‘Where had you hidden it?’
‘You…don’t have to know. It’s Teresa who knows and has to know.’ She shrugged her shoulders and stood up. Turning to the Christ figure frescoed in the tiny apse, she made the sign of the cross accompanied by the snort with which she always expressed her vexation. She went out without waiting for her daughter, tearing the kerchief from her head.
Loretta got to her feet and followed, crossing herself hastily.
I stayed where I was and sat down. The Christ figure staring at me was of the Byzantine type, doubtless copied by inexpert hand from a photograph of some famous icon or other. There was something out of shape about his face that deprived him of any aura of divinity.
I heard the door creak behind me. ‘Renato.’
‘Von Below, Krafft von Dellmensingen and von Stein…top brass…’ The steward paused to get his breath back. ‘They’ll be here this evening. They’ll be staying in the Villa. There are nine divisions between Sernaglia and the Piave. They’re planning a breakthrough in the area of Vidòr, Moriàgo and Falzè, because further north, between Fener and Quero, their offensive has bogged down.’
Renato’s eyes were burnt out with worry. We spoke for a minute or two. He explained how by opening the door of the dining room stove one could hear what was going on from the floor above, from my aunt’s very room. ‘Unluckily none of us is much good at German, not even Madame Nancy. But Brian, now…His mother comes from Hamburg. Donna Maria and your grandmother have concealed him where Signor Guglielmo hides his brandy. Is it a safe place?’
‘Only Teresa knows about it. We can trust her implicitly. But how did you manage to smuggle him in?’
‘Never you mind. The fewer people who know, the better.’ He took out his pipe and lit it.
‘We’re in a chapel,’ I murmured.
Renato took it out again and regarded the creator of all things visible and invisible, tobacco included. He winked his right eye, I don’t know whether at me or at the painting, poked me in the chest with the stem, and said firmly, ‘I’ve got far worse things to be forgiven for.’ But he didn’t put his pipe back in his mouth. ‘I need you, right now, to go to the dining room, find some way of leaving the stove door ajar, and tell the maid not to close it even if she’s told to.’
I left and headed towards the tempietto. I didn’t want to go in through the gates. The shadows of the trees and the houses were starting to merge with the dusk.
I went at once to the kitchen and took Teresa to one side, not telling her more than need be. ‘Diambarne de l’ostia,’ she commented grimly. She asked no questions.
‘Who is there in the big dining room?’
‘Soldiers all smartly got up.’
‘Is the stove alight?’
‘Yes. Now I’ll send the girl to bring logs.’
‘No, I’ll do that.’
‘But it’ll look odd.’
‘I’ve got to do it myself, and that’s that.’
I went out into the courtyard sinking my boots deep in the mud, smeared a handful of it on my cheeks and forehead, then dirtied my knees and jacket, tearing a strip off the sleeve and a couple of buttons. The oak table had already been laid. The tablecloth was of Burano lace, doubtless the spoils of war. And the silverware was indeed silver, and I wondered for a moment whether the Germans hadn’t found Grandma’s hiding place after all. In any case I was glad to notice that they had not managed to find any carbide for the bright lamps, so that there were candles everywhere, possibly stolen from the house of some bishop, they were so much finer than those of our priest. The four soldiers putting out the plates and glasses took no notice of me, though finally one of them, who had loosened his collar, gave me a contemptuous glance and muttered: ‘Wallischen.’
A few resolute paces took me to the stove. From the neat pile of logs I picked two small and one fairly large one, opened the upper door, puffed once or twice at the embers and closed it again. Then, without delay, I opened the bottom door and ostentatiously used the hearth brush to empty the ashes into the metal bucket, which Loretta had left perfectly clean. There was very little ash to remove, but I had to pretend to be doing something. I was not nervous. I never even glanced towards the soldiers, who went on laying the table. On my way out I saw that two of them had lit cigarettes and were chuckling as they looked at me, maybe because for once in their lives they felt themselves superior to someone.
The guard on the Villa had not been increased. The usual two sentries were at the gate, while at the back a single rifleman strolled back and forth, smoking one cigarette after another and playing with the Alsatian.
Grandpa met me upstairs with a napkin tied round his neck and a chicken wing between his teeth. He looked pleased with himself as he walked round and round the table with his Gibbon open in his left hand while he chewed away. It occurred to me that the Germans were looking more and more civilized while we were beginning to slip back into barbarism; but it was a silly thought. It was just that I needed to calm down. I was seeking for some trace of symmetry in the swiftly changing world.
Without removing his face from the book or his teeth from the chicken, Grandpa favoured me with a glance. ‘Now look what a state you are in…Have you been rolling in the muck-heap? I thought I was the only one allergic to water,’ he said, sitting himself down. He put down the Gibbon, and what was left of the chicken wing described an arc and finished up in the waste-paper basket. He jerked his chin towards the window. ‘Have you noticed? It’s starting to snow.’
‘Only a sprinkling. Have you heard that three generals are expected? The steward says they’re top brass.’
‘These creatures preen their feathers day in day out, as if they were expecting the late emperor’s ghost for dinner.’
One by one Grandpa wiped his fingers on the napkin.
Grandma entered the room without knocking. She had her hair up, her eyes were shining, and the blue lace collar of her black dress reflected colour on her face. She was of an elegance only slightly marred by a dab of powder on her cheekbones. ‘Guglielmo, you’ve been in my bathroom!’
The wind rattled the windowpanes. From the kitchen rose the odour of roast pork.
‘You know very well I never set foot there. That hatstand hung with those things turns my stomach,’ replied Grandpa.
Two raps at the door prevented Grandma from giving full vent to her wrath.
The door opened a little and Loretta timidly poked her head in. ‘The steward says he wants the young laddie.’
To be called ‘laddie’ by Loretta! I pretended I hadn’t heard.
Only then did Grandma notice me. ‘Be off with you! And clean yourself up, you’re a disgrace.’
I followed Loretta downstairs. It was not Renato waiting for me, but Teresa. She spoke in an undertone: ‘That mad Englishman is in your grandfather’s cupboard and there’s Renato waiting for you…Where, I don’t know.’
I put on my overcoat and crossed the courtyard. One of the guards pointed his rifle right at my chest. He didn’t recognize me and gestured at me to make myself scarce. I didn’t need telling twice. I went straight to the silkworm hatchery without looking back, turning up my collar and thrusting my hands into my pockets.
Renato pulled me inside with a jerk and rammed home the bolt. ‘About time, too!’
‘What now?’
‘We wait. This is Brian’s moment.’
‘Do you expect any problems?’
‘No.’
We sat down on the matting, our backs against the wall streaked with sulphur fumes. It had almost stopped snowing. Every now and then a car’s headlight lit up the little window.
‘You’re in Intelligence, aren’t you?’
‘Yes…Paolo. Do you mind if I call you by your Christian name?’
I felt both flattered and a little offended. This familiarity was so sudden. ‘Yes, call me Paolo.’
‘Our intelligence system is about as slovenly as our army… but maybe I’m exaggerating.’
&
nbsp; Renato’s voice was as composed as could be, even though he must have been on tenterhooks about Brian.
The stench of sulphur seeping from the walls of the hatchery, out of use since the arrival of the Germans, joined forces with that of the petrol and diesel oil coming from outside. Renato took off one boot, the one with the higher heel, and scratched the sole of his foot.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘It itches. It’s the fault of polio. I was five years old, or maybe six. We lived above a stable, and my father was a vet. When I began to recover we moved to Livorno, in the centre of town. We had a terrace, and we could see the sea.’
He lit his pipe. And said nothing more.
‘How was it you became a spy?’
He laughed loudly. ‘Do you think a spy lets on about those things?’
‘Well, at least tell me why you took me with you to fetch Brian. You needed Giulia, of course, but what about me?’
‘If they had caught us your presence there would have made your grandparents and your aunt speak up for us, and we would have had a chance, however small, of getting away with it. No one likes to shoot the children of the gentry. If these Germans win the war, as they think they are going to, they will have to govern this territory with the complicity of some.’ He produced a great puff of smoke. ‘And who do you think they will try but the people who govern it already?’
‘Do you mean they don’t want to make too many enemies?’
‘It’s not the number of enemies that worries them, but the quality, the rank in society. The Hapsburgs know how to govern; or at least, they did. There are about fifteen languages spoken within the empire, and it is only loyalty to the emperor that holds the lid on that stew pot. If the ruling house falls – and I tell you that it will – then the various nations grumbling in its belly today will all turn against one another and tear each other to pieces.’
He broke off to look straight at me in the semi-darkness. The smoke engulfed me and made my eyes water. He smelt of tree-bark and grappa. ‘You see, Paolo, for some decades now the Kingdom of Hungary has been too important. Vienna is not as firmly in command as it used to be. It’s a Dual Monarchy in fact as well as in name. For this reason it’s not as strong. And there’s more to it than that. However, they have the pope on their side.’
‘But the pope is Italian…So you think like Grandpa, you think the pope’s a traitor?’
‘I don’t know your grandfather intimately. He’s a…an eccentric. I like him, even if he doesn’t take to me at all.’
‘It’s because of Grandma. Grandpa is jealous.’
‘I’ve no hard feelings.’
‘Tell me about the pope. Do you think he’s with them, with our enemies?’
‘No. I don’t think it’s that simple. But Italy is Ghibelline, born of a Ghibelline vision of things. It’s either us or the Church!’
He went back to his pipe. In silence. I could hear his breathing.
‘They’ve always known, those slyboots of priests, that if the northern part of our peninsula joined up with the south, they could kiss goodbye to the Pope King and his temporal power.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Italy was united by the House of Savoy and the freemasons, and it was united in defiance of the priests. But behind it we always find Britain, anxious to stick a knife into what was left of the Holy Roman Empire. During the century that has just ended France and Prussia have given us a helping hand, I admit, but only for a moment. Whereas Britain always looks ahead, into the future, and sees clearly. Do you think it’s a coincidence that Sidney Sonnino, our Foreign Minister, has a Welsh mother and isn’t a Catholic? Have you never heard of the Treaty of London?’
‘It’s the one that led to the Entente…Am I right? Grandpa told me about it just a few days ago. The Russians have just published it in a newspaper, in French. Grandpa says there’s a revolution going on in Russia, and they’re really laying into their king.’
‘Secret treaties, my foot! The fact is that very little in this world is secret. What is put down on paper comes from more than one head. Heads give voice to words and words pass from mouth to mouth. The last…or rather the next to last article in that treaty states…I can’t for the moment remember the exact words…but it says that when the war is over Britain and France pledge to help Italy to exclude the pope from the drawing up of the peace terms.’ He fell silent.
A roar of motors outside. They passed us by.
‘Please go on.’ I liked his lively, lucid way of talking. I even liked the aroma of his pipe, which kept at bay the stink of diesel oil and sulphur and sodden earth.
‘Do you think the two British warships which were at Marsala the day Garibaldi landed were there by coincidence? Or to protect the wineries, as their captains professed? That old freemason wouldn’t even have set foot ashore except for the British. They positioned themselves between the Bourbon guns and Garibaldi’s ship.’ For almost a minute he was silent and motionless; I couldn’t even hear him breathe. ‘Ever since the time of the Spanish Armada, the war between Queen Elizabeth and Philip II of Spain, the Protestants and Catholics have never let slip a chance of getting at each other’s throat… And don’t think it’s over and done with! There’s a lot more to come.’
The darkness had become more intense. I could no longer even make out Renato’s profile. ‘Go on,’ I said.
Once again the roar of engines, and headlights dazzling in the windows. Then the sound of motorcycles, and of a car drawing up. ‘It’s them!’
‘Let’s hope Brian manages to overhear something useful. When the moment comes it’ll be up to you to go and fetch him. You won’t be noticed on the staircase, as long as you change your clothes and have a wash! Then bring him to me here. The rest is my business.’
‘Very well.’
We got to our feet to watch. My legs had gone numb and I felt cold. I flapped my arms around my chest and jumped from foot to foot.
The guard of honour had drawn up, rigid in the freezing night. Korpium was stalking back and forth, his uniform reaching to his gaiters, his sword at his side.
And at last they arrived, heralded by a long, slow screech of brakes. They arrived with calf-length greatcoats and badges of rank that glittered in the light of the headlamps. The tramontana had cleansed the air. I simply gazed. I didn’t even feel myself breathe. It seemed to me impossible that those men with their chiselled features could be cruel or barbarous, or even just run-of-the-mill men whose destiny it was to be wearing uniform. No, they were warriors marked by the branding iron of legend – the ancient, bearded, childish legend – of military valour and honour. Everything within me, every ligament and every cell, told me that those men were the enemy and that I ought to hate them. But in the tension of the moment the force of their mythical image imposed a truce, so that there in the darkness I abandoned myself to an inward surge of admiration.
Nine
FILTERED THROUGH THE LEAFLESS TREES, THE EARLY MORNING sun cast a piano keyboard on the snowy street. I was sitting at the window, chewing a slice of sopressa nicked from the Germans’ table. And it was all the tastier for being stolen. I saw Grandma’s Third Paramour coming up the road. He was walking slowly. I could recognize him from the attic by the long cigarette holder that gave his emaciated figure a somewhat womanish air. Grandpa was by my side, wearing his comical cap and holding a cup of coffee. ‘See him, laddie? You can tell he’s a nitwit from the way he smokes and walks. But what’s he doing around at this time of day?’ Grandpa’s voice was still thick with sleep, not yet ready for the business of the day.
I watched the motorcycles leaving the village and heading west, towards the front line, and others – many more of them – that took the road to Conegliano. The tracks they made in the frozen snow destroyed the sun-shed keyboard pattern. My eyes were still heavy with sleep.
‘The generals are not up yet,’ said Grandpa, taking off his cap and tapping a forefinger against the windowpane. ‘They take things easy.’
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‘Have you ever been to war, Grandpa?’
‘Certainly not!’ he replied, piqued. ‘But I know what I’m saying, laddie. Just look at those men. That one is polishing his boots, that one shaving, another curry combing his horse, another writing a letter, another eating an apple and watching the clouds, and the one sitting on the sixty-pounder is combing his hair as if his girlfriend were waiting round the corner. For every minute under fire there are a thousand minutes of…nothingness. Bullets cost money.’
At that moment in came Grandma and said cheerfully, ‘What are you hatching, you two?’ She was wearing a close-fitting black dress showing her slender ankles.
‘Off to a tryst with Pagnini?’
‘That’s none of your business.’ Grandma always acted like that when she wanted to be affectionate.
But Grandpa was ready for her: ‘That fellow has a noddle full of noodles. Perhaps you could use him as a messenger boy, now that you’ve taken up playing spies.’
Grandma smiled. She was up to something. She went down the stairs with a clatter of heels on every step.
‘Stay here, Paolo!’ commanded Grandpa, giving me a steady look.
He put an arm round my shoulder and drew me back into the window embrasure.
Grandma went out into the garden. She had put on her grey overcoat, and walked to the gates. The sentries barred her way with crossed arms. A sergeant came up making expansive gestures, a rare thing for Germans in uniform. Grandma pointed to the Third Paramour, just arriving. The sergeant gave a bow and let her pass, while the sentries snapped to attention.
The Third Paramour offered her his arm, and with slow steps they set off towards the church.
‘What d’you bet that that woman has got even Bigfeet involved in this business?’
*
‘I’m going back to my novel,’ said Grandpa, opening the door of the Thinking Den, where he co-habited with a desk, an Underwood and his little statue of Buddha. On one occasion Grandma had pulled his leg by saying that his typewriter didn’t even have a ribbon in it. Grandpa got back at her by ordering from a shop in Milan two dozen red and yellow tins stamped with the blue eagle and the legend: Made in USA. He left them about here, there and everywhere, on all the little tables that occupied strategic points in the Villa, like the cigarette butts that betray the presence of an inveterate smoker.
Between Enemies Page 7
