The Invitation

by Lucy Foley

  ‘Of course. God forbid the Italians are ever ostentatious on their own.’

  She laughs. And then, suddenly, she grows serious. He hasn’t seen her like this yet.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  ‘Be careful, Hal.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks, carefully.

  ‘I know it is easy to believe that we elderly ones see less, because our eyesight may not be as clear as it once was. Or that we feel less; that the passion is withered up in us. But we have seen more of everything, because we have lived longer. Because of it, we are perhaps better able to read certain signs. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She frowns. ‘Will you make me say it out loud?’

  ‘No,’ he says, too quickly, suddenly fearful. ‘No, don’t do that.’

  ‘So it is true.’ She smiles. ‘I am pleased for you, Hal. You deserve that happiness.’ She lowers her voice. ‘As does she. That is why I am telling you to be careful.’

  There is a moment of pure pantomime outside the Casino. Giulietta, garbed in gold shantung silk, ascends the steps like a queen. Earl Morgan acts as her escort – and there is a delicious moment when, not recognizing him, one of the waiting photographers calls for him to stand aside. Flashbulbs explode about her. The Casino’s president rushes down the steps and, at a loss in the face of such a spectacle, bends at the waist in a deep bow. Giulietta acknowledges him with a regal nod.

  Inside they are each presented, ceremoniously, with a bag of chips. Hal looks about him and sees, to all intents and purposes, a palace – or perhaps a temple to some ancient god. The light from the chandeliers spills upon gilt and stone, red velvet and chrome.

  Truss, he sees, is not given a bag of chips. Aubrey Boyd asks him why.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, with a smile. ‘I don’t gamble.’

  ‘Ah – you are afraid you’ll lose?’

  ‘I prefer to choose not to leave anything to chance. There is such a thing as making one’s own luck.’ He turns to Hal, and says, ‘And yet I think I can see you as a gambling man, Mr Jacobs. Would that be a fair assessment?’

  ‘No,’ Hal says, keeping his tone light. ‘On my salary it wouldn’t be a wise hobby to adopt.’ He is aware of the man’s eyes on him. Does Truss mean something specific by it, or is it merely another attempt to diminish him? It is impossible to tell.

  After a turn at the roulette table and several rounds of blackjack, Hal’s chips are nearly gone. The colour and noise of the place has become oppressive to him: his head aches. Stella is nowhere to be seen. The evening, visible through a sliver of open door, calls to him. He cashes in his chips and leaves, telling Aubrey that he will meet them back at the yacht.

  The air outside is velvet-soft, and he breathes it in with relief. The sky, not yet quite dark, is an odd colour, a pale but profound grey with a quality of opalescence to it. The black shapes of the palm trees are stamped against it like cut-outs. Music – the groan of a saxophone, the soft wail of a clarinet – threads its way up from the centre of the town. He follows it, as though in a trance.

  In the main street, men and women cluster outside bars. Eventually he finds the source of the music. The band are set up outside one of the bars. A saxophonist, a clarinettist, a double bass. And then the singer appears. She wears midnight blue silk against her dark skin: a floor-length sheath. There is a strip of silver ribbon tied about her cropped head, and she wears it like a diadem. She is magnificent, but when she begins to sing her voice is even more so: deep and roughly beautiful. There is strength in it, and great sadness.

  A woman comes toward him, a young woman, and asks him if he wishes to dance. Together they move to the music. She is shorter than Stella; and her perfume is sweet, little-girlish.

  At one point she looks up at him. ‘Where are you?’ she says.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I am thinking: you’re dancing with me, but you are not here. You are somewhere else.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  At the end of the piece she pushes away from him with a small, slightly wistful smile. ‘It’s enough, I think. I’ll find a man who really wants to dance with me.’

  He makes his way toward the bar. And something catches his eye: a sheen of gold. Stella. She sits at one of the pavement tables with a man, right in the middle of the listening crowd.

  He cranes forward and sees to his relief that her companion is Gaspari. He makes his way to them through the throng. Gaspari glances up and, seeing Hal, smiles and raises his glass in a toast. Stella turns and looks at him and smiles cautiously, politely.

  He takes a seat from the next table along and joins them.

  ‘You too were bored of the casino?’ Gaspari asks.

  ‘I lost all my chips,’ Hal admits. ‘And it wasn’t my idea of fun.’

  Gaspari nods, approvingly. ‘Horrible places,’ he says. ‘Full of falseness and gaudiness. This is real life, here.’ He gestures to the crowd, the music. ‘I asked Mrs Truss if she would escape with me.’

  They listen for several moments in silence as the voice floods over them, almost terrible in its beauty.

  ‘It feels like something more than real life to me,’ says Hal, thinking what the phrase means for him: long hours in the bureau, the too-small apartment, the heat and grime of summer in the city.

  ‘What did you say?’ Stella turns to him.

  He coughs. ‘Like something more than real life. Do you know what I mean?’ It is how our new life will be, he thinks. Braver, truer.

  She nods. He sees that her eyes are shining with tears.

  ‘Mrs Truss,’ Gaspari asks, ‘are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Then, after several minutes of silence, she says, ‘It’s the music, isn’t it? It does something to you.’

  ‘I think we should all have another drink.’ Gaspari calls over one of the waiters.

  The music shifts into a different key, and the singer produces a tambourine to tap against her leg as she sings. Gradually, some of the couples get up from the tables to dance.

  ‘Mrs Truss,’ Gaspari says to Stella, ‘why don’t you dance with Hal here?’

  ‘Would you like to?’ Hal turns to her.

  She hesitates for a second. He can see her asking herself the same question: would it give away more to accept, or decline? She nods. ‘All right.’

  They stand, and move together, but only just. He can feel the pressure of her fingertips upon his waist and shoulder and he, likewise, holds her as though she were made of the finest, frailest porcelain that might fracture with too much handling. But he can feel the warmth of her skin beneath his palms, feel her breath upon his collarbone: all of these things that remind him irresistibly of the fact that she is not china, is anything but frail.

  At one point he glances back towards the table, and finds the old man watching them, curiously. Afterwards, when they sit back down at the table and have another drink, he can feel the director’s gaze moving between them. Making, perhaps, surmises … connections. He looks at Gaspari frankly, half-challenging him to make some comment. But Gaspari merely raises an eyebrow, and looks back down at his drink. He wears a small, secret smile.

  Now a man comes and offers a hand to Stella. Hal is about to step in and prevent it, when he catches himself. She glides away with her new partner without a backward glance. It is the act, he reminds himself – all part of the act.

  ‘She is a good dancer, Mrs Truss,’ Gaspari says, watching Stella and her partner. And then he looks at Hal, ‘But I said it before. I thinks she dances best of all with you.’

  Hal looks at him.

  ‘I do.’

  Hal wishes that he could talk to him – share the wonder and the fear of it with this man who he feels would understand absolutely. Gaspari would keep their secret, he is certain. But they cannot take any further risks. Not until they have taken that final, all-important risk.

  As they make their way back toward the yacht, leaving the centre of town for the
quieter streets that lead to the marina, they see an odd triptych of figures before them, stumbling in the same direction. Cast in darkness, their appearance is sinister, but as Hal, Stella and Gaspari draw closer they reveal themselves in the weak light of a streetlamp. It is, Hal sees, Earl Morgan – supporting or perhaps supported by two women, his arms about their shoulders, his head hanging down in front. His companions have that peculiar synthetic beauty common to women of a certain trade, or at least to those that prosper from it. Tight, glittery gowns and high shoes. From an angle, if one squinted slightly, they could be film stars or fashion models. But there is a hardness to them that speaks of rougher experience.

  One of the girls, hearing the approaching footfalls behind them, starts and turns about. When she sees them she gives a little exclamation. Morgan and the other girl follow her lead. Morgan blinks at them, stupidly. Then recognition dawns and he smiles widely, slurring a greeting to them. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, sounding genuinely bemused.

  ‘We’re going back to the boat.’ Hal tells him, stepping forward. ‘Same as you, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Morgan shakes his head, grins. ‘No, no. I’m going to a party with my friends here. You could come if you’d like.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Morgan shrugs. ‘But let me introduce you. This is …’ He gestures to the first woman, stops, and giggles. ‘I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Federica,’ she supplies.

  ‘And …’ He turns to the other.

  ‘Bianca.’

  ‘We met in the Casino,’ Morgan says earnestly. ‘Lemme tell you, these ladies know a bit about baccarat.’ He slings an arm around the one called Federica, who insinuates herself against him. Then the other girl makes a little pantomime of being left out, and with a laugh he wraps his other arm about her.

  ‘Hal,’ Stella says quietly, turning to him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think that we should try to get him back to the boat. Without any fuss.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Gaspari murmurs. ‘If a photographer gets hold of this it will be a great scandal.’ He looks behind them at the dark, empty street. ‘Thank goodness this is not Cannes – that is one thing to be grateful for. But it won’t take them long.’

  ‘All right.’ Hal walks up to the trio. The girls eye him.

  ‘Who is he?’ the one called Bianca asks. ‘He is a famous actor, too?’

  ‘I’m nobody,’ he tells her, baldly. ‘I’m poor.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her gaze slides away, disinterested.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ Hal says to them both, ‘I’d like to have a quick word with my friend here, in private.’

  A lopsided grin from Morgan. And then in a childlike, wheedling tone, he says: ‘But right now? We’re having a good time, you see …’

  ‘Please,’ Hal says, with a smile. ‘It’s about something important. I—’ he improvises. ‘I need to ask your advice on something.’

  ‘Oh.’ He can see that Morgan, despite his stupefaction, is flattered by this appeal to his wisdom. ‘Well, all right … but for a few seconds. I don’t want to let these two get away.’

  They aren’t going anywhere, Hal thinks. And that is part of the problem.

  He draws Morgan to one side. The man smells terrible: stale sweat and alcohol, very possibly sex. Hal takes an involuntary step back.

  ‘Well,’ Morgan says, impatiently, ‘what is it then?’

  ‘I’d like some advice …’ Hal thinks, quickly. ‘About … acting.’

  ‘Acting?’ Morgan looks bemused. ‘I thought you were …’ he appears to search through the fug of alcohol for anything he knows about Hal. ‘A writer, something like that.’

  ‘Well, yes … but that’s only because I haven’t been able to make it as an actor yet.’

  ‘Ah.’ Morgan nods sagely. ‘It’s hard for me, though …’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve always been famous – since I was a boy. Almost sixty films.’ As he speaks, Hal glances over and sees that Gaspari is talking to the two girls. There is a bit of gesturing, something that looks like an intense negotiation, and then, with a reluctant look back at their drunken date, the girls sidle away.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  Hal turns quickly back to Morgan. ‘Oh, I’m sorry – no.’

  ‘I was saying that Crawford robbed me of the Oscar, in 1950. Everyone thinks it was some sort of fix.’

  ‘Oh,’ Hal says. And then, unable to resist. ‘I didn’t realize you were nominated.’

  Morgan frowns. ‘No – I wasn’t. But that was a fix too, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hal says, quickly, soothingly. Stella and Gaspari have approached, without the two girls, and he turns to them. ‘Shall we go back to the yacht?’

  For the first time, Morgan realizes that the girls have disappeared. ‘Where have they gone?’ he asks, forlornly. ‘My friends?’

  ‘Oh,’ Gaspari says. ‘Unfortunately they were called to another engagement.’

  Morgan looks genuinely bereft. He makes such a pathetic figure that Hal feels, momentarily, rather sorry for him. ‘We were going to have a good time.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gaspari nods. ‘They send their regrets.’

  Now Stella steps into the breach. ‘Tell me, Mr Morgan. You were talking about the Oscars, I think …?’ She draws him a little way away, as though in confidence. Something about the earnestness of her expression – as though she were talking soberly to a guest at a dinner party – makes Hal smile.

  ‘How did you do it?’ he whispers to Gaspari.

  The director looks pained. ‘I’m not proud of it. I made sure it was worth their while to leave …’

  ‘You paid them?’

  ‘Yes – what they would have made from him. I think they understood it was in their best interest. That way they got their money without having to deal with a drunken American actor – or an unconscious one, or worse.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Still, there’s nothing stopping them from making some trouble if they want to – telling some grubbing journalist about it. But with no proof, it won’t carry much weight. We are lucky that we are not in Rome. There, there is always a man following with a camera.’

  Suddenly there is a cry behind them. Hal turns to see Morgan pawing at Stella, his great hand upon her waist while she tries to extricate herself from his grasp. It is such an unexpected sight that both he and Gaspari are frozen on the spot for several seconds.

  ‘Per amor di Dio . . .’ Gaspari mutters.

  Without pausing to think, Hal launches himself at Morgan.

  ‘Hal,’ he hears Stella say, ‘don’t …’

  In Morgan’s state, all his brawn is useless, and he yields instantly to the force of Hal’s shove. Hal finds himself sprawling upon the ground with Morgan’s face – wearing an expression of slack-jawed surprise – beneath his own. If he had his wits about him, he would stop, now. But he finds himself pulling his arm back and catching Morgan a hard blow across the face. He is ready to go again when he realizes that he can’t get his arm free, that he is being restrained.

  ‘My friend. ‘That is enough.’

  He turns and sees Gaspari, gripping his forearm with both bony hands. Only when he is satisfied that Hal has calmed sufficiently does he let go.

  ‘I think,’ the director says, in an undertone, ‘we will not speak of any of this again.’

  ‘No.’ And Hal understands that by this he means to encompass everything – the last part most of all. He glances across at Stella and sees her face. He has to look away. Her disappointment nearly floors him.

  He wakes, and then wonders why he has done so: it is still dark. Then he realizes that there is a knocking – soft, but insistent, at his door. He opens it to find Stella standing there in the shirt she sleeps in. Instantly, he is filled with longing. He wants to gather her to him – but as he goes towards her she shakes her head.

  ‘No, Hal. I have to go back in a few seconds. I to
ld him I was going to get a glass of water.’

  He quashes the surge of irritation and jealousy this provokes in him. A matter of days, and she will be his.

  ‘I don’t know if we should go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It may have ruined everything.’ She speaks in a whisper, but there is all the force of her anger in it. ‘Don’t you see how it looked? Your overreaction?’

  ‘I couldn’t let him do that.’

  ‘Oh,’ she is exasperated. ‘Don’t be absurd. Do you think I can’t protect myself from him? He is a drunken fool.’

  ‘Stella,’ he says, ‘it will be fine.’

  ‘But what if he talks about what happened? How you reacted? Frank will guess …’

  ‘That I knocked him out because he was pawing at you? It doesn’t exactly paint him in the best light, does it? I don’t think he will be in a hurry to tell anyone. Not when he’s the hero of his own story. You’re worrying too much.’

  ‘What about Gaspari?’

  ‘Not a chance. If he has guessed, then he is on our side.’

  She runs a hand through her hair. ‘It could have ruined everything.’

  He nods. ‘All right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Good.’ A brief smile. And then, with a quick movement, she turns her face up and kisses him. It is almost violent, and he thinks he again tastes the salt of tears on her lips. But before he can look at her properly, she pulls away.

  ‘Goodnight, Hal.’

  ‘Goodnight, Stella.’

  36

  He is sitting on deck, looking across at San Remo, the sorbet colours paled by the morning light. They set sail soon for Cannes. It will be the first time he has left Italy in several years.

  In his mind he is threading the stages of their journey together. In Cannes, he will do some reconnaissance the morning before the screening, and find somewhere disreputable-looking enough to make them new documents without any risk of it getting back to the police. He’ll use his old photograph, but Stella doesn’t have her passport. Truss has it. It is too much of a risk to try and take it from him, and chance him noticing. Hal feels certain, though, that they will work something out. He feels certain about all of it – about the rightness of it – more than he has about anything in as long as he can remember. He feels as though he has reconnected with life. He wants to wrest things from it. Incredible to think that such a short time ago he was quite content to drift through it.