He seems to pounce on her then, throwing his arms around her so that Bella has to steady herself to prevent them both from toppling over. She can feel the squeeze of his thin arms on her neck, a few sobs stirring in his chest, the thump of his heart against her arm, the pulse of his warm little body forceful yet fragile in her arms.
After a while, she opens her eyes to Edward’s hand on Alec’s arm. ‘We better get going, Allo,’ he is saying. But Alec clings on, shaking his head and sobbing into her neck. Edward gets down on one knee and leans closer to Alec’s ear - ‘Don’t want to miss the train now, do we?’ he says. ‘You won’t let me down now, will you? There’s a good chap - I’m relying on you now, you know I am.’
They stay for a moment, the three of them hunkered and leaning into each other. When Edward finally coaxes Alec away and lifts the child, openly sobbing now, up into his arms, Bella stays on her knees. She starts to her feet then, dizzy-legged, confused, hardly able to see a thing. Until Edward’s hand again leans down to take her by the arm and help her up. Faces everywhere, a woman crying to herself. A man with his hat held to his chest. Grace in there somewhere, mouth agog.
Out on the platform, the sounds of a station: whistles, bells, doors clapping into the distance. A woman with a hamper of squabbling chickens pushes her aside and asks Edward for help in boarding the train. He puts Alec down, who immediately takes Bella’s hand.
They walk further down the platform, searching for the first-class carriages. By now the wreaths have grown into what amounts to a small hill of funeral flowers. A priest splashes them with holy water as the porters pass backwards and forwards, loading them onto the train. A group of young Blackshirts come trick-acting down the platform. They stop when they see the priest, the flowers, the black band on the arm of Alec’s coat. Then, one by one, they drop down into a genuflection.
Bella helps Alec board the train and stands for a while on the platform looking up at the window at their three faces: Edward, inscrutable; Alec, dry-eyed now but still pale and stunned with incomprehensible grief; Grace, the cat who got the cream.
*
When she gets back Amelia is still in her room and has quite needlessly - as far as Bella is concerned anyway - left word not to be disturbed.
Bella goes up to the library; a room she has come to regard as her own. She has brought her few bits to it - three framed photographs, a shell-covered box, a silver Indian message holder on a stand, found years ago in a Hampstead antique shop.
She has made some adjustments. At first just a here-and-there tweak, a mirror removed, a few cushions brought in. But since Cesare has shifted all the unwanted furniture to another room, she has gradually rearranged the remainder into sections - one for schoolwork; another for sitting; one for her own private office; another close to the view, where she sometimes eats meals, alone or with Alec. And a day bed she keeps by the terrace door, for snoozes on hot afternoons. It has come to feel like her own apartment.
The photographs are of her family; her mother, plumpish in the first stage of pregnancy, making her look younger and prettier than she really would have been. Another of her parents, standing at a monument near the hospital where her father used to work in Dublin. He, matinee-idol handsome, her mother, by comparison, pinched and plain. Although both seem happy enough. The last picture shows all three of them, outside the tearooms in the Phoenix Park. It isn’t a good photograph, but the only she had been able to find of them as a family. Her mother and herself seated on a bench, her father standing behind them. In all, a surly over-dressed trio, recalling any other vaguely unhappy Sunday afternoon.
Bella stands at the library table looking down at the scatter of Alec’s nature books and sketch pads. He has a good hand for a child his age, an eye that seems to understand colour. At least, she thinks, as she runs through the pages, he seems to know the world isn’t composed of flat blocks, but of colour shaped by weight and light. Colour that moves. He sees light and shade in everything. Red in a night sky, blue in the grass. He sees depth. Or he acknowledges it anyway, even if he hasn’t yet found the knack of capturing it.
She picks one book up, flips it open on a drawing of a place she recognizes. The garden of the Bicknell Library where they had spent an afternoon last week. All the details are there: the wide-armed African palm, the arcade with its soft fringe of mauve flowers, the bush of ox-eyed daisies. And the stone bench where they had sat, drowned in shadow. At the side of the picture is a man, woman and child. Over each head hangs a name: ‘Maestro Edward. Signora Stuart. Alessandro P. Lami.’
In the picture Alec is wearing a striped sports shirt, just as he had done that day. She had pressed it for him herself. She is wearing her navy dress with the red flowers and collar. He even remembered which shoes she had on. Everything just as it had been. Except for one thing - Edward had not been with them.
She closes the book. From lower down the stack she pulls out a nature copybook and drops it open on a page: a group of palm trees on the capo near the old town. Underneath he has written:
Papa - I hope you know all days Bordighera gives her palms to the Holy Father to make his house in the Vatican beautifuler. It is a big house, that is why Bordighera must have always palms. I know one is the Jericho palm like in the Holy Land and one is the Roman Palm. I will know the other names soon when I find my book of botanico.
I love you Papa. I sorry I made noise to your headache. I promise I am good. I hope you get very well. Please let me back if I am good always. Your loving son called Alessandro P. Lami.
p.s. When this book is full I ask Maestro Edward to post back to Sicily for you to write in the space here I leave for your message to me.
*
Amelia tells her about Signora Lami, one evening out on the passeggiata. A few days in an empty house and they have fallen into each other’s company well enough, once Amelia is over her sulk that is, and it has been established that Bella will not be substituting Grace as her Prosecco-swilling partner. In any case Amelia has her own holiday friends for night-time excursions or the occasional cruise to Alassio or a spin in somebody’s roadster up and down the Riviera: wealthy Americans mostly or middle-aged English toffs en route to smarter places.
They have some meals together, but as neither is all that interested in food these are rare or at least brief occasions. Otherwise it is the evening walk, then on for an aperitivo at Bar Atu where they sit on the terrace both watching and waiting, unashamedly, for one or more of Amelia’s cronies to happen along and claim her.
This allows Bella to leave. Home to a tray in the library, or a cafe she has found near via Lombaglia, run by the elderly Luzzati couple and frequented by English Dots. There the food is simple, the plates small, and, as Mrs Cardiff has pointed out, ‘There is no obligation to be seen making a display of enjoying oneself.’
Bella is always pleased to do the passeggiata with Amelia but equally pleased to leave her, which is just as well, she often thinks, seeing how she has never once been invited to stay.
In light of the collarbone injury, Bella had offered to help Amelia dress or take care of more personal matters but had been told that make-up and hair would be taken care of by a girl from the English hairdresser’s who knew about such things, and as for other, more personal matters, Elida, as a servant, would be better suited. If this means Amelia doesn’t regard Bella as a servant, it certainly doesn’t mean she looks on her as a friend. Since that first day in the garden, it has been ‘Miss Stuart’ all the way.
Sometimes Amelia doesn’t come home all night. Once she arrived still drunk at half past eight in the morning, her dress soaking wet and the side of her face dirty and scratched. Another time there was a bruise on her neck the size of a half-crown, which Elida, with much disgust, identified as a succhiotta - or a love bite, as it took Bella a few minutes to work out. About Amelia’s behaviour Bella asks no questions and makes no comment, although she can’t help feeling that for someone with her arm in a sling, Amelia leads an impressively active
life.
Amelia tells her about Signora Lami at the end of the hottest day so far that summer - the hottest since before la grande guerra, it said on the radio news. All morning Bella has been trailing the shade around the terrace, the afternoon lying on the sofa in the shuttered library listening to the wireless and dozing off. Later she sat in a bath of cold water and read magazines, only pulling herself together when she heard Harriet, Amelia’s twice-a-day beautician, arrive with her box of tricks.
By now the others have been gone almost a fortnight, while the Signora settles her husband’s affairs. At first Amelia had fumed at their prolonged absence, but lately she seems to have settled down. In any case, earlier that day, a telegram had arrived saying they would all, including Signora Lami, be back in Bordighera by the weekend.
‘Well, thank Ch-rrist for that!’ Amelia had said, right into Bella’s face. ‘Might at least save me from dying of boredom!’
The evening has taken the edge off the sun and the beaches and promenade are starting to fill up again. Children and dogs, old men and cyclists, recently arrived holidaymakers reeling about with shocked boiled-pink faces. The Italians, as always, taking it slowly, men strolling with their hands clasped behind their backs, women with arms folded; all tirelessly debating dinner possibilities: the how and what of each little morsel, the where - if it’s a question of choosing a restaurant.
At one end of the promenade the notes of a brass band bounce like audible midges. At the far end, from the Kursaal’s the dansantsalon, comes the subdued whine of a string quartet. Young women, slightly tipsy, and therefore, Bella assumes, probably American, come out of Damilano’s wearing beach pyjamas and hats shaped like cones. Bella waits to see if Amelia will address them. But they are given no more than a cursory once-over and a disdainful blast of cigarette smoke as they pass by.
She is in a peculiar mood, one Bella hasn’t seen up till now. Amelia, whether buoyant or slightly angry, always tends to be at least energetic. But today she seems quiet. Bella puts it down to her arm, which has only that morning been released from its sling, and is sore and weakened, so that Amelia has to hold it up by the elbow as they walk along.
On the beach opposite the Hotel Parigi a sideshow has pulled in a large crowd. A man sits on a high chair, facing the promenade, the sea at his back. He has a ventriloquist’s dummy on his lap. As they near they see the dummy is supposed to be Adolf Hitler. Adolf Hitler as a baby with his little moustache and a rattle in his hand. He wears a nappy and a bonnet with a swastika on the front, which he keeps trying to pull off, and the man keeps trying to put back on. He is shouting and crying for his ‘Mutti‘ to change his dirty nappy, but she has, it seems, run off with a Jew. ‘Ein Jude!!!‘ the baby howls. ‘Nein! Nein! Nein!’
The man tells him yes and what’s more a musician.
’Un musicista?’
Yes, the ventriloquist says - with a very large trombone.
’Un trombone grandissimo?‘ The baby is inconsolable.
The beach is in uproar. Even from the sea, rowers in their boats have edged back in to listen. All around, the sound of laughing voices: French, American, Italian. Behind, Bella hears a cockney cry out, ‘Go on, Aydolf, show us wot you’ve got then.’
Only one group is quiet. Young Germans who had been lolling on their beach towels a little way from the sideshow. They begin, one by one, to pull themselves up, and, brushing the sand from their costumes, walk away from the beach and down along the promenade in high-headed silence.
Amelia watches them go. ‘Of course, she’s a Jewess, you know,’ she says, the ess hissing slightly on the end of the word.
‘Who is?’
‘Aunt Lami. Not that I give a hoot, I mean. Dad is a little different. He says it’s not that there’s anything wrong with them per se, it’s just there’s always trouble when they’re around.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
Amelia steps away from the spectators. ‘Shall we start back?’ she suggests. When Bella catches up with her she continues. ‘We get a lot of German businessmen staying at our hotels, you know. Dad hears things. Shall I tell you a little secret?’
‘If you want to.’
‘We went to Berlin, Grace and I, in May. Although we weren’t supposed to. But we were in Switzerland anyhow, so what the heck. While we were there we saw a lot of rather odd things. They have these rallies - oh, nothing like the pathetic little parades you might see here. These take place at night-time, people carrying candles, searchlights all over the sky. Thousands and thousands of people. It’s sort of Busby Berkeley, military style if you get my meaning. It can be quite affecting actually, like a religious fervour, almost. Maybe not religious but - I don’t know - triumphant, defiant; they’re like people who have won a war they didn’t even have to fight. We were there when they burned all those books - although we didn’t actually see that. Students burning books. I mean, you have to think about that. They even burnt Helen Keller’s books - you know? All you had to be was Jewish to get thrown in the fire. Or disagree. There’s been quite a few anti-Jewish measures there - did you know?’
‘No.’
‘You won’t say we were there - will you? I mean Dad would simply go crazy. Worse, he’d stop our allowance.’
‘I won’t, but—?’
‘To be honest, Miss Stuart, there was a man I was rather sweet on, who had stayed a few weeks in our hotel in New York. We’d had a thing. A German, in the automobile business. I followed him. Talked Grace into coming along. She’ll go nuts if she knows I’ve told you.’
‘Oh?’
‘It wasn’t a very good idea anyhow, I’m afraid.’ She gives a small hurt smile.
They come up alongside the pavilion. The instruments spark and spear against the last of the sun. The band is playing something Bella knows is by Puccini, although she can’t remember the name.
‘And by the by, she’s not Italian,’ Amelia says out of the side of her mouth.
‘Who’s not Italian - Aunt Lami? I mean, the Signora?’ Bella asks.
‘No. Not at all. She’s German. Both parents Jews, although her father was a Baron von something or other. She spent quite a bit of her childhood in Turin, where a lot of wealthy Jews live, you know. I believe she may have gone to school for a while in England. She’s in love with England anyhow, as I’m sure you’ve probably noticed. Thinks it gives her style, I suppose. A lot of Germans are enamoured by the English. Fellow Aryans. Of course, that may soon change. Do you know, Miss Stuart, I feel about ready for an aperitif now - what do you say?’ She moves off again and Bella follows.
‘Yes, there’s quite a bit of anti-Jewish feeling in Germany right now. I’m not sure I approve, to tell you the truth. Certainly not when it becomes legal. Goodness, Miss Stuart - your face! I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about here unless - you’re not one by any chance?’
‘What? No, I’m not Jewish.’
‘Well, that’s all right then. But of course, you’re not thinking of yourself, are you? That German man I fell for - know what he told me? He said the Italian Jew is almost impossible to pick out. That Mussolini has allowed them to melt into society. Unlike in Germany, where they stick out like sore thumbs. Here it’s a needle and haystack scenario. Even their names sound Italian. They way they look, and behave. Apart from Rome, where they live in a ghetto - but that’s just the poor ones, right? Otherwise they could be anyone, anywhere. Well, I mean, you didn’t figure on Aunt Lami? Now if this were Germany, you’d know she was a Jewess all right. If this were the United States, come to think of it. The Lamis couldn’t be in a safer place. Although - who knows what people will do when it comes to it? That aria the band is playing, by the way - isn’t that? - ah yes, ‘O mio babbino caro.’ My dear old dad, or something. God I can’t bear it. Bad enough when it’s played well!’
They come up to Bar Atu, and the waiter ushers them to what has become their usual table. Amelia lays her elbow down, takes another cigarette from her case and orders a bottle of Prose
cco. ‘How old would you say I am, Miss Stuart?’
‘I don’t know. Twenty-six or…?’
‘Thirty-two actually. Grace is thirty-four.’
‘I would have thought you younger.’
‘How sweet.’
‘I’m thirty-two,’ Bella says, because she feels it is expected.
‘Yes, we guessed you were thereabouts. So now, three old spinsters. That’s what we are. Three old spinsters in Europe. Do you think you’ll ever get married?’
‘I don’t know. Well, no. I don’t suppose I will really.’
‘No. I don’t suppose I will either.’
The waiter arrives with the Prosecco, and they stay silent while he pulls it out of the ice bucket, then pops the cork. He looks at Amelia here and there as if expecting her usual flirty banter. But Amelia doesn’t look at him. She lifts her glass and takes a sip.
‘Grace may do - marry, I mean - she’s got the ability to make herself agreeable and that’s all most men want really. Aunt Lami of course will go again, I have no doubt. Do you think Edward is in love with her? I mean, I can’t guess why else he sticks around.’
‘I really wouldn’t know.’
‘Well, if you don’t then neither do I.’
They sit for a while in silence, watching the sea darken behind the passing crowd. Amelia finishes her glass, reaches out for the bottle then seems to change her mind. ‘Do you know, Miss Stuart - I don’t feel much like staying out tonight. I think I’ll come back now - if it’s all the same with you.’
PART FOUR
Anna
DUBLIN, 1995
May
MY GRANDMOTHER BOUGHT ME bought me this flat. About four years ago. ‘Anna - guess what I’m going to do?’ she had announced one day when I called her. ‘I’m going to buy you a flat!’ I was sure there’d been some sort of a misunderstanding, that she hadn’t realized money would actually have to be handed over.
‘Nonna,’ I said, ‘it costs an awful lot of money to buy a flat, you know.’
Last Train from Liguria (2010) Page 13