Memory and Desire

by Lisa Appignanesi

  A few moments later, he came over to their table. ‘You should have told me you were in town,’ he said in a proprietary tone. ‘I’ll take you out for lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘No. No I can’t at lunchtime,’ Katherine demurred.

  ‘For dinner, then. At eight. You’re at Maria Novona’s?’

  Before she had a chance to answer, he nodded briskly and was gone.

  The next morning as she was leaving for class, a vast bouquet of gardenias met her at the door. They were for her. She searched for the card. Carlo.

  Sometimes she thought it was that fragrant array of flowers he sent her daily throughout that period in Rome which fed her love. No one had ever sent her flowers before.

  At other times she knew that they were only the backdrop to something deeper, darker.

  That evening he drove her at his usual daredevil pace to the outskirts of the city and parked amidst trees in front of the glow of a restaurant. He turned to her, his eyes bright with the excitement of the speed, and lightly skimmed her thigh where her skirt left it bare.

  She had lurched away from him, as if his touch scalded her.

  He had shaken his dark head mockingly, ‘So much womanly leg and still a child. Come Katrina,’ he forced her face to him and kissed her, slowly, deeply. She had never felt anything like that before. It was like the wildness of the car hurtling through space. It made her forget everything but his lips. And it frightened her. She struggled away from him. Fled from the car.

  He was next to her in a moment, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. ‘There is time, mia Katrina, plenty of time. But soon, soon, I, we, shall make you a woman.’

  He began, throughout those weeks in Rome, to woo her assiduously. One night it was dinner and dancing on the Via Veneto amidst the blazing flashes of the papparazzi.. The next the race course. On the weekend, he took her to the family estate and patiently taught her to ride. And when her horse began to gallop aping his and she cried out, he stopped only after some moments, relishing, she sensed, her fear, which made her a little more pliant in his arms. His kisses grew bruising, more ardent, as did hers, despite herself, in response. But still, she didn’t quite know why, she resisted him. Turned away.

  One day he had insisted on taking her on a round of designer boutiques so that she would be appropriately dressed for the morrow’s occasion. She didn’t quite recognize the elegant figure that paraded before his connoisseur’s eyes and acknowledged his choices. The special occasion turned out again to be the race track, but this time he was driving and her heart bounded to the speed of his car as it looped and vanished before her eyes. She remembered something Violette had said, years ago, about old families, about being in love with death.

  He came second and dejection haunted their evening.

  ‘What do you do when you’re not doing this?’ she asked him, trying to draw him out later in the lamplit cavern of the restaurant.

  He laughed, the planes of his face suddenly mischievous. ‘I look at my land. I gamble,’ he said. ‘And make love to beautiful women.’

  She flushed.

  ‘Some of them like it,’ he gave her his dimpled smile.

  ‘I…I might like it,’ she countered him, irked.

  ‘Yes, yes I think you might. Soon, yes Katrina. Very soon,’ he paused for a moment, reflected, and said with a note of seriousness, ‘I like you Katrina. I’m gambling on you.’ Then he chuckled, ‘And there are other kinds of gambling, of course, the stock exchange amongst them.’

  That night he had let her go without trying to kiss her. She had missed his lips, the scent of his hair, those arms tight around her. Like she did now.

  ‘Miss Jardine, are you with us today? I asked whether you had brought the Donatello slides with you.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Katherine fumbled in her bag, embarrassed. She was no use to anyone this afternoon. Jacob’s letter with its admonishments had provoked a flood of reminiscence.

  The Lecturer’s words flowed in the dimmed light and Katherine tried to concentrate on the screen in front of her. But all she could see was Carlo in that khakhi flying suit he had worn on the last weekend they had had in Rome together.

  That day she had woken bathed in sweat. A dream, a nightmare haunted her eyelids. She couldn’t quite make it out. It had something to do with her mother. She hadn’t dreamt of Sylvie in a long time. But she had been there in that dream. Very tall. Forbidding. In a black dress. And Katherine, it must have been a very little Katherine, had brushed against her legs, wanting to be lifted, needing to feel arms around her, holding her.

  And then she had woken, remembering nothing more, except the sense of that need, the hunger. And with it fear.

  The roar of the plane’s engine had been deafening. But the excitement on Carlo’s face had infected her. And the sheer pleasure of being suspended in space over the hills of Rome. Seeing the frame of the Coliseum, the white mass of the Capitol, the winding Tiber, the tiny streets and then the dome of the Vatican from this new perspective. She had felt light-headed, exhilarated. And as they had looped towards the sea and he had told her it was her turn to take the controls, her initial terror had slid into a joyous intoxication.

  When they had landed, her heart was pounding and her knees were like jelly. She was grateful for his arm around her, the solid strength of his body.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he had kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Have I told you often enough?’

  They had driven to the coast and walked arm in arm along an empty beach. She felt, airy, light, as if the plane had moved her into another sphere, swallowed all the fears she might have. And when his arms looped round her and he kissed her, she returned his passion with an uncustomary freedom. He pulled her down on the sand and covered her with his body so that she could feel every inch of him indented against her. Desire, coursing, unfamiliar, bounded through her, drowning her.

  ‘Yes, Katrina, yes, at last,’ his breath moaned in her ear. And suddenly in that moment, she didn’t know quite what brought it on, perhaps the fact that she was lying down, perhaps the fact of his voice, her dream came back to her and with it panic. She wrenched away from him and ran, ran as fast as she could along the expanse of the beach.

  If she drowned in the need that he wakened, then he could be the only one to save her. The thought formulated itself foggily in her mind as she ran, repeated itself over and over until it turned to nonsense. But she was running as if to save her life.

  They didn’t speak on the way back to Rome. And when she uttered a hesitant thank-you, he didn’t respond. The car sped away almost before she had had a chance to close the door. She could see the surly set of his shoulders. She felt desolate, felt she would never see him again. At the same time, she had a sense of relief. As if she had been given back herself.

  But a day later, he had turned up in order to drive her to the airport. There was a different light in his eye, the mockery tinged with pain, as if somehow he had at once won and lost a bet. She had chattered unstoppably in order to cover her confusion. And when it was time to say goodbye, he had looked at her with what she could only read as frank admiration. ‘I shall see you in London, perhaps,’ he said. And then playfully, so that she wasn’t sure of his intent, he had whispered, ‘You’ll save yourself for me.’

  He had begun to come to London, a day here, a weekend there, usually without warning. He had shown her a London she didn’t know, the London of breakfast at the Connaught and Mayfair gambling clubs and polo weekends in county houses. He had friends here, acquaintances, an international set which mingled rock stars and photographers, gentry, politicians and debutantes. They were hardly the circles in which she normally moved. She felt shy at first, ill at ease. And when the men made passes at her or the photographers asked her if she would sit for them, she looked to Carlo dubiously. Usually, all she could read in his face was his habitual indolence with a glint of irony. Sometimes, there was something else, which she thought looked like approval.

  In tho
se months, he no longer tried to kiss her, though occasionally he would stroke her hair, trace the lines of her face. It puzzled her, distressed her. She had asked him one night hesitantly, ‘Don’t you want me anymore.’

  He had turned smouldering eyes on her, ‘Mia carissima Katrina, I am not a little boy. When you are ready, you will let me know. And then, perhaps…’

  ‘Now, will you kiss me now,’ her voice broke as she said it. They were sitting in front of her flat in the Porsche he had hired for the weekend.

  ‘Now?’ he had taken her hand and caressed it slowly, finger by finger, so that she could feel each inch of her skin. ‘Just a kiss?’ he had teased her.

  She had nodded abruptly.

  And almost in mimicry of her, he had shaken his head. ‘No. I’m not ready.’

  ‘I hate you,’ she had raged at him before she could control her words. ‘I hate you and your snooty useless friends with their Rolls Royces and their horses and their empty heads and…’

  He had caught her arm just as she was about to bound from the car and pulled her to him, kissing her so that desire leapt at her entrails, kindled her cheeks.

  ‘And I, little Miss Jardine from Madame Chardin’s school, I think I am rather beginning to love you. Though you are growing into an intolerable intellectual snob with your Vietnam demonstrations here and your Donatellos there and your professors this and that. Don’t forget there would never have been an Italian renaissance if there hadn’t been those contemptible families like mine to finance it.’

  Her lips still tingling, her ears ringing at his use of the word love, she had been unable to summon a response. All she wanted to do was to ask him to repeat the first part of what he had said, to kiss her again. Instead she sat quietly, unable to move or to speak.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he had said after a moment, ‘you should invite me to meet some of your friends, since you despise mine so much.’

  ‘Alright. Tomorrow. For lunch. Or a drink. I don’t know if there’s any food in the house,’ and with that she had raced breathlessly from the car.

  She remembered every detail of his arrival at the house in Highbury Fields which she shared with a group of friends. Carlo, in uncustomary jeans, a dark blue sweater, a leather jacket thrown casually over his shoulders. He had stood quietly by the door of her room and looked with something like amazement at the narrow bed, the desk with its load of books, the wall above it with its collection of postcards.

  ‘Yes,’ he had said softly, ‘just as I imagined it. All you would need to do is replace the postcards with a crucifix and we have the perfect novice’s cell.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she had blurted out.

  ‘I’m just teasing you,’ he had smiled and reflectively traced the line of her cheek. ‘And these friends, are you going to dare show me to them?’

  ‘Since you’ve dressed appropriately for the occasion, I just might.’ It had been her turn to tease.

  ‘I didn’t want to put you to shame,’ he laughed.

  The ring of the doorbell saved her from having to reply. ‘That must be Portia. You remember Portia, my friend at Madame Chardin’s’.’ She raced to the door, hugged Portia, who was grumbling that she could only stay a little while since she had to be at a meeting; called her housemates together, all five of them, Chris and Tim and Jude and Penelope and Sally, made introductions, poured a not very wonderful wine and watched.

  Carlo had sat quietly in the big sagging chair, but despite his jeans, his quiet, he had exuded a style, a magnetism, a sun-warmed glow which marked him as ineradicably foreign. Chris and Tim with their shaggy beards and student pallor faded into insignificance. Her girlfriends, Portia apart, tittered a little too much. Still, she had been anxious for him, worried that her friends might draw him out on politics or books he hadn’t read, or simply ask him what he did. But the hour before he stood to go passed smoothly enough.

  At the door, the sardonic smile now firmly back on his face, he asked her, ‘Well, did I pass the friends test?’

  Katherine squirmed in embarrassment, ‘I’ll tell you next time we meet,’ she managed to say.

  Only when she closed the door, did she remember that his words echoed those he had used to her in his mother’s house. It perplexed her, but she didn’t have time to think about it, since Portia now followed her inexorably back to her room for what she called a private chat.

  ‘Kat, you’re not in love with that man, are you?’

  Katherine had never considered that particular formulation and its expression had brought the colour to her face.

  ‘If you are you’re even madder than I think. Why he must exude that charm on at least ten women a week and pop them into bed quicker than you can say Jack Robinson. You - who won’t even come close to a decent man’s bedroom.’

  They had had the argument about Katherine’s recalcitrance every time she had gone up to Cambridge to see her friend the previous year.

  ‘He’s very kind to me,’ Katherine said softly, but she was bristling.

  ‘Kind!’ Portia flopped onto Katherine’s bed and made as if to throw a pillow at her. ‘Kind? Katherine how many times do I have to tell you that you’re an exceedingly beautiful woman. Men like that are not noted for their kindness to beautiful women. You’re going to get your little tootsies burnt, not to mention more delicate parts. Why he’s just a playboy. A playboy with a lot of filthy lucre. We agreed on that years ago, if you’ll remember, when we were at Princesse Mat’s.’

  ‘You don’t know him, Portia,’ Katherine murmured.

  ‘No, that’s true. I don’t know him,’ she looked at her friend curiously. ‘Next thing you’ll tell me is that he makes your pulse race and your heart go pitter patter and that he’s going to carry you off to his castle on his white charger. What kind of books have you been reading, Kat? Fairy tales, I bet. These are the 1960s.’

  Katherine turned away. It was useless trying to explain to Portia.

  ‘All I know Miss Jardine is that if I was going to hop into bed, I’d do it with Chris or Tim and build up my repertoire, sharpen my nails a little before digging them into the likes of Signor Negri. And I imagine they’ll be a lot kinder than his Italian highness.’ Portia stood up to go, ‘Want to come to this meeting with me?’

  Katherine had demurred.

  The next time she had seen Carlo was over the Christmas holidays in Switzerland. She had not known he would be there, but she had told him that she was planning to stay with Princesse Mathilde. And when Mat announced one night that Carlo had rung and would be coming by the next day, Katherine was overjoyed.

  Princesse Mathilde, who seemed to see everything despite her years, noticed that too. ‘You saw a little of Carlo in Italy, I believe,’ she said casually, lifting a poker to prod the fire.

  ‘Yes,’ Katherine leapt up, ‘Here let me do that. And in London,’ she added.

  She had long since rid herself of any momentary animosity she had felt for Princesse Mathilde over the revelation that Violette was her half-sister. In fact, the first time she had seen Mathilde, after that, the Princesse had taken her aside and talked to her at length about her relationship with Jacob. She had done so with such feeling and humour and honesty that Katherine had thrilled to her story and wished again that Mathilde were her mother. As it was, she felt closer to the Princesse, trusted her more intimately, than anyone else.

  And so, she had not been afraid to intimate in the face she presented to the Princesse something of her feelings about Carlo.

  Princesse Mat had merely murmured a non-committal, ‘I see,’ and patted her hand. Katherine had been grateful for her tact, her lack of any instant judgment.

  The next day Carlo had arrived early and having paid his respects to the Princesse had whisked her off to a village high up in the Alps where he was staying and where the snow was already thick on the ground. The coil of his presence had wound instantly round her, though there had been something different about him, a seriousness round the eyes, a certain concentration
about his features which closed him to her. They had spoken little, a desultory query about her studies, another about her friends. Then the business of skiing had taken over. She had known that he would do so beautifully, but nonetheless, she was rapt by the swift grace with which he manoeuvred the steep slopes. And she had only stopped looking at him when the mountain demanded her entire concentration.

  Later, she was as always breathless with the exhilaration of it, and it was only after they had shed their gear and she had a drink in her hand that she realised she was alone in the chalet with him. Realised too that it was perhaps the first time that they had been alone in a house together. Perhaps he had the same realisation then too for he came up to her and in a single fluid gesture relieved her of her glass and took her in his arms. His kiss shook her with its intensity, reminded her of Roman nights, and she clung to him unwilling, unable to let go. It was then that he had murmured in her ear, ‘Perhaps, mia Katrina, it would be a good idea if we were to be married.’ She had arched away from him, searched for his eyes, uncertain that she had heard him correctly.

  He must have taken her surprise for indecision for he stepped away from her. ‘You will think about it. Yes. It is a big step, I know, for a young woman.’ With that, he had looked at her intently, taken her hand again, stroked it, as if it were a precious, a fragile object.

  Confusion had invaded her. He wanted to marry her. Somehow the notion had never occurred to her. Marriage. To be wed to Carlo. Yes. She wanted to shout. Yes. He wanted her. Not the way Portia had said. But really. For good. She had only found her tongue again when they were back at the Princesse’s house. She had made him roll down the window of the car. ‘Yes,’ she had said to him shyly, ‘Yes, Carlo, I will.’

  He had sped after her and lifted her into the air. Kissed her a little clumsily, like a joyous youth. Then they had walked into the wintry night together. ‘It remains only to get the permission of the families.’