The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  They were early for their appointment, giving them time to tour a section of the Medici collection—two rooms filled with brilliant paintings and another with rare sculptures. Carlo could have remained there all day, or all week, he thought. Here, where his mother had once studied, was like a temple of creative treasures. She told Carlo about the Villa, founded by Ferdinando de Medici, the Grand Duke of Tuscany in the 15th century, and how in 1803 Napoleon had moved all the paintings here to preserve them from destruction in the French revolution. As a result the Villa Medici was a French art gallery in the heart of Rome, and ever since then staffed by French administrators.

  Foremost among them was Francois Fouquet, the senior Gallery Attendant who had taught Beatrice before her marriage. He greeted her like an old friend, with enthusiastic comments on her youthful appearance.

  “You still look nineteen,” he claimed, kissing her soundly on both cheeks.

  “That makes me younger than my son,” she said feeling complimented, as she introduced Carlo.

  “I’ve arranged a short test for him,” Fouquet said, “a life class is always an interesting trial for our young painters.”

  “Still life, I hope you mean?” Beatrice looked slightly apprehensive.

  “Life class, mon cherie,” he answered.

  “Would you rather see his work first, Francois?” She hoped he might agree to this, but arrangements had already been made in a venue downstairs. They went down to a lower level, to a room filled with chairs and easels where artists of varying ages had been sketching a large bowl of fruit. Carlo waited at the back of the room hoping to be given something more challenging to draw. With relief he saw the bowl removed and the men and women of this group handing in their work.

  Monsieur Fouquet introduced him to a supervisor and he was shown to a seat. His mother and Fouquet left him when two other artists arrived. A few minutes later a girl quietly entered via the side door and went to stand on the small dais facing them.

  She had lustrous dark hair that fell to her shoulders and wore a light cotton gown. As Carlo sorted through the pencils he’d been given the girl said her name was Silvana, and asked if they were ready for her. The other two aspirants confirmed they were, so she looked across at Carlo. When he nodded, she smiled and took up a position facing him.

  He liked the smile. Nice face, he thought, a very pretty face which he stopped thinking about as soon as she undid the buttons and let the gown drop to the floor. She was naked. Splendidly and totally nude he realised—not even wearing sandals. He stared and almost spilled his tray of pencils. The only girl he’d seen naked as this was his sister Gina in the bath when she’d forgotten to lock the door one day and he’d unknowingly walked in to clean his teeth. She was fifteen at the time and very protective of her maturing breasts, which she’d tried to hide by grasping them with each hand.

  “Intruder!” she’d shrieked. “Peeping Tom! Go away!” He’d fled.

  This girl, Silvana, wasn’t a bit like fifteen-year old Gina. She was in her twenties and quite mature. Her breasts were firm, her legs long and her whole body richly developed. Like a lovely work of art, he thought, and realised he had not yet picked up a pencil because he was still entranced and staring.

  She seemed to notice this, and smiled again. ‘I wish I could paint that smile,’ Carlo thought, as she moved a pace closer to him.

  “Was I too far away?” she asked shyly.

  He shook his head. She could never be too far away.

  “It’s my first time,” she said in a soft voice meant only for him.

  “Mine, too,” he almost whispered, but knew from another smile she’d heard him. He felt as if a bond had been created between them, then became aware he had still not picked up a pencil. He tried to study her objectively but each time their eyes met it seemed to generate another smile. No smile at the other two busily sketching her; it felt as if the expression on her adorable face was just for him.

  He wondered what kind of secret thoughts she might be having and if he was any part of them? That was when he began to apprehend the effect she was having on him. He had gazed lustfully at lots of girls in his last year at school, and since then been briefly aroused at dances in the local town, but he had never been faced by one without clothes so close to him. The pencil now in his hand was not his only rigid object. The front of his trousers had either shrunk or felt far tighter than usual.

  Oh-my-God, he thought, and started to try and draw an outline of her body. Whenever he glanced up she kept smiling and he now knew that smile was definitely meant just for him. The other two were busily engaged, as if the body in front of them was simply an object to be drawn. But Carlo had never drawn an ‘object’ like this girl. She was not an object, she was a lovely young nude woman with a beautiful smile and a perfect body. He tried to think abstract thoughts and not to be affected by her smile—or her beauty—or her body. Especially not her body, with its perfect breasts and lovely long legs. His mind had begun to feel slightly fuzzy and the pencil felt moist as he realised his hand had begun to sweat.

  Half an hour later Beatrice sat upstairs gazing at the drawing in dismay. She wished they’d given him a bowl of fruit. She felt the legs were out of proportion, the pubic hair was like a tiny goatee beard, and the breasts rose from the girl’s body like twin mountain peaks.

  Her former art teacher Frenchman Francois Fouquet was amused. “It’s what I call a first time feedback to the female body,” he said.

  Quel dommage was what she wanted to say, but felt it better not to comment at all. He could tell from her demeanour how she felt.

  “I’m afraid it does reveal a certain innocence. No very close acquaintance with le corps de la femme,” he said with a chuckle, and Beatrice wondered if she’d made an awful mistake in bringing Carlo here, or trusting Fouquet with his rather acerbic sense of humour.

  “My dear girl, don’t take it so personally,” he said. “We’ve all…at least we chaps have all had that first glimpse of the promised land, and lost our élan. Perhaps you’d better show me his other work you brought with you, Bea.”

  Feeling decidedly nervous now, she opened the valise and unrolled the contents. There was a small but carefully selected variety. Pencil sketches of eagles, a drawing of a kingfisher, and an acrylic painting of swallows in flight. Then an oil painting of two ferocious male Ibex, facing each other with their lethal horns raised in conflict, the tension almost tangible as they prepared to fight for females in the breeding season. Monsieur Fouquet paused at this with raised eyebrows, and a soft murmur of surprise escaped him. He turned to gaze at Beatrice and seemed about to speak but instead he unrolled the last canvas, the portrait of Salvatore. He studied it carefully then without further comment said it was time to take his guests to a café for afternoon tea.

  They spent that night with Beatrice’s parents at their apartment in the San Lorenzo district near the Sapienza University, where her father, Giovanni was a professor of history. Her mother, Sofia, owned a half-share in a local bookshop.

  “When will you hear news?” Giovanni wanted to know.

  “A month,” Carlo said. “Hopefully before my birthday in June.”

  “Such a long wait,” complained Sofia.

  “I’ve been waiting since I was twelve years old, Gran,” he reminded her.

  “You’re more patient than I’d be, Carlo. And you promised to call me Sofia. ‘Gran’ makes me feel a week older, each time you say it.”

  “Sorry, Sofia,” he said with a grin.

  “So how was the live model?” she asked, with a return smile.

  “Lovely girl. Distracting, but lovely.”

  “He was slightly distracted,” Beatrice admitted. “It amused Francois.”

  “Who was always easily amused,” her father commented with a frown.

  “Why do we have to wait so long?” Sofia asked.

  “The work goes to a select committee who judge it,” Beatrice explained. “Each one individually. It’s all very priva
te. Francois isn’t even allowed to comment. He nearly did though. He was impressed by Carlo’s Ibex with their antlers primed for battle. But if he’d said anything about it, the work would’ve been disqualified.”

  “Goodness, me. Such strict rules!”

  “It’s for a big award, Sofia,” Giovanni said. “And if Carlo’s in Rome it’ll be our good luck. We’ll be able to see lots of him.”

  “That’s why I’m anxious for good news.” Sofia smiled at her grandson, surprised how tall and adult he’d grown. “How are things at home?” she asked, as Beatrice feared she would.

  “Better than before.”

  “Couldn’t be much worse,” Sofia said.

  “Please, Mother, drop the subject.”

  It was a delicate topic. Her parents had been shocked by the hostile atmosphere on their last visit, almost eighteen months ago. They’d done their best to accept the age difference when Bea married, but found the aggression worse ever since Salvatore had taken so violently against Carlo’s painting, and against their daughter for encouraging him. On their last trip they’d decided it was no longer pleasant to see her being ill-treated, or listen to his tirades. In the middle of a lunch, when the atmosphere had become more antagonistic than ever, they’d excused themselves, packed their bags and were ready to leave.

  “We’ll be at the hotel on Lake Como for a few days,” Giovanni said to Beatrice. “You and Carlo are welcome. Gina, too. Not you, Salvatore. Not until you stop berating our daughter. I’m afraid we find it intolerable.”

  Salvatore had sat there stony-faced, just watching them leave.

  “Is it still like that?” Giovanni asked his daughter, when the two of them were having a nightcap in his study later that evening.

  “It’s been better since Carlo left school, but it would not be if he knew about today. I should’ve thanked Sofia, instead of wanting her to shut up. She gave me two tickets for the Bolshoi tonight.”

  “Did she? I hope you’re enjoying it?”

  “Immensely,” she smiled. “I’ll buy a program tomorrow to prove it.”

  “No need,” he reached into his desk for a program. “We saw it last week. You want Salvatore to know what he missed, I gather.”

  “Just in case,” said Beatrice.

  “So while it’s just between the two of us tell me truthfully, is it still open warfare at home?”

  “Not as open since Carlo left school. Not like it was. But if things occur the way I hope, it will be a great deal worse.”

  “In that case, darling, remember you still have parents who love you. Including your mother, with whom you sometimes disagree.”

  The following day Carlo threw a coin in the Trevi Fountain and made a wish. “No prizes for guessing what I wished,” he told Beatrice.

  “It’s supposed to be a secret, or it may not come true. That’s why I can’t possibly guess,” she smiled.

  They took the express train and reached home soon after dark. Beatrice gave Salvatore the ballet program but as expected he showed a singular lack of interest.

  Early the next day Carlo was back at work with a pick and shovel, digging and planting more vegetables, while his father dropped hints about how he’d missed him and how much he was helping in the vineyard. Carlo did his best not to feel guilty.

  In May, when it seemed as if the European war was at a stalemate, the German blitzkrieg exploded. Panzers overcame Belgium and Holland. The Maginot Line, a defensive barrier across France was declared impenetrable. The Nazi tanks drove through as if on a guided tour, heading straight for Paris. Hitler took a victory salute on the Arc de Triomphe while his infantry marched down the Champs Elysees. The British army was trapped at Dunkirk and a fleet of small ships began an attempt to save England from defeat. It was not widely known, but at the same time the German army was being issued with English phrasebooks in readiness for their planned invasion across the channel.

  Still Mussolini prevaricated. The world watched and waited for Il Duce to join Hitler and declare war on beleaguered Britain but in the tenth month he was hesitating. He continued to make aggressive speeches, claiming his navy was threatened by battleships at the British bases, Cyprus, Gibraltar and Malta. In a peaceful gesture the British removed some of these warships and believing this to be a show of weakness, Mussolini called his advisers to a conference. The meetings with Generals Badoglio and Graziani took place early in June, and mobilisation began the following day.

  It was less than a week before Carlo Minnelli’s twenty-first birthday.

  SIX

  On the morning of his birthday Carlo awoke and saw the Golden Eagle. He sat on the ledge of his bedroom window and watched its spreading wings as it soared above the alpine terraces. It was an exhilarating sight; a lone eagle swooping to where their Nebbiolo grapes now grew on a network of pergolas that had kept them safely above the previous winter frost. Unable to resist, Carlo reached for his sketchbook. A sequence of swiftly pencilled strokes created what felt like a birthday fantasy, as if the eagle was delaying his flight to pose for the artist at the window. Then, as suddenly as it had happened, the illusion was over. The eagle soared into the morning sky and was gone, leaving only a pencilled image like a tribute on the sketchbook page.

  Her train was on time and Carlo, at the wheel of the farm truck, waved to his sister as she hurried to join him. Nineteen-year-old-Gina was home for his birthday party. Now working as a reporter on the national newspaper Corriere della Sera in Milan, she studied English at the University in her spare time. She stowed her case containing his present, climbed in and almost crushed him with a fervent hug.

  “So amore mio, what’s it like being twenty-one?” she asked.

  “About the same as yesterday, when I was twenty,” he replied.

  She rolled her eyes. “Honestly Carlo!” She shook her head. “Think of something distinguished for this eminent occasion.”

  “Do I look distinguished? Forget that. Do I look different?”

  “Of course,” she said after a close inspection of his face. “You are now a senior person. You can vote. You can do whatever you wish. You can even marry my friend Allessandra, if you want to.”

  “Who says I want to?”

  “She does.”

  “Poor Sandra. Tell her to find a banker or a stockbroker.”

  “She hates being called Sandra.”

  “I know. It’s why we can’t marry. Imagine her life blighted by me saying ‘good morning, Sandra’ to her each day.”

  “You are a bastard sometimes,” she said laughing, “even if you are my favourite brother.”

  “Here’s a present for you,” he said, giving her the eagle sketch now fitted in a frame and vibrant with added colour.

  “It’s just lovely, Carlo.”

  “To remember me by.”

  “Thank you.” She leaned across to kiss him. “Does father know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’ll be angry,” said Gina.

  “If I told him, Gina, he’d refuse to listen. And if I listen, where does that leave me?”

  “I just wish he’d understand.”

  “That makes two of us,” said Carlo as they drove off.

  “I really didn’t want to come back for this,” Gina said after an awkward pause. “I’d have posted your present, but I thought I’d better show up to lend support. I’m only here because of Mamma and you.”

  “I know,” he replied. “I’d have settled for jumping on a train a week ago,” Carlo admitted. “But Mamma asked me not to do that, so here we both are, facing a truly awful event.”

  “Will it really be that awful?”

  “Of course. The Uncles think I’m crazy, Bruno still tells me to paint houses, the Aunts look disdainfully down on us poor relations, and the bloody cousins only come for the booze. Most of them feel superior because they’re now in banking or the law. And then there’s our father with his increasing number of fascist friends. It’s going to be an absolute bastard of an afternoon.”
r />   “Cheer me up why don’t you, caro mio,” Gina said with a sigh.

  The courtyard and lawn of their rambling home was in such gala mode that it raised eyebrows. Was it really a twenty-first birthday, or a political convention? Who was paying for this show of extravaganza? And who were all these strangers from Rome?

  Marquees were set up, a large crowd sat at tables festooned with flowers. National flags flew from poles around the manicured lawn, while on a dais an octet of violinists played selections from Verdi, Puccini and Vivaldi.

  There was a larger crowd than for any family event they could remember. A part of it felt like a re-enactment; the same Minnelli relatives but five years on from the last birthday assemblage, the aunts and uncles still middle-aged, the cousins grown-up and sipping red picotendro or chardonnay. Carlo and Gina were sitting at a table with Beatrice, while Salvatore was spending his time with the noticeable influx of special guests.

  These were the group that increased the gathering, and as someone said, were probably footing the bill. A few were affluent neighbours, others were friends from Florence, Umbria and Naples, a few even from distant Sardinia. But most were obviously Salvatore’s political VIP guests from Rome. They were the reason why Beatrice’s parents had politely declined the invitation.

  “Mussolini’s mob,” declared Uncle Bruno, while a cousin whispered to Gina, “Blackshirts, carefully disguised for today in clean Whiteshirts.”