by Alison Love
Antonio was disconcerted to find Bernard sitting in the restaurant. By day he looked more fine-spun than ever, an elegant man in expensive clothes, incongruous among the cheap red and white gingham tablecloths.
“Mr. Rodway,” said Antonio, putting out his hand, “I am pleased to see that you have recovered.”
“Oh, yes. These attacks are dramatic, but they do not last long.” Bernard took an amber mouthful of Marsala. “I’ve discovered a singing teacher for you, Antonio. His name’s Konrad Fischer. He’s a composer from Vienna, he worked with the singers at the opera house. You can come to my house for lessons. Herr Fischer is seeing several pupils there.”
Antonio licked his lips. “That is very kind of you, but I cannot afford—”
“Don’t worry about the cost. My uncle Dickie is paying Herr Fischer’s bills until he settles. He will be glad of the distraction. He had to leave his sister behind in Austria and he is worried about her.”
There was something overwhelming about Bernard, for all his sauntering charm. He is so sure, Antonio thought, that the world belongs to him, and he can dispose of everything within it just as he chooses.
“It is not only the money, Mr. Rodway. My family runs a cigarette kiosk in Leicester Square. I work there during the day. My time is not my own.”
“Kiosk,” said Bernard. “Now there’s an interesting word. It comes from the Persian, did you know that? It means an object that creates shade. There are many words like that, which have been absorbed into our English language so entirely that we forget their origins.” He took another sip of Marsala. “Surely somebody else can do your job. Selling cigarettes is not exactly a skilled task.”
Antonio thought of what his father would say. When he was fourteen a music teacher at the Italian school had offered him lessons at special rates for a paesano, a fellow countryman. Enrico had refused, barely glancing up from his game of cards. And then what, Antonino? he had said. Can you support a wife and children by singing? Better to keep it for pleasure.
Peppino stepped forward to refill Bernard’s glass. “You should do it, Antonio. You have a talent: something that is not given to many of us. This is an opportunity to nourish it.”
“Peppino is right,” said Bernard. “You have a great talent. Who can tell where it may lead?”
A wave of defiance swept through Antonio. Why shouldn’t I have ambition? he thought. Why shouldn’t I have hope?
“Thank you, Mr. Rodway, sir,” he said. “I accept your generous offer.”
“Excellent.” Bernard got briskly to his feet. “Shall we say next Wednesday at half past two? I will let Herr Fischer know.”
It was only later, as he was walking home with the jar of cherries in his hand, that Antonio remembered Olivia. He thought of how she had declined to write down his address, how she had shooed him imperiously out of the house. She did not want her husband to find me, he thought; she hoped that I would vanish into the darkness, never to be seen again. Is it because I discovered her secret, that night at the Paradise Ballroom? Antonio pictured her fierce extraordinary face. Olivia had claimed that Bernard knew everything about her. Well, he thought, I cannot help it if she is lying. I told her I would not say anything. It is not my fault if she does not believe me.
Antonio was turning into Frith Street now. As he did so he saw a young man escorting his girl around the corner from Soho Square. He was a stocky young man, English from the look of him, with hair the color of straw. At the corner the couple paused to say good-bye. They did it silently, touching hands but not faces, not lips. Something about their formality moved Antonio. They seemed to him like figures in a medieval fresco, their love expressed by scant solemn gestures. Then the girl turned away, and he saw that it was his sister Filomena.
“You should have expected it, Bernard,” said Dickie, as he reached for the porcelain bowl of whipped cream. “Your mother doesn’t like Lionel’s wife either.”
“That’s different,” said Bernard. He and Dickie had been to a meeting of the refugee association of which they were both members, and they were having afternoon tea in Claridge’s, sitting in brown leather chairs beside the fire. “She thinks Caroline’s boring, and of course she’s right. But I thought she would take to Olivia.”
“I can’t think why.” Lovingly Dickie added a spoonful of blackcurrant jam to the cream daubed on his scone. “Penelope’s jealous. Secretly she’d prefer it if you were homosexual, so that she could be the only woman in your life.”
Bernard squirmed. He was not prejudiced against homosexuals—of course not, he had plenty of friends who preferred men—but he did not like the idea that anyone might think he was one himself.
“What about Lionel?” Dickie dabbed jam from his cherub’s lips. “Was he scandalized by poor Olivia?”
“Oh,” said Bernard airily, “I don’t give a damn what Lionel thinks.”
The previous weekend Bernard had taken Olivia to Cheshire to meet his family. He had had a clear, delicious vision of what he expected to happen: Lionel’s red-faced outrage, his mother’s delight. It had not been like that at all, though. True, Lionel’s jaw dropped when he realized that Bernard’s wife was none other than the impossible woman from Quaglino’s, but he recovered swiftly from the shock, and thereafter was all politeness. As for Penelope, she greeted Olivia graciously, with a sweeping up-and-down look; then she ignored her and devoted her attention to Bernard, stroking his hand at dinner, laughing at all his remarks.
Olivia’s behavior had disappointed Bernard, too. He wanted her to be funny and outrageous, telling risqué tales of her life in the dance halls, how this bandleader snorted cocaine, how that suave singer tried to fondle the girls’ bums. Instead she was thoughtful, even demure, tilting her head encouragingly as Caroline chattered about her children and her dogs. The following day, to Bernard’s annoyance, she asked to see the silk factory. She listened as Lionel explained the workings of the jacquard looms: how it could take as long as a fortnight to thread the machine, how once it was done the loom could be kept running day and night, pretty much forever. When Lionel showed her the weaving cards, intricately punched with holes, she compared them to the white music rolls of a pianola, and Bernard saw his brother’s face change as he recognized Olivia’s intelligence.
“Well, she’s no Vere de Vere,” Lionel murmured to his brother afterward, “but she has something about her. Maybe it won’t be such a disaster after all, old fellow.”
His brother’s approval irritated Bernard more than ever. He glowered silently all the way back to London in their first-class carriage; then, at home in Bedford Square, he and Olivia had their first serious argument.
“I don’t know why you’re angry,” Olivia said. “When we were on our honeymoon you told me I shouldn’t talk about my old life. That’s why I was so careful. I guessed that it might shock your family, especially your brother.”
“And so you decided to make eyes at him instead, like some ridiculous shopgirl?”
Olivia crossed toward him, her feet almost touching his. “I wanted your family to like me,” she said in a simple voice. “What is wrong with that? I mean it, Bernard. If it was the wrong thing to do, please tell me why.”
Bernard stared, trapped by her candor. “Ouf,” he said, flinging away, “if you don’t understand how can I possibly explain?”
He thought of the argument now as he poured himself more tea. It was Lapsang souchong tea, the swollen blackish leaves like iron filings in the cup. He and Olivia had made it up—he smiled, remembering it—but there was something tarnishing about a first quarrel. It was like the first scratch on a new record, the first smudged mark on a freshly painted wall. Nothing would ever be quite the same again.
“And I hear you have a new protégé, Bernard.” Dickie had laid down his napkin but he was eyeing a meringue upon the three-tiered silver cake stand. “An Italian waiter, I believe, with a voice like an angel.”
“Not a waiter. He works, rather absurdly, in a cigarette kiosk in
Leicester Square. But yes, he does have the voice of an angel. Almost as good as Caruso, Herr Fischer says.”
Dickie reached for the meringue. “I know I shouldn’t,” he said complacently, “but these little cakes are as light as air. Is he handsome?”
“Come and see for yourself. More to the point, come and hear him. He’s having a lesson with Herr Fischer tomorrow. Why don’t you call in for a drink?”
“Excellent,” said Dickie, picking shards of meringue from his plate with a meticulous fingertip, “and while I’m there I can have a nice juicy gossip with Olivia about her weekend in Cheshire.”
“Oh, you won’t see Olivia,” said Bernard. “She makes herself scarce when Herr Fischer gives his lessons. Goes shopping, or to a matinée.”
“That’s considerate of her, don’t you think?”
Bernard took a mouthful of tea. He had let it brew too long, and it tasted nastily of kippers. “Pah,” he said, stretching out his tongue against its bitterness. “I daresay you’re right, Dickie. It’s only—well, I’d rather she stayed at home.”
“Don’t you like her gallivanting?”
“It isn’t that. There’s a skill to becoming a good hostess: making other people feel comfortable, bringing them out of themselves. I want Olivia to learn it.”
Dickie smiled. “I adore Olivia, you know that. I won’t hear a word against her. And remember, Bernard, she was working before she married you, she’s used to having an occupation. Maybe you should send her to art school, or get her involved in one of your committees. She’s cleverer than half those middle-aged literary types. The ones who think it’s bourgeois to comb their hair. Or wash.”
“I can’t see Olivia stomaching a committee. She wouldn’t have the patience. Besides, being my wife should be occupation enough, don’t you think?”
Dickie was silent as he picked the last fragment of meringue from the little china plate. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps. But you married an unusual girl, Bernard, remember. Don’t turn her into an ordinary one.”
—
The following day, while Dickie was listening to Antonio sing, Olivia sat in the cinema, wrapped in a caramel musquash jacket Bernard had given her. She liked going to the cinema alone. She enjoyed the darkness, the anonymity, the sense that she had stolen a sliver of time from the real world. Besides, there was nobody to accompany her. She had lost touch with Jeanie and the other girls from the dance hall, and although a handful of the women in Bernard’s circle had asked her to lunch, the invitations had not led to new friendships. The single women were inclined to be jealous of her, while with the married ones she felt shy and awkward. Bernard himself was much too busy to fritter away an afternoon like this. In any case, when he went to the cinema it was to see highbrow films, usually in French, Jean Renoir or Marcel Carné, not Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
Although Olivia claimed that she went out so as not to make Herr Fischer feel uncomfortable, the truth was that she did not like being in the house with Antonio Trombetta. His presence made her feel unsteady, as though the ground below her might give way at any time. She wished that she had told Bernard about her first meeting with Antonio. At the time the shock had been too great, seeing the singer’s face, knowing what he knew. It was too late now, Bernard was bound to be suspicious, to wonder why she had not mentioned it before.
On the screen, in luminous black and white, Fred Astaire danced his way through a throng of masked girls, hopelessly seeking the face of his beloved. Olivia burrowed in her seat. She had been proud of her behavior in the Rodways’ house in Macclesfield. She thought she had managed a difficult situation cleverly, and she had expected Bernard to congratulate her on her deftness. Their argument had taken her entirely by surprise. She had never seen Bernard sulk before, and she did not know that it was possible for her civilized husband to become so suddenly peevish. He had flounced—was that really the word?—into his study and slammed the door.
Few of Olivia’s previous affairs had survived arguments; she had no idea what would happen next. She did not even know what to say when Avril asked about serving dinner, and she felt the housemaid’s eyes probe humiliatingly. It was possible that in an hour the old smiling Bernard would emerge, offering to mix her a pink gin, suggesting they eat at Quaglino’s, as if they had never quarreled. It was also possible, in Olivia’s opinion, that he would announce that their marriage was over, he had ceased to love her, she had better pack her things and move out.
Olivia could not bear the suspense. She did the only thing that she could think of doing, which was to seduce her husband. From the back of her wardrobe she dug out the black spangled dress in which he had first seen her, slit to the thigh for dancing. It looked cheap and brash next to the elegant clothes she now wore, but that did not matter, Olivia thought. It might even be a good thing. She put “Dark Eyes” on the gramophone, as loud as the machine would go. Her heart was like a hammer as she inched open the door to Bernard’s study.
Bernard was sitting at his desk, and he looked up in blank astonishment. Olivia was afraid that the next moment he would ask, snubbingly, What on earth do you think you’re doing? Don’t be such a fool. Fixing her eyes smokily upon him she took a step forward, a precise exaggerated dancer’s step, so that her leg slithered from her dress.
Bernard smiled. “Well, well,” he said, pushing back his chair, “and what have we got here?”
The music was still wafting along the corridor. Bernard took her in his arms. She could tell he was aroused. Together they danced a few steps of the tango, their hands clasped, their thighs aligning. Then, hooking his arm beneath her silken knee, he kicked shut the door and steered her toward the velvet chaise longue. It’s going to be all right, thought Olivia, as triumph turned her limbs to jelly. Deep down, though, she felt the icy whisper of disdain, that her husband should fall for something so obvious.
It was Filomena’s half day, and she was sitting at the sewing machine, a black and gold Singer that had been her mother’s. She was performing a housewifely task called sides-to-middle, where you cut a worn sheet in half and stitched the far edges together. It left an uncomfortable seam in the center which irked you when you couldn’t sleep, but it put off the day when you had to dig into your purse to buy new linen.
The bobbin of thread rattled and whirred. Two weeks had passed since the momentous afternoon when Stan had kissed her. In that time Filomena had seen him only once, when he walked her home from Goodge Street. He had wanted to discuss their plans. When should they approach Enrico? Should Filomena broach the subject alone, or should they speak to him together? If all else failed, would Filomena up sticks and go to live with his family in Bermondsey? Filomena scarcely heard any of it. She was in a glorious whirlwind of joy and novelty. The very touch of Stan’s fingers upon her wrist, guiding her past a puddle, had filled her with rapture.
She was smiling now to think of it when the door opened and Antonio came in, dragging his rain-drenched jacket from his shoulders. Filomena looked up in surprise.
“I did not expect you home, Antonio. I thought you would be working all day.”
Antonio did not answer, but crossed to the scullery and, rolling up his shirtsleeves, rinsed his hands under the tap. “Is Danila upstairs?” he asked.
“Yes. She went to feed the baby after lunch. I daresay she is resting now.”
“Ah,” said Antonio.
Filomena began to pump at the treadle, feeding the white flannel through the machine. The needle jabbed noisily up and down.
“Tell me, Filomena. Who is he?” Antonio’s voice was soft, almost casual. Filomena lifted her foot.
“What do you mean?”
“You cannot fool me, Filomena. I saw you together, on the corner of Frith Street. Is he a paesano? He did not look like one.”
Filomena stared at her brother. “No, he is not a paesano. He is English. His name is Stanley Harker. He is a policeman, he works at Bow Street station.” Now that she had spoken Stan’s name there seemed no reas
on why she should not keep talking, why she should not talk about him forever. “I met him at the laundry. There was a disturbance, a couple of the women quarreling over a torn shirt. I helped Stanley to quieten them. We became friends—”
“Friends?”
Filomena nodded. Then she thought of the salty unfamiliar taste of Stan’s mouth, and her cheeks flooded crimson.
“I see,” said Antonio, his lips twisting.
“It is not like that, Antonino. Stan wants to marry me. He wants to speak to Papa—”
“Oh, Filomena. I thought you were cleverer than that. Did you really fall for such moonshine?”
The disdain in his voice annoyed Filomena. “You don’t know what you are talking about. You have not met Stan. He is a serious man. He means it.”
“And Bruno?” said Antonio. “What about Bruno? You are engaged to be married, Filomena. Or had you forgotten?”
Filomena fell silent. She had been trying not to think about Bruno.
“You know what will happen, don’t you, if Papa finds out? He will pack you off to Lazio, just like Lucia Ricci. He will send you to live with our sister, Paolina, and hope that nobody gets wind of your disgrace.”
“He can’t do that,” said Filomena. Her sister, Paolina, lived in a ramshackle stone house on the edge of the village, with no running water and three squalling children. “I was born in London, I have the rights of an Englishwoman.”
“And that won’t be the worst of it,” Antonio went on. “If Valentino catches a whiff of what you’ve been playing at he will kill this Englishman of yours. He’ll gather a squad of his Blackshirt friends, they’ll get their sticks and their knives, and they’ll slaughter him.”
“But Stan is a policeman. They’ll be hanged…”
