A Dead Man in Naples
Page 9
‘Look, she’s here because she married Tonio. And that makes her as much of a Neapolitan as Francesca is –’
‘She certainly is!’ said Francesca, coming out of the pensione.
‘Francesca! You keep out of it!’
‘Let them talk, Bruno!’ said Francesca fiercely. ‘There’s plenty I could say about them!’
‘You’re not saying anything, Francesca. Get back inside!’
‘She’s pure, Maria, and loyal. Loyal to Tonio. Despite what people say.’
‘Of course she is!’ said Giuseppi indignantly.
‘Sometimes I could stick a knife in them! When they say things about her.’
‘It’s just idle talk –’
‘They say they’ve seen her!’
‘Well, that’s absolute rubbish!’
‘No, no, it’s true. I’ve seen her myself. But it’s not as they suppose. She’s an innocent and doesn’t know our ways, that’s all. And sometimes people lead her on. I tried to warn her. But she just gave me a stubborn look, as if to say it was none of my business. But it is my business, Maria, now that Tonio’s gone. Her honour is in my hands. So when I saw her, I tried to tell her.’
He shrugged. ‘But maybe there was no need. The way things turned out. But anyway it wasn’t her fault. She doesn’t know her way around and people take advantage of her. It makes me so angry, Maria, it makes me so angry!’
‘And rightly so,’ said Maria soothingly. ‘But, look, Bruno, perhaps you’re right. We shouldn’t make things worse by doing things which might give rise to such talk. I’ll tell you what: give me the money, and I’ll give it her.’
‘Would you, Maria?’ said Bruno gratefully. ‘Oh, thank you.’
‘Mind you,’ said Maria, ‘one day I’m going to let her know who the money came from.’
‘There’s no need –’ began Bruno.
‘Oh, but there is, Bruno. There is.’
She gave him a kiss.
‘You’re a good boy, Bruno,’ she said. ‘A good son to your mother, and a true friend to Tonio.’
* * *
‘The things I do for love!’ said the Marchesa glumly.
She was sitting on a pile of rags in front of the Palazzo Reale. Behind her stretched the long façade of the Palazzo with its multiplicity of statues: of Roger of Sicily, Frederick the Second of Hohenstaufen, Charles the First of Anjou, Alonzo the First of Aragon, Charles the Fifth, the Emperor. Charles the Third of Bourbon, Napoleon’s general and Naples’s king. Murat, and so on. The sun glared off the façade and bounced up off the dust of the Piazza del Plebiscito and anyone out in the middle, as the Marchesa pointed out bitterly, caught the full effect. ‘I shall melt away entirely,’ she declared. ‘Into a puddle. And then the dogs will come and lick me up.’
‘You have some way to go yet,’ said Seymour, taking a positive view.
She patted the rags beside her.
‘Come and sit beside me,’ she said, ‘and melt, too.’
‘I am waiting for my fiancée,’ said Seymour.
‘Come and wait here,’ directed the Marchesa. ‘Then she will see you and become all jealous.’
‘Well . . .’
‘It is good for a woman to become jealous,’ insisted the Marchesa. ‘And men, too, of course. That is one of the things we Italians know. It is good for a person’s love life. I make people jealous all the time. It is my contribution to the general well-being of the planet.’
‘You know, I don’t think I will sit there with you.’
She pouted.
‘Oh, well, be like that,’ she said. ‘Although it is true that two people sitting on this disgusting heap would make one even hotter.’
‘Whose love are you doing it for?’
‘Vincente’s. My cousin.’
‘You’re waiting for him?
‘I’m waiting for him to come and take these filthy things away.’
‘What does he want with a bundle of rags?’ said Seymour, mystified.
‘They’re not rags. They’re skins. Goatskins. Water-bags,’ she explained. ‘For the racers. Vincente’s had to organize it all now that Scampion has gone to teach the angels how to bicycle. I’m just minding them while he finds the man who will handle the distribution on Saturday. And the sooner he does that, the better. Before I disappear entirely.’
Chantale came into view at that point and was immediately hailed by the Marchesa.
‘Hello, my dear! I’ve been looking after your fiancé for you.’
‘How kind of you!’
‘He has remained faithful. So far. But perhaps it is as well you came when you did.’
She patted the goatskins. ‘Come and sit beside me. I am establishing an oasis.’
‘Wouldn’t you do better to do it under a tree?’
‘Undoubtedly. But this was where Vincente left the skins. Right out in the sun!’
‘Couldn’t you keep an eye on them from the shade? There’s an arcade over there.’
‘Where the letter-writers are? Well, yes, I could, couldn’t I? And rush out and squawk if anyone does anything untoward to them. Although I fear no one will. Unless a dog pees on them,’ said the Marchesa hopefully.
She rose up off the pile and dusted herself down.
‘Ugh! The smell!’ she said. ‘I shall never get rid of it. Perhaps I ought to go back to the hotel and change my clothes.’
‘Oh, don’t do that!’ said Seymour hastily, fearing that he and Chantale were going to be required to take over the guardianship of the skins. ‘At least, not until Vincente comes.’
‘Why, he’s coming now,’ said the Marchesa. ‘I can see him over there. What a relief!’
Vincente was coming towards them, accompanied by a man in a dark suit and two men pushing a hand-cart.
‘At last!’ said the Marchesa.
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ said Vincente defensively.
‘I felt I had been left to die in the desert,’ said the Marchesa. ‘Not the least of the army’s atrocities!’
‘Luisa, you mustn’t say things like that! Not where people can hear you.’
‘A human sacrifice!’ said the Marchesa loudly. ‘Burnt at the stake. For the greater satisfaction of the Church and the people.’
‘Don’t make such a fuss, Luisa!’
‘Some dogs came,’ said the Marchesa ‘and did an unmentionable thing. On the goatskins.’
‘Oh, God!’ cried Vincente. ‘Where? Where?’
‘Oh, God!’ cried Vincente.
The Marchesa laughed.
‘Let’s go and have an ice-cream,’ she said to Seymour and Chantale. ‘Under the arches, perhaps? As you suggested?’
There were some tables beneath the arches, where they could eat their ice-creams in the shade, and from them they could see along the arcade to where the public letter-writers were busy at their desks.
‘It’s like it is in Tangier,’ said Chantale, interested.
‘It’s not like it is in Milan,’ said the Marchesa. ‘The south is impossibly backward.’
In front of each desk there was often a little queue of clients waiting patiently. People who needed a letter-writer’s services were, of course, illiterate and usually poor. Many of them, judging by their clothes, had come in recently from the countryside and were probably writing back to their families. There were some men but most of them were women, elderly ladies dressed in black. But some were young, often barely more than girls, sent in to the city to earn their living as servants and relieve the burden on their families.
In one of the queues was the Arab woman, Jalila. Seymour was surprised because from the way she had spoken he had assumed that she could write. Perhaps she could, but in Arabic, and was wanting to send a letter to an Italian, and was not yet confident enough of her ability in the language to do so unaided.
‘Have you been to the Teatro?’ asked the Marchesa.
‘The Teatro?’
‘The Teatro San Carlo,’ said the Marchesa, indicating a long building next to the
Palazzo. ‘It’s one of the largest opera houses in the world. As big, they claim, as the one in Milan. Of course, it’s closed now – they’re between seasons – but they’ll let you put your head in if you ask, and it’s worth a look. It would be closed,’ said the Marchesa disgustedly, ‘when I got here.’
‘Here I sit,’ said the Marchesa gloomily, ‘while the world goes on without me.’
She had hardly tasted her ice-cream and was deep in thought looking across the piazza to where Vincente was supervising the transfer of the skins on to the hand-cart.
‘I blame bicycling,’ she said suddenly.
‘Certainly, bicycling has much to answer for,’ said Seymour, ‘but –’
‘I wouldn’t be here,’ said the Marchesa, ‘if it were not for blasted bicycles.’
‘That’s a bit hard, on bicycles,’ said Seymour.
‘No, it’s not. If it had not been for that stupid quarrel –’
‘What quarrel was this?’
‘The one between Dion and Gifford.’ And then, seeing his blankness: ‘Does this mean nothing to you?’
‘Nothing. Except . . .’ Faint bells began to tinkle. ‘Is this not something to do with bicycling?’
‘There you are! Bicycling. As I said.’
‘It does not mean a great deal to me, I’m afraid, Marchesa.’
‘I should think not. It shouldn’t mean anything to anyone. But it appeared to mean a great deal to the idiots in Florence who expelled D’Annunzio. And, consequently, me.’
‘This has, unfortunately, escaped me.’
‘Lucky you. And lucky England, which remains blissfully ignorant of anything that is happening in the world outside its shores. One of these days there is going to be a great war. And England will be the last to hear of it.’
‘Enlighten my ignorance, and I will see what I can do for the rest of my country.’
‘The Prime Minister was there. The Prime Minister of Italy, that was. And some of Count Dion’s supporters went up to him and assaulted him. Insulted him, too, which to Italians is even worse. And then Gifford’s supporters took umbrage and assaulted them. And Gabrieli was in the thick of things –’
‘Gabrieli?’
‘D’Annunzio. Well, he would be. If there was limelight going, he was never one to shrink from thrusting himself into it. But this time he had gone too far. This was the Prime Minister, and politicians, for some reason, take that seriously. So D’Annunzio had to go. Out of Italy, I mean. And Alessandro, my husband, had a business interest in the matter and was incensed, and then, for some reason which I do not fully understand, he blamed me and I had to go, too.’
‘And for some reason, which I, too, do not fully understand, you blame bicycling?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite see the connection –’
‘Dion, Gifford.’
‘Oh, wait a minute. The two cycling magazines, Vélo and Auto-Vélo. One yellow, one green?’
‘That’s right. Gifford started the green magazine and then they quarrelled and de Dion started the yellow one.’
‘And for some reason de Dion’s supporters assaulted the Prime Minister?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Over bicycling!’
‘Well, not just over bicycling. This was the time when France was divided over the Dreyfuss case – you know, that poor, daft French officer who was found guilty, quite wrongly, of spying for the Germans. Half the nation said he was guilty, the other half said he was innocent. He was a Jew, you see, and people took sides accordingly. On one side Dreyfuss’s supporters, socialist, republican, anti-Church; on the other, the traditional supporters of the army, conservative, very Catholic, imperialist. And anti-Jewish, of course. Count Dion was very much one of the latter. Gifford was one of the former. It gave an extra edge to their bicycling debates.
‘Now, the Prime Minister, although not exactly socialist, was certainly not a member of the latter group. He had, in fact, done quite a lot for the army – started the war with Libya, for example – but that wasn’t enough for them. So they attacked him. That incensed him, and also his supporters, who happened to be in the majority, and it was decided that an example had to be made. It couldn’t be de Dion, because he was so powerful and so rich and was supporting the army with arms: and so it had to be D’Annunzio.
‘Alessandro was very angry. The Prime Minister, say what you like, had at least started the war against Libya, and things were going swimmingly, and Alessandro was making lots of money: and then these idiots came along and threatened to wreck everything! And all, as he saw it, because of a dispute over bicycling! Someone had to suffer: and, unfortunately, it turned out to be me.’
Jalila went past.
‘That’s the trouble,’ said Marchesa. ‘We go over there and then they come over here.’
Vincente had finished supervising the loading of the skins and now came across to them.
‘Show them the opera house,’ directed the Marchesa.
Vincente obediently took them to the side door.
‘The main entrance won’t be open,’ he said. ‘The Teatro is between seasons.’
He seemed to have no difficulty in gaining entrance for them. They stood for a while and admired the sweep of boxes, the gilt dripping from the ceiling, the faded plushness of the seats. Seymour tried to imagine what it would be like with an orchestra in the pit and performance on stage.
Chantale did, too. She had never been to the opera.
‘I don’t think they have an opera house in Tangier,’ she said. ‘And if they did, and a woman went to it, it would cause a riot.’
‘Really?’ said Vincente, astonished.
‘Yes. We have theatres, of course. But only men can go to them.’
‘Incredible!’ said Vincente. ‘Why, half the point of going to the opera is to study the women.’
‘I think that’s what they object to,’ said Chantale drily.
When they came out of the opera house, the Marchesa was nowhere to be seen.
‘She’s doing it again!’ said Vincente crossly. ‘She makes an appointment and then disappears! She insisted I came with her this morning and now she’s wandered off!’
But then the Marchesa came into view at the other end of the arcade.
‘Where have you been?’ scolded Vincente.
‘To church,’ said the Marchesa.
‘I don’t believe you!’ said Vincente.
‘Well, I have.’
‘You never go to church.’
‘I do sometimes. I’m a good Catholic. Quite.’
‘Well, I don’t believe you’ve just been to one.’
‘Well, I have.’
‘Which one?’ said Vincente sceptically.
‘The San Rocco. It’s just along there. Behind the Palazzo. I heard children singing so I went in. You often hear them in the San Rocco.’
‘How do you know that?’ said Vincente, still sceptical.
‘Because I often go to hear them.’
‘Really?’
‘And sometimes I go to other churches as well. The San Lorenzo, for instance.’
‘Luisa, you’re making this up. I don’t believe there is a San Lorenzo.’
‘Yes, there is. It’s where Boccaccio first saw Fiammetta. You have probably never heard of Fiammetta, Vincente. She was the great love of Boccaccio’s life. Come to think of it, Vincente, you are such an oaf that you have probably never heard of Boccaccio, either.’
‘I have heard of Boccaccio,’ said Vincente sulkily.
‘Well, that’s where he first met her. And the thing is, Vincente, that when he first met her, there was music. “There was a singing compact of sweetest melody.” That’s what he says. And it struck me, Vincente, because I think that’s how it should be. At supreme moments in one’s life, one needs music. I have always believed that. When one falls in love, it must be to music. Why didn’t I remember that when I met Alessandro? There was no music when he was around. Only the crisp rustle of banknotes.’
‘I did not wish to be seen,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘I did not wish to have to acknowledge . . . that woman. She is not a respectable woman.’
‘The Marchesa?’
‘So called. I don’t think she is entitled to call herself that now. The title came from her previous husband. The present husband has no title. He is, I believe, a financier. I have nothing against people who work in finance. Some of my best friends are in the City. My own cousin, Jeremy, is what I believe is called a jobber. Although I gather that sometimes the word has unfortunate connotations in other walks of life. And he is a very respectable man. Occasionally he does things for the Church. Advises them, you know, on financial matters. And, certainly, they sometimes seem badly in need of financial advice. I have met some of his friends and they are most respectable. But that is not always the case in finance and certainly not, or so I gather, in Rome. I have heard some doubtful things about her husband. Rich, oh yes: but where do his riches come from? From dealing with unsavoury people. He certainly does not have a title. And so, certainly, now, no more does she.’
‘You are harsh, Miss Scampion.’
‘Not without reason, Mr Seymour. I saw what that woman did to my brother.’
‘And what did she do?’
She was silent for a moment. Then she said:
‘She led him on. As she led everybody on. Into wild-nesses and excesses of all kinds.’ She wrinkled her nose as at a bad smell. ‘Some of them,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘sexual. Although that was not, of course, the case with Lionel. She was most improper; and she encouraged other people to be improper, too. Those nice boys –’
She stopped.
‘Nice boys, Miss Scampion?’
‘Lionel’s friends. They had formed themselves into a club, to meet and talk. About politics, you know, and masculine things like that: Lionel used to attend some of their meetings, and I was always very pleased because I felt he needed male company, which I could not supply. It took him into a wider world. And gave him an opportunity to associate with people from good families.
‘Because they all came from good families, you know. As you would expect, since they were almost all officers. I was so pleased when Lionel told me about them. I had felt, you see, when we were in London, and in Budapest, that his friends were not always altogether suitable. Not always, to my mind, masculine enough. So I was very pleased when he told me about these new friends he had been making. The army gives a certain stiffening, you know.