by Morris West
As they walked, Orgagna talked to him, no longer in the smooth devious phrases of the diplomat, but simply, quietly, as a man wanting to share the pleasures of his homecoming.
“Whenever I come back to this place—which now, is all too seldom—I feel that I am a boy again. I was born here, you see. I played under these same olive trees. I learned to swim from the beach down there. I caught my first fish from the rocks under the cape—a big scorfano, bright red. He weighed nearly a kilo. I have a place in Rome. I have houses in other parts of Italy. But to me, this is home. Can you understand that?”
“Sure. There’s only one place that’s home, to any of us”.
“Long before the House of Savoy, long before the Bourbons and the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, before Amalfi was the first republic of Italy, my family owned this land on which you walk. Up on the cliffs you will see the ruins of the old towers which my ancestors built in the time of the Barbary raiders. It is a long history and a turbulent one. We have lost, we have gained. But all through it, we have held this land. Our peasants have farmed it. Our fisherfolk have plied its waters. We have built our houses and have seen them destroyed, by time, war and earthquakes; but always we have rebuilt. The servants have been the sons of the servants of our fathers. Our lawns are green over the bodies of many dead. Our flowers blossom out of the compost of history. It… it is something to remember, non è vero?”
“Much,” said Ashley soberly. “Almost too much.”
Orgagna looked at him oddly and gave him a small, enigmatic smile.
“It pleases me to hear you say that, Ashley. It shows an understanding heart, even though you do not always wear it on your sleeve. I will admit it to you. Sometimes it is almost too much. Do you know why?”
Orgagna did not give him the answer immediately, but led him down a small alleyway, between low-hanging trees. At the end of the alley was a low wall, below which the ground dropped steeply away to a small plateau of black fertile soil where a couple of peasant families were tilling the vegetable rows. A clutter of grimy children looked up and shouted a greeting. Orgagna laughed at them and waved back. Then his face clouded and he turned to Ashley.
“There is the reason, Ashley. The children. Cosima has never given me a child. I am the last of the line. With me the name of Orgagna dies—and all the past dies too.”
“There’s time yet,” said Ashley, carefully.
“When there is not enough love,” said Orgagna softly, “there is never enough time.”
He leaned his elbows on the stone coping of the wall and stared out across the valley.
“It is the thing that drives us all, this desire to establish a permanent foothold on the earth from which death must ultimately dislodge us. It is the thing that drives us from one woman to another, from one ambition to another. We are the sad bulls, Ashley, blind with the desire to perpetuate ourselves, before our strength deserts us and the young ones close in to gore us to death.”
The cicadas shrilled their wild, persistent song. Lizards sunned themselves on the stones. Far down among the olive trees a bird sang, high and clear, and another answered him faintly from the hill. The two men stood looking out across . the valley where the heat rose trembling in the summer air. Then Orgagna straightened up and smiled apologetically.
“I embarrass you, my friend. Forgive me. Let us finish our walk.”
Linking his arm in Ashley’s, continental fashion, he led him out of the alley and on to the long winding path that led to the cliffs and to the ruined tower that his ancestors had built against the Saracens.
It took Ashley a little time to understand what Orgagna was driving at. His Excellency was preparing his defence. So far, at least, it was an impressive piece of work.
Impressive, too, was the efficiency with which the Orgagna acres were being farmed. Ashley was all too familiar with the depressed standards of agricultural communities in southern Italy—the primitive, wasteful methods, the impoverishment of blood-stock, the wearing out of the land with over-cropping and undernourishment. He had seen it among the small-holders. He had seen it on the big estates in Puglia and Calabria, whose landlords let their stewards bleed the land to pay for their villas at Frascati and their big cabin-cruisers at Rapallo.
Here, it was not so. Old trees were being grubbed out and the land carefully fallowed. The wood was sawn and stacked into piles to dry. There were rows of young trees, carefully planted and scientifically sprayed. The irrigation channels were free of weeds and the orange trees were new strains imported from Australia and California.
When Ashley commented on it, Orgagna gave him a sidelong smile.
“It surprises you, Ashley? Why should it?”
“It’s rare in this part of the world.”
“All too rare, I agree,” said Orgagna gravely. “But you cannot change a whole country overnight. You cannot, in five years—ten, twenty years—eradicate the ignorance and superstition of centuries. You need education for that. You need educators. You need communications, roads, bridges, power lines, telephones, to carry the education to depressed areas.”
Ashley nodded. So much was evident. It was not so evident what Orgagna was going to make of the argument. For the moment it seemed he was prepared to drop it. He walked Ashley through the last fringes of trees to a stretch of rough grass-land that ran right down to the edge of the cliff. The ground was rough and stony and the grass grew brown and wiry through the sparse top-soil. A small herd of goats cropped lazily through it, watched by an old gnarled shepherd seated on a rock forty paces away.
Orgagna pointed him out to Ashley.
“Look well at him, my friend. Understand him and you will begin to understand our problem in this country. He is sixty years old, though he looks eighty. He has been doing this since he was ten. He cannot read or write. If you talked to him in Italian, he would not understand a word you said—and his tongue would be a mystery to you also. He has lived here all his life, not ten miles from Sorrento, yet I doubt whether he has been there more than a dozen times. Ask him why and he will tell you that life here has been good to him and he sees no reason to change it. He has been happy in his own fashion; he sees no reason why the same happiness should not suffice for his children and his children’s children. He, and hundreds of thousands like him, are the biggest problem we have in Italy today.”
“I don’t agree,” said Ashley flatly.
Orgagna looked up sharply.
“Why not?”
For a long moment Ashley was silent. The words had come, unweighed and unconsidered. But now that they were spoken, he knew that they had brought him to the moment of decision. Should he go on playing this undignified game of hints and allusions? Should he go on living in the house of an enemy, eating his salt, remembering that he had been in love with his wife, smiling at him across the wine and hating him and planning to destroy him? Or should he end it here and now, cards on the table, betting strength against strength.
Orgagna repeated his question.
“Why not?”
“Because this man,” he gestured towards the old shepherd, “and others like him are to be found all over the world—in English villages, in the Catskill mountains, riding the boundaries in Australia, plodding round the polders in Holland. The responsibility for the future doesn’t rest with them. It rests with men who have at their disposal education, influence, wealth and power, and who, too often, use them for their own profit and not for the benefit of their people.”
It was out now and he was glad of it. Dignity was restored to him. The next move was up to Orgagna.
But Orgagna was not to be drawn. He was too subtle for that, too wise to make an ill-timed quarrel with a man who still held power over him. He turned away from the old shepherd and pointed to the crumbling square pile of the watch-tower perched on the hump of the cliff. His voice was quiet and controlled.
“Look at the tower, Ashley. The man who built that was my lineal ancestor. His name was the same as mine—Vittorio. He was
an unpleasant fellow, as I probably am myself He was a ruffian, a tippler, a lecher. He fathered a whole brood of bastards on the girls of the village. Yet his people loved him. His name is a legend still. Do you know why? Because when the raiders came with their long galleys and the fires blazed in the watch-towers, he gathered his mercenaries together and armed his peasants with axes and bill-hooks and drove them back, fighting himself in the front of the battle. What matter that he drink? What matter that he taxed them to the bone and flogged the payments out of them and seduced a girl or two? He had kept the land safe, had he not? And they knew that in the end it is only the land that matters. He was the strong one and they needed his strength—as they need it now, Ashley! As they will always need it!”
And with that Orgagna turned on his heel and left him, walking swiftly up towards the trees, scattering the bleating goats, trampling the brown and tired grass.
Ashley looked at the old stone tower, broken and crumbling but still foursquare to the winds and to the sea. He saw the whole intricate fabric of the big story waver and tilt like a house of cards.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SUN was searing his eyeballs. The heat rose from the ground and parched his face. Runnels of sweat formed on his body and stained the thin fabric of his shirt. His scarf began to prickle and stifle him. He decided he could use a swim. He walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down.
A narrow, stony path led down the sloping face to a beach of black sand, broken at intervals by rocky outcrops. The water was clear and clean and from where he stood he could see the waving of sea-grasses and the bloom of rock-flowers in pools of sapphire and emerald. The rocks jutted out into the water and there were ledges where a man might sun himself and deep hollows where he might dive in safety.
He stepped back from the cliff-edge and began to scramble down the path. The pebbles rolled and rattled dryly down the incline. He put his hand against the rock wall to steady himself and cursed as the hot stone scorched his palms. Then he trod on a loose stone, his feet slid from under him and he slid the last dozen yards on the seat of his trousers, to land, gasping and cursing, on the beach.
Then he heard Cosima laughing.
She was stretched on a big beach-towel under the lee of the rocks, her brown body sun-drenched and beautiful. Her eyes were hidden by dark glare-glasses, but her lips were laughing and her shoulders shook with merriment at his comic arrival.
He picked himself up, dusted off the sand and sat down beside her.
Suddenly, the laughter was quenched. She heaved herself up and clung to him desperately, head against his breast, sobbing with passionate relief.
“Oh, Richard! Caro mio! I thought you might come. I hoped it. But there was no time to ask you. This is the first time I’ve been left alone since yesterday. There’s so much to say… so many things to explain.… Kiss me, caro mio!”
And, because he was committed to the crooked road, because he could not waste even the false information she would give him, because he needed time to think, and because, in spite of himself, she still stirred him, he kissed her. Her skin was silken under his hands. Her lips were soft against his mouth. Her whole body surrendered to him. Then, slowly, she released him and lay back again on the towel, head pillowed on her arms, looking up at him.
He said, lamely enough, “I’ve been out walking with your husband. He left me and went back to the house. I thought I’d like a swim.”
“A lucky thought, Richard. We can swim together.”
“We’d better talk first.”
He peeled off his shirt and tossed it on the sand. Cosima sat up and clasped her arms round her knees. She was looking at him, but he could not see her eyes. He reached out and took off the sun-glasses. She blinked in the sudden glare, but made no move to put them on again. Her eyes were grave and tender. To him they were full of lies.
“We must talk, mustn’t we?”
“Yes.”
“It was horrible yesterday, Richard—the questions, the long duelling discussions, the lies, the comedy I had to play to show I didn’t love you any more, that I didn’t care what happened to you.”
He smiled at her and said, gently :
“You played it very well.”
There were lies in his own eyes, too. Lies to which she had committed him and for which he could forgive neither her nor himself He scooped up a little handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers on to her skin. He questioned her, gently:
“What does your husband think—about us?”
“Nothing, Richard. That we are, or have been lovers, is of little importance to him. Between him and me there has been no love for a long time. Where my heart leans, he does not care. But as his wife, I am important to him—politically. You are important because you have it in your power to ruin him.”
“Why the comedy then?”
“For Captain Granforte, for George Harlequin… even, I think, for Tullio and Elena.”
“Why for them? Elena’s his mistress, isn’t she?”
Cosima smiled ruefully.
“She was. Now, she has become inconvenient to him. She will be out of place in Cabinet circles. Before we left Rome, he told her there was hope of reconciliation between us. My meeting with you destroyed the fiction, but my husband insists it be kept up. That’s why he brought Tullio down. He wants him to marry her.”
Ashley grinned sardonically:
“Tullio’s tastes don’t run to women.”
“Therefore it is unimportant whether he marries or not. The important thing is that he will be paid for it.”
“Won’t Elena have something to say about that?”
Cosima made a little gesture of distaste and weariness.
“Less than you think, Richard. There are many girls like her in this country, and too few men who can afford to marry them. She has two courses open to her—find another protector, or marry Tullio and enjoy the money my husband will settle on her, and the freedom of a neglected wife. I think she will prefer the latter.”
“Is she in love with your husband?”
“That’s the pity of it, Richard,” said Cosima soberly. “I believe she is. I am very, very sorry for her.”
Ashley was beginning to be pleased with himself. There was profitable information here; and so far there were no lies. He thought it would not be long before the lying began. At least he would have the satisfaction of knowing it. He framed the next questions with elaborate care.
“Cosima, you know the position I’m in, don’t you?
“Only too well, Richard. That’s why I’m afraid for you.
“You understand that every answer you give me is important, even though it seems trivial and irrelevant.”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Now tell me, what was I trying to buy from Garofano?”
“Photostats of certain letters written by my husband.”
“How do you know that?”
“You told me you were buying information. My husband told me what it was.”
“When?”
“After I came back from—from the accident.”
“How did he know?”
“I don’t know that. All I know is that ever since this investigation started he has been kept informed of your movements and your contacts. That… that wouldn’t be hard, would it?”
“Do you know who Garofano was?”
“No. I heard the Captain say that he was a clerk from Naples. That’s all.”
“Does your husband know?”
“If he does, he didn’t say.”
“Why did you want me to lie about the accident?”
Her eyes widened with doubt and surprise at the unexpected question, but she answered it without hesitation.
“I told you that, Richard. It is unwise to make drama with the police here. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, you were right. Now tell me, why did your husband bring me here when he might have left me in the hands of the police?”
Cosima looked a
t him sombrely.
“Because I think—I fear—that he may be himself involved in the death of this man.”
The bluntness of it surprised him. But he said nothing. Cosima went on :
“Even if he were not involved, he would wish to avoid a scandal involving me, and, therefore, involving himself. It would be untimely and dangerous to his career. More than this——” She stumbled a moment. “—More than this, he believes you have the photostats. He wants to bargain with you, or force you to return them to him.”
It seemed to him so patent and unnecessary a lie that he forgot to be cautious. He thrust away from her and snapped:
“Goddammit, Cosima, you don’t believe that. Neither do I. He must know I haven’t got them. You saw Garofano refuse to sell them to me. You were with me every moment from then till the time I brought you back to the hotel. You must have told your husband what happened.”
Quietly and firmly she gave him the answer.
“I told him, yes. I told him that I had seen you struggle with Garofano and take an envelope from his breast pocket. He believed me, Richard.”
“Why did you tell him that?”
“If not, you would now be in jail—or waiting for a death like Garofano.”
He looked up and saw the wonderment and pain in her face. He knew then what a fool he had been—and promptly made himself a bigger one. He drew her to him and held her close and tried to apologise for his folly.
“Cosima, I—I can’t say how sorry I am. I should have known you wouldn’t lie to me. I was afraid you’d sold me out and——”
She wrenched herself out of his arms and struck him, once and again, across the mouth. She snatched up her wrap and towel and stood looking down at him, her breast heaving with anger, her eyes blazing with contempt.
“You—you could believe that! You could believe it and still hold me in your arms and kiss me and… You are foul and filthy! Filthy like the rest of them! I wish to God I had never known you!”
She scooped up a handful of sand and flung it full in his eyes and went racing up the shingly path towards the comforting shadow of the olive trees.