Rose in Darkness

by Christianna Brand

  ‘Cry? Oh, yes, because the Madonna was smashed up?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Sari, ‘she’s mended now. Only she’s so beautiful. And to think of that young, young man doing her!—how could he have understood so well about suffering?’ And indeed two tears welled up just at the thought of the mother sitting holding her dead son across her knees. ‘I know I’m stupid, it seems so showing-off, but I always cry.’

  A man came and stood beside their table; a respectful small bow. ‘Signora, Signorina—if I might be permitted?’

  ‘Oh, hallo!’ said Sari, looking up, undismayed. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have been discussing with my friend... One could not help overhearing how you were saying. It is true that Trastevere is not so safe at night. This is the quartiere of the criminals.’

  ‘Well, I know,’ said Sari in her pretty Italian. ‘But I wanted to take my friend to dinner at the Ristorante Ragazzo.’

  ‘Signora, you could not going there alone. Two ladies.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Sari, all complacent smiles. ‘However is that going to be avoided?’

  ‘My friend and I would be most happy...’ He looked down at her, deep bright eyes all aglow. ‘Please to permit!’ The friend came up from the neighbouring table, glass in hand. ‘Yes, indeed, ladies, would this not be nice?’

  ‘I dare say it might,’ said Sari. ‘Everything being even.’ She shushed down Nan’s anxious cluckings. ‘So first we’ll just have introductions and then we’ll all know, won’t we?’ Over intervening heads she called out in her clear, uninhibited voice: ‘Antonio!’

  The proprietor came forward. ‘Signora? Ah—Signora Principessa—’

  ‘Principessa?’ said the two men, visibly startled.

  ‘Antonio, these two gentleman have kindly invited us to spend the evening—’

  Antonio bent upon her a fondly humorous eye. ‘The Signora Principessa doubtless wishes me to explain first, that she is in fact Principessa di San Juan el Pirata—’

  ‘Ex., actually,’ said Sari. ‘But one still has what might be described as Powerful Friends.’ The gentlemen would have heard of the Red Mafia? They continued to form a sort of—bodyguard.

  The gentlemen bowed deeply. Even without this protection, they suggested, they would have taken great care—

  ‘You just do that,’ said Sari, laughing a little, ‘and we shall do fine.’ So, the quick wee? she suggested to Nan, and then off to go!’

  Nan was by no means happy. ‘Are you sure, Sari—?’

  ‘Yes, of course, it’d be terribly dull, just us two females alone and we’d meet much worse people at the Ragazzo. I always pick up someone—why do you think I talked so loud about Trastevere? And now they’ve got all my resounding titles, they won’t try anything on. Everyone knows all about the Mafia Rossa of San Juan.’

  ‘But are you really still a Princess?’

  ‘I suppose so. People are still Mrs when they’re divorced. And this was a divorce, however much they call it an annulment; they pretend to be Catholic in San Juan, but they’re not. The whole thing’s too phoney for words.’ She dived into a lavatory. ‘Gosh, not very attractive in here! A quick wee indeed! Who would care to linger?’ She emerged and peering into the rather dingy looking-glass, administered a going-over to the already perfect maquillage. She had tied a golden scarf over the offending penicillin and Luigi’s first application (for the work took two stages), knotting it low on the nape of her neck, as though it were her own hair, pulled back and pinned into a bun. At the last minute, for fun, she had taken an eyebrow pencil and drawn a centre parting across the gold. It altered her, the demure Madonna hair-do framing the pure oval face, and Nan was to remember afterwards how she had thought that never had beautiful Sari looked more beautiful, more young, more vulnerable, more carefree, more spirituelle. For who could have guessed then, how soon that look would be gone?—that look of almost childish innocence, of serenity, of gaiety—how soon that radiance would be gone for ever from Sari’s face. That this was to be the last evening, the last evening for ever, of happiness...

  Their hosts, with Antonio in attendance, had a taxi waiting for them at the door. ‘Principessa... Signora...’ More bowing as they were solicitously handed in. And the gentlemen introduced themselves. Pietro Zelli, Mario Parraci. Humble business men, no pretensions to royalty. And such royalty! A sugar Princess! They chattered away, flowery with compliments, jokes and allusions, all in their doubtful English, presumably for the benefit of the poor English signora. It was fascinating for Nan to drive through Rome as the Romans do, to pass the great columns and fountains, to chug across the face of St Peter’s and not even glance out of the windows; to cross the Tiber as though one were crossing the Thames. Sari seemed to accept it all with an equal cool; she had spent a lot of time here in the days of The Spanish Steps and, since then, on her constant obligatory visits to Luigi.

  Trastevere was beautiful, a maze of shadows in the failing light, the tall houses with their shabby ochre peeling away in flakes of gold-leaf, in their criss-cross of narrow streets. The men were coming out of the dark little bistros in ones and twos, conferring, looking up at the sky. ‘They’re calculating how soon it’ll be dark enough,’ said Sari. ‘Time for a plate of pasta and then off to work!’

  ‘To work?’ said Nan, innocently. ‘Are they all on night shifts?’

  She laughed. ‘Well but they’re all burglars, aren’t they?’

  ‘Burglars?’

  ‘Of course, I told you. This the quartiere of the thieves. But they’re gorgeous people, I know lots of them.’ And as they alighted, she pointed to a villainous-looking group across the street, ‘In fact, there’s Beppo! I must go and talk to him, he’s a great chum of mine. You go on in,’ she said to the two men, ‘and find us a table. They’ll hop it if anyone comes with me.’ And she ran off gaily, hands outheld, wobbling across the cobbles on her high heels, the glittering headscarf shining in the dim street lighting. ‘Hey, hallo! Buono sera! Come sta?’

  The place was packed, tables close together, a motley crowd; the noise deafening. Sari joined them at last at their table. ‘Oh, he’s so sweet! He’s promised to pinch a car for us while we have dinner; it’s all getting so grand and fashionable round here, these days, that it’s impossible ever to get a taxi. A Lamborghini, would you believe?—emerald green, he says, to recognise it by. And he says he’ll drive us himself and simply bring it back here.’

  ‘Sari!’

  ‘I know, isn’t it lovely? No hanging about for a cab.’

  ‘But Sari—!’ ‘But Principessa—!’

  ‘It’s quite all right, he’s an apsolutely top, top car thief, we couldn’t be in better hands. And if he doesn’t put it back, what business is that of ours? We just say we hired him. And of course I did hand over the odd penny...’

  You could see the men registering dismay, privately determining to have no truck with stolen Lamborghinis of whatever colour. They ordered champagne, however, the best in the house, and were clearly enchanted, if a little daunted, by their captive princess who now turned out to be a captive film star also. What would she have? What could they offer her? Anything, everything was at her disposal...

  ‘What’s the most expensive?’ said Sari simply, looking up and down the immense menu.

  They were apparently delighted with this response, standing up and clapping their hands for service, calling over the heads of other diners for camerieri. Under cover of their ecstasies of urgency, Nan implored her, ‘Sari, dear, is this right, honestly my dear.—?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Sari, laughing, murmuring back. ‘Sock them for all you can get! Sugar Princess, indeed! I’ll sugar them!’

  ‘Why do they—?’

  ‘La Sacarissima, one of my titles, dear—so witty! So come on, caviare first, even if you hate it, mountains and mountains of it, they do it here with a tiny little bit of chopped onion, it’s divine. And then, let’s see... Beccifichi, they cost a fortune, but I couldn’t possibly, poor l
ittle birds. They scrunch them up, faces and all, it’s too dreadful. Tartufi on a fondue—that’ll do. Are truffles in season now?—that would set them back a fortune...’

  She was wildly gay. The dedicated teetotaller succumbed to vintage champagne and as usual when she drank alcohol, an almost feverish hilarity ensued. The Sardines built up into a splendid anecdotage—last time she’d been in Rome, half a dozen of the malcontent guests had conspired to get behind the desk and alter all the number tags on the bedroom doors, with resultant total chaos, especially when the late-nighters returned; and she was into one of her acts, outraged spinsters bursting in upon nameless orgies going on in what they had supposed to be their own rooms, guilty lovers edging open doors and leaping into beds with unexpectant occupants, the drunks waking up next morning to find themselves surrounded by possessions not their own... And there was the lovely man who had introduced her to the Vatican and a further lively reconstruction of the scene when Il Papa was confronted by the biblical shorts. And the old, wild days with Aldo, rushing like two lunatics about Rome when she ought to have been working; the orchids, the presies and at last the great diamond betrothal ring of San Juan el Pirata with its additions of rubies and sapphires, emeralds and pearls, for births, marriages and deaths. You sort of slotted them into the main bit on little springs, most ingenious, though God knew what it must have looked like by the time you came to be laid out in state in their rotten old Duomo, twice widowed and remarried, mother of twelve, grandmother of twenty, great-grandmother of thirty-four and all totted up in additions to the ring... And she tilted back her chair and pulled the tablecloth up to her chin, plonked the vase of flowers from the table on her chest, lay back with closed eyes in a grotesquerie of laying-out; meanwhile scrabbling about blindly on the table for small objects to be built up into a wobbling heap of colour on her stiffened, outstretched hand. Pietro and Mario professed themselves enraptured. ‘Let us see it, let us see this wonderful ring?’

  ‘Oh, good heavens!’ She sat up, divesting herself of the accumulation of funeral trappings. ‘You don’t think I’d carry it around with me—and in Trastevere?’ The famous canvas bag lay propped against the leg of her chair. She followed their glance. ‘No, no—we can turn it all out on the table and you can look, but I think we’d finally be chucked out, such lashings and lashings of little packages of noxious drugs and things...’ The gentlemen’s eyes popped and they visibly shuddered. ‘But of course I haven’t got it anyway. Who could want such a thing? I sent it to the poor Pope to set him on his feet again after my apparition in the Paradisal panties.’

  ‘To the Pope?’

  ‘Well, anonymously, of course. I mean, I didn’t want it and he does wear these huge great rings, doesn’t he? for people to kiss and all that.’ Though heaven knew, said Sari, what he would do with all the marriage and childbirth clips, poor love, or weren’t they so celibate now with all these lovely ecumenical rules...?

  Close packed about them, other diners listened, amused or horrified, joined frankly in their private laughter, came across, drinks in hand, dragged up chairs and sat down at their table; from remoter situations voices called, jokes were flung back and forth, flowers caught up from their vases and tossed to her—till the whole place was in a happy pandemonium of noise and laughter and flying blossoms, the glittering gold head at its centre. When at last they rose to leave, half the house rose with them and marched them in triumphal progress to the door. Sari said, low voiced to Nan: ‘To the right. The green one.’

  ‘Darling, honestly—’

  ‘Come on, don’t be silly, it’s all fixed up with Beppo!’

  Their escorts had meanwhile privately arranged for a hire car to be waiting and now urged them towards it. ‘No, no, my Beppo would never forgive me! Come on, Nan, you and I at least—’ Pietro got hold of her by the arm. ‘Principessa, this is too much nonsense—’ but she jerked herself almost angrily away. ‘Get in, Nan, get in!’ She scrambled in after her. ‘You chaps go in your car. Beppo is driving us home.’ And she leant across Beppo and pressed on the horn till soon the whole neighbourhood was one scream of sound. Windows were flung open, heads popped out. ‘Poor loves, they think it’s the police. But I must clear the way!’ And, horn screeching, as Beppo switched on the ignition, she urged the car forward. ‘Out of the way, out of the way!’ The crowd fell back, closed in behind them. ‘Thank God, that’ll prevent those creatures from getting through! Beppo—magnifico!’ As they screeched round a corner on two tyres, bumped over cobbles, turned again and yet again, she explained. ‘You wouldn’t have recognised it, Nan. But of course they were Followers.’

  Nan hung on frantically, swaying from side to side in the bucketing car. ‘Followers?’

  Yet another corner and they were free of the cobbles, out on to a broader street. There was no sign of pursuit. The car slowed down to a slightly less terrifying speed. ‘Not a word of Italian, didn’t you notice? They couldn’t; they were Juanese.’

  ‘Oh, Sari, nonsense! It was only because I was English.’

  ‘OK, nonsense. Then tell me, how did they know?—all that rot about the Sugar Princess?’

  ‘It’s your Juanese title. La Sacarissima—’

  ‘How did they know that? Antonio never mentioned it. He just said, “Principessa!” Who, outside San Juan, knows their ridiculous titles? La Bellissima—that’s the Grand Duchess. La Sacarissima—that’s the wife of the heir. A lot of made-up tommy rot, to impress the poor wretched Juanese plebs. But outside the island who knows it?’

  ‘You mean you realised from the first?’

  ‘Of course—well, from when we left the Piazza Pore Horse. So I thought we’d have a bit of fun. But first make sure of our get-away.’

  ‘By arranging with this Beppo—?’

  They were across the river now, safe in the still busy streets of Rome. Sari spoke in Italian, the car slowed down to an acceptable speed. ‘Hasn’t he done a great job? I explained to him that we would need a quick get-away and of course for a car thief, that was money for jam.’ She spoke again in Italian, giving directions; fumbled in her handbag for a handful of notes. ‘Bravo, Beppo, molto bene!—grazie, grazie! And here we are,’ she said to Nan as they turned into the side street and drew up at the hotel, ‘so sucks to them! Buona notte, Beppo, e grazie, grazie!’ With a gay wave of the hand clutching the bundle of notes, Beppo in the bright green Lamborghini drove away. ‘Well, Nan—what a bit of fun?’

  Nan got out of the car and went into the foyer. The euphoria from the drink and hilarity had long drained away leaving her frightened and anxious. ‘But, how could they have known—?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sari. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Of course I always do go to the Piazza Navona to see my Pore Horse.’ And she asked at the desk, sharply, for their keys. ‘These are the right ones, are they?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the night duty Sardine, haughtily.

  ‘There have been mistakes,’ said Sari, sweetly. ‘Haven’t there?’ To Nan, as they fitted their keys into the doors of adjacent rooms, she added happily: ‘We got a jolly good dinner, after all, and it hasn’t cost us a farthing.’

  ‘You’re generally frightened,’ said Nan. ‘I mean about your Followers.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Sari. ‘I expect I shall be tomorrow.’ She added simply: ‘Thank God, tonight I’m drunk!’

  Etho, having neatly disposed of Sari for the next couple of days, summoned a meeting of the inner circle of the Eight Best. ‘I’ll be slaving all day, but come round to my place about eight. I dare say we can rustle up a chicking sangwidge.’

  The chicking sangwidge would in fact be a perfect meal rustled up by Etho’s perfect and rather charming housekeeper, known as the Troglodyte because she lived in the basement garden flat of his perfect little Georgian house in Hampstead. Etho was by now in the high echelons of Solon Pictures and could afford to do himself proud. Whether or not the charming housekeeper extended her duties beyond her care of his cuisine and possessions, was matter for
the ceaseless gossip of his friends outside the Circle; within it, no one gave it a thought, or if they did, just hoped it was simply lovely for everyone concerned.

  It was by no coincidence that they all lived fairly close to each other. Etho had found the flat for Sari, urging her over to England after the defection of Prince Aldo, and had similarly worked one of his magics to discover a small attic apartment for Sofa: she said ungratefully that it cost her two precious ounces every time she climbed all those stairs. Rufie picked her up in the Tootler and they drove over together. ‘My God, Etho!—not champagne?’

  ‘I though we could all do with a drop,’ said Etho. He held up the bottle of Veuve Cliquot. ‘The Widow—God bless her many perfections!’

  ‘Fun without being boisterous—’

  ‘Entertaining without being over-powering—’

  ‘An excellent thing in a woman,’ said Sofy. ‘But rare.’

  ‘Full-bodied—’

  ‘Not so rare.’

  ‘—and yet delicate,’ said Etho. He looked at her with love. ‘Not to be roughly handled.’

  ‘That would be a rare thing too,’ said Sofy. She thought about it, sipping with deliberate appreciation at her champagne. ‘There’s a condition called Adiposa Dolorosa. I think it should be used more widely to embrace the situation of all large people. People think that if we are fat, that reduces us to a lot of punch-drunk bulls—or more usually cows—just there for the picadors to jab at with their witty banderillas.’