Cara Massimina

by Tim Parks

  Perhaps it was like this for all lovers, the affection, the warmth, friendliness, sex, and then those unspeakable things hidden beneath, the attraction growing alongside the horror, the desire to . . .

  ‘Mimi, I . . .’

  And then somebody hit a horn outside and it was Roberto.

  Roberto’s father was a hotelier with three hotels all along the coast north of Palau. Roberto helped in the office sometimes in summer and very occasionally in the restaurant of the largest hotel, but otherwise he made no contribution at all and none was expected of him. His studies in medicine at the University of Rome, where he spent most of the year, were progressing steadily but slowly and he seemed in no particular hurry to finish. He had excellent contacts in the hospital in Sassari, he said, and was bound to get a job there when he did finish, so what on earth was the use of hurrying? He smoked a thin cigar and the car he drove was a white Golf convertible which bowled merrily along the balmy cliffside roads with steep hills of gorse to the left and a sudden rocky drop never far away to the right. Precisely the kind of car he would like to have, Morris thought. He had always admired the Golf convertible. Style with a usefully low profile.

  Massimina was a shade sombre and said she was worried her perm was going to blow out altogether in the wind that swept over the windscreen, and after all the effort she’d made not to let her hair get wet when they went swimming. She sat next to Roberto and turned round occasionally with a pouting anxious frown, probably thinking how embarrassed she was going to be, asking after the pregnancy test in the pharmacist’s, Morris thought. And he leaned forward and whispered that he would go and get it for her himself. She smiled and kissed him and was obviously relieved.

  ‘Oh no!’ Morris said then when they were twenty safe kilometres on their way. ‘I forgot my passport. I can’t sort out my documents at the Questura without my passport.’

  ‘But Morrees, I told you . . .’

  ‘Look, I can pick up the forms at least and then have them all ready for the next time.’

  ‘What documents are those?’ Roberto asked, and Morris appreciated his mistake at once: he should have whispered it.

  ‘We’re getting married,’ Massimina came out promptly. Oh she really enjoyed saying that. Roberto was amused, he was delighted even, and now Morris saw he was going to ruin the whole afternoon by ribbing them about it at every possible opportunity.

  ‘I wouldn’t marry him,’ he began at once.

  ‘And why not?’ She was immediately playing his game, having fun.

  ‘Well, he looks a hell of a suspicious character to me.’

  ‘No Morrees is . . .’

  ‘And then English too. You know what the English are like. And too old.’ Roberto glanced round to wink at Morris. ‘You should try out a few younger men first, take a look around. Don’t bury yourself with the first man you fall for.’

  ‘No,’ she was almost giggling, ‘it’s him that’s burying himself with the first . . .’

  ‘Shut up,’ Morris said sharply.

  Porto Torres turned out to be a bustling seaside town thronging with holiday-makers who drifted between the modern hotels that stretched in a ribbon along the seafront and the ancient stone warren of shops and restaurants that was the port’s original centre. The place was rather too vulgarly colourful for Morris’s taste with too many adverts for cheap camera film, too many balloons, jokey postcards, seaside toys and plastic flags.

  He went directly into a newsagent and bought Corriere della Sera and La Mattina and then hurried to the tobacconist for stamps and postcards that Massimina had asked for. As long as she kept writing to Mamma’s mythical address in the mountains he would let her post everything herself, he thought, but he must still keep a close watch and be flexible.

  ‘Don’t post it before letting me sign,’ he told her and went off to the chemist now. Roberto came with him, looking for some kind of medically recommended footwear, and Morris, for no reason at all, decided to let him see what he was buying. Massimina had stayed behind to scribble messages to Mamma and Grandma sitting on the pedestal of a monument to the fallen of various wars.

  ‘You’re not getting married just because she’s got one in the oven?’ Roberto’s eyes were dark and lively. He put an arm round Morris as they left the shop.

  ‘I’m marrying her because she’s rich,’ Morris said.

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Actually, to tell the truth, I’m not marrying her at all. It’s her who’s got that into her head. And she’s created this whole pregnancy scare to hurry things along. I’m sure she isn’t pregnant really.’ How could she be? It was only a week and a half since they did it.

  ‘No need to defend yourself,’ Roberto said, still with the light of needling fun in his eyes. ‘She’s a nice girl. If you want to marry her, do. I wouldn’t mind myself if I was that way inclined.’

  But Morris had suddenly seen his way now, understood why he had let Roberto see what he was buying in the first place.

  ‘Quite, I’m not saying I won’t marry her. But there’s no hurry. Hence the forgotten passport. In fact we’re going to have a hell of a row about that tonight. You can see it a mile off. She’s threatening to run off back to Mamma if I don’t marry her immediately, and to show her who’s boss, I may just let her go.’

  ‘Well, if you need anybody to give her a lift to the ferry . . .’ and Roberto gave Morris a not unpleasant little squeeze.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind,’ Morris said coolly.

  They sat on the beach. Miles and miles of white beach. The sun was scorchingly hot. And Morris suddenly felt fed up. It was too hot for him and too lazy. He wanted to be up and doing, getting on with things. And not things like making sure Massimina hadn’t sent a letter or made a phone call; he wasn’t going to spend his whole damn life babysitting the girl for God’s sake. He wanted to be investing that money and having it working for him. He was just itching to start. Heaven knew, if he had the opportunities Roberto had he’d be acquiring a new hotel every week and building up a business empire as fast as he could, not sitting on his arse pretending he was studying medicine.

  ‘No, I don’t want another swim,’ he told her. ‘You go in with Roberto.’ (They had bought a big red plastic ball to play with, of all things—and Morris had thought the boy was going to give them a cultural trip round the old centre or some ruins or something, the way he’d talked about it being a ‘fascinating place.’) ‘I’m just going to take a little walk through town while the shops are still open.’

  He would take his risks now, Morris thought. If she found out, he would escape. If not, so be it. Leave it to fate.

  In town Morris shredded her postcards into a bin. Because on second thought it might be wise to avoid an accumulation of cards from a certain Massimina and Morris to a fictitious address in Trentino-Alto-Adige. After the discovery of that red tracksuit you never knew what bad luck might come your way.

  The newspapers had been reassuring though: Corriere delta Sera had had a small report of a ransom being paid, but to no avail. It didn’t mention how the money was paid (a compliment, Morris thought: they didn’t want anybody else to get wise), but said that Inspector Marangoni now feared the worst for the young girl’s life. Suspicions were growing that Massimina may have been dead all along, the mysterious get well card having been written the first day and then sent later to give the impression the girl was still alive. A last paragraph added that the card had provoked some puzzlement among handwriting experts who insisted there were no traces of its having been written under duress: this had led to some speculation that the girl herself might be involved in some kind of hoax against her parents. Police interviews with family and friends had excluded this possibility, however. La Stampa had nothing on the Rimini case. The thing had obviously petered out onto the back pages of the local papers.

  Morris chose a calculator made by Texas Instruments. The shopkeeper assured him that the thing was suitable for somebody who had to deal with a
lot of business administration, and showed him how to operate the mechanism for calculating compound interest. The batteries for the dictaphone, which he picked up at the same place, were exorbitantly expensive, Morris noticed. In fact, perhaps he should invest in the electronic components industry. The thing seemed to be booming.

  Passing a S.I.P. in the centre, Morris considered the many possible telephone calls he could make. They would probably be expecting one even at the Questura. But he felt nervous about it now. They might automatically be tracing everything. And with the eight hundred million actually in the bag there was too much to lose to go playing fun and games.

  Should he tell her? She might play along with him. She was a good kid in the end and he would miss her otherwise. She might think it was hilarious. Carefully edited of course.

  Morris walked down the bustling main street of Porto Torres, itching to be back in action and at the same time caged in his dilemma. The sun beat down on his now tanned skin. From the harbour the steamer off to Genoa sounded its horn. (Why wasn’t he on it?) In the mirror of a shop window displaying jugs and pottery, Morris noted he was more handsome than ever. Which gave him a lift.

  *

  Roberto had somehow managed to accumulate three friends (male) and they all went to dinner together. Morris again had an acute sense that he was letting things drift. The number of people who had seen and spoken to Massimina in his company was rising steadily and getting out of hand. He didn’t feel hungry and ordered a simple grilled fish, no trimmings or extras. In a week it would be over. It must. One way or another.

  The young men talked about the general election of the previous Sunday, which Morris had forgotten about, and he was disturbed to hear that the Christian Democrats had lost six per cent of the vote and the Communists had now pulled up just about even. A left wing government was therefore on the cards, a remote possibility, yes, but real enough to have caused a massive ten point slump in a single day on the stock market. Thank God he hadn’t invested the cash last week. Still, the political turmoil should be keeping all the TV news programmes very busy.

  Massimina fanned herself over a lobster—the evening was close and sticky—and when one of the other lads began to flirt with her (in the way queers will, Morris thought), Roberto laughed and said not to touch because they were about to get married.

  ‘He’s even bought her her first pregnancy test today,’ he announced with a smile.

  Massimina blushed to the colour of the forkful of lobster she was slipping into her mouth. Morris felt outraged by such a vulgar taking-of-advantage and would have liked to hit back and to show affection to the girl too, except that the idea of comforting her under the gaze of those laughing, dark Latin eyes unnerved him. The last thing he wanted to appear was a gooey fool. And so in the end he just sat there stiff and silent.

  ‘Bravo, bravo!’ they were all cheering. ‘What are you going to call the brat?’

  Massimina rather surprisingly recovered from her embarrassment and began to giggle through her blushes (so much for that strict Catholic education again). She took Morris’s arm with both her hands, put her head against his shoulder and asked, what were they going to call him? She hadn’t thought of that. If it was a him.

  ‘Leonard,’ Morris said automatically, giving his father’s name, just to have a name out and have done with this stupid game, but everybody thought this was doubly hilarious—a new Leonardo—and Roberto remarked that Da Vinci had been homosexual, hadn’t he? Always digging up dead men’s bodies and everything and cutting them up to boot.

  Morris saw red. Eyes flickering open and closed, he held his breath a moment, fighting back nausea—and recovered.

  ‘Well, my son won’t do any of those things,’ he said coldly.

  To which Massimina echoed an annoying, ‘Vero Morrees,’ and kissed him on the cheek, provoking further ‘bravos.’

  19

  Roberto drove them home early after a sudden thunderstorm had washed out the idea of drinking late on the beach. The rain was heavy and persistent and they travelled in near complete silence, sitting on their towels, having failed to get the top on the Golf before the rain started. They were back at eleven and Roberto came in a moment to use the lavatory. Massimina was in a bright mood and insisted on shouting to him to stay for drinks. (Gregorio’s drinks; now who was taking liberties with other people’s property?) Leaving Morris in the kitchen she walked through to the lounge where the bar was, casually switching on the television on the way. Where the first thing she saw apparently was her own face.

  ‘Morrees! Morrees!’

  The tone of her voice told him everything. He was in the lounge in a flash, soda bottle in his hand.

  ‘No, Morrees, it’s incredible.’ She was standing in the middle of the room, one hand ploughed into her hair, the other clutching her skirt. ‘Morrees, I don’t understand. They think I’ve been kidnapped.’

  ‘They what!’

  ‘They’ve even paid a ransom. It’s impossible.’

  Morris was just in time to see the familiar portrait photograph fading away over the newscaster’s head. For a moment then he was afraid they were going to have Signora Trevisan come on and make some desperate appeal or something that would send the girl flying to the phone before he could get Roberto out of there. But already the picture had shifted elsewhere—a fire in a chemical factory in Milan.

  ‘How can they think that, Morrees, after all the letters we’ve sent? And you even went to speak to them, I mean, it’s impossible, I don’t . . .’

  ‘Nor me.’

  Morris was trembling. But he made himself put down the bottle of soda. He could feel the sweat just pouring out of him.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he whispered huskily. And it was the truth. That she had managed to snap on the TV at just that moment after nearly three weeks of rigid vigilance—it was perfectly incredible.

  She was staring at him and he knew it wouldn’t take long even for her slow mind. He hung his head, a gesture of humility.

  ‘I never told them you were with me, Mimi,’ and he hurried on. ‘I have a confession to make—though I had no idea this was going to happen, I promise you; if I’d even remotely suspected such a . . .’ He heard the lavatory flushing and the door opening. ‘Let’s get rid of Roberto and then talk it over. I’ll tell you everything.’

  Hold onto your nerve, Morris Duckworth! He strode quickly into the passage and met Roberto still closing the bathroom door behind him. His voice he made low and dramatic—low enough for Massimina not to hear, dramatic enough to impress Roberto.

  ‘Robbi, you know that row I told you about this morning, the one Massimina and I were about to have? Well, it’s started. You don’t think you could . . .’

  Roberto grinned. ‘Sure, sure.’ And he winked. ‘Don’t be too cruel now. And remember my offer, if she wants to . . .’

  ‘Thanks,’ Morris was terse. A man in no mood for joking.

  ‘Attaboy!’ And Roberto called, ‘Ci vediamo!’ to Massimina in the lounge, but she didn’t reply. Roberto grimaced, as if to say, ‘that bad, eh?’ and punched Morris lightly on the shoulder. ‘They’re not worth the trouble.’

  When the hell was he going to go! Get him out. Morris had heard the tinkle of a receiver being lifted. And he almost pushed the lad to the door.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ Roberto said.

  ‘Right, ciao.’ Without even waiting for the door to be closed he was rushing back to the lounge in time to grab the receiver from her hand with the ringing tone still sounding.

  ‘But I want to speak to her now. I have to tell her. She must be worried to death, Morrees.’ Massimina had begun to cry with anger, frustration and disbelief. Behind her back the television was still on, advertising brandy now. Morris guarded the phone and tried to take her in his arms.

  ‘You have to let me explain first.’

  She struggled and backed away. Her staring eyes were full of suspicion now and a hint of fear. But Morris wouldn’t give up.
<
br />   ‘Explain what?’ she asked.

  He searched for his softest tone of voice. ‘Just sit down, sit down there and I’ll tell you, okay? Just promise not to do anything until I’ve told you.’

  The roar of the car outside told them Roberto had gone. They were alone in the villa with the next house a good half mile away on a road where the asphalt was only a memory.

  Morris snapped off the television.

  ‘The point is,’ he said, ‘I thought at the beginning that if I told them we’d run off together, they’d come after us directly out for our blood. Or rather my blood. So I simply didn’t tell them. I thought they’d just take you away from me and split us up for good and always.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Morris sat down opposite in one of the great white leather armchairs. His nerve was coming back now—it was a part he could believe in and act well. And then he felt a sort of decision had been made. He would give the girl this one chance. It was up to her. Her decision.

  ‘When I went to see them in Quinzano I said I didn’t know where you were and then I destroyed the letters we wrote to them . . .’

  ‘You what!’

  ‘Of course, after the first couple of days I regretted it, I saw it was stupid, but I was in it up to the eyeballs by then and I couldn’t change my story because then they’d all know I’d been lying in the first place. You see, the awful thing was, when I was at your mother’s the police arrived and I had to tell them the same story I’d told her, so that . . . I think this was why I was ill in Rome, really. I mean, I was getting so nervous and worried about it—you remember how tense I was—that I . . .’ He let his voice tail off.

  Massimina was bearing up better than he had hoped. The tears had dried up and she had just the usual worried frown on her face while the eyes watched him searchingly.

  After he had been silent for some moments, she said ‘God, you are an idiot.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was humble.