by Allan Massie
So who is Corrado Dusa talking to now?
I could read his letters as a desperate attempt to involve the whole world in his disgrace and so in his love. The whole world except Gianni Schicchi, I suppose.
The night fell, moonless. I thought of Bella, who would understand none of this.
All the same, still thinking of Bella, inevitably I had Kim a day or two later. It was what she was for. She made me go through the whole performance though, since she was cockteaser as well as whore. I came on her and Ed having a drink in Navona on the Sunday morning with the Observer and the Sunday Times, which both had long articles on Dusa that Ed had to dissect. Kim was bored, dressed all in white, white jeans and a white shirt. She drew everyone’s eyes, but they didn’t stay on her the way eyes stayed on Bella or used to stay on my ex-wife, Sarah.
Maybe it was pity made me go through the performance. But there was loathing too. I wanted to humiliate her, for making me itch that way, but when, after lunch, she was naked on my bed and I realized that she deeply wanted just that humiliation herself, then something went out of me and my love-making was efficient, middle-aged and perfunctory. I don’t know if she knew I had lost interest. A lot of men, I suppose, lost interest about the same stage and maybe she thought that was just how the sex behaved. She might never get what she wanted and go through life frustrated but unharmed.
‘It’s kinda cute your apartment,’ she said, sitting up with the dirty sheet pulled round her on the bikini line of her breasts, the way she had learned from the movies. She accepted the obligatory cigarette, and blew out smoke and repeated what she had said. ‘I guess it’s a real bachelor’s pad,’ she said. ‘How come you live like this though? Dad says Italian journalists make good money.’
‘We do all right.’
‘But you’re English, aren’t you?’
She wasn’t really curious. You can always tell when they are. She was just making conversation to keep off silence, and when she went on to ask me if I had never been married, and I told her about Sarah, and if I had any children, and I told her about Julian, she came to a stop. No more questions. Social obligations had been fulfilled and she could return the conversation to herself, where she felt at home, and a description of her sensations.
‘I’ve got this thing about men, you know. I guess it’s a kind of kink with me. Ruthie says it’s the way I’m made. She says I’m a very physical girl.’
She stretched back across the pillow as she said this, letting the blonde hair fall advertisingly free.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘your cousin Tom seemed pretty struck with you the other night. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
She frowned, thinking visibly. It was incongruous, like watching an alligator dance.
‘He’s funny, Tom. I guess he’s kinda shy. It’s funny though finding an Italian boy that’s shy. I never thought I’d find that. Not the way my ass gets pinched black and blue in the streets.’
I got her back to Tom and she told me of their visit to his home in the Abruzzi, and about his friend who’d been there. ‘A real jerk,’ she said. ‘It was funny though, the way he just disappeared. Ruthie was sure he didn’t want to go.’
Certainty came to me in that instant, like the first leaf-stripping wind of the Tramontana that tells you the summer is over; it came like the menace revealed by the lamplight in the street you had thought deserted; like that moment panic tells you to go on and not stop.
‘He seemed a nice boy,’ I said, ‘your cousin.’
‘Sure he’s nice, he’s a nice kid, but funny,’ said Kim. ‘You know, where he lives in Rome there’s no telephone like. That’s really weird. I guess I could hardly believe it at first. Why I’d be lost without a phone.’
Bella called me the next morning to say she had fixed an interview with her cousins.
‘I’ve told them you can help. I’ve told them about those pieces you’ve done that you said to mention. They’re a bit suspicious though, because you’re a Communist. Or at least Nico is. Sandro doesn’t count. He’s sweet but not really in tune with the way people live. You understand? On the other hand the fact that you’re a Communist is in a way attractive. They think you might have influence in circles they can’t reach. So, they’re not quite sure what you want of course, and they’re nervous of giving you the sort of story you might twist. You can’t blame them for that, if they’re suspicious of everyone at the moment. They’d be nervous of journalists at any time I think. I know my father is. He always says they’re trouble – maybe because he’s a businessman, I don’t know. And, Christopher, they don’t know in detail what they want. They just hope you can do something for them. Only, you understand, they’re desperate. I don’t know why I say “they” all the time, because of course I’m in the same boat. I feel with them. But I have also told them that you are very intelligent and deep-down serious. Actually, Nico has a great respect for the English. So has Sandro of course, but he doesn’t signify. What in fact do you want, dear?’
‘I want the truth first,’ I said. ‘I want to know what has happened and what it means.’
‘Ah,’ she said. I could sense her vitality down the line, her reserves of energy and feeling. ‘But you don’t believe he can be saved, do you? You’re sure he is going to be killed?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid that’s so. I could be wrong of course …’
‘Sandro and Nico can’t accept that yet …’
‘But you can?’
‘He’s only my uncle of course…’
‘That’s not all though, is it? You’re following your intelligence.’
‘Yes … yes, listen Christopher, be gentle with them. Apart from anything else they are confused. There is Bernardo too, and they have had some unpleasantness with the Security Police about him. Sandro was almost in tears about it. Tell me also. Since you don’t believe he can be saved, what do you hope for?’
But I had no answer ready to that.
When I saw Sandro Dusa I wanted to hurt him.
‘Nico is sorry he is late,’ he said, stretching out towards me a heavy silver cigarette box. ‘He has just telephoned to say that he will be here as soon as possible. The Bank …’
His voice tailed off, the way it always would when it left off mouthing inanities. I could see what Bella meant – he was so obviously soft and uncertain and vulnerable.
‘Our cousin, Bella, says that in some way she believes you can help.’
He smoothed his hand down the creamy yellow of his trousers and fished out a slim gold lighter and snapped it at our cigarettes. He held his own cigarette gingerly, too close to the tip, between his second and third fingers.
‘Help,’ I said, ‘is probably the wrong word for what I can offer. I’m hoping for help from you two in turn though.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you are just like everyone else, that is what they really mean whatever they promise. Nobody wants to do anything to save him.’
He was perched on the arm of one of those heavy, ugly, oak chairs with ridiculous carving, and the big room was half-dark with venetian blinds drawn. The traffic in the Corso seemed a long way below. It was an apartment belonging to someone in Nico’s bank that he had borrowed for our meeting. He had said, ‘It is better that nobody should know we are meeting.’ I had thought this excessive, but complied.
Now I said, ‘I don’t know if anyone has put it on the line to you. Maybe they haven’t and maybe you are a political innocent. I should think from the look of you that’s just what you are.’ He made a vague deprecating motion with his cigarette. ‘The thing is – the real world is nasty, don’t expect too much. Look, this situation – I refer to the political development for which after all your father was responsible, the so-called Historic Compromise just round the corner – is regarded by all the politically responsible class, DC, PCI, PSI too, as vital. Vital. So they are not going to do anything that will risk cracking it. I don’t know why I’m saying this to you. I’m probably wasting it and should keep it for
your brother, but still here’s how it is. (a) They’re afraid, all of them, that any concession will simply encourage more acts of terrorism. That’s what their friends in the CIA tell them. It’s what the Germans say. It’s the common-sense Anglo-Saxon view. (b) The DC are afraid that if they offer to treat, the Communists will regard it as a betrayal and will wreck the Government. (c) The Communists are afraid that if they suggest conciliation they will be associated with the terrorists. They have come a long way to be respectable, as some people would call it. They are not going to wreck that for one man’s life, not when power is within sight.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘but you see he is my father.’
His simplicity grated – they have no right to go on being children in the world we live in. Innocence is a reproach to reality. Another privilege of the privileged, and so an insult to those who suffer and those who know. And anyway there is nothing to say to it. It defies response. Fortunately there then came from the street the shriek of a police car siren to cut through his fascinated self-absorption, and then the door opened and the brother, Nico, entered and apologized for being late, but not too much. You can judge a man by the degree of apology and he passed the test. He looked at me straight, a composed reticent glance, irony implicit.
Sandro Dusa said, ‘Mr Burke has just been making it clear to me that we are wasting our time, that there is no hope at all.’
I got another cool regarding look from Nico. ‘Yes?’ he said, keeping the note of interrogation light.
‘That’s so,’ I nodded.
‘But you still have an interest sufficient to bring you here?’
‘Interest is hardly the same as hope. I’m a journalist, that’s all.’
‘And so would be satisfied with a story?’
‘Of the right sort, yes.’
‘And that would be?’
He spoke with the decision of a good bridge player trying to make a contract that depended on a finesse. We were all still on our feet, the heavy chunks of smoked oak acting as barricades, obstacle and bulwark at the same time. It was a negotiation, a parley, not yet (if it ever would be) a conversation. Dogs walking stiff-legged round each other, in smouldering distaste and distrust …
‘How do you feel about your father’s letters?’ I said.
His eyes didn’t shift. He slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his suit-jacket. It was a double-breasted suit with thin stripes, quite new; formal and forbidding.
‘They make his colleagues ashamed,’ I said, ‘or so they say.’
‘They go further than you may know,’ Nico said.
‘What do you mean?’
He paused a moment, glancing at me from under lowered eyelids, then walked over to the window, pulled aside the corner of the venetian blind and looked down into the Corso. I was aware of Sandro shifting from foot to foot and breathing little whistle-sounds.
‘There’s a direct line to us,’ Nico said, still staring down into the street, attentively, like a man watching for a shadow. ‘Father has been writing to us as well. What he says is … well, judge for yourself. Read this and please note, Mr Burke, I’m not imposing any conditions on the use you may care to make of this information.’
He handed me a flimsy sheet, covered with a condensed nervous script.
‘This is from your father?’ I said. ‘You’ve no doubts as to its authenticity?’
‘None.’
‘And you’re trusting me with it? Why?’
He made a deprecatory gesture with his hand. ‘Bella’s recommendation,’ he said. ‘What I’ve learned of you – for of course I’ve made other enquiries – oh, confidential ones naturally. The fact that you are English. A lot of reasons. Read it.’
‘You realize,’ I said, ‘that I came here to ask questions. There will be more now.’
‘But of course,’ he said. ‘Later. Now read it.’
Dusa’s letter began in warm affectionate tones, speaking of his deep love for his family, his complete confidence in their love for him. He stressed that this applied to all of them, ‘without exception’ … That must mean that he knew the truth of what I suspected, Bernardo’s involvement in his capture. Did Nico, I wondered; Nico who was still gazing down into the Corso, as if rapt in a spectacle of the utmost drama; but I was sure he saw nothing … Dusa apologized for what he described as ‘the exigencies of the political life which have from time to time and all too often prevented me from sharing to the full the intimacies and confidences which a father should share with his children’. Then he spoke of his present danger. ‘All the same,’ he continued, ‘in all the circumstances of life one can learn something. Now I learn not only the depth of my love for you all, and the full extent of my duty towards you, but I am also offered the opportunity of assessing my actions, and those of my Party and colleagues, in a new light. Doing so, I see how far we have departed from our Christian and humane ideals, and, to my shame and shock, I see many of those ideals which I embraced so warmly when I em-barked on my life in politics, now better displayed by those who presently hold me and my life in their power…’
He elaborated on this, and then said, ‘Now, fully aware of this, and aware also that I have been deserted by those who have a duty towards me, a duty consecrated by comradeship and association, many of whom would not be in their present positions but for my help, encouragement, and actions, I feel myself freed of my own obligations of secrecy, or at least in the process of becoming so liberated. So far I have been reserved and have revealed nothing of the many facts which I know, the disclosure of which would be harmful to the careers of many of my colleagues, even to the future of my Party; but I see no reason to maintain such silence unto death, especially inasmuch as I have become convinced that much that is shameful has also been unwise, and can yet be corrected. Naturally, I should prefer to make such corrections from a position in which I could ease their effect. Equally naturally, deserted and alone, I must use such weapons as come to hand in order to protect myself. If I have been abandoned, why should I remain loyal to those who have not scrupled to desert me? I therefore instruct you, my dear children, to convey this warning to Gianni Schicchi and the other leaders of my Party, and to let them know that I shall reveal what they are themselves aware of, that this revelation will be disastrous for them, and that all that can prevent it is some real and effective evidence that they are prepared seriously to negotiate my release. Furthermore I point out that the conditions which I have now persuaded my captors to propose can hardly be called onerous …’
I hadn’t thought he would fight like this for his life.
All the time I was reading Nico had remained still, his only movement the rubbing of finger and thumb on the winding-knob of his wristwatch.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘quite a letter. No wonder you are perplexed, don’t know what to make of it or what to do.’
Sandro said, ‘Somehow we must use it to secure his release, to free him …’
I kept my eyes on Nico.
‘The consequences,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘the consequences. What would your Party think of it? Can you tell me that for a start?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Revelations about the DC?’ Sandro said. ‘Surely they’ll leap at them? How could they fail to?’
‘Oh,’ said Nico, ‘I doubt if we can be as certain as that. I am fairly sure that Mr Burke isn’t certain at all, Sandro. Are you, Mr Burke?’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Normally the answer would be yes, but just now, weighing the matter objectively, I would say they would rather no such revelations were made. That’s my opinion …’
‘Of course,’ Nico said, ‘they need not necessarily be made. The suggestion may be sufficient.’
‘The suggestion has always been there. Implicit,’ I replied. ‘You may be certain of that. Schicchi has always been aware of the suggestion, aware and afraid. That’s why we already have psychologists being wheeled out to talk of personality changes resulti
ng from the use of drugs …’
‘Then why won’t Signor Schicchi negotiate?’ Sandro’s question was half a sob.
‘Ah,’ said Nico, ‘he is held, I think, poised between two fears. And, unfortunately, one fear is balanced by hope …’
Had things been different, I could have admired Nico. I almost did even as they were. We ought to admire objectivity …
‘So what would you want?’
A long silence succeeded; silence of the pall. Nico sat down. At a chair behind a desk. Of course. He leant back, face open to the ceiling, eyes closed, lips moving. He put his hands up to his face and drew his long fingers down his cheeks; lingeringly.
‘We are on a chess board,’ he said. ‘A game is being played out, and like all games of chess it is moving towards a conclusion that seems ever more inescapable. Each piece has of course its pre-ordained mode of movement, its limit of freedom. Now at a certain point in the game, reversals become impossible. You have lost too many pieces. We have arrived there. In the End Game, as they call it. The king is one move, two at most, from suffering check-mate. All that can save the situation is to … stop playing chess, to sweep the pieces off the board, to say we will prove our supremacy by not playing games …’ he threw his hands up. ‘I am not sure that my analogy holds up,’ he said, ‘that it has in fact anything to offer. Bella would say that I am losing myself in words and ideas. What do you think, Mr Burke?’
‘The rules say you go to Schicchi with this letter – well, a copy would be safer – and press it on him. See if he gets frightened enough to move. But he won’t. The American State Department would never forgive him if he did; and as you know when the State Department frowns the Bank of Italy shivers etc. The old game. So I think you should tear up the rules. Sweep your pieces from the board. Stop playing chess.’
‘And?’
‘Give me the letter. Let me see if I can use it to tear things apart.’
He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘They are not negotiating because they want him dead,’ he said.
