by Allan Massie
First, for Alison, as ever;
then for Damian, who has been there.
The ancients made much of the fact that the self is a mystery, but then every other living thing is a mystery, and it is much more difficult to peer into them than into one’s own self (Gli antichi facevano un gran caso del fatto che il proprio io è un mistero. Ma anche ogni altra cosa vivente è un mistero e l’accesso ad essa è ben più difficile che al proprio essere)
– Italo Svevo, Soggiorno Londinese
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
XLIV
XLV
XLVI
XLVII
XLVIII
XLIX
L
Copyright
I
“You’re mad,” Belinda said, “you really are, out of your head.”
“If you say so. You’re the authority. But I don’t think I am.” There was no hostility, scarcely even sharpness, in Kate Sturzo’s tone when she said, “You’re the authority.” They were good friends, could speak frankly to each other. There were secrets of course – when aren’t there? – things either would prefer to keep to herself. Nevertheless …
As usual they had met in the little bar of no character in the Via Napoli half an hour or so before the other members of the group would appear. They valued this time together, it had become a ritual, and therefore comforting, even though they might also meet for a leisurely lunch some day during the week. But Kate had been in England the last two months, and now, returned, presented her with the news which prompted Belinda to say, “You’re mad. You really are out of your head.”
“I don’t think I’m mad. I think it’s interesting. He’s interesting.”
“He’s a murderer, yes? – a killer, and you’ve invited him here, actually to stay with you in your apartment, and you say you’re not mad. My poor sweet, you’re raving.”
“It was the little cough, you know, set me wondering.”
“What little cough?” Belinda opened her blue-grey eyes very wide. She sipped her camomile tea and said again, “what little cough?”
“In court. During his trial. You do know, don’t you, he was acquitted, all three were acquitted? When he was being cross-examined. He gave this little cough, really a clearing of the throat, before answering. It was sort of modest, polite, rather sweet. He cupped his hand over his mouth. A nice well brought-up boy, I thought.”
“So,” Belinda said, “on account of this little cough you concluded he was all right, not a murderer.”
“The jury came to that conclusion. Not guilty. Of course they had doubts, you could see that. I have doubts myself. But that’s not the point. He’s interesting, as a specimen if you like.”
“And dangerous. Obviously.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. I talked to his mother. At some length, you know. A very nice woman. And I do have some experience.”
That was true. They had both had some experience. They wouldn’t have found themselves where they were now otherwise. Belinda was fifty, though she didn’t look it, except for the crow’s feet. Kate was five years younger. Her last book, an international best-seller – “good-seller, really”, she said – had been the study of a very respectable and successful Belgian industrialist, accused in old age of long-ago war crimes, and found guilty. He was a genial fellow, known for his lavish gifts to charities. In the book Kate made his charm abundantly evident. It had pleased him, even though it exposed his crimes more fully than had been done at his trial. He had written of his admiration from the nursing home to which he had been transferred from prison a few days after being sentenced to confinement for life.
“Oh, he was a charmer,” Kate would say, to irritate people.
“Not just to irritate them,” she told Belinda, “to open their eyes.”
“To open their eyes …” Belinda couldn’t argue with that, not as a proposition. It was, deep down, what they were there for, what AA was all about: opening your eyes to the reality of your condition; hence acceptance. She knew what she should say. “You’re a recovering alcoholic. You mustn’t invite unnecessary stress. And this boy …” It was no good. Kate knew the lines as well as she did, and had made her decision. They wouldn’t talk about it at the meeting.
Others began to arrive. In recent weeks, meetings had been sparsely attended. Sometimes there had been more visitors to Rome than residents, regulars. They had debated, a couple of years back, whether meetings should be discontinued in August when most who could left the city. But Sol had insisted there must be meetings. Tourists who were in AA needed somewhere they could turn to. People left in the city were lonely, vulnerable. Now, regular members of the group were returning from the seaside or the mountains, or from visiting their families in other countries. There would be stories about the parents who couldn’t believe that one little drink could do any damage, about the brothers and sisters and old friends whose own careless drinking provoked resentment, and so temptation.
Bridget and Tomaso showed up. Bridget was tense and silent. She hated meetings. She hated being an alcoholic. Tomaso accompanied her every week because he didn’t trust her to make it on her own. There were few things he let her do out of his sight. In his sight much was permitted, like cooking and laying the table and clearing it and stacking the dishwasher. And paying the bills. He trusted her with that, while he stretched out in a chair. Tomaso was a film director, nominally. Before marrying Bridget he had worked, occasionally, at Cinecittà. Now she and her Trust Fund occupied all his attention. She had only the income from the Trust; she couldn’t dispose of any capital. So Tomaso was careful with her money, and saved where he could. Before they got together, Bridget had lived way beyond her income. Now her expenditure was small. Tomaso was however always very well dressed.
“You’ve been in the mountains?” Belinda said.
“There’s a lake. I swam every day.”
Bridget spoke in a whisper. There was now scarcely any American left in her voice. Tomaso began to dilate on the beauty of the mountains, the healthy life they led there, how good it was for Bridget. He spoke as if she was a prize animal he was grooming for show. But he wasn’t comfortable with Belinda. When they first met he had made a pass at her. “Oh no,” she had said, “I don’t think so, really.”
Stephen and Erik came into the bar. Stephen smiled at Belinda and gave a little shake of the head to indicate that he would rather not come to their table since Tomaso was there. He ordered an espresso and a Coca-Cola at the cassa, and took Erik’s arm just below his flowered short-sleeved shirt, between his thumb and forefinger, and guided him to the bar. Erik looked over his shoulder, and flashed Belinda a smile.
Kate said to Belinda: “I really don’t fancy him in case that’s what you’re thinking. Not at all. I just want to know all about him …”
“Can we have a word afterwards?” Stephen said to Belinda as they crossed the street to the hall of the American Episcopalian church where the meeting was held. “I’m in a bit of a state.”
Belinda watched him as they settled. They had said the Serenity prayer, but it hadn’t made Stephen serene. He chain-smoked, often stubbing out his Player’s cigarettes before they were halfway through. She wondered if he was going to confess to a slip, but he didn’t offer to speak.
Sol welcomed them back. He talked about his family holiday on Ischia, and of how he had thought during it of earlier family holidays on the Connecticut coast which had resulted in disaster. It was good to be not drinking, he said, and to know that his wife and daughters were free of anxiety. It was good to be able to go and do things on his own without carrying with him a picture of the apprehension on Amelia’s face as he took off. These were among the solid rewards of sobriety, he said – convincingly.
A newcomer, a thickset man in the corner of the room, took a toscano cigar from his mouth, and said, “My name’s Tom and I’m an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink for seven years, and I still don’t like it. I still get twitchy come Martini time. But it’s good to be able to be here. I’ve been in AA off and on and I have to confess that the stuff about handing things over to a higher power still grates. I’m too proud, I suppose. I know you’re meant to get rid of pride, but I find that hard. It’s the way I was brought up. Take pride in yourself, they used to say. Now I take pride in my sobriety, but I never do more than cling to it. That’s all I’ve got to say. I’ll be in Rome for a few months and I’m glad to have found you and to be here.”
“We’re glad to have you with us, Tom,” Sol said. “I guess we each have to handle the problem of pride in our own way. It’s a tough one. I used to have a stupid pride when I was drinking. I was even proud of my hangovers being worse than anyone else’s …”
Fergus began to speak. Belinda didn’t listen. It was a long time since she had listened to Fergus who always had the same thing to say. It began with an encounter in a bar … She watched Stephen instead. He was really twitchy. Then she let her eyes turn to Erik who was sitting some way apart from Stephen. His mouth hung a little open and a fringe of dyed blond hair fell over his left eye. He was concentrating on Fergus as if what Fergus said mattered. She reproached herself; maybe it did, to Erik.
“So this time I’ve learned my lesson,” Fergus said. “I understand at last why I drink.”
“That’s good, Fergus,” Sol said, “but it’s not taking that first drink that’s important. Knowing why you drink doesn’t matter that much.”
“Oh but I think it does,” Lotte said. “My name’s Lotte and I’m an alcoholic, and I didn’t get settled into sobriety till I understood what I was running away from when I took a drink. And I did often.” She laughed. “It was myself, you see. I was running away from the woman I had become. So I had to change myself to stop running away from myself. That is important, I think. It is what you must do, Fergus.”
She treated the company to a smile. Belinda was embarrassed because Lotte embarrassed her.
Erik said, “I think that’s awfully true what Lotte says. Oh, I’m sorry … my name’s Erik and I’m an alcoholic. I just know I was running away from myself when I drank. Sometimes I think I’m still running.”
“Then slow down, Erik,” Sol said. “But you’re doing well. We all like to see you doing so well.”
Now Mike made to speak, but Sol interrupted him to ask if he’d had a drink today. “Just a couple,” Mike said.
“Then I’m sorry, Mike. You can listen. We’re glad to have you here. But you can’t speak.”
“Oh hell,” Mike said, “it’s my wife, you see, Meg, she understands me, I can’t take it …”
Then you have to leave her, was what Belinda thought, if you can’t take it without drinking. But maybe if you weren’t drinking, you could take even being understood.
But she didn’t know about that, she really didn’t. She thought: Mike still plays the risk game. So does Kate, with this boy. Me, I’ve contracted out. I hope so anyway. I really do hope so.
II
“Erik’s off to a party,” Stephen said. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.” They had walked up Via Nazionale and were sitting outside a café in the gallery that ran round that side of Piazza Esedra. It wasn’t a place Belinda cared for, too near the railway station; it stopped, to her mind, just short of being sleazy. But tonight most of the people sitting there were tourists, all weary.
It was still hot in the velvet petrol-scented air of the city in this first week of September. With October, it was her favourite Roman month, but she would rather have been in another café and another square. They ate ice creams and drank coffee.
“So what is it?” she said.
“What is it? Hopeless.”
She thought, not for the first time, you really should not be here, Stephen; you should have a parish with an Early English church in some nice town in the West Country, or Suffolk where there would be comfortable ladies of my age and upwards who would make much of you. But perhaps there were no longer such parishes, or, indeed, such ladies; she didn’t know.
“Is it Erik?” she said.
“I’m crazy about him. At least I think I am.” His voice floated Anglicanly high, attracting the attention of an English family two tables away. “And now he says he doesn’t think he is gay at all. Can you imagine? It’s a girl who’s invited him to this party, an American girl we met at Porto Ercole, a college girl with a baby voice. It’s making me wretched. I came so close tonight to taking a drink. I stared five minutes hard at a bottle of grappa …”
“But you didn’t. You didn’t take one …”
“No … but I might have, I all but did.”
“You can’t expect the young to be faithful,” Belinda said. “You’re forty, Stephen.”
“Thirty-nine.”
“And Erik’s what? Nineteen?”
Stephen left her. She tried to persuade him to go home, or come to her place, stay the night, better for him, the state he was in, but no, he got to his feet, dropped a ten thousand lira note on the table, and left, his long thin legs moving clumsily as if they would lead him to knock against the tables between which he steered, in the direction of the railway station. It wasn’t good. She called the waiter and paid the bill.
She walked down the long hill, her shoulder bag swinging. She had no fear of it being snatched. She had lived a long time now, fifteen years, in Rome, and never been the victim of bag-snatchers, not even in her drinking days. It was all a matter of the pace at which you walked: too quick and you were marked out as game, an anxious tourist.
She passed Trajan’s column and market, and crossed the road to walk along the Corso side of Piazza Venezia. She turned left into the Piazza del Gesù, and made her way through the little streets and into Piazza Mattei, pausing there as she always did to run her fingers along the damp thigh of one of the stone boys holding tortoises to drink at this, her favourite fountain, and then into the old ghetto where she had an apartment. It was on the fourth floor and there was no lift.
Stephen and Kate, she thought. Stephen comes to me with a trouble which is the inescapable consequence of his nature, and Kate comes to me with what may be the equally inescapable consequence of hers, but which she does not recognise as trouble.
The cats came to meet her, mewing. They leaped on to the kitchen table to be stroked. They were Persians, brother and sister, and once, man and wife, till, reluctantly, she had the female neutered. She couldn’t bring herself to have that done to Benito also.
She gave them some tuna from the fridge, and took a bottle of mineral water and a glass and went out to her little terrace from which she could see, over rooftops, the black pines on Monteverde. She sat on a basketwork chair and sipped the water, and smoked.
“I’ve got to know more,” she thought, and thought of Kate eager for the visit of this boy who was, or almost c
ertainly was, a murderer, even if he had been acquitted, for insufficient evidence as she remembered.
Her mobile rang. Kate.
“Are you all right? You’re not worrying about me? I do know what I’m doing. OK?”
“Fine, take your word. What’s the boy’s name? I forget.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“It irritates me, forgetting things. No other reason.”
“I don’t know, you think I’m off my head, don’t you? You think it’s dangerous. He’s called Gary. Gary Kelly. Ordinary name for an ordinary boy.”
“If he’s so ordinary, why’re you so interested?”
III
How did Belinda get through the day? The question was occasionally raised. Maura, brisk successful barrister and second wife of Kenneth Leslie, brother-in-law of Belinda’s sister Fiona, said more than once that she had never known anyone do less. “I’m not saying I don’t like her,” she said, “I’m not even criticizing. It just amazes me, that’s all.”
“Oh she does this and that, I suppose,” Kenneth said, “but slowly.”
“If you say so. I’m glad we’re not expected to stay with her, that’s all. Not with those cats and no lift.”
Belinda had never been a career girl, deterred by her mother’s example and urging. She had always been an onlooker. That was perhaps why none of her three marriages had lasted. The first didn’t count. She could scarcely even remember it. When Kenneth told her that that husband, Oswald, was now a figure of some influence in the New Labour government, she opened her eyes wide, a mannerism dating from her lovely youth.
“I never think of Oswald, you know.”
“But you do know he’s a Life Peer, don’t you, and though he’s not in the Cabinet, has more say than most who are there.”
“Poor Oswald.”
Kenneth smiled. Belinda couldn’t credit that he was himself a political journalist writing elegantly for a weekly that valued, though did not always recognise, elegance. Nevertheless she did sometimes remember it. That was why, coming in from the terrace, in the middle of the night, she had sent him a fax asking if he would be a lamb and look out press reports of Gary Kelly’s trial, and anything else relating to the murder. “Sorry to bother you,” she added, but didn’t trouble to explain why she wanted the information.