‘‘I thought it might.’’
Hiss glass was empty and he went to fill it ‘‘May I offer you a word of advice?’’
‘‘I can’t stop you.’’
He came back. ‘‘ Don’t stay too long. The climate is enervating. A week at most should be enough for a conscientious artist. No more.’’
‘‘You seem to have survived for longer than that.’’
‘‘I’m not an artist, Mr. Norton; and possibly not conscientious.’’
‘‘I can believe that.’’
‘‘I hope during this week you will come to believe many other things. Among them …’’
‘‘Among them?’’
‘‘That Mme Weber is given to foolish friendships.’’
‘‘I should need very little convincing of that.’’
He said: ‘‘ Be convinced of it but don’t trade upon it.’’
We stared at each other hard for a second or so, and I nearly forced the whole thing out into the open. Then there was a footstep on deck and it was too late. His eyelids drooped. ‘‘The others have come. Shall we go up?’’
Leonie Winter pressed the lighter. It came on, but before she could put her cigarette to it the breeze blew the flame out. She tried again and the same thing happened. It seemed a good opportunity and I moved up beside her.
‘‘Perhaps mine will work.’’
I flicked my own lighter open for her, and she nodded and lowered her head to the flame. The wind puffed it out. I shut it and flicked it open again. This time it didn’t light at all. I tried a couple more times but it only sparked.
She said: ‘‘It doesn’t matter.’’
‘‘Sorry. Lend me yours, will you. At least I can keep the wind off.’’
She handed me her small gold lighter, and I opened my coat and lit it in the shelter. She put her shiny head forward again and lit the cigarette. ‘‘Thank you.’’
When the first smoke blew away she looked at me, which was only the second time ever. I’d heard somebody once talk about sandy-green eyes, but I didn’t know what that meant until I saw Leonie Winter’s. They were thickly and quite darkly lashed, as Charlotte Weber had said. I’ve seen that colour in a sea pool, but not in Italy where there’s too much rock and the sand isn’t bright enough.
I said: ‘‘ It’s draughty for smoking. The wind has had most of mine.’’
‘‘Yes, so I see.’’
I threw my cigarette over the side, and then, to have something to do, got out another. I tried my own lighter and this time perversely it lit quickly enough.
She turned away to stare over the rail. Behind us the Bay of Naples drowsed in a haze of peacock blues, and on the port side the Sorrentine peninsula raised its. improbable cliffs like a back-cloth painted by Verrocchio.
I said: ‘‘Where are we heading?’’
‘‘This afternoon? For Amalfi, I think. Mme Weber has property near there.’’
‘‘I’ve not been in the Gulf of Salerno since ’forty-three.’’
‘‘Nineteen forty-three? During the war?’’
‘‘I was in one of the destroyers covering the landings.’’
‘‘Oh, I see …’’
‘‘Anyway, I didn’t get much of a view because I was in the engine-room most of the time.’’
She had very fine skin on her face but tiny lines at the sides of her mouth. They looked as if they’d come with smiling. I wondered how much laughter she’d got out of Grevil’s death.
For the first time in that minute it came to me to question the thing I’d been so certain of all through. Up to now I’d been absolutely sure that Grevil wouldn’t commit suicide for any girl …
I said: ‘‘Tell me, what does it feel like to be a beautiful woman?’’
Her eyes flickered up to my face again. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘Well, perhaps you’ll think this is impolite but—you give me the impression of being—unapproachable. Is that what you really feel, or is it something put on more or less in self-defence?’’
She looked at her cigarette. ‘‘If you tell me what all the other women say, I’ll t-try to keep in step.’’
‘‘I’ve never asked anyone else.’’
‘‘Then don’t you think you should try?’’
‘‘No, seriously, as a point of interest. You must be so used to admiration … You give that impression, anyway.’’
She said swiftly: ‘‘ Do I? When have I?’’
‘‘I thought on the bus.’’
‘‘On the bus. Oh, that was different.’’
‘‘How different?’’
‘‘Well, it was.’’
‘‘You think I gave you cause to be uncivil?’’
‘‘It’s a matter of opinion.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ I said.
A seagull came down near us and planed along without moving its wings; then suddenly it changed direction and disappeared to leeward as if blown away.
I said: ‘‘What I mean is, I wonder if people who are so very good to look at realise the pull they have all the time, everywhere, practically all through their lives. Wherever they are they start off a step ahead of other people; there isn’t the same need to exert themselves, to build up a relationship, to impress, because it’s done for them. It comes as part of their birthright. Even when they more or less set themselves to throw it away, the—the insignia is left. It’s practically the last form of privilege.’’
She glanced at me again. The wind blew her slight fringe across her forehead and she pushed it away. ‘‘Well, it’s an interesting point of view.’’
‘‘It wasn’t meant to be only that.’’
‘‘Are you a communist?’’
‘‘No.’’ I wasn’t sure if she was serious or poking sly fun. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘You spoke as if you didn’t like privilege.’’
‘‘No; I only don’t like the misuse of it.’’
She said coolly, candidly: ‘‘And you think, supposing that I’ve got any, that I misuse it?’’
‘‘I didn’t mean quite that. I was only wondering how far your use of it was instinctive and what it must feel like to have it.’’
She said: ‘‘I still think both questions are assuming rather a lot.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ I admitted pleasantly, ‘‘ perhaps they are.’’
As I turned, my cigarette caught on the rail and the wild blew the ash in my face. I didn’t say anything for a few seconds because a speck of ash had gone into my eye. I took out a handkerchief and rubbed a corner under the lid. She saw what had happened but didn’t speak. Then when I’d groped for a bit she said: ‘‘ Perhaps I can get it out for you.’’
I gave her the handkerchief and she put her finger-tips on my face. She was very slight when she stood up beside me, but quite tall.
‘‘Is that better?’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ We separated. ‘‘I think it’s gone.’’
She said quietly: ‘‘ Do you mean the ash or the prejudice?’’
‘‘I hope there wasn’t much of either.’’
Behind us, near the wheel, Sanbergh, looking like a dark Viking, was talking to Mme Weber, who had come aboard in bell-bottomed navy blue slacks and a large blue hat suitable only for the gentlest breeze. She had also brought the two puppies, Bergdorf and Tiffany, and one had already been sick. The other one, who seemed to be enjoying his sail, now came wobbling across and collapsed at the girl’s feet, rubbing his nose against her ankle. She picked him up and settled him in her lap.
Presently we began to talk a little more easily, desultorily but without obvious stress; and while we talked the yacht drew nearer to the great cliffs guarding Positano and Amalfi. As we came into the bay of Amalfi a church bell was ringing, at first sedately enough, then . suddenly urgent, clamorous, more like a fire alarm than a call to prayer. The sun was past its height and moving towards the precipice behind the harbour, and parts of the little white town climbing the hillside were
already in shade. Sanbergh and Mme Weber were met by an elderly car which took them off round the comer of the coast-road and out of sight. I wondered if in some way I should have contrived to follow them Sanbergh had carefully ignored me since the conversation in the cabin, but I could tell he was very well aware of me.
Nicolo da Cassa had brought his easel with him, and as soon as we landed he set it up on the quay and went on with a half-finished painting of the town. He wasn’t bothered by the local interest, and Jane Porringer squatted on a stool beside him and ate nespoli while she watched. That left Leonie and myself and Hamilton White.
I’d hardly exchanged a word with the tall American lawyer so far, but it looked as if he would be with us for the whole time ashore. Then by luck we came on a wood-carver who interested him, whose masks and faces seemed to stem more from Easter Island than the Mediterranean. White went into the shop, but Leonie Winter wandered on and I followed her.
The main street of Amalfi, starting in the square beside the cathedral, tapers off as it climbs, and a few larger shops at the beginning become dark little one-room places with their owners sitting at the doors gossiping in the sun. In a few yards you pace out the eternal contrast and the eternal problem of Italy. From the opulence and cheerfulness of the seaboard you step up into the grinding poverty of the hinterland, into the dust and the heat and the loneliness.
There wasn’t much worth buying here, but the girl, a few paces ahead of me, ducked into one shop, and after waiting for a bit outside I followed her in and found her looking over some head-scarves. Serving her was a fat old woman nursing a tiny black-eyed infant very new to his surroundings, and three children from about seven years old down. Over the sale, and in a hotchpotch of English and Italian, it turned out that the mother of the child had died at its birth and grandmother was keeping the shop open for the time being. This wasn’t of course poverty as understood in Italy; those with a shop were well off; but misfortune had come on them and they were taking it with dignity. In a short time, apart from the mere business of selling a scarf, they were chattering with Leonie Winter, staring, grave-eyed at some snaps she showed them, accepting sweets from her with natural grace, growing more and more friendly but never lowering their standards. Her glistening fair head looked odd among all the dark ones. I didn’t actually join in, but I watched it all with interest. There was an obvious misunderstanding about my presence, but she soon put that down. After a bit we were out in the daylight, she folding some dirty notes and with a twist of amusement at the comers of her mouth.
Daylight but not sunshine. In the interval the sun had slipped behind the cliff, and in a few seconds Amalfi, even seashore Amalfi, had lost all its gaiety and colour. The yacht still sunned itself, but fleetingly, like a butterfly on a wall, while the dark line crept out.
I said: ‘‘You have children of your own?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Those photographs …’’
‘‘They were my younger sisters—my half-sisters.’’
‘‘May I see them?’’
‘‘Some other time perhaps.’’
We walked back a few yards, watched by the inhabitants sitting quietly in their doorways. In the square Leonie Winter turned to go up the great flight of steps to the cathedral and the campanile. I went with her.
‘‘Where is your husband now?’’ I said.
‘‘Which one?’’
I watched her, still not sure of her. ‘‘ The current one.’’
She wrinkled her brow. ‘‘I haven’t a current one. ‘‘Sorry.’’
We got at last to the top of the steps, both a little out of breath, but not entirely with the climb. The face of the cathedral was brilliant with light.
I said: ‘‘Of course you know you were right about me in the bus.’’
She glanced at me startled then, but after a minute her face clouded. ‘‘I w-wonder if I was.’’
I caught an undertone of other-meaning, but pretended not to notice it.
I said: ‘‘ Have we time to go into the cathedral?’’
She pushed open one of the doors, and at once we were in cool gloom lit by a fiery sort of light from the west windows. A shadow broke away from a marble pillar and came across to us, welcoming us, offering to show us the beauties of the building, but I waved the ragged little man away. In the central nave she stopped; and her eyes caught the reflected light as she looked at me.
‘‘I’m trying hard but I still don’t think I’m quite keeping up with you, Mr. Norton. D’you mind telling me just what you really want?’’
‘‘Well, I should like to know you better. Do you find that very surprising?’’
‘‘Yes—in a way. In your way.’’
‘‘Why in my way?’’
After a minute she said: ‘‘ What do you want to know?’’
‘‘… the bones of St Andrew, the Apostle of Fishermen,’’ said the little man, who had followed us. ‘‘Also these great columns, borne here from mighty Pæstum …’’
‘‘That’s much more interesting than anything I can tell you,’’ she said. ‘‘Look at those mosaics … Have you ever seen the mosaics at Ravenna? I went there three years ago. The town is dull, dusty, depressing; not like Florence. Florence is the happiest town in Italy. I’d like to live there, wouldn’t you?’’
‘‘May I call you Leonie?’’ I said.
‘‘I thought that would be taken for granted. Everything else has.’’
‘‘You think I’m rushing my fences?’’
‘‘Don’t you?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ I said.
‘‘But then I suppose this is so much a normal routine that you don’t see it in the same way. What is the name for those pulpits. Is it ambos? If——’’
‘‘Ambos,’’ said the little man, following encouraged. ‘‘Very ancient, on both side of the high altar, see? When the cathedral first was built in 1203, these ambos …’’
‘‘Would it surprise you,’’ I said, ‘‘if I told you I’ve never made this sort of approach to a woman before?’’
She was silent for a while. ‘‘I believe we should go back. Charles said they wouldn’t be long.’’
On the opposite hill a church bell was ringing again, strident, scolding; another began nearer at hand, then a third.
‘‘Amalfi,’’ said the little man, ‘‘one time a great maritime republic. Ninth, tenth centuries, defeated the Saracens. As great as Genoa. Then alas in 1073, a great tidal-wave demolishes the town. Others, too, there have been since. So this cathedral …’’
I said: ‘‘Charles Sanbergh’s a lucky man to own such a fine yacht.’’
‘‘He is, isn’t he.’’
‘‘You’re old friends, I suppose.’’
‘‘No.’’
I watched her face. ‘‘Are you staying long in Italy?’’
‘‘I haven’t decided. And you?’’
I said: ‘‘Well, I don’t know how long I shall be able to stay. I have some business commitments.’’
‘‘Here?’’
‘‘Not here.’’
She hesitated. ‘‘Don’t they include painting Charlotte Weber?’’
‘‘Who told you I was going to?’’
‘‘A friend.’’
‘‘Well, it isn’t at all decided.’’
‘‘I’m told you like to paint women who show the lines of gracious living, and that you’re not interested in flat insipid faces like mine, with no character or breeding about them.’’
We got to the door of the church.
‘‘The cloister,’’ said the little man despairingly. ‘‘Chiostro del Paradiso. Gothic arches of thirteenth century. A small fee only …’’
I gave him two hundred lire. ‘‘Your friend da Cossa,’’ I said to Leonie, ‘‘has all the talents of a back-stage gossip. I wonder what Jane Porringer sees in him.’’
We were out in the daylight again. Below us, as siesta time was over, the shadowed town was coming to life.
Leonie Winter stared across at it, her eyes wide, alert, extra brilliant.
‘‘What does anyone see in anyone? If you look for an explanation, you flounder.’’
‘‘No doubt you’re right.’’
‘‘Right and trite … Are you married?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Not even once?’’
‘‘Not even once.’’ Something made me add: ‘‘I did intend to be, but things wouldn’t work out … So my record is most modest compared with yours.’’
She blinked then, as if coming out of a deep and unattractive memory. ‘‘Oh … yes. My record. Dossier perhaps. Is that the better word?’’ She turned the focus on me again. ‘‘What went wrong?’’
I shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know. She was wise enough to see the red light … But it was all very ordinary. Its only uniqueness was that it happened to me.’’
‘‘Surely that’s the only uniqueness of anything. Dear, dear, how pompous that sounds.’’
We came to the head of the great flight of steps. Two young Italians coming up the steps stared avidly at her. Overhead, in the high sky, some birds were twittering. The bells had stopped.
She said: ‘‘They’ll be waiting for us.’’ And began to patter quickly down the steps. I found however hard I tried I couldn’t keep up with her, and when she reached the bottom she was two dozen steps ahead. She stopped and looked at me and smiled. It was the first time she had smiled at me, but her eyes were only flecked on the surface by amusement. Underneath was something deeper, and I thought rather unhappy.
We were back before dusk and landed at the Marina Grande. My feelings were a bit off-key. I’d set out at the beginning to get to know Leonie Winter, and I had certainly done just that. But I wasn’t at all sure now that the rather clumsy way I’d gone about it was the right one.
Because if I’d come out today with any preconceived ideas about Leonie Winter, the afternoon had killed them stone dead.
I felt out of patience with myself generally. Could Grevil really have got so enamoured, in so deep … In my early thoughts the woman in the case, had been a shadow, impersonal, conventionalised. She was anything but a shadow now.
After dinner I wrote to Coxon.
‘‘Dear Martin,
The Little Walls Page 10