the sounds of aeroplanes flying overhead, and the chatter of the watching crowd. Still, it was exciting. Coloured smoke spiralled from incense burners. Cleopatra stood under a golden canopy flanked by two silver cat gods and surrounded by dozens of beautiful young girls. The silver oars flashed through the water, even though the boat was actually powered by a motor.
There were hundreds of tiny craft in the water. Cleopatra’s handmaidens threw coins from the deck of the Antonia, and seventy-five swimmers from the Italian Olympic team dived to retrieve them. The air was thick with the honeyed scent of hundreds of dollars-worth of flowers wilting in the heat of the midday sun.
It was Elizabeth’s last official day of filming, and it seemed very apt that this should be her final scene. She was regal, indomitable, the queen of all she surveyed. Weighed down with gold and jewels, she must have been sweltering in the June heat but not a bead of sweat marked her flawless brow. Diana wondered how she was feeling inside, though. The day was drawing near when Richard would have to make the momentous decision: Sybil, his friends and family and the English theatrical establishment – or Elizabeth and Hollywood superstardom.
Elizabeth was throwing a party in her suite that evening, to which Diana and Trevor were invited, and she expected that the actress would be rather emotional. Hilary told her that Walter had arranged for an ambulance to be on standby in case she did anything silly, but that seemed unduly melodramatic.
