by Morris West
“Name me another.”
Coolly, precisely, George Harlequin laid down his answer.
“You are—or were—in love with Orgagna’s wife!”
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS AS BRUTAL as smack in the mouth.
For one wild moment, Ashley wanted to leap at the small fellow, batter his face with his fists and then hurl him out into the emptiness between the blue sky and the blue sea. Instead he leaned backwards, closing his eyes and holding tightly to the bars of the balustrade so that the corroded metal bit into his palms. He was sick with anger. His belly knotted and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth.
Slowly, painfully, he took possession of himself and when he opened his eyes, George Harlequin was still standing before him, staring at him with sombre eyes. Then Ashley found voice.
“You cold-blooded little bastard! You miserable little muck-raker! I haven’t seen Cosima for more than ten years. I loved her, yes! I still do. She was my mistress, but I would have married her! Instead she chose Orgagna. I wished her joy and tried to forget her. She has no more to do with my indictment of Orgagna than the man in the moon.”
“As his wife, she’s involved in it.”
“She’s his wife. Not mine.”
“I wish,” said Harlequin, gravely, “I wish I could be as sure of my motives as you are of yours. You’re a fortunate fellow, Ashley. I—I’m sorry I said that. I apologise.”
He held out his hand. Ashley rejected the gesture.
“Save it!”
Harlequin shrugged ruefully.
“I take it then you’re going ahead with your story.”
“I’m going ahead,” said Ashley, with grim satisfaction. “I’m going to publish it, chapter, verse and photostats. I’m going to prove that children are dying in the back streets of Naples because Vittorio Orgagna put American relief funds into his own pockets. I’m going to prove that there are two hundred thousand unemployed from Naples to Eboli, because Orgagna and his colleagues diverted reconstruction dollars to his enterprises in the North. I’m going to prove that grain seed from America was sold to party members instead of being distributed to peasant farmers as a gift, and that the man who engineered the sale was Vittorio Orgagna. I’m going to publish the balance sheets of his enterprises and the size of his secret credits in American banks. And you and the people who sent you can go to hell!”
“You’re playing with fire.”
“I m not playing.
The little man’s shoulders sagged wearily. His boyish face seemed suddenly grey and old. He turned away; then, as if on a sudden impulse, he came back and faced Ashley.
“Let me give you one piece of advice. This is an old, old country with a turbulent history. There is violence in it and corruption and intrigue and political assassination. The family of Orgagna has been part of that history for a good many centuries. Watch yourself, my dear fellow. Watch yourself! And if you think better of your decision, come to me.”
“I’ll see you in hell first.”
“It’s a strong possibility,” said Harlequin softly.
Then he was gone and Ashley was left alone, perched on his stone cat-walk high over the summer sea.
Muted by the distance, the sounds drifted up to him: the shouts of the brown boys, the high laughter of the girls, the splash of the divers from the jetty, the tinny radios blaring Neapolitan songs, the put-put of a cruising pleasure boat. It was playtime in the South—time of the siren-song, season of the dancing fauns. The wise were those who spent their days in the sun and their nights making love under the orange trees or on the warm sands under the tufa cliffs. Only a fool, like himself, would waste his days and his nights raking over the embers of another man’s sins.
He asked himself, which of the drowsing thousands on the sands would read the story he had written for them. Which of them, having read it, would thank him for the service?
‘Why write it then? Why put your life in jeopardy and your soul in the way of damnation in the sacred name of news? Is a by-line worth a life? Is a revolution worth an hour on the beach with a willing girl?
‘The truth! A sacred dedication but a thankless service. Justice? A blind goddess whose scales never quite swing true. Pride? Ambition? Vanity? All of them drive a man but none of them quite explain him.
‘You chose a profession in which you hoped to excel. You enjoyed its rewards. You accepted its limitations. You shared responsibility for its sins. A man and his works must be judged in the state and station to which he belongs. Even God Almighty tempers absolute justice with infinite mercy.
‘Then if you judge yourself with so much clemency, why not Vittorio, Duke of Orgagna?
‘He, too, was born in a state and to a station. He was born out of a thousand years of intrigue into arnold and corrupt country. His profession is statecraft and the manipulation of money. He, too, must be judged in his own milieu and in the shadow of his own history. Can you judge him thus, justly? If not, by what right do you pen his condemnation?’
It was a new and uneasy thought, but before he had time to pursue it, the telephone rang and he walked back into the airy coolness of the lounge. Roberto was talking to the reception desk.
“Pronto!… Come si chiama? Garofano?… Aspett’un moment’.” He looked up at Ashley. “Signore Ashley, there is a gentleman to see you. His name is Garofano.”
“Ask them to send him in.”
Roberto spoke again into the phone:
“Il signore aspetta nella salone. Si, si, subito!” He put down the receiver and turned to Ashley. “He is coming now, signore. You will want drinks? I have tourists to serve in the other room and…”
“No drinks. Just two coffees.”
“Two coffees? That will take a few minutes, signore.”
“We’ll wait.”
Roberto bowed himself out of the room and, a moment later, Enzo Garofano came in.
He was a thin, dark, seedy fellow with a narrow face and darting eyes set too close to his nose. He was dressed in the current Neapolitan fashion—short, tight coat, stove-pipe trousers and shiny pointed shoes. He walked lightly and jerkily and his movements were nervous and furtive. He carried a battered brief-case under his arm.
“Nice to see you, Garofano,” said Ashley cheerfully. He held out his hand. Garofano gave him a limp handshake but said nothing. He eased himself into a chair, propped his brief-case against the table-leg and began mopping his face with a soiled handkerchief. Then he put the handkerchief away and fumbled for a cigarette. Ashley offered him one from his own case and lit it for him. Garofano puffed greedily for a few moments. His hands were trembling.
“Relax, relax!” said Ashley, easily. “It’s all over. We’ll have some coffee and finish the business in five minutes. Er—have you got the photostats?”
“No.”
Ashley almost leapt from his chair.
“What?”
“Please, please!” Garofano fluttered nervous hands. “You must not misunderstand me. I mean to say that I do not have them here. I can get them in a moment. It is, you understand, a matter of caution.”
“Careful little guy, aren’t you?”
“In business—this sort of business—one has to be careful. You—you have heard from your principals?”
“I have. It’s good news for both of us. They’ve agreed to pay.”
“How much?”
“The asking price—two thousand dollars in American currency.”
“I see.”
There was a pause. Enzo Garofano looked down at the backs of his hands and at the small spiral of smoke curling up from the cigarette between his stained and dirty fingers. Puzzled and wary, Ashley watched him. After a moment, Garofano looked up. His hands were not trembling any more. His eyes were steady and he was smiling—the smug, subtle smile of the huckster in a profitable situation. He said, softly :
“I am sorry, my friend. The price has gone up.”
Ashley’s eyes were bleak.
“How much
now?”
“Ten thousand.”
“Any reason?”
“The market is lively. I have had a better offer.”
“From whom?”
Garofano looked down again at his hands. His eyes were hooded and his voice was touched with ironic regret.
“It is not business to disclose the names of one’s clients, signore!”
“Business!” Ashley exploded into anger. He heaved himself out of his chair, hoisted Garofano by his lapels and slammed him against the wall. He was babbling with fury, in a mixture of English and gutter Italian. “Business, you say! Business! And then you come along with your cheap shyster tricks. We made a deal—two thousand dollars! I’ve kept my part of it. Put the money on the line. And by the living God you’re going to keep yours if I have to kill you to…”
There was a crash of crockery as Roberto came in, dropped the coffee-tray and stood wringing his hands and moaning in despair as Ashley slapped and hammered the helpless fellow pinned against the wall.
“Signore! For the love of God! Basta! Enough! Enough!”
But Ashley was blind and deaf and he held the struggling, squealing informer and cursed and slapped him until a woman’s voice cut across the shouting fury :
“Stop it, Richard! Stop it!”
As Ashley swung round, Garofano wrenched himself free, scooped up his brief-case, and scuttled from the room.
Then he saw her, tall, dark, lovely, standing in the doorway to the terrace—Cosima d’Orgagna. Panting and dishevelled he stood there, staring at her stupidly—the old love, out of the old forgotten time.
“Cosima!”
Roberto stood gaping amid the wreckage of the coffee-cups. Then she spoke again:
“You! Cameriere! Clean up this mess and leave us!”
“Subito, signora!” Roberto bent swiftly to the voice of authority, gathered up the broken crockery, mopped the dark stains from the carpet and hurried from the room. Ashley stood like a man in a dream, staring at Cosima d’Orgagna.
Then she came to him. She kissed him lightly and began mopping his face, straightening his shirt, chiding him in the old familiar way.
“Richard! Richard! The same brawling, troublesome Richard Ashley! Who was that horrible little fellow? What was the story this time? Here, sit down and compose yourself. Mother of God! But you have not changed at all.”
She forced him back into a chair, took cigarettes from her handbag, lit one for him and let him smoke a while, till his eyes cleared and his hands were steady and the madness of the moment was past.
“Now, tell me, Richard.”
Ashley passed a weary hand over his eyes and grinned, ruefully.
“It—it doesn’t matter. I was buying information from him. We’d fixed a price and, at the last minute, he raised the ante. I went for him.”
She chuckled and laid an affectionate hand on his own.
“The old Richard! Testa dura! The hard-head, beating his brains out over the follies and scandals of the world. You never had much patience, had you?”
“I certainly haven’t much now.”
“What was the story this time?”
“The story…?”
Then he remembered that the story involved her, too, because she was no longer the lover of Richard Ashley, but the wife of Vittorio, Duke of Orgagna. He remembered that without the photostats, he had no story. He remembered the cryptic warning of Roberto and the meeting with Elena Carrese. He knew then that the arrival of Cosima d’Orgagna was no chance, but part of a well-laid plan to prevent the publication of her husband’s indictment. How far she was involved he did not know. But he must know—quickly—or see his triumph snatched from him at the last moment.
“The story? It doesn’t matter now that you’re here. How did you come? When did you arrive? What brings you?”
“I live here, Richard,” she told him, simply. “My husband has property on the peninsula. We have a summer villa over by the Cape.”
“Oh! Is your husband here, too?”
“He comes down from Rome this evening. We dine and spend the night in the hotel and go up to the villa in the morning.”
They looked at each other across the table. Her eyes were soft, her lips were willing. Old memories stirred about his heart-strings. But he was forty years of age and he had learned to be cautious. He said, tentatively :
“We could have an hour or two together then?”
She smiled and said:
“If you want it, yes.”
He thought quickly: ‘Not here, in the hotel, with Roberto and Harlequin and Elena Carrese. Not after the scandalous brawl with Garofano. Not with Orgagna coming and the servants whispering in broom-cupboards and along the corridors.’
“Have you a car, Cosima?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s drive somewhere.”
“Up the mountain? It’s lonely there, and quiet. We can talk—and remember.”
“Let’s go.”
Roberto, coming back through the hall, saw them walk out of the lounge together. He saw Ashley pause at the desk, seal his manuscript in a large envelope and lodge it in the hotel safe-deposit. He saw them step out into the sunlight, hand in hand, like a pair of lovers.
He walked swiftly into the bar and picked up the telephone.
Ashley swung the big blue Isotta out of the hotel drive-way and nosed it carefully through the narrow cobbled alleys towards the centre of the town. When they came to the square, the afternoon buses were decanting their loads of trippers and the carriage-drivers were pulling out from their stand opposite the Bagatelle. The clop of hooves and the tinkle of their little silver bells blended with the blare of horns and the clatter of the hotel touts squabbling over the luggage. Ashley drove slowly through the press of people and headed up the Corso to the grey shoulder of the Cape.
It was not until they were over the hump, winding upward through the olive groves, with the huddled towns and the sea falling away behind them, that Cosima spoke:
“It’s like old times, Richard.”
“Old times, yes.”
The old times were ten years away, when the war was a year-old memory and Richard Ashley still had his milk-teeth and Cosima Benedetto was a wide-eyed girl glad of her first job at the Office, grateful for a man’s arms about her and a meal-ticket after the hunger of the locust-years. The old times were the good times—an airy little apartment on Parioli, before the rent sharks moved in, afternoons in the Tivoli gardens, dinner at the pavement restaurants, Sunday driving to Frascati and Ostia and an occasional week-end in Florence or Venice. The old times were the passionate times, when love seemed more than enough and a marriage licence an unnecessary investment. Then he had been sent to Berlin, for relief duty, they told him. But they kept him there more than a year; and while he was there came the letter from Cosima telling him that the old times were over, that she must look to her future, that she was going to marry a man with an income and an old and noble title. He didn’t blame her then. He didn’t blame her now. There were too many workless men in Italy, too many rootless fellows like himself who enjoyed Latin passion but had no mind to marry it.
Old times… old ghosts! But the ghosts were not laid yet and the old love was here at his side, wind-blown and beautiful, climbing up the last slopes to the spine of the Sorrentine peninsula.
“Did you hate me, Richard?”
“Hate you? No. I’m still a little in love with you, I think.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
‘Nice to hear. Easy to say. But dangerous, too. Love her you may, but surrender to her you cannot. Not now or ever again. She is the key to mysteries. You must use her against Orgagna as Orgagna would use her against you.’
Staring ahead through the windscreen at the flaring blue of the sky, Ashley felt suddenly ashamed of himself.
A tiny donkey cart came pattering round the bend and Ashley wrenched the big car over to avoid a collision. Cosima gasped and flung herself against him and he was aware of the
disturbing nearness of her body and the perfume of her hair. Then they swung round the curve, and saw on the summit of the rise a ruined chapel, framed by olive trees.
“We’ll stop there, Richard.”
“Anywhere you like.”
“The locals call it ‘Il Deserto’—the retreat. Appropriate, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
He pulled the car off the road and it bumped and swayed over the rutted track that led to the ancient chapel. They stopped. He helped Cosima out of the car and they stood together on the high saddle of the mountain, listening to the shrill chorus of the cicadas and the rare, lost piping of a bird.
The beauty of it was breath-taking. On the one side was the bay of Naples, with the white towns and the orange groves that started at the cliffs’ edge and scrambled up the hillside to where the woods began. On the other was the bay of Salerno, where the hills were steeper and the towns were rarer and the blossom trees grew out of the bodies of dead men.
“Richard?”
“Yes?”
“I—I am glad you still love me a little.”
“Why?”
“I have much need of love.”
In the old time he would have taken her in his arms and crushed her mouth with kisses. But he was wiser now and warier. He held her, lightly with his arm about her shoulders, and grinned a little crookedly and said:
“I offered it to you once.”
“It was less important to me then.”
“Than what?” His voice was harsh and he felt her stiffen against him. “Than a noble marriage?”
“Than the certainty of eating when the great correspondent grew tired of his little Roman mistress and went away.”
Her frankness put him on the defensive. The ground he had hoped to gain was lost already. She drew away from him and he turned to face her. He said, quietly, almost humbly:
“You never told me you wanted to be married.”
She gave him a bitter little smile.
“Would it have mattered if I had?”
“It mattered afterwards.”
She shrugged and stared away over the blue water.
“Afterwards is always an hour too late. It was too late for me also.”