by Alison Love
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Alison Love
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, B D W Y, are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Quartet Books, in 2014.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9781101904510
eBook ISBN 9781101904527
Cover design by: Tal Goretsky
Cover photography: (London skyline) Popperfoto/GettyImages; (Hawker Hurricanes) Print Collector/Getty Images; (ballroom dancers) ullstein bild/Getty Images
Title page photography: © Collage Photography/Veer
v4.1_r1
ep
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Historical Note
June 11, 1940
Autumn 1937
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Spring 1938
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Summer 1938
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Spring 1939
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Autumn 1939
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Spring 1940
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Winter 1941
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Spring 1947
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgments
Reading Group Guide
For Barry, with love
From the nineteenth century there was a well-established Italian community in Britain, working in many different professions: as glassblowers, knife grinders, artists’ models, street musicians, ice-cream sellers, restaurateurs. When Mussolini came to power in 1922, the first of Europe’s fascist dictators, he set out to gain the loyalty of these Italians abroad, who had been ignored by previous governments. His regime established new leisure and welfare programs, and local fascist headquarters became social and cultural centers for the Italian community. For many Italians, fascism restored a sense of pride in their own nationality: belonging to the Fascist Party was a simple gesture of patriotism.
With the rise of Hitler, tensions across Europe reached fever pitch, and British mistrust of foreign residents increased. The situation worsened in 1935 when Mussolini invaded Abyssinia—now Ethiopia—claiming it for his new Roman empire. As war approached, there were fears that Italy would forge a military alliance with Nazi Germany, and hostility toward Italians in Britain grew ever more intense.
They came for him at first light, as he had known they would. There were two of them. They walked briskly but not hurriedly along the pavement, glancing up from time to time to check the house numbers.
Antonio stood at the bedroom window. The June morning was mild, almost milky. It seemed to him that if he stayed perfectly silent, perfectly still, they would pass the house and leave him be. And yet he knew that they would not. At any moment—in thirty seconds, in twenty, in ten—they would knock at the door. The knock would be loud and hollow: a drumbeat, a summons. There would be no anger in it, no private hatred. The men were doing their job, that’s all.
In the street below, an errand boy was on his way to work, late and scowling. He kicked a fallen bottle from last night’s riots. Someone in the crowd had tried to throw a bicycle through the window of Fortuna’s, the Italian pharmacy, but it had bounced off the wall, the mudguard twisted.
I am calm, thought Antonio, I am prepared. I will not weep or tremble when they come for me. Even as he thought it, though, he watched the errand boy hurrying toward the lime trees of Soho Square, free to begin his ordinary day, and despair seized his throat. My life, he thought, my sweet promising life. What will become of it? The memories hurtled in a landslide through his mind, unstoppable: the dazzle of spotlights, the sway of the tango, a woman’s soft fingers upon his neck, his own voice soaring, soaring.
And then the policemen knocked at the door.
They were lowering the glitter ball in the Paradise Ballroom when he arrived. The hall smelled of cigarettes and stale spilled beer. Below the dais the dance hostesses were killing time, tugging at their dress straps, poking at their hair. Their faces had the strained pallid look of nocturnal creatures who never see broad daylight.
“You’re the stand-in for Victor, are you?” A man in a checked cap stepped from the stage, where he had been adjusting a gilt music stand.
Antonio bowed. “Yes, I am Antonio Trombetta.”
“Eyetie, are you? Well, the girls will like that,” said the man, without enthusiasm. “At least you’re on time. Maurice hates it when his singers are late. You can leave your things backstage. Jeanie will show you the cloakroom, won’t you?”
“Not half,” said Jeanie, a bold-eyed girl with a crimped permanent wave. The other dance hostesses snickered amiably. Jeanie led Antonio through the baize door into a whitewashed corridor. He could hear the warble and squawk of a saxophone player, warming up.
“Well, you’re a nice surprise, I must say.” Jeanie pushed her way into a windowless room littered with coats and hats and furled umbrellas. “Usually when Victor’s ill we get an oily little man from Orpington with wandering hands.”
Antonio smiled. “Tell me, Jeanie, is Victor often sick?” he asked as he took off his overcoat. Underneath he was wearing an old dress suit, sponged and pressed to hide the shiny patches.
“Don’t get your hopes up. He and Maurice are like that.” Jeanie held out her index fingers side by side, then hooked them together with a suggestive wiggle. “Besides, Maurice is past it. Too much of what the Yanks call happy dust. The Paradise is the only place that’ll have him now.”
Turning to the mirror—a grubby mirror, smeared with pinkish powder—Antonio straightened his collar. His black hair was glossy with brilliantine. He touched it with his fingertips, gingerly, as if it belonged to someone else.
“Come and find me later,” said Jeanie, as she turned to leave. “I’ll give you a dance on the house. You’ll love the way I foxtrot.”
—
Maurice Goodyear was in his forties, with a jaded, handsome face. From time to time he sniffed, raising his knuckles to his nose.
“Any of the songs you don’t know?” He was not unfriendly, but he had seen a dozen singers come and go, and he no longer had the will to learn their names. “Well, I’ll cue you in and after that you’re on your own.”
Antonio nodded. He knew his place: in bands like this it was the leader, not the vocalist, who was the star. The dancers were gathering around the stage now, the male hosts as well as the girls, eyeing him with curiosity. The lights dimmed. Antonio felt a flicker of stage fright as he stepped toward the microphone. It vanished, though, the moment he began to sing.
“You and the night and the music…”
The dancers’ faces changed, a raised eyebrow here, a half-reluctant smile there. Jeanie, at the front of the hall, was grinning. Opening his throat, Antonio let his voice flood out. This is what I am for, he thought, this is what I was born to do.
Maurice Goodyear brought the band to a halt. “That will do, gentlemen. Now, once through ‘These Foolish Things,’ and they can let in the great unwashed.”
The hall began to fill the moment the doors were thrown open. Soon the air was shrouded in smoke. There was a hum of voices, the constant shuffling of feet. Antonio watched the professionals weave their way among the other dancers, their faces spattered with light from the glitter ball. Jeanie’s partner was a gangling young man whose neck sloped like a giraffe’s. Beside her a tall girl in silver lamé was dancing the tango, eyes fixed, one bare arm outstretched. There was something extraordinary about her face, though what it was Antonio couldn’t tell.
“The moon got in my eyes…” He exaggerated his accent to make himself sound exotic: a cheap trick, but it meant that his listeners remembered him.
“You’re doing well, my friend,” murmured Maurice Goodyear, giving another sniff. “Go and wet your whistle. Back in ten minutes.”
There was a crate of beer at the side of the stage. Antonio wanted fresh air after the fug of the dance hall, and passing through the baize door he made his way to the back entrance. It gave onto a small yard, lit by a single lamp. The night smelled of rain on dusty pavements.
Antonio raised the beer bottle to his mouth. He was about to drink when he heard a whimper. A girl was stooping beside the brick wall, one hand pressed against her stomach, the other to her lips. It was the tango dancer in the silver dress.
“What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
The tango dancer did not answer, still holding her fingers to her mouth. Antonio touched her shoulder. Her skin felt clammy beneath the coarse metallic fabric of her dress. Crouching beside her, he handed her the bottle of beer. She lifted it and swallowed. Her face was very pale.
“Thank you,” she said, and she passed the bottle back to him with a lopsided smile. Antonio drank. The beer was tepid and gassy against his dry throat.
“Olivia?” It was Jeanie, peering into the yard. “The manager’s asking for you. They’re playing another tango, he wants to know why you’re not on the floor.”
The girl in silver straightened up. As she did so her body was gripped by a spasm of pain, and she gasped. Antonio took her hand, which was cold as a mermaid’s. From the dance hall there came the sway of a tango: “Dark Eyes,” the old Russian song of love and ruin.
“She shouldn’t be working,” said Antonio, “she’s not well.”
Jeanie squinted as she made him out in the darkness. “Oh, she’ll be all right. It’s her own fault, after all. Oldest mistake in the book.” She gave a shrug. “At least in a place like this the girls always know someone who can get you out of trouble.”
It took Antonio an instant to realize what she meant. He dropped Olivia’s hand as if it had scalded him.
“Dear God,” he said, before he could stop himself. Olivia’s chin reared fiercely upward in the lamplight. He could see her high cheekbones, her wide scarlet mouth.
“Yes, it’s true. I’ve had an abortion. What are you going to do? Call the police?”
Antonio stared. “Of course not—”
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Olivia. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Her eyes flashed, daring him to pity her. Once again Antonio thought how extraordinary her face was. It’s because she’s so plain, he thought; and then, No, she’s not plain, she’s beautiful. The knowledge catapulted through his body, a revelation.
Olivia whisked at her silver skirt, and without looking at Antonio, she swept away toward the dance hall.
“Good riddance,” said Jeanie cheerfully. “They’ll be playing a foxtrot next, I’ll give you that dance I promised.” She inched closer, tilting her face invitingly upward. He could smell her violet perfume. “I suppose I’ve missed my chance, though. I suppose you’ve already got a sweetheart?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Antonio, “I’m married. And my wife is expecting our first baby.”
“Oh, lord,” said Jeanie, “I’ve dropped a brick there, haven’t I?”
Antonio did not stay to answer. He strode back inside, returning to his place on the stage. There was no sign of Olivia. For the rest of the night he looked for her in the crowd, trying to glimpse the pale line of her face, but it seemed that she had vanished.
—
It was drizzling when the Paradise Ballroom closed, the pavements greasy with rain. Antonio pulled his trilby over his forehead and set off toward Soho. He liked to walk home, even when the weather was bad. It gave him a breathing space between the two worlds he inhabited, the shabby glamour of the dance halls and the noisy, familiar, claustrophobic atmosphere of Frith Street, where the Trombettas lived. Antonio’s father, Enrico, ran a kiosk in Leicester Square that sold sweets and cigarettes. During the day Antonio helped out there, and his other life as a singer seemed as improbable as a mirage.
In Soho one of the cafés, Ricci’s, was open still. Antonio could hear the rise and fall of voices, punctuated by the twang of a mandolin. He thought of Maurice Goodyear’s parchment face, of Jeanie’s violet scent, of the way he had fluffed a high note in “Night and Day.” He tried not to think about the tango dancer, and the terrible thing she had done to her own body.
When he reached the house he turned his key carefully in the lock. His wife, Danila, was a light sleeper. Slipping off his shoes, he went toward the kitchen for a glass of water, and saw to his surprise that the light was on. Filomena, his sister, was sitting at the table, wrapped in a dressing gown of fawn checked wool, her hair in a thick plait. She was frowning at a piece of paper in her hand. The moment she saw Antonio she swept the paper into her pocket.
“I thought you would be asleep,” said Antonio.
Filomena did not answer. “Let me make you some warm milk, Antonio,” she said, and crossing to the stove poked vigorously at the damped-down fire.
Antonio sank into a chair. He was fond of his sister, who was a kind, stolid girl. She worked as a laundress in Goodge Street, and there was always a pleasing aura of soap and starch about her.
“Was that a letter from Bruno?” Bruno was Filomena’s fidanzato, her fiancé; he was also Danila’s cousin. Like Antonio’s, the marriage had been fixed by their families when they were young, thirteen or fourteen. Bruno had been working in one of the grand Mayfair hotels, but when Mussolini invaded Abyssinia he had joined the army in a surge of patriotism. Now, two years later, he was still in Africa with the occupying forces and nobody knew when he would return.
Filomena touched the pocket where she had put the piece of paper. “Yes. It was a letter from Bruno.”
She took the enamel saucepan from the stove and poured the milk into a cup. Filomena was twenty, a year older than Danila. Bruno’s departure had left her in limbo, an unmarried daughter when she should have been a wife.
“He will be home soon, Filomena.” Antonio disagreed with Bruno’s politics, but there was no doubt he would make a good husband: he was devoted to Filomena. “Do not fret.”
Filomena put the cup of milk on the table, pushing aside a newspaper to make room. It was L’Italia Nostra, Antonio noticed, the weekly fascist paper. His younger brother, Valentino, must have brought it home. Valentino was a barman at the fascio, the Italian club where the Fascist Party had its headquarters; like Bruno, he was an ardent supporter of Mussolini. He had been desperate to go and fight in
Abyssinia too, but his father had forbidden it. You’re only seventeen, it’s too young, Enrico had said, although the rest of the family knew that it was because Valentino was his favorite, and he did not want to lose him.
“Half of it’s been torn out,” said Antonio, turning over the paper. “There’s only the advertisements left.”
“I used it to light the stove. Why? Did you want to read it?” Filomena widened her eyes ironically at her brother, who smiled.
“Valentino will be furious.”
Filomena flicked her plait over her shoulder. “I will go back to bed now,” she said, stepping down into the scullery, where her mattress was laid out on the tiled floor. “Sleep well, Antonino.”
—
The Trombettas rented the lower floors of the house in Frith Street, four rooms with a lavatory in the backyard. Above them lived a countryman from Lazio, Mauro Bonetti, with his niece Renata. The Trombettas felt sorry for the Bonettis, especially Mauro. He was lame from childhood polio, and the only job he could manage was washing dishes in the kitchens of the Savoy Hotel. He earns next to nothing, Enrico would say, stretching out his hands with an air of superiority. How can he ever make his way in the world?
The bedroom where Antonio slept overlooked Frith Street. Before the death of his mother, Mariana, it had belonged to his parents, and it was full of the huge elaborate Victorian furniture Mariana had insisted on buying from secondhand shops. As he stepped into the room Antonio barked his shins on the mahogany sideboard.
