I chose not to enquire just then why I was a bright boy and why I was wrong. I noticed that Mrs Manoia was beginning to get annoyed. It was completely unacceptable that, in the middle of a dance, her dance, some ridiculous and possibly already rather inebriated man should clumsily join us on the dance floor, position himself behind her partner and begin loudly berating the back of the latter's neck; it had been even more discourteous on my part, I realised, to reply to this erratic individual, even if only with a single, angry phrase, instead of stopping him literally in his tracks and sending him packing back to the bar, or even further off if I was really trying. Nevertheless, I wasn't sure if her annoyance was due to my momentary neglect, to De la Garza's pure, simple and unprecedented intrusion, or to the fact that I had not suggested an immediate halt to the dancing in order to introduce them formally. It seemed to me she felt some curiosity about Rafita the nightbird in his unintelligible get-up, but it was hard to tell, it might just have been complete bewilderment: as she danced, she must have been seeing two faces juxtaposed, which would have put her off pressing still more closely to my breast or concentrating on and enjoying her steps; I saw, too, how, irresistibly, she kept glancing up at the person behind me, she was understandably distracted by the sight of that accessory more suited to a matador or to an eighteenth-century majo, she could probably not quite make out what it was or its improbable significance, its hermetic symbolism. Or perhaps she had sensed from the very first that, regardless of the string bag with which he had chosen to adorn his hair, regardless of the fortune-teller's earring with which he had encumbered his ear, this second Spaniard would be for her a certain, possibly inexhaustible, source of flattery. The idea came to me anyway, and in a fit of irresponsibility and egotism, it occurred to me that it would be no bad thing to let the attache join us for a while, he would keep her supplied with a variety of glowing words and compliments (albeit indecipherable), and put on a brave front (the phrase was never more apt) and withstand the stakes or logs if she insisted on more dances. (I was, I feared, being more meagre with my words of praise than I was expected to be, not because I was being excessively prudent or because I found it hard to flatter such a spirited and receptive woman, who was, basically, very easily contented, except that no amount of contentment lasted her for very long and she required constant nourishment, but because I get so bored with expressions such as carine or tenere, and their monotonous nature soon cloys, even if I happen to read them in a novel or hear them in a film, even if I say them in real life or someone addresses them to me.) Whatever the truth of the matter, it took only four words from Flavia Manoia for me to convince myself that the current situation was unsustainable and that I should, without further delay, proceed to the introductions. And I felt quite certain of this when I saw out of the corner of my eye that Manoia, into whose ear Tupra was insinuating long, whispered arguments or propositions, had shot a couple of interrogative, not to say inquisitorial, glances at the dance floor since De la Garza had been pestering us, a total stranger, -in his eyes, who showed every sign of being a troublemaker and who might even be taken for a debauchee.
'Mah,' was Flavia's first word, and it is a word of great ambiguity in the Italian language, it can indicate consent, vexation, slight interest, slight irritation, confusion, doubt, or it may merely announce a full stop and the start of a new topic. And then she added: 'Che sarebbe, lui?' This was enough for me to interrupt the dance and disimpale myself very gently and carefully from the palisade, but she asked me one other thing before I pronounced the names: 'E cosa vuol dire pussy?' She must have understood almost nothing of what had been spoken by that disgrace to the Peninsula (although nowadays there are so many similar disgraces that they almost constitute the norm, and so can hardly be termed a disgrace), but perhaps she had sensed that this memorable term was intended for her, that it had been applied to her, and in pretty brazen tones.
'Rafael de la Garza, from the Spanish embassy in London. Mrs Flavia Manoia, a delightful Italian friend of mine.' I used Italian to introduce them, and took the opportunity to insert an adulatory word; then I added in Spanish, that is, purely for Rafita's benefit and in order to warn him off or to contain him (possibly a naive endeavour): 'That's her husband over there, he has a lot of influence in the Vatican.' I was hoping to impress him. 'On the same table as Mr Reresby, you remember Mr Reresby, don't you? At Sir Peter's party?' Of one thing I was sure, he would not remember that in Wheeler's house Tupra's surname had been Tupra.
'Oh, but he's so young, your ambassador,' she replied still in Italian, while they shook hands. 'And he's so modern too, so daring in the way he dresses, don't you think? Your country is clearly so very up to date in every respect. Oh, yes, in every respect.' Then she asked me again about 'pussy', she was determined to know. 'Tell me what "pussy" means, go on, tell me.’
De la Garza was talking to me at the same time (each of them bellowing in one of my ears and each in his or her own language), keeping the lady's hand clasped in his for far too long, that is, holding it prisoner while he unleashed a long string of insults and obscenities which the sight and recollection of Reresby caused to spill from his mouth as soon as he spotted him, and which I wasn't entirely able to follow, but from which I picked out the following words, fractured phrases and concepts: 'bastard', 'ringlets', 'big tall bint', 'a right tart', 'showing me her knickers', 'they cleared off', 'great lump of lard", 'flabbing up against her', 'frigging sofa', 'did you get them off her', 'pretence', 'bloody gypsy', 'bitch'; 'oh, purr-lease', and a final question: 'Did you have a dash in the bloomers yourself?' After this torrent of words, he brought himself back for a moment to the present: 'What did you say before about ladra? You mean this corker of a -woman? Bloody hell, look at those bazoomas.' His vocabulary was often at its most schoolboyish or antiquated when he was trying his best to be crude. He had, however, seen that any approach might be problematic. He had not, on the other hand, even considered the matter of their obvious artificiality (the work of man), he was not a person for fine distinctions or for getting lost in petty details. Then, for an instant, he adopted an unctuous tone to address and flatter Flavia: 'It is an enormous pleasure to meet you, madam, and may I assure you of my equally enormous admiration.' This she did understand, it would have been crystal clear to any Italian.
Otherwise, he was just as foul-mouthed or, indeed, even more so (nights of dissipation, especially nights of arduous hunting, only encourage this), although I had never heard the expression 'to have a dash in the bloomers' (that old-fashioned use of 'bloomers' was odd). It was extremely crude as a euphemism, but it doubtless was one – a euphemism, that is -and one should, I suppose, be grateful for small mercies. Fortunately none of the people I was with would understand any of these brutal, vulgar expressions.
I was half regretting my egotistical weakness (I should have denied us both, him or me or the two of us, 'You've never seen me, I don't know who you are, you don't know me, you've never spoken to me and I've never said a word to you, as far as I'm concerned, you have no face, no voice, no breath, no name, just as for you I do not even have a back') when Tupra beckoned me over to the table, he had so many things to explain to Manoia that he was bound to need me as interpreter at some point – that much was plain – to help them past some blockage. I wasn't sure whether to take Mrs Manoia with me, and therefore Rafita too, who would not be shaken off that easily, he did tend to the adhesive. But that might really annoy Tupra, I thought, if I were to land him with that rude expert in belles-lettres (who, moreover, he already knew) right in the middle of his negotiations (and, what's more, laden with jewellery and wearing a fishing net); and so I opted for leaving Flavia in the provisional care of De la Garza – a disquieting thought – I could see he was more than ready to enlighten her with his learned witticisms or to stultify her with dances more primitive than mine, but which would not, however, be unwelcome. Before absenting myself, I whispered or, rather, yelled in her ear, so that she would not bear me a grudge for failing to g
ive her an answer: '"Pussy" means "beauty".’
'Really? But how? Where does it come from? It's such a odd word.’
'Well, it's an affectionate, colloquial term from Madrid, prison slang.' I threw in that last part, I don't know why – as decoration. 'He considers you a great beauty, as each and all of us do.' Well, that's how I said it in Italian, more or less verbatim. 'That's what he said.’
'But surely the ambassador hasn't been to prison?' she asked, startled. There was in her voice not so much shock (she must have grown used to seeing friends and acquaintances ending up in the clink) as an absurd degree of pity and alarm about the monstrous majo's police record and his possible past misfortunes (personally, I would have packed him off to pokey for a good long time, with or without a trial). She was concerned, I suppose, because of his youth.
'No, no, at least not as far as I know. The word started off as prison slang, but words go forth, travel, fly, expand; they're free, are they not, and no bars or walls can imprison them. They have a kind of terrible strength.’
'Terribile,' put in De la Garza, who had been listening in and had understood random words in my Spanish-tinged Italian (he was simply guessing, there was no way he spoke Italian; guessing, I mean, at the one adjective he had contributed).
He was a real ace at that, at butting in with some irrelevant comment, with no idea what the topic of conversation was, and entirely uninvited, and even, sometimes, when he had been firmly and plainly rebuffed.
'There's no need, quindi,' I went on, 'to go to prison to find them, I mean, the words that were born or invented there. And, by the way, he's not the ambassador; he's just part of his team. But I'm sure he will be some day. Indeed, I think he will rise still higher if, as seems inevitable, he continues in his present vein: they'll make him Secretary of State, anzi minister.' There is no exact equivalent in Spanish for those two words, anzi and quindi.
'Minister? But minister of what?' 'Beh. Culture probably; that's his field, he's knows all there is to know.' I said this quite spontaneously: beh is another ambiguous word in Italian, perhaps I simply didn't like to be found wanting in the use of indefinable vernacular interjections. And I added, moving a little away from her, with the intention of making it easier for De la Garza to hear and to catch more than just a few random words: 'No one knows more about world literary fantasy, including the medieval and the palaeo-Christian. Oh yes, he knows a hell of a lot.' This I translated with unforgivable literalness, quoting what he had said at Wheeler's party. 'Sa un inferno,' I said brazenly, knowing that the expression doesn't exist and is, therefore, incomprehensible. 'Which, as well as being valuable and useful, is also tremendously chic, you know.’
'Tremendously chic,' commented Rafita, who had understood very little despite my very clear enunciation. His words were slightly, very slightly, slurred, it might pass off quickly if he eased up on the drinking or if lust restored his clarity of speech; this time, he didn't even repeat his one attempt at an Italian word. He was looking at Mrs Manoia with fixed, glassy desire, by which I mean that he was staring in near stupefaction at her two silicone menhirs.
'Really? Addirittura.' Another expression for which there is no exact Spanish equivalent.
'Now, if you'll excuse me, dearest, most delightful Flavia' -I was at least piling on the superlatives, which are more common in Italian – 'I must leave you for a few moments in the very best and most chic of company. Our friends are calling me.’
7
There I left her, beneath the hooves of the dark horses and in the faux-black mouth of the wolf and before the menacing maw of the crocodiles, hoping that her husband and Tupra would not keep me long, I felt responsible for the lady's evening, for her well-being and contentment, I wanted her ten bracelets to continue tinkling. As I walked back to rejoin Tupra and Mr Manoia, I saw that De la Garza was, for the moment, avoiding dancing with Flavia and was, instead, leading her over to his table, not far from ours, and to his noisy, mainly Spanish friends, and this reassured me a little because we could see them from our table and he could not so easily heap her with compliments there as he could when they were alone and dancing. (There were a couple of women in the group, and many of my female compatriots dislike any kind of competition, even when it's purely imaginary and there's not so much as a hint of it because basically there is no competition: they were both about twenty years younger than Mrs Manoia, who would, however, have given them a run for their money had she met them without that two decades' age difference – 'Luisa isn't like that,' I thought, 'she doesn't compete with anyone, and if someone does try to challenge her, she just moves away, perhaps because she's sure of herself, or because she's happy being the way she is, perhaps I'm the same.') I noticed that the idiotic music lover and poseur was now very quietly clapping, holding his, cautiously clapping hands close to his ear, his eyes tight shut, fully aware of his intense pose, and even wailing softly to himself (given the tortured, ecstatic look on his face, like that of a willing martyr, it must have been a formidably painful piece of flamenco), absorbed in music that was ill-suited to such depths of grief, perhaps he was following another tune in his head with incredible concentration and constancy, or perhaps he really was listening to it – and therefore deaf to the disco music around him – through tiny hidden headphones, like the ones my dancing neighbour opposite must use in his prancings. His face looked familiar, rather peasant-like despite the baroque ringlets that sought to soften or even deny it, his hair furiously dyed a demented black; I got the feeling that he was a very important, very famous writer, he might have given a talk at the Cervantes Institute that evening, brought ex profeso from the Peninsula by De la Garza, and I would have missed it, a magisterial reading, a magical recitation, how stupid of me. He seemed to me a complete fool and, immersed as he was in his mournful clapping, he, of course, failed to notice Flavia's arrival at the table; the others did not even get up when Rafita made the introductions, with the exception of one man who was perhaps British, given his appearance and his preservation of certain manners; the British are taking a little longer to perceive all manners as entirely dispensable. With a despotic gesture, the attache ordered the others to move up to make room for them, I saw them sit down rather close together (their legs would be touching, Mrs Manoia's skirt had ridden up a little – a little too much, I mean – perhaps that would arouse her knight-flatterer) just before I did the same, only not quite so cosily, on a chair to Reresby's left, he preferred people to sit on that side if possible, I imagined that he heard better with that ear and saw better with his right eye.
He immediately asked me what the Italian was for the four or five words which he had taken the precaution of noting down on his coaster and on which Manoia's English, being rather sparse in vocabulary, would have foundered. One of them, oddly enough, was 'vows', or to be more precise 'to take vows'; another was 'toadstool', equally strange, and in another sphere entirely; a third was 'nipples', which did not help me in my deductions. It was understandable that Manoia would not know these words, less so that Tupra had not resorted to alternatives or approximations to explain them, even, in the last instance, to gestures (perhaps, despite his surname, he was too English for that). Fortunately, I had read or heard them before and could find equivalents (pronundare i voti, there I was guided by the Spanish; junghi, piuttosto quelli velenosi, here I had to explain; capezzoli, I ventured: I seemed to remember that the stress fell on the antepenultimate syllable, but I wasn't sure). Luckily, too, my curiosity was not aroused. I trusted, however, that the capezzoli or nipples in question were not Mrs Manoia's, I would have found any reference to them embarrassing (even though any reference would have been purely medical or, shall we say, pathological), having been impaled on them as if by two darts and still conscious of the impression they had left on my chest. I was about to go back to her side, having fulfilled my task as walking dictionary, when Tupra stopped me with a gesture, he showed me the flat of his hand as if warning me: 'Wait, we might still need you.' Manoia took
advantage of the pause provided by these consultations (he only reacted to the third, and then very soberly: 'Ah, gabezzoli,' he repeated in his non-Roman accent, an accent that came from further south) to lift his long, bluish chin and look across, with his glasses pushed well up on the bridge of his nose and held there with his thumb, at the table that had welcomed his wife with such very Spanish indifference.
'Who are they?' he asked me in his own language, in a tone of scorn and distrust, or almost displeasure.
'Spaniards; writers, diplomats,' I replied, realising that I had no idea who they were and knew none of their names, although the name of the famous, important writer doing the clapping was on the tip of my tongue (though I still couldn't think what it was). 'That young man works at the Spanish embassy, Mr Reresby knows him too.' And I turned to Tupra and said in English, to get him involved and make him take some share of the responsibility, purely as a preventive measure. 'You remember young De la Garza, don't you? He was at that supper in Oxford, he's the son of Pablo de la Garza, who did such a lot of good work here in the war and, afterwards, was, for many years, Spanish ambassador to various African countries.' It seemed to me – quite absurdly – that this snippet of family background would reassure them. 'He's a good lad, very thoughtful.' And I repeated this last comment in Italian to Manoia, to see if he believed me ('Un bravo ragazzo, molto premuroso'), while in Spanish I could not stop myself thinking: 'The great lemon, the numbskull, the pest.’
Despite the light glinting on Manoia's glasses, I managed for a moment to see his fugitive gaze because he held it for a little longer than usual, trained on Rafita and his gang. I saw in it mockery, malice, and also a touch of anger, as if he had recognised in them a class of people on whom he had sworn vengeance many years before. Yes, he seemed a man capable of feeling fury even in response to minor provocations, but if he let it out, it would doubtless be with no warning at all, with no way of foreseeing it, still less of stopping it. A tepid rage, controlled by him, and rationed out – he could stop it, even once unleashed – most disconcerting for other people. That was what he was like. That was what he carried around inside him. But Tupra was doubtless right: he could also give vent to that anger.
Your Face Tomorrow 2: Dance and Dream Page 8
