The Invitation

by Lucy Foley

  ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you,’ Hal says.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Leaving the journal in my room.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’

  ‘It makes for interesting reading.’

  ‘I thought you might think so.’

  ‘I’m intrigued by her – the woman.’

  Gaspari nods. ‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘She was the reason I took it on. I felt, reading his words, that she had the ability to arouse feelings of great passion and devotion in men, but also hatred and fear. This is something that happens in cinema, I think – in the way we see our female stars.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Take an actress like Grace Kelly. People like to think of her as some Diana, a virgin goddess: golden and pure. Then, when she is reported as having a love affair, as beautiful young people are wont to do, people feel that she has deceived them in some way.’

  Hal nods. For some reason he is put in mind not of Giulietta – the only film actress he has ever met – but of Stella.

  ‘That was something I noticed about Elegy,’ he says now. ‘There was no female lead.’

  Gaspari nods.

  ‘What was it really about? You promised to tell me at the party.’

  It is a while before Gaspari speaks. And then, with a little nod of his head as though urging himself on, he says, ‘Once upon a time I was in love.’ He smiles. ‘Hard to imagine, I suppose, of one so old and ugly as I.’

  ‘Not at all.’ But in a way it is, Hal thinks. He is such a solitary, self-contained man.

  ‘You are kind.’ Gaspari inclines his head. ‘Well, the film was about that love. An impossible love.’

  ‘Impossible how?’

  There is a long silence, before Gaspari says, ‘I will tell you a story, my friend. Imagine a man who believes that his chance for love has left him, along with his youth. And then imagine that this love comes, unexpectedly, in later age. His lover is young and beautiful in a way that he has never been himself.’

  He takes a sip of his wine.

  ‘When they met he had not been looking for anything. He had been almost content in his loneliness, had assumed that life had offered up to him all that it would in the way of romantic attachments. And then this astonishing thing happens, coming like a summer storm out of a clear sky. It sweeps him away from everything he thought he knew.

  ‘He has always taken Rome for granted, this man, has never truly loved the city before. But now it has been transformed for him. Before he only had time to see the bad, the dirt and decay. People talked to him about the wonder of the city and he thought they must be seeing something that had become invisible to him in all his years of living in it. But now that it is the place that has brought them together, that has formed the backdrop for their entire affair, he sees beauty in everything. In the ruins erupting through the concrete, in the cloud pines in the small park near his apartment – even in the prostitutes who appear at night to line the Appian Way.’

  Hal knows this version of the city.

  ‘He knows that life cannot be easy for them, because, as I told you, theirs is an impossible love. And yet, in those green surrounds of the Borghese gardens, where they go to walk together, it is easy to forget all troubles for a while.

  ‘Only for a while though. It is not easy to ignore the new presence of the men at the gates who wait and watch. At one time he liked to laugh at them, with their sombre expressions, their clownish trousers, their tight boots. They were ridiculous to him, hardly more threatening than boys playing at war games. And yet, somehow, they have got a hold and have multiplied like lice … no, like bright black fleas.’

  This is the city Hal has never known – the one that people do not talk of. But here Gaspari is, speaking of it.

  Gaspari suddenly looks very tired, and old – the deep hollows beneath his eyes and cheekbones appear all the more dramatic in the rudimentary light. He takes a sip of his cognac, and sighs. ‘We have known each other such a short time, you and I. And you a journalist. And yet you seem, somehow, a man with integrity. I think I can trust you.’ He looks at Hal. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hal says, ‘of course.’

  Gaspari nods. ‘Well you see, Hal, the person I was in love with was a young man.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hal is, in spite of himself, surprised. That Gaspari has felt able to make this confidence to him, a relative stranger, is something extraordinary. The bravery of it, sharing something that in the wrong hands could be so dangerous.

  As though understanding this, Gaspari says, ‘I suppose you are wondering why I am telling you. It is because, in this way, I can continue to defy them. They tried to pretend that we did not exist, those like myself. They tried to hide us from view, to claim that we were not proper men.’

  Hal suddenly understands. ‘That was why you made the film.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, there could be nothing explicit in it. But I would know what it would mean. It would be my biggest defiance. And it was made at Cinecittà, which was created by them.’

  He smiles, but there is nothing of real mirth in it. And Hal thinks now that he has guessed the reason for Gaspari’s permanent state of melancholy.

  ‘The person you were in love with,’ he says, immediately feeling a prude for not saying ‘man’. ‘Is he …?’

  Gaspari nods. ‘It wasn’t them. Or at least, not directly. It was worse than that. It was my fault, too.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I got carried away. I wanted to cast him in a film. I had been struck by his beauty and his talent at the very beginning, but I did not have enough of a name for myself then to risk an unknown. Now I wanted him as the star. I knew he would do it brilliantly. I should have seen that there would be jealousy. I should have realized that people knew – or guessed – about us. It is too small an industry to keep such things hidden. Besides, I am sure that I must have given myself away every time I looked at him.’

  It is hard to imagine this solemn, reserved man, giving much away with a look.

  ‘Someone informed on us. I have my ideas about who it might have been, but it is poisonous to look too closely into that sort of thing. It does no good, in the end. And so – I’m sure you can imagine how it goes …’

  Hal shakes his head.

  ‘They come to your house, they take you to their car. They aren’t exactly – how to put it – gentle, either with their actions or their words.’ Gaspari pauses. ‘It would have been better, I think, if he had been with me at the time, if they had found us together. Then I could have protected him.’

  ‘But wouldn’t that have given them proof?’

  Gaspari laughs, an odd, hoarse sound. ‘They didn’t need proof – that was not a concern for them. No, I mean that if they had found us together it would not have been so terrible for him. It would have been more discreet.’ He sighs. ‘Rafe came from an important Sicilian family. Rather aristocratic, and traditional – but more than all of that, extremely pious. For them, Rafe’s actions were not merely a crime but a sin. And perhaps the worst he could have committed. I believe they might have preferred it if he had killed a man. At least that, in his father’s view, would have been a masculine act.

  ‘I tried to convince him that, no matter what society might make of what we were, he should not be ashamed. But he was, always – his upbringing had made him that way. Sometimes he would tell me he could not see me any more, and several painful weeks would follow. He would claim that he was going to join the army – or the church. Something that might help him “cure” himself. But he was always back, apologizing – and I would always forgive him, because I loved him. And I think he loved me too, despite his doubts about the morality of what we had together. I had no family, you understand. It was easier for me.

  ‘He had hoped, I think, that he might have been able to keep his true nature a secret from them always. Though how exactly he planned to do that was never clear, especially considering his mother’s matchmaking had begun to reach a fever pitch.�
� Gaspari smiles his downturned smile. ‘We used to laugh about it. She was constantly throwing soirees, dances, presenting some suitable, willing daughter of an acquaintance. And they were always willing, you understand. Because he was so clever, and beautiful.’

  Gaspari’s face grows solemn once more. ‘He was quite terrified of his parents finding out. He knew they loved him, but he didn’t believe that their love for him was unconditional. If they knew the truth, he wasn’t certain that they would be able to forgive him. His father, as I have said, had always made his views on such matters very clear. Such a thing, in his eyes was unmanly – even inhuman.

  ‘When those men came to get him, I am sure that they would have used some of the same words that were shouted at me. Perhaps they would have been slightly more respectful, because his parents were well known. But I have no doubt his family would have found out that night what it was he had been trying to keep from them. I don’t know for certain – but that is my guess.’

  ‘Why don’t you know?’

  ‘Because,’ Gaspari says, ‘he hung himself that night, in his cell.’

  Hal wishes there was something he could say that would be adequate. Unable to think of anything, he remains silent.

  ‘They came to tell me, the next morning. He had been in the same prison as me and I had not even known it. One of them, I remember, seemed particularly pleased. But one was … almost kind. I think he could see how distressed I was and, later, he came alone to tell me that he was sorry for my loss.’ He stops. ‘I wish that he had not been so afraid – and so alone – when he died. I find myself wondering if there was something that I could have said to him that would have helped him to cope with it better. At the time I was even angry with him, because my love had not been enough.’

  Hal cannot think of anything to say. He is grateful for the fact that the light has worsened to the point where he can hardly make out Gaspari’s face. He knows that the expression there would be one of great pain. Now he understands why the man wears sadness about him like a cloak. The long silence that follows is finally broken by Gaspari’s dog, who wakes and gives a little whimper. The director bends and picks her up, buries his face in her side. Hal is suddenly struck by Gaspari’s mention of his lack of relatives. This small creature, perhaps, is all the family he has.

  Finally, Gaspari speaks. ‘You know, my friend, I have found that the best way to come to terms with one’s past is like this, through talk. It is painful, but, little by little, it helps to diffuse its power.’

  Hal looks up, to find the director watching him, expectantly, as though waiting for him to speak. But there is nothing to say.

  13

  Late afternoon, and the light has assumed an unusual golden hue, like that of a pale white wine. Beyond the coast, the mountains are a steep, purplish shadow. To Hal they are surreal and ungraspable, like something read about in a child’s storybook.

  They are running under motor now and the yacht cuts through the still waters effortlessly. The engine purrs.

  Hal sits with Aubrey Boyd, playing gin rummy. Aubrey is surprisingly competitive, and a deft player. His gains are made all the more quickly for the fact that Hal isn’t able to concentrate properly on the game.

  ‘What did you mean,’ he asks, ‘when you said that we’re little projects for the Contessa?’

  ‘Well,’ Aubrey raises an eyebrow. ‘I mean, you only have to look at us all. Apart from Giulietta, perhaps. We’re quite a ragtag bunch. She collects hopeless cases. You have Gaspari, with his melancholy, Morgan, with his drinking. Me, well, look at me for goodness’ sake. And you, with whatever it is you’re carrying about.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The thing you’re carrying about. The thing that makes you act like the walking wounded. Aha! Big gin! That’s thirty-one points, I think.’ He sits back, happily.

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘You tell me.’ Aubrey glances up. ‘Oh, don’t look so offended. I’d have a go at it myself, if I knew it would make me half such a poetic figure as you.’ He nods his head in the Trusses’ direction. ‘Them, though. Can’t work out which one it is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, which one of them is the project. Perhaps neither, after all. Perhaps both.’

  Hal can see Stella on the sunbed at the bow, a large sunhat obscuring her head and shoulders. He can’t imagine her needing the Contessa’s help. A woman like that, surely, has attained everything she has sought from life. He watches her, turning the pages of her book, rationalizing her into ordinariness. She is not so beautiful. Next to Giulietta Castiglione, not at all. The effect is that of a small wildflower – a forget-me-not – beside a damask rose. And then there is the fact that she is nothing more interesting than a rich man’s wife. Women like her grace every other page in Life. In her pastel-coloured outfits, with her neat blonde hair, she is as two-dimensional as the illustration in an advert for a washing powder, or department store. He had thought that night in Rome that her reticence concealed something, and he had been intrigued by it. And last night, on the deck, she had seemed different, less false. But now he wonders if he was mistaken.

  14

  Portofino

  Suddenly, there is a cry of excitement, and Hal forces his gaze from her to follow Aubrey’s pointing finger. Before them is Portofino, gleaming expensively in the sun. The breeze, laden as ever with salt and pine, now carries the unmistakable scent of petrol.

  Portofino is a place of self-conscious restraint. But Hal, with the keenly honed instinct of one who hasn’t got much to call his own, sees wealth everywhere: in the waterfront villas half-hidden in the trees, in the quietly spectacular speedboats tethered in the turquoise harbour. Even the colours of the façades along the waterfront have a richness and sobriety to them. Much of this will be foreign wealth, some of it new. Though some of those grand residences may still stand empty, waiting for owners yet to – or never to – return.

  Above them all towers a majestic castle, wreathed in trees. The Pygmalion, sleekly elegant, is in her natural habitat. She makes the huge vessel anchored next to them, an ex-military frigate done up with white paint and gold fittings, look like a poorly dressed gatecrasher.

  Their arrival has been anticipated, of course. The inevitable Armada of small boats approaches, the first flashbulb exploding with a pop and burst of light, the others following like a chain reaction.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’ one of the men from the boat calls up to Hal, in thickly accented English, ‘But who are you, please?’

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ he calls back. ‘My name is Hal Jacobs.’

  ‘Ah. Well, sir,’ the man shouts, in a reasonable way, ‘would you mind moving out of the way for a few minutes? So that we may have a picture of the beautiful Giulietta only?’

  The furore continues as they disembark from the tender onto dry land. There is a frenzy of activity about Gaspari and the two stars. Truss has disappeared to make a call, and Stella is nowhere to be seen. Hal is quite evidently a spare part. He suddenly knows what he will do, with this opportunity for solitude. He goes to his cabin and retrieves the journal.

  Where to read it? He wants to read in solitude. Not, then, the waterfront cafés, where people gather. He wanders across the piazza, finds a plaque that reads: ‘Spare a flower, a thought for those who died.’ Here, then, in this place of apparent serenity, are mothers still mourning their dead sons.

  He walks away from the main drag. Here, tucked slightly out of sight, the less picturesque, more workaday crafts are moored: mainly small fishing boats with peeling hulls. In a patch of sun, three women are spreading nets to dry. The scent of the sea that emanates from them is so strong it seems to thicken the air. The women, he notices, don’t even glance at the photographers and stars some hundred feet away. They are absolutely intent on their task. There is something rather refreshing in this.

  He finds himself drawn towards the castle that overlooks the bay, climbing through the fragrant terraced gardens t
hat lead up to it. There is a good spot near to a cloud pine, the mass of foliage throwing a blue shadow below it. He sits, and realizes that across the ramparts he can see the curve of the coast along which they have already sailed, stretching away through the haze. But his mind feels glutted with beauty, and he looks upon it with something like complacency. He turns from it, and begins to read. At a glance, he can see how one preoccupation peppers the pages, appearing in almost every sentence. La donna. No mention now of Ottoman hordes, of Genoese glory. Only this mysterious new passenger.

  Some superstition has been got about among the men that she is bad luck for us. There was a storm, which is normal for this time of year – but they are convinced that it is due to the woman. The problem with sailors is that they are born superstitious: difficult to convince them with a rational explanation if they have decided on some malevolence at work. Before I felt the need to guard her from their lust; now it is from their fear.

  I cannot sleep for thought of her so little distance away. I feel that I am aflame, and would quench myself in her coolness. But I cannot read her. Sometimes, when she looks at me with those black eyes, I think I see some answer to my longing there. Then I decide that I am imagining it …

  It is an absurdity, this thing that has taken control of me. It is like a fever of the mind and body. I am trying to scorch it from myself.

  And yet, perhaps if I could make her mine, this thing would leave me free …

  THE CAPTAIN’S LIEUTENANTS are worried about him. They have never seen him so distracted. They discuss in secret what is to be done. The bravest among them offers to go and speak with him.

  The man finds his captain, as expected, jealously guarding the closed curtains that conceal the place where the woman resides. When the lieutenant asks if they may go somewhere else on the galleon – somewhere where she will not be able to overhear – he refuses. So the lieutenant is forced to whisper, hoping that the woman cannot hear him. It is not precisely that he believes she has dark powers, as some of the men do. But it would not do to throw caution to the wind entirely.