by Angela Arney
Fumbling in her bag, Liana extracted the 15,000 lire he wanted. It was more than she had expected, but that covered the operation and the drugs. ‘Here,’ she held out the money.
The notes were snatched and rapidly counted. Liana felt weary with disgust. She felt disgusted for them both, herself and the pock-marked little man before her. We are both cheats, she thought numbly. Dr Turzo looked up. The amount of money was to his satisfaction. His thin lips stretched back in an attempt at a smile, a wolf-like leer, revealing sharp, yellowing teeth. I’ve never met a clean doctor, Liana thought hazily. The only two I’ve met have both been disgusting.
Unaware of her disapproval, Dr Turzo smiled again. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now go, be careful and remember what I said. Don’t come back here. I don’t want to see you again.’
Liana nodded and left the surgery. Afterwards she wondered how she had managed to walk away, but manage it she did. With grim determination she forced one foot in front of the other until she came to a part of Naples where she knew Charlie would never think of looking for her. Here she was lucky, and was able to rent a clean but spartan room from a widow.
Signora Fazzini took pity on the ashen-faced girl. She assumed that Liana had just had an abortion, and Liana did not bother to enlighten her. The next few days passed in a blur of pain and fever. Liana took the penicillin regularly and tried to eat, and made sure she drank plenty of water for the baby’s sake.
By the time the fever left her it was the day before Nicholas was due to return from Bari. She knew this, because she had brought a notebook with her, and had carefully marked off each pain-filled day. There was no room for error in her plans. She had to be ready by the time Nicholas returned. Much to Signora Fazzini’s astonishment, she spent her first day out of bed washing her clothes, then washed herself and her long luxuriant hair with a bar of soap she produced from her handbag. In return for the loan of an iron, Liana gave the rest of the precious soap to the widow.
The young woman who stepped out into the street the next day was clean and smart. Her lips glowed pink from a touch of lipstick, and a faint fragrance of perfume lingered in the air as she passed by.
Signora Fazzini leaned far out of the window, nearly knocking her precious pot of geraniums off the ledge in an effort to catch a last glimpse of Liana. Who would have guessed that the girl who looked at death’s door a few days ago would walk out today looking like a film star from one of those American magazines? It was only when Liana had disappeared from view that she realized she knew absolutely nothing about her. She had not given a name, nor any indication where she had come from, nor where she was going to. But she was well educated, Signora Fazzini could tell that; she was not slipshod about the endings of her words in the way most Neapolitans were. She hurried down to seek out her neighbours. What she had to tell them was enough to keep the street gossip going for more than a week.
*
Charlie was uneasy and perplexed. Fidgety, he shuffled the pile of papers on his desk, aimlessly moving them from one spot to another, staring with unseeing eyes at a week’s work. New orders from the CO, cancellations of previous orders, letters, unfiled reports – all waiting to be done.
‘Damn it,’ he swore out loud. He’d wasted most of the week trying to find Liana, and now he had this mountain of work and still had not found her. ‘If only I’d minded my own business in the first place,’ he muttered under his breath.
But he had not, and now he could not put the clock back and pretend he had, no matter how much he wished that he could. What should he say when Nicholas returned later today and asked him if he had seen Liana? Should he tell him the truth, or lie and say he hadn’t had time to pay her a visit, and hadn’t seen her because she hadn’t been down to the office?
He relived the past week, hoping to dredge up a clue that perhaps he had missed. Every day he had visited the empty castello, every day, hoping that Liana would be there, every day being disappointed and becoming more and more puzzled and worried.
Plain ordinary curiosity had prompted him to climb up to the lonely building the first time, the day after Nicholas had left. Castles and aristocracy were far removed from his normal everyday life in civvy street. He wanted to see the castello for himself; it would be something to tell his wife when he returned to England. In his imagination he had seen Liana surrounded by a beautiful, faded elegance, the kind of house he had seen in films. He knew exactly how it should look.
The reality shocked him. This isn’t a home, he thought, staring around him. This derelict place is hardly fit for rats to live in. God, what unbelievable poverty! He almost laughed out loud when he remembered his own home. They wanted to move out of dirty, dusty Clapham into something better. But the semi in Clapham was a palace compared to this place. The memory of the suburban house cluttered with shabby but comfortable furniture flashed before his eyes. In Clapham they had clean linen tablecloths, china and glass, and the house had a lived-in smell of people and food, but here there was only dirt and decay, and a faint, musty animal smell.
Charlie wandered through room after room of the rambling building. Every room was the same – depressingly empty and totally devoid of life. A few flakes of gilt still adhered to some of the doors and window frames, and what had once been rich, flocked wallpaper peeled from mouldy walls. Sometimes there was a lighter patch on a wall, showing where a painting had once hung. In one room there was a broken chair abandoned in a corner, the exquisite ball and claw legs stacked up as if for firewood. The intricately painted backrest had already been chopped up, obviously destined for the stove. But apart from the broken chair, there was nothing at all in the whole of the castello except for the kitchen. Only in the kitchen did Charlie find any sign of life. Cold grey ashes spilled out from the bottom of a cast-iron stove. There were three beds and some blankets, a few cooking utensils and a meagre supply of food.
Charlie was not an over-imaginative man, not someone who was easily moved. But on that first day as he gazed around him at the decay and dereliction, he found his throat aching with sorrow for everything that had once been in this place and was now no more. He wondered about the people, their lives and loves. What had happened to those who had once lived in these empty rooms? And gradually he began to get some idea of Liana’s desperation to get away. He couldn’t blame her; who wouldn’t want to leave? There was nothing for the living in this desolation.
But it drew him back, day after day, and not once did he see any sign of Liana, nor any evidence that she had even been there. It wasn’t that he wanted to think badly of her, but little by little doubts began to creep into his mind.
Perhaps she has never lived in this place! The thought struck him on his last visit. It was the day before Nicholas was due to return. They only had her word for it; no-one had bothered to substantiate it, and he knew Nicholas had never been to the castello. Maybe the truth was that she wasn’t a marchesa after all, and she had disappeared because she had suddenly got cold feet, and found she couldn’t go through with the deception.
Now, awaiting the arrival of Nicholas, he held his aching head in his hands, and groaned. ‘God, what a mess.’
‘Hello, Charlie. Is Nicholas back yet?’ Liana leaned against the door jamb looking as serenely beautiful as ever.
Charlie reacted by exploding into anger. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
Take care, take care, Liana thought, a fearsome shiver striking deep into her heart. It had never occurred to her that Charlie would look for her. But she knew now, looking at him, that he had been up to the castello and could guess by his reaction what he had found. Taking a deep breath, she chose her words very carefully, and adopted her most radiant smile.
‘I’ve been staying with a friend outside Naples. I was not feeling well, but I’m better now. Why do you ask?’ Her tone was innocently questioning. What had Charlie found apart from the empty castello? What could he find?
‘I went up to the castello,’ said Charlie, still looking grim. ‘And anywa
y, I thought you said you didn’t have any friends.’
Liana’s heart sank, but not for one moment did she let her smile waver. She even forced out a gay laugh. ‘Oh, Charlie, if only I had known, I would have stayed up there. But once I had sold the furniture there didn’t seem much point in staying. So I went to say goodbye to my friend. She is a very, very old lady, crippled with arthritis and cannot leave her house. Once I’m married to Nicholas I’ll probably never see her again.’
She hoped it sounded convincing, and prayed Charlie would not pursue the whereabouts of her fictitious friend. He was not entirely convinced, that much was obvious. With her senses now acutely sharpened by potential danger, it was easy for her to detect the flicker of doubt that crossed his face.
‘Sold the furniture?’
Liana came to a swift decision. She would have to gamble on when he had made his first visit. ‘Yes, I sold everything to some American officers on the very day Nicholas went to Ban. They happened to come by in a jeep and were mad on antiques. It was too good an opportunity to miss, so I got rid of all my old junk. I took the money and they came back with a lorry that night and took the furniture away.’ Giving Charlie a conspiratorial smile, she added casually, ‘You must have come up the following day. After I’d left.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Charlie, but he still sounded doubtful.
Liana could have cried with relief at her deliverance; the gamble had paid off. No-one could possibly dispute her word, and, of course, she would have no idea of any of the Americans’ names. Charlie remained silent, looking at Liana reflectively. Galvanized by a wild courage born of desperation, Liana knew she had to get him on her side, make him part of her secret. So she fixed her dark eyes on his face, hypnotizing him with their deep, slumbrous depths. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ she whispered, her lips curving in the most delicious smile Charlie had ever seen.
‘Yes.’ He found himself whispering back, so bewitched was he by her gaze.
‘I’ve got enough money for that new tractor Nicholas needs so much for his farm in England.’ Excitedly, she clapped her hands together like a small child, smiling delightedly at him as she spoke. ‘And all the money is in American dollars. But please, please, Charlie, don’t tell Nicholas. I want to surprise him myself. But you must come up with us to the castello, when I give it to him. It’s all hidden up there.’
‘I won’t breathe a word,’ said Charlie, all doubts gone now. He was completely won over.
*
Charlie stood grinning now as he watched Nicholas’s astonished face.
‘My God, Liana. Where did you . . .? How on earth?’ Nicholas stuttered into silence as Liana stuffed bundle after bundle of American dollars into his hands.
‘It is my dowry,’ said Liana in dulcet tones, bowing her head demurely as she spoke. ‘Now you can buy that tractor you said you needed.’
‘But how . . .?’
‘I sold the furniture’, she waved vaguely, indicating the empty rooms surrounding them, ‘to some Americans.’
‘Oh, Liana, you should have let me do it,’ said Nicholas, leafing through the money. ‘I could probably have negotiated a much better price for you.’
An awkward silence ensued, broken only by a dry leaf rustling across the floor in the draught. Tactless bugger, thought Charlie angrily, immediately on the defensive for Liana. Poor kid, she did her best. What more does he want? But he need not have worried, Liana could fend for herself.
‘It is not enough?’ she asked coldly.
The icy tone of voice was matched by an abrupt change in her demeanour. She had changed from a young girl anxious to please into a haughty woman whose eyes flashed dangerously. It would never do for Nicholas to know that the money was really her earnings from prostitution, and blind instinct told her the best way to fend off unwelcome questions was to act the injured party.
Nicholas was overwhelmed with remorse, just as she had intended. ‘Darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.’ He flung his arms around her and hugged her tight. ‘Of course it’s enough. More than enough. Anyway, I’m not marrying you for your money.’
Liana shrugged, disguising her worry with a show of aloofness. Not for one moment must anyone doubt her word. Wriggling free from Nicholas’s embrace, she retrieved a wooden box from beneath a loose flagstone in the kitchen floor. The box was chipped and stained with age. Charlie and Nicholas watched in silence as Liana carefully prised it open and flung back the lid.
‘Christ almighty!’ blasphemed Charlie, expelling the air through his teeth with a long whistle.
Inside the box, on a bed of faded red velvet, lay Eleanora’s heirloom, an exquisite set of matching jewellery: amethysts and diamonds set in gold – a pendant necklace, drop earrings and a bracelet. Liana tilted the box to catch the afternoon sunlight, and a blaze of purple and white fire filled the room as the stones caught the light.
‘I think you must agree that I come well prepared as a bride.’ It was an imperious statement of fact, one that could not be denied.
Nicholas stared at her. She faced him, a challenging glow of triumph seeming to swirl about her, and for a reason he could not pin down, he felt vaguely ill at ease. Then she smiled the slow dark smile that turned his loins into watery fire.
‘You will make the most elegant countess in Britain,’ he said.
‘I will,’ said Liana firmly. ‘I shall surprise everyone.’
I don’t doubt that, thought Charlie, watching her with reflective eyes. She would surprise everyone, probably Nicholas most of all. But would all the surprises be happy ones? Charlie suddenly realized, that, wrapped up as he was with her physical beauty, Nicholas had never stopped to consider the inner strength and shrewdness she possessed. He thought she was all feminine wiles and mischievous quick-wittedness. He had told Charlie as much.
‘Sometimes I think she is a delicious child,’ he said.
Charlie instinctively knew differently. Liana was not a child, not in any sense of the word, even though she was very young. She was a woman who was destined to go far. He wished he could see into the future. How far would she go, and which direction would she choose?
Chapter Eight
1 May 1944
Raul expertly flicked a cigarette from the packet and, placing it between his lips, lit it. Inhaling deeply he leaned back, soaking up the sun which blazed down from the brilliant blue cloudless Sicilian sky. A sense of smug satisfaction enveloped him. He had played his cards well, with his usual instinctive flair, and life had been good to him since that day in March when he had joined Gustavo Simionato.
He looked around at the village square where the film company was now camped out. It was hot and dusty, and as noon approached the stones throbbed with a white-hot heat. Apart from those being used in the film as extras, the villagers had retired to their small stone cottages to escape the heat and also the clutter of cameras, lights, and miles of cable strewn everywhere. At first glance it looked chaotic, but Raul looked on with pride. It was an ordered chaos, and he had helped to create it. Everything was on schedule, and that fact was due in no small way to Raul’s ceaseless work, his fanatical attention to detail, and, what was even more important as far as Simionato was concerned, was that they were well within the confines of the budget. The money raised by the sale of the Cellini salt cellar was proving to be barely enough, but Raul was a careful manager and zealously strict with the crew. Nothing was wasted, no extravagances allowed. He was a hard taskmaster both to the crew and the actors.
Raul knew Simionato was pleased with him. So he should be; there was nothing he could criticize. As soon as the light was right they would begin shooting the film, a film destined to make him famous, of that Raul was certain. In his imagination the film was already finished, and he could visualize his name in large letters, prominent amongst the credits, RAUL LEVI.
‘Use your real name, son,’ Simionato had said when he had found out that Raul’s father was Jewish. ‘All the best showbusiness people are Jews; it
will be a help, not a hindrance to your career.’
Raul had taken his advice; and now that Mussolini was dead, shot by partisans at Dongo on Lake Como in April of that year, there was even less reason to use his mother’s name, Carducci. No-one now in Allied occupied Italy admitted to anti-Semitism or Fascist sympathies, even if, secretly, a few still entertained them.
‘Raul,’ Simionato called to him. He was ensconced in the director’s chair, surrounded by a jungle of snaking cables and wires, a sheaf of papers on his lap. ‘Show me once more how you intend to move the extras across the village square.’
Raul was only too eager to oblige. ‘See, they come across at this angle towards the two principals. As soon as the fight commences they start to move, at first only two, then three and a group of four, then gradually they all crowd across to form a semicircle. On film it will look like a crowd of spectators at a boxing match, as if they are completely surrounding them, but there will still be room for the cameras to focus on the principals.’
In his mind’s eye Raul had angled each camera shot, knowing exactly how it would look. He had taken care setting them up so that each frame picked up the peculiar stark beauty of the Sicilian landscape.
‘Good.’ Simionato was pleased. ‘But you’d better run over it again with those idiots.’ He indicated the local Sicilian peasants milling about on the edge of the square. ‘Cheap to hire and authentic-looking extras they might be, but I’m not certain about their predictability.’
Raul grinned: his sentiments exactly. ‘Leave them to me.’
He leaped to his feet and strode across the square. Small, swarthy, and sullen to a man, the Sicilians watched impassively as the tall northern Italian with a mass of reddish hair came towards them. Raul knew that the film was not of the slightest interest to them, but that did not worry him. All that mattered to them was the handful of lire notes they would pocket at the end of the day, and all that mattered to him was getting a good reel of footage in the can. It was a reasonable working relationship.
