She glanced at me quickly. “I say he will have the whole afternoon to sit in a cafe and drink and slap the waitress’s bottom.” She laughed at the expression on my face. “Now I have shock you. You are so very, very English, you know.” She slipped her hand under my arm and snuggled down into the leather. “Relax now, please. And remember, this is Italy. Do you think I do not know what a boy like Roberto wants? You forget I am born in the slums of Napoli.”
I didn’t say anything and the car slid out through the big wrought-iron lacework of the gates and swung south down the Via Posillipo towards Naples. It was wonderful to feel the cool air on my face. Heavy clouds were banked up across the sky. It was oppressively close and the ash-heap of Vesuvius stood out almost white against the louring black of the sky. “Did you see Vesuvius last night?” I asked her.
She nodded. “For three nights it has been like that. From Santo Francisco we shall see it much more clearly.” She sighed. “Perhaps it is because of Vesuvio that the women of Napoli are like they are.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
She looked at me from under arched eyebrows. “Our passions are like that volcano,” she said huskily.
I stared at the mountain rising so quiet and serene above the sea. “Do you think it will erupt again?” I asked.
“I do not know. You must talk to the scientists at osservatore. But I do not think they know very much. When you have seen Pompeii, you will understand how powerful that mountain is. It is unpredictable and terrible—like a woman with a love she must destroy in order to hold.”
We had lunch in a restaurant that had once been a private-house. The tall, scrolled rooms were almost Regency in architecture. It was just near Herculaneum, that other Roman town that had been buried in the ash of Vesuvius.
After lunch we turned inland from Portici, through narrow, dusty streets where naked babies sucked their mothers’ breasts and old men lay like bundles of rags asleep in the dust. Then we were out on the autostrada roaring southwards with Vesuvius towering higher and higher above us to the left. Zina looked back several times and then ordered Roberto to stop. As we pulled in to the side of the road a big American car flashed by. I caught a glimpse of two people seated in the back of it, a man and a girl, and though they did not glance at us I had a feeling they were conscious of us. I turned to Zina. She was looking at me out of the corners of her eyes.
The by-roads connecting the villages pass either over or under the autostrada and not until Torre Annunziata is there a side road branching off the autostrada. There is a petrol station at the fork and the American car was there. I looked back as we shot past and saw it nosing out on to the autostrada.
Five minutes later we were in Pompeii. Hacket was waiting for us near the entrance to the ruins, his tiny hired Fiat almost lost in the crowd of coaches and souvenir stalls. Zina asked for the Ruggiero and we were passed straight through the turnstiles. But when we got to his office we found he was in Naples, lecturing at the University, so Zina showed us round herself.
Our progress was slow for Hacket was continually pausing to refer to his guide-book or to take a photograph. It was oppressively hot and my leg began to ache the way it often does in England before it rains.
It was the sunken streets that made it so hot. Most of them are still just twenty-foot deep cuttings lined with the stone facades of shops and villas exactly as they were two thousand years ago. Zina showed us all the important things and as we followed her round she told us story after story, building up in our minds a picture of a voluptuous, orgy-ridden life in a Roman seaside resort in the days before Christ was born. But “though I saw the forum and the baths, the various theatres and the brothel with the penis sign outside and the indelicate pleasure murals above the cubicles, and the villa with the revolting picture at the entrance and the murals in the love room, it was the little things I remembered afterwards—the deep ruts worn in the stone-paved streets by the wheels of the chariots, the shop counters with the pots in which olive oil and other household necessities had been stored; the small bones still lying in the room where a child had been caught by the hot ash. It was an overall impression of a town suddenly halted in mid-flow of activity.
Walking through those narrow, rutted streets, the phallic symbol of good luck still clearly marked on the paving stones, the initials of lovers and of men in the cells of the prison still as clear as when they had been cut, it seemed as though only yesterday the Romans in their togas had been here in place of this motley crowd of camera-slung tourists speaking a dozen different languages.
But in the Terme Stabiane all these impressions were swept aside. After seeing the hot bath Zina took us back to the entrance to look at a mosaic. And it was there that we came face to face with Maxwell and Hilda Tuček. They didn’t seem to notice me as they went straight through into the dim cavern of the baths. But I knew then who the occupants of the big American car had been.
Zina turned to me. “Do you tell your friends to follow us?” She was white with anger.
“Of course not,” I said.
“Then why are they here? Why do they follow us from Portici?”
“I don’t know.”
She stared at me. I could see she didn’t believe me. Then she shrugged her shoulders. “I think we go now. I do not like to be followed about. Is that girl in love with you?”
“No.”
She gave a quick, sneering laugh. “You do not know very much about women, eh?” We went out and turned left towards the forum.
As we went back down the narrow, sloping street with the chariot ruts, she slipped her hand through my arm. “Do not worry about it, Dick. Roberto will get rid of them for us. My car is very fast and he is a good driver.” She seemed to have recovered her spirits for she chatted gaily about the scene in Pompeii when Vesuvius erupted. She seemed to have an almost frighteningly morbid interest in the scene and I remember the way she laughed as she said, “It happen so suddenly that men and women were caught in bed together and when they excavated they find them still like that. Can you imagine yourself in bed with a girl and then suddenly the room is full of hot sifting ash, you are suffocated, and there you are, in the same position, when a digger uncover your love couch two thousand years later? That is immortality, eh?”
As we went out through the gates I looked back. There was nothing to be seen of Pompeii except the burnt grass of what looked like a rabbit warren. It was all below the level of the ground. Behind and above it the ash slopes of Vesuvius had a grey sheen and at the very summit a little puff of vapour showed, like a miniature atomic explosion.
Hacket was also looking up at Vesuvius. “Must be a fine sight out here at night,” he said. “Guess I’ll drive out and have a look after it’s dark.”
Roberto drove up and Zina held out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Hacket. Now you have seen Pompeii I think perhaps you respect our little volcano, eh?”
“Believe me, Countess, I’ve immense respect for it—and for you, too,” he said with a slow smile. “I certainly appreciate your kindness in showing me round. Good-bye, Mr. Farrell. Be sure to take it easy now.”
As we drove away he was rummaging in his bulging pockets for candy to give to a ragged, importunate urchin. Zina was very silent on the drive back to the autostrada. As we approached the turning to Torre Annunziata she looked back and then spoke rapidly in Italian to Roberto. He nodded and put his foot down on the accelerator. Behind us I saw the black and chromium of Maxwell’s car. I felt angry then. It was ridiculous to be followed like this as though I were some sort of a criminal.
We turned left and swept down towards the leaden mirror of Naples Bay. Roberto knew his way and we roared and slithered through the narrow streets, in and out between the trams, siren blaring and children scattering. Then we were climbing out of Torre Annunziata, across the railway line, over the bridge that spans the autostrada and along the dusty road to Boscotrecase with the bulk of Vesuvius hanging right over us.
Just beyond Boscotrecas
e Roberto stopped the car. We sat and waited. Two carts, one drawn by a white buffalo and the other by a horse whose bones pierced his hide, passed us. But no car. Zina gave an order to Roberto and we drove on.
“We go as far as Terzigno and then we turn left,” Zina said. “Santo Francisco is the village above Avin. The villa we are going to is just off the road between the two villages.”
The road was narrow and the sides of it were coated in a film of white dust. Dust rose behind us in a white cloud. The country on either side was flat, with vines and oranges. Away to the right the ugly tower of Pompeii’s modern church thrust its needle-like top over the trees. It reminded me of the campanili of the Lombardy Plain.
It was past five when we reached the villa by a dusty track that ran dead straight through flat, almost white earth planted with bush vines. The villa itself was perched on a sudden rise where some long-forgotten lava flow had abruptly ceased. It was the usual white stucco building with flat roof and balconies and some red tiling to relieve the monotony of the design. It was built with its shoulder to the mountain so that it faced straight out across the hard-baked flatness of the vineyards to the distant gleam of the sea and a glimpse of Capri. As the car stopped the heat closed in on us. There was no sun, but the air was heavy and stifling as though the sirocco were blowing in from the Sahara. I began to wish I hadn’t come.
Zina laughed at me and took my hand. “Wait till you have tasted the vino. You will not look so glum then.” She glanced up at the mountain, which from where we were standing seemed crouched right over the villa. “To-night I think it will look as though you can light your cigarette from the glow of her.”
We went in then. It was very cool inside. Venetian blinds screened the windows from the sunless glare. It was like going into a cave. All the servants seemed there to greet us—an old man and an old woman with gnarled, wrinkled faces, a young man who smiled vacantly and a little girl who peeped at us shyly from around a door and pulled at her skirt which was much too short for her. I was shown to a room on the first floor. The old man brought up my bags. He pulled up the Venetian blinds and I found myself looking up to the summit of Vesuvius. A little circle of black vapour appeared for an instant, writhed upwards and then slowly dissolved, and as it dissolved another black puff appeared to replace it. “Le piace il Lachrima Christi, signore?” the old man asked. He had a soft, whining voice.
I nodded.
He gave me a toothless smile and hurried out. He had surprising agility and he moved quickly as though expecting to be kicked out. In a few minutes he returned with a carafe of vino and a glass. “What’s your name?” I asked him in Italian.
“Agostino, signore.” He gave me a smile that was as fawning as a spaniel.
Zina had been right about the wine. It was the sort of wine you never find in the trattorias. It was the wine reserved for the grower, the pick of the vintage.
A brief exploration along the passage revealed a bathroom, beautifully tiled and complete with foot-bath and bidet. I had a bath, shaved and changed. Then I went downstairs. Agostino was laying the table in one of the rooms. I asked him where the Contessa was. “She is having her bath, signore,” he answered.
I nodded and went outside. Some little distance away from the villa was a huddle of farm buildings. There was a large ugly house with a reddish plaster front that seemed to house several families as well as a good deal of livestock. A girl was drawing water from a well. She wore a black cotton frock that showed the backs of her knees and by the way her body moved under the dress I knew it was all the clothing she wore. She turned and looked at me, a flash of white teeth in a dirty brown face. Near a stone building which presumably contained the wine presses an old woman was milking a buffalo. The buffalo stood quite still working its jaws very slowly.
I turned and went back to the villa wondering why in the world Zina had suggested coming out to this little peasant backwater. But I was glad it was so secluded. And then I started to wonder why Maxwell had tried to follow us. What the devil was it he thought I knew?
As I approached the villa I heard the sound of a piano and a voice singing the jewel song from Gounod’s Faust. I went up the steps and into the room on the left. The shutters were pulled and the lights were on, and Zina was seated at the piano in a plain white evening gown with a blood red ruby at her throat and a white flower in her hair. She smiled at me and went on singing.
When she had finished she swung round on the stool. “Phew! It is so hot. Get me a drink. It is over there.” She nodded to the corner.
“What will you have?” I asked.
“Is there some ice?” I nodded. “Then I will have a White Lady.” She gave a little grimace to stop me making the obvious crack.
I mixed the drink and as I handed it to her I said, “Why exactly did you suggest coming out here?”
She looked up at me. Then her lips curved in a slow smile and she caressed the keys of the piano with one hand. “Don’t you know?” Her eyebrows arched. “Here I can do as I please and there is nobody to tell my husband that he is a cuckold.” She suddenly threw back her head and gave a brazen laugh. “You fool, Dick! You know nothing about Italy, do you? You are here for two years during the war and you know nothing—nothing.” She banged the keys of the piano with sudden violence. Then she finished her drink and began to play again.
I stood there, listening to her, feeling awkward and somehow shy. She was so different from any woman I’d ever met before. I wanted her. And yet something stood in the way— native reserve, my damned leg; I don’t know. The music swelled to a passionate note of urgency and she began to sing. Then Agostino came in to announce dinner and the spell was broken.
I don’t remember what we had to eat, but I do remember the wine—lovely, soft, golden wine, smooth as silk with a rich, heady bouquet. And after the meal there were nuts and fruit and aleatico, that heavy wine from the Island of Elba. Zina kept my glass constantly filled. It was almost as though she wanted to get me drunk. The smooth mounds of her breasts seemed to rise up out of the shoulderless dress, the ruby blazed red at her throat and her eyes were large and very green. I began to feel muzzy. The pulsing of my blood became merged with the gentle putter of the electric light plant outside in the stillness of the night.
Coffee and liqueurs were served in the other room. Zina played to me for a bit, but she seemed restless, switching from one tune to another and from mood to mood. Her eyes kept glancing towards me. They were bright, almost greedy. Suddenly she slammed her hands on to the keys with a murderous cacophony of sound and got to her feet. She poured herself another drink and then came and sat beside me on the couch and let me touch her. Her lips when I kissed them were warm and open, but there was a tenseness about her body as it lay against me. Once she murmured, “I wish you were not such a nice person, Dick.” She said it very softly and when I asked her what she meant, she smiled and stroked my hair. But a moment later the madonna look was gone. She was listening and there was a hungry look in her eyes that I didn’t understand.
It was then that I heard the aircraft. It was flying very low, its engines just ticking over. I jerked upright, listening, waiting for the crash. It seemed to pass right over the villa, so low that I thought I could hear the sound of the slip-stream. The engines were throttled right back and after a moment’s silence they roared into life and then stuttered to a stop. “I believe it’s landed,” I said. I had half-risen to my feet, but she pulled me back. “They often pass over here like that,” she said. “It is the plane from Messina.”
I rubbed my hand over my eyes. I started to tell her that the plane from Messina wouldn’t be flying from east to west, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. I was too drunk to care.
Roberto came in then. He didn’t knock. He just walked straight in and stood there, staring at me with an angry, sullen, animal look. Zina pushed me away from her and got to her feet. They talked together for a moment in low voices. Roberto was looking at her now, his features heavy and coarse w
ith desire. I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t know what the look on his face meant. They reminded me of King Shahryar’s Queen and the blackamoor and I began to laugh. Zina turned at the sound of my laughter. The blood drained from her face so that her eyes were big and dark and angry. She dismissed Roberto and then came towards me. “Why do you laugh?” Her voice was tight with rage.
I couldn’t stop myself. I suppose it was the drink. It seemed so damned funny. She was leaning over me now, her face white. “Stop it. Do you hear? Stop it.” I think she knew why I was laughing, for she suddenly hit me across the face. “Stop it, I tell you,” she screamed at me. Whether it was her voice, which was not pleasant, or the blow, I don’t know, but I stopped laughing.
She was leaning over me still and I thought for a moment she was going to hit me again. Her face was twisted with passion. “Because I tell you I am born in the slums of Napoli—” She stopped herself and turned quickly to the drink table. She came back with cognac in a balloon glass. “Drink that,” she said. “Then you must go to bed.”
I didn’t want the cognac. I’d sobered up a little and I was beginning to feel uneasy. “Why did you bring me out here?” I asked. My voice sounded slurred and I couldn’t get her properly into focus.
She sank down on to the couch beside me. “I am sorry, Dick. I do not want to hit you like that. Something get into me, I think. It is the heat.”
“Whose villa is this?”
She pulled my head down on to her breast. “You ask so many questions. Why are you not content to take things as they come?” Her hand was stroking my hair again, her fingers caressing my temples. It was very soothing. “Close your eyes now and I will sing to you.” She chose a soft Neapolitan lullaby. My eyes felt heavy with sleep. Somehow I found the glass in my hand and I drank. Her voice came and went, the drowsy murmur of a bee, the soft hit of water. I closed my eyes for the room was pulsing to the sound of her voice.
Then I was being helped up the stairs to bed. I heard her say in Italian, “He will sleep now.” Her voice sounded very far away. It was Roberto’s voice that answered her. He just said, “Bene.”
The Angry Mountain Page 14
