‘I am Rosariu. You leave your car here. It will be safe.’
They walked the few yards up to the square. Then on down another street, and past the church. A church quite large for a small village, and with interesting silverwork on the door. They stopped at a house standing apart from the others. Rosariu rang the bell.
To the servant, he said, ‘The visitor.’
The room was cool and smelled of wax polish and lemons. On the table was a little dish of macaroons, and some small coffee-cups.
He saw why his host had not been eager to make the journey to him. Crutches lay beside his chair. He rose with difficulty. He was in his late twenties perhaps, with thick black hair lying flat. Heavy lips in a bow. A curiously sweet smile. In the room, full of heavy dark furniture, the blinds were half drawn.
‘We sit here a little, and drink some coffee. Then as the sun becomes less, we may perhaps sit in the garden.’
Polite conversation – oh, the customs of this country, Guy thought. Whether it is something bad, something good, always this formal, ritual dance around the subject.
In the end it was he who broached it.
‘I think you have something for me?’
‘Please – ask me any questions. I am here only to help, so that justice should be done.’ And then a wealth of detail:
‘You see, Mr Dennison, I was once a Dominican. Not a priest. I never progressed beyond the novitiate. But before my illness – you see, I am a victim of infantile paralysis – I was sent to study with these fathers. For perhaps a year or more. I learned there things I would never wish to have known … The story is particularly disgusting. Whited sepulchres … For a young man to learn such things.’
‘Yes,’ Guy said. ‘Extortion. I know of that. I wish I did not.’ He asked, ‘How did you hear of me?’
‘I am in a position to know … I know, for instance, it has been told me what has happened to your colleague, your friend. You have a friend, Vincenzo Mendola?’
‘I had a friend …’
‘Exactly.’ He sipped his coffee.
‘Where to begin, if I am to tell you of all their iniquities? Boccaccio would delight in them. And yet such things are possible anywhere where the religious life is entered for reasons other than the love of God … Do not think, Mr Dennison, that it stops at extortion. If that were all. That and yes, kidnapping. Ransom. Not many. It is too risky, I think. But they have no trouble of course in finding persons to carry out their work. A servant, a farm worker, gardener. Someone who will do the unpleasant part.
‘Alongside the preaching, the giving of spiritual advice (they are very lavish with that), is an elaborate and exceedingly pleasant way of life. I wonder sometimes the Tarantino-Falletta do not turn uneasily in their tombs, to think what has become of their foundation …
‘If it stopped at extortion. They are no strangers to the business world. Property dealing … Their bank accounts – in their own names, of course – would surprise you by their size. There is little they cannot afford, if they wish it. Extortion can be very profitable when added to other successful ventures.
‘It is not even a life without women. These vows of chastity, poverty, obedience. They obey no one. They are not poor. And they are not chaste. Certainly, in my time there – and it is one of my most shameful memories – women were frequent visitors. Night visitors. Smuggled in. Often in the disguise of nuns with, say, their Reverend Mother, of the Dominican order – visiting of course for the most acceptable of reasons.
‘The fruit farming – there is little to say about that. But the pigs … pigs are not only profitable, their presence can be very useful. A pig is good to eat but also not very discriminating in what it eats. And there is this excellent machine they have for grinding and making palatable food from all kinds of unlikely ingredients. I need say no more? You understand me? I hope you are as filled with disgust as I was. As I am.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘shall we go outside, sit outside a little while? The garden is very pleasant. Secluded. A terrace, it looks down on the world below.’
It was very hot still outside. In the garden a lizard chased its tail. The benches they sat on had an intricate pattern of vine leaves and bunched grapes. They were not very comfortable. The few flowerbeds were edged with majolica tiles.
Beneath them, a bus could be seen trundling up the winding road. Aspanu commented:
‘How altered things are. A village once so totally isolated, with Palermo as distant as ‘Merica is now. See, we have petrol, a reasonable mechanic manning the pumps, a bus that calls three times a week. It will be bringing back –’ he took out his watch – several who went to market this morning. It will return with many empty seats.
‘Show me the letter,’ he said, a little later. When he saw it, ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there are some distinctive … the type. I think you will find –’ He brought out a piece of paper. ‘See this, typed three years ago. When I made out certain lists for them. I think you – or those you inform, will find the typewriter in the cell of Father Cirillo. I can describe it exactly.’
Drinks were brought out to them where they sat. Guy commented on how pleasant it was.
‘This house I live in – the family house … My greatgrandfather was a person of some importance here. His name was Don Cataldo. He was also known as the Lion. He was a man of honour and much respected. People are very different nowadays. Nowadays there is not the same respect …’
Time to go.
‘You told no one you were coming here? You told no one of our meeting?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Here you are safe. In my own village.’
He got up slowly, reaching for his crutches.
‘I shall walk with you to your car.’
‘No, please not. I am all right.’
‘I insist. If you have the patience to wait for me. We walk slowly.’
As they came through the square he saw the bus standing waiting. Very slowly they made their way down, to where the Fiat was parked.
He did not notice at first. It was Aspanu who remarked, ‘You have some damage …’
The nearside front tyre had been crudely slashed. Ribbons of rubber hung loose.
‘What can I say? When you are our guest … I shall have to settle this matter.’
He spoke to a small boy, sharply, ‘Fetch Rosariu.’ He said to Guy, ‘Your spare wheel is in order? Give Rosariu your keys. He changes it for you. Speedily. You and I can drink in the café.’
There were three tables outside. They sat in view of the square. The café owner, a heavy man with drooping moustaches, came out to wipe the table. He brought with him a small bowl of roasted chick peas. Aspanu ordered wine.
‘So unfortunate,’ he said. ‘You won’t be late for any appointment?’
‘No, no. Nothing.’
As they sat there the bus lumbered past on its downward journey, rattling over the cobbles. It looked half empty.
His head spun. With the heat, with fatigue, with all he had heard, with weeks and weeks of emotion and loneliness. He wanted suddenly to ask … felt even that the unfortunate slashing of the tyre had been so that he would have time to ask.
‘Verzotto,’ he said. ‘Does the name mean anything? Someone of that name – someone I met, who mentioned Monteleone …’
Aspanu looked blank. ‘It is not a name known to me … but then, there has been so much emigration. So much change … Perhaps it was a long time ago? Perhaps there are relations but by another name? Who knows?’
He turned his head. ‘Look – Rosariu.’
And there was Rosariu, with the car keys, and the news that the tyre was fitted.
They said their farewells there at the café. Aspanu said: ‘I do you this favour. Some day perhaps you will do me a favour? You have been most welcome in our village … You are sure you have not been made late? I must apologize for Monteleone, that such things happen …’
Leaving, Guy looked back at the village. Everywhere, old men
in black sat in groups, on chairs, talking. Women, young and old, outside their houses. Almost all in black. Children running about. He thought of Maria. 1960, he said to himself. Transpose the last two figures and it was as it had been when she left. How little had changed really since 1906. Some progress had come, of course – in the shape of petrol pumps, and a visiting bus.
Once outside, he drove fast. Before long, he had overtaken the bus. The road wound on down. In the valley below, a man was leading his donkey to drink.
Then there was a sudden pounding, difficulty with the steering – and oh Christ, the inevitability of a puncture. Something on the road perhaps? or a faulty spare tyre, his spare tyre not in good order.
He brought the car quickly to a halt. He got out, and looked. Yes, it was. He swore. Then swore again. This was sod’s law: when the spare tyre is in use, you will have a puncture.
Near where he had stopped, there was a wayside drinking fountain. Water gushed invitingly out of the mouth of a stone lion. Suddenly, sharply thirsty – perhaps it had been the chick peas, he leaned forward and drank. Then he washed his face, splashing it, splashing his hair.
As he lifted his head, he saw the bus, caught up with him, come rattling round the corner. Why ever not, what the hell, he thought, angry about the tyre. Why hang around? He locked the car hastily (madness perhaps to leave it, but how else am I to get home?)
He flagged down the bus. As it set off again, the driver, taking his money, shrugged his shoulders at Guy’s tale, half smiled. The bus was almost empty. An old woman, a cloth bundle on her lap. Two boys, sitting close together whispering and laughing. Right at the back, an old man.
It was as they were rounding the second bend that the explosion happened.
He was already looking vaguely in the direction of his car. Now he turned fully. He jumped as if he’d been shot.
‘Did you hear that? That noise? An explosion. My God.’
The old woman stared straight down, fumbling with the bundle on her lap. The two boys looked embarrassed, as if he had said something indecent. He appealed to the driver.
The driver said, ‘I heard nothing. I was watching the road ahead.’
The man at the back spoke up. ‘They’re dynamiting the rocks again. We’re to have a smart new road. They have said so in Rome …’
As the bus rattled and twisted and turned throughout what seemed the longest journey of his life, Guy shook. Some of the time, dizzy, he had to clutch at the seat so as not to slip. The water drunk from the lion’s mouth was only a memory. He felt a raging thirst, licking his dried sore lips continually.
Within two hours of reaching Palermo, he had boarded an express for Rome. By late the next afternoon, he was in Paris.
20
Carmel, 7th October 1960, Feast of the Most Holy Rosary. Dearest Little Nell,
This is not an easy letter to write, and I hope you will forgive my addressing it to you, rather than to Dermot. But over the last eight years I have come to feel closer to you than to most of my family. When you wrote to me after the tragedy, although it was only through prayer I could offer to help, I was very moved that it should have been me in whom you wished to confide all your fears and sorrows.
Now I am confiding in you. For the last few years I have been experiencing great unrest – an unrest that has not yielded to any of the traditional remedies. Neither fasting nor prayer has resolved it. I have been questioning more and more often, the whole of my past life, my decision to enter here, my place in the community, my whole vocation.
Perhaps it is enough to say that after much prayer and searching, I have come to a decision. I am leaving the Carmel. You, with your understanding heart, will know something, dear, of what this means. It is not just the emotional upheaval, the complete negation of all I thought I stood for – there is also the practical aspect. I am thirty-nine, and trained for nothing. I am also completely out of touch (more perhaps even than I realize) with the world of today. When I entered in January 1940 – the feast of the Epiphany! – the war had scarcely begun to make its changes (and what at just eighteen did I know of that world anyway?)
Everything has of course taken time. There have been tiresome procedures to go through. And naturally, with the best of motives, there have been those who sought to dissuade me, although at all times I have received nothing but the greatest kindness and understanding from my Superior, and from my Sisters in Christ.
I am going to ask two very tremendous favours of you, dear.
So unused am I to having ‘wants’ or desires of any sort, that it is very difficult for me to write this. But firstly, could you tell Dermot for me? (I am writing to the rest of the family today.) I know, dear, that you will do it well. The other request is, when I come out, in about four weeks’ time, may I come to you? For a while at least. I don’t know what you want to tell Benedict? I shall of course be dressed as an aunt, not a nun …
‘Well,’ Dermot said, ‘what you wanted has come about. Weren’t you always saying she was unfulfilled? Now she’s coming out in search of fulfilment –’
‘How you twist my words. Some idle remark ages ago. That time in the car, when we’d visited – wasn’t that when? Daisy was sick all the way back and you –’
He snapped, ‘Don’t. Don’t talk about her in that casual way. As if she were still here. It’s unnatural.’
‘No, natural,’ she said sadly. ‘No, it’s natural. It’s you that …’
Perhaps that was the worst, now. That in the eight months since Daisy’s death she had scarcely been allowed to speak of her. She could see his suffering, but could do nothing to help, was not allowed to help.
And she suffered too. Naturally. There had been friends to lean on. Sympathy had flooded in. Letters and more letters. Guy wrote from Sicily. Bridget’s Carmel had sent three Masses. Jenny, bereaved herself soon after – Dulcie died in a cold spell early that March – wrote at length.
And Maria. Perhaps now the reconciliation was as complete as it would ever be. But enough, enough for her. Maria, in Thackton all the time now, invited her up with Benedict. She had gone there for three weeks, before joining Cakey and her family of eight in the Cornish house. A miserable time. Cakey, pointedly it seemed, calling out as the surf crashed on Polzeath beach, ‘Watch out for the children. Supervise them every moment!’ Saying to Helen, ‘Is it all right to leave the children with you? You will watch them, all the time?’
They blamed her, of course. She had been responsible, through her carelessness, for Daisy’s death. Dermot blamed her. To sit dozing, even five minutes.
Erdmute had been sent home at once. He could not bear her in the house. She had gone over to sleep at Vibeke and Karen’s, then left for Frankfurt two days later.
Those nightmare days after. Dermot referring obliquely to the possible new baby, and then, the day after the funeral, a period so heavy she wondered sometimes if it hadn’t been an early miscarriage. And the recriminations. ‘Didn’t you know where they were – what they were doing? Why weren’t you with them?’ Only Dermot and his family had been like that. Susie had not been. Susie was devastated, knowing that although Daisy had put the record sleeve on herself, Gillian had not known to pull it off. But she did not blame. ‘No one can be in two places … the children had the run of the house after all. No one is blaming you. It could have been me.’ And the coroner, at the inquest: nothing but sympathy, the sympathy of the court. (A comment about the dangers of plastic bags, a recommendation that manufacturers write a warning. This new hazard of modern life, the minus side of modern inventions.)
But perhaps because Dermot couldn’t express his grief any other way, couldn’t speak to her of it, couldn’t even speak Daisy’s name – he continued to blame her. ‘Why weren’t you with them?’
So she had written to Bridget, pouring out her heart, her sorrow, her guilt. Above all her guilt. (She who with Eddie had felt none.) And Bridget had written back, a letter that surprised her with its insight, its understanding. (And now it
was for her to help Bridget. For them to help Bridget.)
The visit to Maria had been an escape from this blame. Oh, the benison of those few weeks at Moorgarth. The sitting-room, with its log fire on summer cold days. The happy ghost of Uncle Eric (making wartime cakes for him, walking the moors and the bluebell woods, holding the nails for him as he hammered the broody hen coop). Watching Maria with Benedict.
She learned then that Guy was in Paris. There was a letter from him while she was there. ‘It doesn’t tell me very much,’ Maria said. But she had been invited out to see them, and would be going straight after Helen’s stay. She was as ever open in her dislike of Laura. Her own news, which she said Helen might find strange was that Jenny and she, after joking one day about the ancient right to graze seven sheep at Moorgarth, had suddenly found themselves talking seriously of farming the place again.
‘Mainly sheep, I think. Maybe a cow or two in the barn. Hens again, of course … It may seem odd. But then Jenny and I are good friends. We are comfortable in each other’s company.’ This farming, it had suddenly come to them, was what both of them would like. ‘And Uncle Eric would like it so,’ she said. ‘I think he’d be more than a little pleased …’
But the blame was still there on their return. And perhaps more so, after the dreadful Cornish holiday. Blame: the background to, the excuse for, Dermot and she not getting on. ‘We aren’t getting on very well.’ That trite phrase. How truly it expressed Dermot and Helen this autumn of 1960.
Oddly, it was singing (that once she had vowed never to do again) which brought her back to life, a little. In September, friends of Colin and Christine’s, jazz aficionados, opened up a small club two evenings a week. It was Colin’s idea she should sing there. Dermot was not keen. ‘I want to,’ she had said. ‘I must have something of my own.’
‘You have,’ he said, ‘you have a child.’
She didn’t argue with Dermot in that mood – but she went to the club just the same. She was almost happy while she was there. As if a great curtain came down, protecting her from her loss. It would not be raised till she was on the way home, and facing Dermot’s disapproval. He rarely came to hear her.
The Golden Lion Page 50
