by Dick Francis
Cenci said crossly, “She’s not in hysterics.”
“I know what he means,” Alessia said. She smiled wanly at her father. “I hear you’re paying for the advice, so we’d better take it.”
Once mobilized, the family put on a remarkable show, like actors onstage. For Ilaria and Luisa it was least difficult, but for Cenci the affable host role must have seemed bizarre, as he admitted the television people with courtesy and was helpful about electric plugs and moving furniture. A second television crew arrived while the first was still setting up, and after that several carsful of reporters, some from international news agencies, and a clatter of photographers, Ilaria moved like a scarlet bird among them, gaily chatting, and even Luisa was appearing gracious, in her unfocused way.
I watched the circus assemble from behind the almost closed library door, while Alessia sat silent in her armchair, developing shadows under her eyes.
“I can’t do it,” she said.
“They won’t expect a song and dance act. Just be . . . normal.”
“And make a joke.”
“Yes.”
“I feel sick,” she said.
“You’re used to crowds,” I said. “Used to people staring at you. Think of being . . .” I groped, “. . . in the winner’s circle. Lots of fuss. You’re used to it, which gives you a shield.”
She merely swallowed, but when her father came for her she walked out and faced the barrage of flashlights and questions without cracking. I watched from the library door, listening to her slow, clear Italian.
“I’m delighted to be home with my family. Yes, I’m fine. Yes, I hope to be racing again very soon.”
The brilliant lighting for the television cameras made her look extra pale, especially near the glowing Ilaria, but the calm half smile on her face never wavered.
“No, I never saw the kidnappers’ faces. They were very . . . discreet.”
The newsgatherers reacted to the word with a low growling rumble of appreciation.
“Yes, the food was excellent . . . if you like tinned pasta.”
Her timing was marvellous: this time she reaped a full laugh.
“I’ve been living in the sort of tent people take on holiday. Size? A single bedroom . . . about that size. Yes . . . quite comfortable . . . I listened to music, most of the time.”
Her voice was quiet, but rock-steady. The warmth of the newsmen towards her came over clearly now in their questions, and she told them an open sports car had proved a liability and she regretted having caused everyone so much trouble.
“How much ransom? I don’t know. My father says it wasn’t too much.”
“What was the worst thing about being kidnapped?” She repeated the question as if herself wondering, and then, after a pause, said, “Missing the English Derby, I guess. Missing the ride on Brunelleschi.”
It was the climax. To the next question she smiled and said she had a lot of things to catch up with, and she was a bit tired, and would they please excuse her?
They applauded her. I listened in amazement to the tribute from the most cynical bunch in the world, and she came into the library with a real laugh in her eyes. I saw in a flash what her fame was all about: not just talent, not just courage, but style.
ENGLAND
6
I spent two more days at the Villa Francese and then flew back to London; and Alessia came with me.
Cenci, crestfallen, wanted her to stay. He hadn’t yet returned to his office, and her deliverance had not restored him to the man-of-the-world in the picture. He still wore a look of ingrained anxiety and was still making his way to the brandy at unusual hours. The front he had raised for the media had evaporated before their cars were out through the gate, and he seemed on the following day incapably lethargic.
“I can’t understand him,” Ilaria said impatiently. “You’d think he’d be striding about, booming away, taking charge. You’d think he’d be his bossy self again. Why isn’t he?”
“He’s had six terrible weeks.”
“So what? They’re over. Time for dancing, you’d think.” She sketched a graceful ballet gesture with her arm, gold bracelets jangling. “Tell you the truth, I was goddam glad she’s back, but the way Papa goes on, she might just as well not be.”
“Give him time,” I said mildly.
“I want him the way he was,” she said. “To be a man.”
When Alessia said at dinner that she was going to England in a day or two, everyone, including myself, was astonished.
“Why?” Ilaria said forthrightly.
“To stay with Popsy.”
Everyone except myself knew who Popsy was, and why Alessia should stay with her, and I too learned afterwards. Popsy was a racehorse woman trainer, widowed, with whom Alessia usually lodged when in England.
“I’m unfit,” Alessia said. “Muscles like jelly.”
“There are horses here,” Cenci protested.
“Yes, but . . . Papa, I want to go away. It’s fantastic to be home, but . . . I tried to drive my car out of the gate today and I was shaking . . . It was stupid. I meant to go to the hairdresser’s. My hair needs cutting so badly. But I just couldn’t. I came back to the house, and look at me, still curling onto my shoulders.” She tried to laugh, but no one found it funny.
“If that’s what you want,” her father said worriedly.
“Yes . . . I’ll go with Andrew, if he doesn’t mind.”
I minded very little. She seemed relieved by her decision, and the next day Ilaria drove her in the Fiat to the hairdresser, and bought things for her because she couldn’t face shops, and brought her cheerfully home. Alessia returned with a curly bob and a slight case of the trembles, and Ilaria helped her pack.
On that evening I tried to persuade Cenci that his family should still take precautions.
“The first ransom is still physically in one suitcase, and until the carabinieri or the courts, or whatever, free it and allow you to use it to replace some of the money you borrowed from Milan, I reckon it’s still at risk. What if the kidnappers took you . . . or Ilaria? They don’t often hit the same family twice, but this time . . . they might.”
The horror was too much. He had crumbled almost too far.
“Just get Ilaria to be careful,” I said hastily, having failed to do that myself. “Tell her to vary her life a bit. Get her to stay with friends, invite friends here. You yourself are much safer because of your chauffeur, but it wouldn’t hurt to take the gardener along too for a while, he has the shoulders of an ox and he’d make a splendid bodyguard.”
After a long pause, and in a low voice, he said, “I can’t face things, you know.”
“Yes, I do know,” I agreed gently. “Best to start, though, as soon as you can.”
A faint smile. “Professional advice?”
“Absolutely.”
He sighed. “I can’t bear to sell the house on Mikonos . . . my wife loved it.”
“She loved Alessia too. She’d think it a fair swap.”
He looked at me for a while. “You’re a strange young man,” he said. “You make things so clear.” He paused. “Don’t you ever get muddled by emotion?”
“Yes, sometimes,” I said. “But when it happens . . . I try to sort myself out. To see some logic.”
“And once you see some logic, you act on it?”
“Try to.” I paused. “Yes.”
“It sounds . . . cold.”
I shook my head. “Logic doesn’t stop you feeling. You can behave logically, and it can hurt like hell. Or it can comfort you. Or release you. Or all at the same time.”
After a while he said, stating a fact, “Most people don’t behave logically.”
“No,” I said.
“You seem to think everyone could, if they wanted to?”
I shook my head. “No.” He waited, so I went on diffidently, “There’s genetic memory against it, for one thing. And to be logical you have to dig up and face your own hidden motives and emotions, and
of course they’re hidden principally because you don’t want to face them. So . . . um . . . it’s easier to let your basement feelings run the upper stories, so to speak, and the result is rage, quarrels, love, jobs, opinions, anorexia, philanthropy . . . almost anything you can think of. I just like to know what’s going on down there, to pick out why I truly want to do things, that’s all. Then I can do them or not. Whichever.”
He looked at me consideringly. “Self-analysis . . . did you study it?”
“No. Lived it. Like everyone does.”
He smiled faintly. “At what age?”
“Well . . . from the beginning. I mean, I can’t remember not doing it. Digging into my own true motives. Knowing in one’s heart of hearts. Facing the shameful things . . . the discreditable impulses . . . Awful, really.”
He picked up his glass and drank some brandy. “Did it result in sainthood?” he said, smiling.
“Er . . . no. In sin, of course, from doing what I knew I shouldn’t.”
The smile grew on his lips and stayed there. He began to describe to me the house on the Greek island that his wife had loved so, and for the first time since I’d met him I saw the uncertain beginnings of peace.
ON THE AIRPLANE Alessia said, “Where do you live?”
“In Kensington. Near the office.”
“Popsy trains in Lambourn.” She imparted it as if it were a casual piece of information. I waited, though, and after a while she said, “I want to keep on seeing you.”
I nodded. “Any time.” I gave her one of my business cards, which had both office and home telephone numbers, scribbling my home address on the back.
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Delighted.”
“I need . . . just for now . . . I need a crutch.”
“Deluxe model at your service.”
Her lips curved. She was pretty, I thought, under all the strain, her face a mingling of small delicate bones and firm positive muscles, smooth on the surface, taut below, finely shaped under all. I had always been attracted by taller, softer, curvier girls, and there was nothing about Alessia to trigger the usual easy urge to the chase. All the same I liked her increasingly, and would have sought her out if she hadn’t asked me first.
In bits and pieces over the past two days she had told me many more details of her captivity, gradually unburdening herself of what she’d suffered and felt and worried over; and I’d encouraged her, not only because sometimes in such accounts one got a helpful lead towards catching the kidnappers, but also very much for her own sake. Victim therapy, paragraph one: let her talk it all out and get rid of it.
At Heathrow we went through immigration, baggage claims, and customs in close proximity, Alessia keeping near to me nervously and trying to make it look natural.
“I won’t leave you,” I assured her, “until you meet Popsy. Don’t worry.”
Popsy was late. We stood and waited with Alessia apologizing twice every five minutes and me telling her not to, and finally, like a gust of wind, a large lady arrived with outstretched arms.
“My darling,” she said, enveloping Alessia, “a bloody crunch on the motorway. Traffic crawling past like snails. Thought I’d never get here.” She held Alessia away from her for an inspection. “You look marvellous. What an utterly drear thing to happen. When I heard you were safe I bawled, absolutely bawled.”
Popsy was forty-fivish and wore trousers, shirt, and padded sleeveless waistcoat in navy, white, and olive green. She had disconcertingly green eyes, a mass of fluffy graying hair, and a personality as large as her frame.
“Popsy . . .” Alessia began.
“My darling, what you need is a large steak. Look at your arms . . . matchsticks. The car’s just outside, probably got some traffic cop writing a ticket, I left it on double yellows, so come on, let’s go.”
“Popsy, this is Andrew Douglas.”
“Who?” She seemed to see me for the first time. “How do you do.” She thrust out a hand, which I shook. “Popsy Teddington. Glad to know you.”
“Andrew traveled with me . . .”
“Great,” Popsy said. “Well done.” She had her eyes on the exit, searching for trouble.
“Can we ask him to lunch on Sunday?” Alessia said.
“What?” The eyes swiveled my way, gave me a quick assessment, came up with assent. “O.K., darling, anything you like.” To me she said, “Go to Lambourn, ask anybody, they’ll tell you where I live.”
“All right,” I said.
Alessia said “Thank you” half under her breath and allowed herself to be swept away, and I reflected bemusedly about irresistible forces in female form.
FROM HEATHROW I went straight to the office, where Friday afternoon was dawdling along as usual.
The office, a nondescript collection of ground-floor rooms along either side of a central corridor, had been designed decades before the era of open-plan, half-acre windows, and Kew Gardens rampant. We stuck to the rabbit hutches with their strip lighting because they were comparatively cheap; and as most of us were partners, not employees, we each had a sharp interest in low overheads. Besides, the office was not where we mostly worked. The war went on on distant fronts: headquarters was for discussing strategy and writing up reports.
I dumped my suitcase in the hutch I sometimes called my own and wandered along the row, both to announce my return and see who was in.
Gerry Clayton was in, making a complicated construction in folded paper.
“Hello,” he said. “Bad boy. Tut-tut.”
Gerry Clayton, tubby, asthmatic, fifty-three and bald, had appointed himself father-figure to many wayward sons. His specialty was insurance, and it was he who had recruited me from a firm at Lloyds, where I’d been a water-treading clerk looking for more purpose in life.
“Where’s Twinkletoes?” I said. “I may as well get the lecture over.”
“Twinkletoes, as you so disrespectfully call him, went to Venezuela this morning. The manager of Luca Oil was scooped.”
“Luca Oil?” My eyebrows rose. “After all the work we did for them, setting up defenses?”
Gerry shrugged, carefully knifing a sharp crease in stiff white paper with his thumbnail. “That work was more than a year ago. You know what people are. Dead keen on precautions to start with, then perfunctory, then dead sloppy. Human nature. All any self-respecting dedicated kidnapper has to do is wait.”
He was unconcerned about the personal fate of the abducted manager. He frequently said that if everyone took fortresslike precautions and never got themselves—in his word—scooped, we’d all be out of a job. One good kidnapping in a corporation encouraged twenty others to call us in to advise them how to avoid a similar embarrassment; and as he regularly pointed out, the how-not-to-get-scooped business was our bread and butter and also some of the jam.
Gerry inverted his apparently wrinkled heap of white paper and it fell miraculously into the shape of a cockatoo. When not advising antikidnap insurance policies to Liberty Market clients he sold origami patterns to a magazine, but no one grudged his paper-folding in the office. His mind seemed to coast along while he creased and tucked, and would come up often as if from nowhere with highly productive business ideas.
Liberty Market as a firm consisted at that time of thirty-one partners and five secretarial employees. Of the partners, all but Gerry and myself were ex-S.A.S., ex-police, or ex something ultrasecret in government departments. There were no particular rules about who did which job, though if possible everyone was allowed their preferences. Some opted for the lecture tour full time, giving seminars, pointing out dangers; all the how-to-stay-free bit. Some sank their teeth gratefully into the terrorist circuit; others, like myself, felt more useful against the simply criminal. Everyone in between times wrote their own reports, studied everyone else’s, manned the office switchboard year round and polished up their techniques of coercive bargaining.
We had a chairman (the firm’s founder) for our Monday morning state-o
f-the-nation meetings, a coordinator who kept track of everyone’s whereabouts, and an adjuster—Twinkletoes—to whom partners addressed all complaints. If their complaints covered the behavior of any other partner, Twinkletoes passed the comments on. If enough partners disapproved of one partner’s actions, Twinkletoes delivered the censure. I wasn’t all that sorry he’d gone to Venezuela.
This apparently shapeless company scheme worked in a highly organized way, thanks mostly to the ingrained discipline of the ex-soldiers. They were lean, hard, proud, and quite amazingly cunning, most of them preferring to deal with the action of the after-kidnap affairs. They were in addition almost paranoid about secrecy, as also the ex-spies were, which to begin with I’d found oppressive but had soon grown to respect.
It was the ex-policemen who did most of the lecturing, not only advising on defenses but telling potential kidnap targets what to do and look for if they were taken, so that their captors could be in turn captured.
Many of us knew an extra like photography, languages, weaponry, and electronics, and everyone could use a word processor, because no one liked the rattle of typewriters all day long. No one was around the office long enough for serious feuds to develop, and the coordinator had a knack of keeping incompatibles apart. All in all it was a contented ship which everyone worked in from personal commitment, and, thanks to the kidnappers, business was healthy.
I finished my journey along the row of hutches, said a few hellos, saw I was penciled in with a question mark for Sunday midnight on the switchboard roster, and came at length to the big room across the far end, the only room with windows to the street. It just about seated the whole strength if we were ever there together, but on that afternoon the only person in it was Tony Vine.
“ ’Lo,” he said. “Hear you made an effing balls of it in Bologna.”
“Yeah.”