The Invitation

by Lucy Foley

  Back at home, Morris was a postman. You saw all sorts, he said, on the round. In London in particular: where there was such a density of life, in which rich and poor, old and young lived so near to one another. By the end of the day he would have ten, twenty stories clamouring to be told – it was a question of which one you chose. He would scribble the ideas down and then, later, he would work over them on his solitary day off. It would be more difficult when Flora had the baby, certainly. But that was life for you, getting in the way, wonderful chaos.

  Hal had been humbled by it.

  *

  It is still early, the light through the porthole thin and grey. He washes, dresses. Up on deck he finds Roberto, smoking morosely at the bow.

  ‘Very bad weather,’ he says, as soon as he sees Hal – as though he has been waiting for hours to impart this news.

  The sea is still as glass. ‘It looks all right now,’ Hal says.

  ‘Ah, not now. Coming. I have lived in Liguria for my whole life: I know when a storm is on its way. The Contessa, she do not believe me – but I know.’

  At this hour, Portovenere appears painted in watercolour. It seems deserted, too, save for one waterfront café where a man is putting out chairs. Suddenly hungry, Hal ambles over and takes a seat. The man spots him, smiles. ‘Ah,’ he says, in almost faultless English, when he sees Hal. ‘You are from the big yacht, yes? Signor Gaspari’s boat?’

  Hal nods – lacking the energy to correct him.

  ‘She is a beauty,’ the man says, reverentially. ‘And he is a great man, Gaspari.’

  ‘Yes. He makes wonderful films.’

  The man nods, vigorously. ‘I thought he died, during the war. Many people thought it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He …’ the man makes a flitting motion with his hand, ‘… disappeared. Before the war, he used to come here in the summers, with a friend. They kept to themselves, you know, but everyone knew who he was. But then they stopped coming.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s not so strange. People don’t live in the same way in wartime.’

  The man shakes his head, adamant, ‘No, it was more than that. No one heard anything of him for a long time. His name vanished, completely. Nothing in the papers, when before there had been so much. And then he appeared again, a few years ago, and made that beautiful film. It made me weep.’ He remembers himself. ‘Vuole qualcosa da mangiare? You want something?’

  Hal orders an espresso and some pastries to go with it. When the man comes back with his breakfast, he asks, ‘Does anyone know what happened to him, Signor Gaspari?’

  The man shrugs. ‘No. It happened, you know, in the days of Mussolini. Capisci?’

  Hal nods. As a child he had not properly understood his mother’s distress as she watched the metamorphosis of her homeland into a dictator state. Now he does. A nonconformist to her core, and one who wore her national identity about her like one of her brightly coloured scarves, she must have felt it as a personal affront. And she must have felt powerless, too, watching from afar – feeling, perhaps, like a deserter. She tells Hal often that she had been brave, once upon a time. She had been helping her own father, a surgeon, when Mr Jacobs had come in as a wounded soldier, and left with her as his betrothed.

  There is sudden noise and movement in the harbour: the fishermen are returning with the first catch of the day, unloading their cargo and their catch onto the quay. Some are shirtless, some wear full waterproofed overalls. There are men of every age but all have a common, sinewy strength about them, their skin tanned dark by wind and sun. They look done-in, Hal thinks, seeing the purple shadows beneath eyes, the set jaws. Bone-weary. He wonders: have they chosen this life, or has it been handed down to them, with no possibility of escape? But then one of the younger men, for a joke, hits his fellow across the face with a sardine and all descends into chaos and laughter. More fish are brandished, water is thrown. And suddenly the group is transformed, becoming vital, joyful.

  He finishes his breakfast, wanting to explore the rest of the place while he still has it to himself. He starts with the steps that lead from the waterfront up towards the castle. The place is less eerie – and less enthralling – in the stark light of morning. There is no enchantment here, he realizes, only so many lifeless stones. Weeds thrust their way among them, reclaiming the land that was theirs before man built here. Seagulls wheel and caw and land to stalk along the ramparts – untroubled by his nearness as he passes, black eyes watchful, beaks violent-looking.

  Led by an aimless curiosity, he makes for the great church below the fort. Inside it is dark and several degrees cooler than without. The air has a musty quality: faint notes of mould and incense. He feels a clumsy intruder, his feet echoing loudly upon the stones. Any second, someone will find him here, discover him to be a fraud. He will be asked to leave. Yet no one comes – in fact, he seems to be alone. He steps more confidently, giving greater rein to his curiosity. He has made it halfway up the aisle when he stops. There is someone else after all. At the front, head bowed so low between the pews that they had been almost invisible.

  The figure turns, and he sees that it is Signor Gaspari. He blinks at Hal like a sleeper wakened. There are tears in his eyes.

  He stops, begins to retreat. ‘I’m sorry – I’d thought there was no one here. I’ve disturbed you …’

  ‘No,’ Gaspari says. ‘Please, don’t apologize.’ He grimaces. ‘I’m not a man of religion. Someone I knew was. So, I suppose it has now become something of a habit of mine.’ He points to a small, framed picture on the wall. ‘And I wanted to see her, too.’ From afar it appears unimpressive, but as Hal moves closer to make it out he sees that it is a small, exquisitely rendered image of the Virgin and Child, the faces flat Byzantine ovals, the details embossed in gold.

  ‘The White Madonna,’ Gaspari says, softly. ‘Isn’t she something? She was carried here on the waves, in a plank of wood. There are a number of theories, I believe. Perhaps a merchant ship, attacked by pirates. Or a band of Crusaders, knowing they were doomed to die on a Moslem battlefield, and feeling it important that their treasure should be salvaged.’

  ‘It’s a good story.’ But it is only as credible, Hal thinks, as all such myths are. He remembers studying such things in history lessons; tales of medieval relics. The teeth or bones of a saint that, when examined properly, turned out to be those of some animal.

  He catches Gaspari watching him. ‘You don’t believe me,’ the man says, ‘do you?’

  Hal looks at him in surprise. ‘I assumed it was a myth.’

  Gaspari raises an eyebrow, and beckons. ‘Come.’ He leads Hal towards the entrance of the church and points to a long beam of wood, dark-hued, ancient-looking, a hollow carved into its belly.

  ‘There,’ Gaspari says. ‘This was her ship, if you like. Of course you can claim that this too is a fraud. But I prefer to believe in it. Not so much for any religious reason, but for the fact that such things speak of a certain magic at work in the world. That I can have faith in. It is the thing upon which I base my work.’

  Afterwards they step, blinking, into the sunshine. Gaspari walks away, and Hal sees that he has gone to collect his dog, tethered outside. Sleeping in a patch of shade, she had been invisible to him on his way in. Now she wakes as the director nears her, sitting up on her haunches and yipping in delight.

  ‘Have you seen the other church?’ Gaspari asks, when he returns.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah. Also a thing of a beauty. If you like, we shall go there now.’

  The second church is a smaller, sparser place than the first, but its magnificence derives from its position, extending into the sea on a finger of rock. On one side is the Atlantic proper, the water seething and foaming; on the other is the calm of the harbour. Gaspari leads Hal up onto the portion of ramparts above the church, where the views along the coast in either direction are unrivalled. With this new perspective afforded to them the town itself looks small and vulnerable. The yacht is a ch
ild’s toy, dwarfed by the landscape that surrounds her.

  The wind whines around them, and Nina barks and scurries after it, as though it is a thing that might be chased. Looking over the stone lip at the surf far below Hal is filled with a strange urge to jump, as though the water is pulling him towards it. He steps back, alarmed by the force of the impulse. He sees that Gaspari too is standing right at the edge of the parapet, facing the breeze with his eyes closed against it. Hal feels now that he is witnessing some intensely private moment. He turns away.

  As they make their way back down to the quayside, Gaspari says, ‘What did you make of the film? Forgive me, but you are one of the first to see it, and I think you are a man of taste.’

  ‘It’s a masterpiece.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gaspari looks at the ground, as though he doesn’t quite know how to respond to this. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How did you come up with the narrative for the film? I heard you wrote the screenplay – it sounds as though only the bare bones are known of the real story.’

  ‘Ah, no. There is a little more to it than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Gaspari lowers his voice, as though concerned they might be overheard. ‘There is a journal. Written by the Contessa’s ancestor.’

  Hal’s interest is immediately piqued. ‘A captain’s log?’

  ‘A little … more personal than a log. Like a diary. I do not think that it was intended for other eyes.’

  ‘Why didn’t the Contessa mention it last night?’

  ‘I think, perhaps, because the film doesn’t exactly stick to the facts. I used my artistic licence.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘The film ends happily. The journal ends … well, not so happily.’

  ‘Where is it?’ And then, seeing Gaspari’s face, ‘You have it with you? On board the yacht?’

  Gaspari looks uneasy. ‘I do not think it would be a good idea for me to share it with you. The Contessa wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are a journalist.’

  ‘Well,’ Hal says, ‘it would make a nice angle to the piece …’

  ‘That is the problem, I think. The Contessa would rather that people believe in the happier version of the tale. If they knew it was not so, it might change how they see the film in some way.’

  ‘All right. Then how about if I promise not to breathe or write a word of it to anyone else?’

  ‘You want to read it for your own interest only?’

  Hal nods. ‘Absolutely.’

  Gaspari’s mouth quirks. ‘You are like me. Once a thing is in your mind you will not let it rest. You want to understand things more deeply, more so than is perhaps good for you. I am starting to see that I should not have mentioned it.’

  ‘But you will let me see it?’

  Gaspari gives an almost imperceptible nod.

  As they climb up from the tender, Truss and Stella are there on deck, both reading. His hand is on her knee. She is soignée in pastel yellow, legs crossed neatly at the ankle: the picture of self-possession. Except that her knuckles show white through the skin, as though the magazine she is reading is the only thing keeping her tethered in place. As Hal passes, though he takes care not to look directly at her, he sees her face turn up toward him then quickly away.

  Later in the day the weather shifts. On the side of the promontory protected by the tight mouth of the harbour, the water is still calm. But on the other the sea is wild and dark, capped with foam like the froth on a madman’s lips. Not yet a storm though, Hal thinks. Roberto will be disappointed.

  Hal wanders down to the pathway that leads between the rocks on the rough side and sees that he is not alone: evidently Aubrey Boyd has decided it will be the perfect place for windswept photographs of Giulietta and Earl Morgan. Giulietta wears a long white dress that is already flecked with seaspray and her hair sticks wetly to her forehead. She shows surprising fortitude, Hal thinks, in the face of adversity. He would have expected her to complain – quite rightly – at the dangerous slickness of the rock beneath their feet, at the chill breeze wicking in across the sea, but she remains resolutely silent.

  A crowd has gathered to watch, ranged along the lip of stone above them. It could easily be the entire population of Portovenere, judging by the number. They are a strangely silent audience, more like observers at a wake than fans. Gradually, as the wind picks up – and perhaps understanding that the spectacle is not going to change in any dramatic way – they drift away. When a few fat drops of rain begin to fall, Aubrey finally calls a halt. The few remaining onlookers cluster in, presenting photographs and autograph books for a soggy signature.

  That evening, an awning is pulled out over the dining area to protect them from the rain, and with the candles lit along the table the space becomes a luminous cocoon. After supper, the Contessa has Roberto set up a gramophone on the deck. It is a huge old machine, rather than one of the smaller modern ones, with a great brass funnel. The needle is lifted on the first record: ‘Perduto Amore (In cerca di te)’. It sends a shock through Hal. The first time he heard it was when it had first come out, in 1945. He had danced to it with Suze in the Hammersmith Palais – the band there had covered it, to certain mutterings about bad taste, because it was in the language of the so-recent enemy. The words had stayed with him: the singer searching the city for their lost lover:

  Ogni viso guardo, non sei tu

  Ogni voce ascolto, non sei tu.

  Every face I see, it isn’t you

  Every voice I hear, it isn’t you.

  And then it comes to him that he has heard it somewhere else. He turns to Gaspari:

  ‘This was the soundtrack, for Elegy.’

  Gaspari nods.

  ‘No,’ the Contessa says, striding over to Roberto. ‘This is too melancholy. Play us …’ she claps her hands, ‘some rock and roll.’ Her pronunciation turns it into a single Italianate word: ‘rockarolle’. Hal is impressed. Roberto finds an Italian cover of ‘Rock the Joint’: rather off-key, but with the same infectious rhythm. For a few moments, no one moves. Then Giulietta springs up, takes the hand of one of the watching deckhands, who seems almost ready to combust with joy at his good fortune. The two of them begin to spin and kick: she dragging him impatiently around after her.

  ‘Come come,’ the Contessa says, rather like an overzealous sports mistress, Hal thinks, hurrying them all to their feet. All except for Truss, who politely declines with a wave of one hand, and Earl Morgan who, at this point in the evening, cannot be expected to stand up. She takes Hal as her partner and he dances with her conservatively for a moment, until she tells him not to treat her like an antique. Over her shoulder he can see Aubrey doing an awkward little improvisation on his own, and Gaspari dancing with Stella, Nina scurrying about their feet. For the first time, Stella seems to be enjoying herself – and he feels an unexpected regret that he isn’t the one to make her smile.

  The next record is played: a thirties waltz, with a slower tempo. As they dance nearer to Gaspari and Stella the Contessa says, ‘Let’s swap. I wish to dance with my old friend.’

  Hal sees Stella’s face, and there is a moment when he thinks she is about to excuse herself. But the opportunity to do so seems to slide past, to the point where it would look odd for her to walk away. He finds, as he did on the rooftop in Rome, that her hand is surprisingly warm in his. Perhaps it is that impression of serene coolness she projects: one might also expect her touch to be cold. He rests his hand so lightly on her waist that he is hardly touching it, but he can feel warmth there, too, beneath his palm.

  She does not look at him, as they begin to move, but at some point beyond his shoulder. He has never been a particularly adept dancer. Suze used to chide him for his lack of rhythm. But for a few minutes his clumsiness appears to desert him. He moves – they move – with something approaching grace.

  Suddenly the melody stutters, and loops round on itself. Roberto, manning the machine, curses, and
stops the thing, lifts it off to inspect the surface. Stella seizes her opportunity. ‘I think that’s enough for me,’ she says, with a polite nod, extracting herself. He watches her go.

  ‘Mrs Truss is an excellent dancer, no?’

  Hal turns to find Gaspari a couple of feet away.

  ‘Oh. Yes, she is.’

  ‘Though,’ Gaspari says thoughtfully, ‘I think she danced best with you.’

  Hal looks at him sharply, wondering what, exactly, he means by this. But the man’s expression is inscrutable.

  Back in his cabin he is certain that he can still feel it, the warmth of her waist beneath his palm. He catches himself. What a pathetic figure he is in this moment: a single man thinking of another’s wife. He closes his eyes, wills sleep. But he finds that an image is imprinted there, the same one that drove him from the film screening like someone pursued by a demon.

  10

  It was one of their favourite games, Hal and Morris. It was a way of keeping warm on deck – imagining themselves somewhere far away, in peacetime.

  ‘What are you going to do with yourself, after the war?’

  ‘Get married, try and write.’

  ‘The novel, is it?’

  ‘Yes. And you?’

  ‘Play with my little boy. Make love to my wife.’

  ‘How old is he now? Your boy?’

  ‘Three.’ Suddenly morose. ‘I worry, you know, that he won’t know me. Flora says she talks of me to him all the time, but I still think—’