Cameramen from the newspapers and magazines roved the scene to select shots for the social pages. An attractive and well-endowed young woman smiled at a photographer, aware of his developing attention to her cleavage. He kept focussing on these assets until he was quite close to her.
“Naughty boy,” she whispered.
“Great tits,” he murmured. “I should be so lucky.” He offered her a card containing his phone number.
“You might be,” she promised, “if I’m on tomorrow’s centre page.”
After a lengthy meal there were speeches. For a time it threatened to be a reiteration of all the same family platitudes. Uncle Vincente made his usual speech about the Minnelli place in Italian society. Uncle Bruno, never off his feet at these occasions, spoke glowingly of his brother Salvatore who had three times been elected Mayor of Santa Marie del Lago, and ran the finest vineyard in Northern Italy. Salvatore took time to welcome his guests, introducing his close friend and former army comrade Luca Pascoli. He told them how he and Luca had fought for the Allies in Austria and how Luca now worked for Il Duce. Gina carefully watched her brother sitting opposite as their father spent time commending Carlo for the great assistance he had now become in the vineyard. He went on to say if the national emergency was to claim him in the days ahead, he was quite confident his son could take over management. Carlo’s expression was impassive during this. Afterwards Uncle Bruno stood up once more to bore them all with a toast and an almost repeat discourse on the close Minnelli family, and how good it was that his brother Salvatore now had a son to carry on the Family Trust.
Then abruptly, as if by previous arrangement, the speeches were over. The guests all waited for a response from Carlo, but nobody stood up to call for him. The murmurs of surprise gradually began to comment on this strange omission.
“A twenty-first without an invitation to speak for the guest of honour?”
“Hardly decorum, more like an insult,” ran the whispers.
“An affront,” someone else said.
“Bloody rude,” declared another.
These growing murmurs were abruptly stilled as Beatrice rose from her chair. “We seem to have forgotten propriety,” she said, but was cut off by Salvatore at his table, standing quickly to interrupt her.
“Speeches are at an end, I believe,” he announced loudly. “We’ve had all the words, homilies and discourses we need today.”
“Not quite,” she said. “Do me the courtesy of sitting down, Salvatore.”
“Beatrice, please…” was all he was able to say.
“Sit down and shut up,” shouted his wife, to a gasp of surprise that her soft and gentle voice could issue such a strident command. It was followed by an outbreak of growing support. “SIT DOWN,” Beatrice demanded, when he tried to interrupt again—but this time he heard the developing mirth, sensed the mood and reluctantly resumed his seat.
“Thank you so much,” she said to him with such ironic civility that it caused another ripple of laughter. She waited for this to subside, and when there was complete silence she smiled again as if in gratitude at their support.
“I’m sure you all realise it was a simple mistake in the heat of the moment that our master of ceremonies forgot to call on the guest of honour.” A hint of renewed laughter was stalled this time by her hands signalling for quiet.
“But I could hardly allow this day to go by without reminding you that twenty-one years ago I gave birth to the young man sitting alongside me, and I’m not going to let him avoid speaking today of all days. I think we are entitled to know what he has to tell us. So, I call on our son Carlo to say a few words. Just a few, because we all know he’s not a long-distance speaker, but I think you’ll find what he has to say today is interesting and of some real importance.” She resumed her seat to loud applause and Carlo waited for this to end before he rose to speak.
“My thanks to you, Mamma, for that special day twenty-one years ago. And for all the days since then, when you encouraged me to draw and paint, taught me the importance of depth and imagery and a hundred other things that create atmosphere and emotion on a canvas. Thank you for taking the portrait of my father, the painting he’s never seen, along with a lot of my other work to the Villa Medici Gallery in Rome, where they have given me a three year artistic scholarship, which I begin tomorrow.”
He stopped for the thunderous outbreak of surprised and delighted applause but his eyes were focused on the shocked face of his father. He waved the applause down, and when there was silence he spoke the next words directly to him. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you want, Father, and run the vineyard. I liked working among the vines, I liked working with you. But as I tried to say some years ago, painting is my life and I think it always will be. It brings a sort of joy and reason to my very existence and I doubt if I could ever give that up. If you decide you want a new occupation as I think you do after the years of hard work here, why not bring in someone to lease the acreage. It would provide an income, it’s a good open life and there should be lots of takers.”
He paused to look around him. “Thank you all for being good listeners. This has been a long speech for me. As many of you know, mine are usually like pipsqueaks or stunted vines—much shorter.”
This time the laughter was overtaken by applause that went on and on, until at last he sat down, bringing it to a reluctant end.
It was a strained atmosphere in the house that night, after all the guests had gone. Salvatore did not appear for supper but came in when Beatrice was pouring drinks for Gina and Carlo. His friend Luca had spent most of the evening closeted in the study with him and had just departed in a chauffeur driven government Lamborghini.
“Would you care to join us?” Beatrice asked, when it seemed as if he had nothing to say.
“Champagne?” He stared at her and frowned.
“For Carlo’s birthday,” she said. “It is an occasion.”
“In that case…” He went and sat down in a chair some distance from her, as if preferring his own company. Gina rose and collected glasses as her mother poured them. She handed one to Carlo, then took one to her father.
“Thank you, Gina.”
“To Carlo,” Beatrice said, and clinked glasses with her children, then looked across at Salvatore. He shook his head, took a token sip, then put the glass down unfinished. He rose and stared narrowly at her.
“That was a fucking ambush, Beatrice. You made me look a fool.”
“I think I know the feeling,” she replied.
He ignored this, turning to Carlo. “A portrait of me?”
“Yes, father.”
“You said I hadn’t seen it. But you didn’t do me the courtesy of even offering to show it.”
“I was under the impression you wouldn’t care for it,” Carlo said.
“An impression you doubtless gathered from your mother.”
“No. An impression I gathered from you throughout my life. A painting I felt proud of and was not prepared to risk you wanting to destroy it.”
“Destroy it?” He seemed shocked. “Why should I wish to do that?”
“I assumed you’d hate it. If not destroy, then scorn it. Make me ashamed of it.” He could sense his mother’s taut face and Gina’s anxiety at what might be the outcome of this.
“But you’re proud of it, you said.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then may I see it?” As Carlo hesitated, he said impatiently, “or is it not for my eyes? Would you rather I didn’t see this masterpiece?”
“It’s not a masterpiece.” Carlo ignored the sarcasm. “It’s an honest view. The best I could do. My true feelings of the way I saw you.”
“An honest view? Like some mirror image I’m forbidden to look at?”
“It’s not here, Father. The paintings at the Galleria in Rome.”
“Oh well, it hardly matters then,” Salvatore said dismissively.
“I can ask them to send it. I’d like you to see it.”
“We
ll, some day or other, assuming it’s not all too much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I’ll arrange it, Father.”
“If you wish.” His shrug displayed indifference. He turned to speak only to his daughter. “I’m tired, angelo mio. I think I need an early night.”
“You’ve had a long day with Luca and all your friends,” it was Beatrice who spoke in reply. “Perhaps you should go and rest.”
He ignored this: kissed Gina, stared again at his wife, and without another word went upstairs to the bedroom he occupied alone. There was a long silence after they heard the door firmly shut.
“If he intended to make me feel like shit,” Carlo said, “he sure as hell just accomplished it.”
SEVEN
Long before dawn Carlo heard the sound of their vineyard truck starting, then driving away. He went to the window and saw the tail lights disappearing, so it was apparent his father did not intend to be at home to see him leave. Just as well, he thought, returning to the suitcase already filled with all the clothes and everything he felt he’d need. There would be some bridges to repair, if he ever came home to live here when his time at the Academy was over. He doubted if he would, unless his mother remained here and needed his support. He owed her so much; the three years of scholarship and study and his own lodgings near the academy in Rome—details to be advised on his arrival. When he took the heavy case downstairs, it felt like the first steps on a new and wonderful journey.
He and Gina caught the early morning train, his sister on her way back to her newspaper job in Milan. It was still dark when Beatrice drove them to the station and waited with them. Carlo hugged her, promising to work hard and stay in touch. He was worried about her, uncertain what might happen after he and Gina had left, and their parents were alone.
“A lot depends on how your father feels,” Beatrice said, as if reading his mind. “The vineyard’s a burden to him, I know. He always hoped he could walk away from it, but there was no chance you’d take over as he kept trying to assume. It was never your choice, Carlo, so stop feeling guilty.”
“I can’t help it,” he admitted.
“Try feeling excited about what’s ahead.”
“I already am,” he confessed. “I was awake half the night, a bit guilty, but very excited.”
“It’s what matters. The beginning of the rest of your life. You mustn’t worry, I’ll try to resolve our differences at home,” she said as the train arrived. Despite the early hour it was already packed with far more people than usual, most of them young men in what seemed like high excitement and anticipation. Some were waving flags out the train windows, some singing bawdy songs, all clearly celebrating in high spirits. Surprised by this she watched Carlo and Gina trying to scramble on board with their luggage, his large suitcase already an inconvenience in the overcrowded compartment.
“I’ll try to send father the portrait,” he shouted.
“If you can,” was all she had the time to say as the door slid shut and she lost sight of them. But she remained on the platform waving until the train was a distant blur in the pre-dawn haze. It was a moment to confront, the thought of an empty nest, even worse with both her chicks taking off on the same day. The house, she realised, might never see them again, or hear their laughter.
Beatrice went back to the car, trying to disregard her lonely feelings and focus on what lay ahead. She no longer need keep up the pretext of her marriage. That had ended yesterday, leaving just two options. If she wished to retain her job in Lombardy she’d have to rent a room in the village. Or else resign from school and move to Rome with her parents, until she found a new teaching job and an apartment there. It would be close to Carlo, and Gina could visit. The link with both children mattered most in her life and she was determined it would remain.
It was barely daylight when she reached the house. No lights showed inside and the truck was still missing. She had not the slightest clue where he’d gone before dawn, and no idea when he’d return. She let herself into the house, hurried upstairs to her bedroom where a suitcase was already packed. Adding some items previously forgotten, she took it down to the car, where she stowed it in the boot, and went back to await her husband with her exodus worked out.
She had not said so to her children but she’d felt sorry for Salvatore last night. It had been a cruel day, humiliating him in front of his Blackshirt friends like Luca, but it had to be done in that exposed way. Otherwise he would have continued with this delusion of Carlo running the vineyard, while he went to join whatever his friends in Rome were offering. So in the sleepless hours she’d decided on this action. After the years of marriage, it felt only fair to seek his state of mind. How did he want it to end? Publicly, or a private informal separation? Almost surely the latter, so if that was the answer she’d drive away, leaving him to dispose of the vineyard and seek whatever kind of political life he wanted.
She hadn’t anticipated his absence, but would wait. There was another hour before she had to leave for school, so she made coffee and toast, then put on the radio. Five minutes later she heard the national news, and realised why the train had been so crowded.
There were no seats left, the carriages were packed with noisy young men in a highly excited state of celebration. Carlo had squeezed into a crowded corner where he had to stand, while Gina sat on his bulky suitcase and nursed her small weekend bag, using it to ward off unwelcome intrusions. When they reached Milan she managed to kiss him goodbye, wished him lots of luck, making plans to keep in touch as soon as he knew details of his lodgings. Then she tried to ignore an outbreak of raunchy male proposals and eager hands intent on pinching her buttocks as she struggled past. Clusters of admirers reluctantly made way for her amid chorused shouts of love and whistles of approval. A man standing by the carriage door reached out, his fingers securing a tight grip on her thigh which he squeezed. Gina squealed in outrage and swung her bag. It hit him with a solid smack in the face that was greeted with riotous cheers as she managed to push him aside and reach the platform. She was one of the few leaving the train. As she did crowds of others, mostly young men, struggled to get on board.
“Where the hell are you all going?” Carlo tried to ask above the rowdy songs and chatter as the train resumed its journey, but there was too much noise for anyone to even hear his question. If they had, it was doubtful he would hear the reply. His mind was more concerned with the uncomfortable journey that lay ahead. The way bottles were being passed around, by the time they reached Rome it was clear most of the occupants would be very drunk.
Salvatore had still not returned, so Beatrice had finally driven to the school after a fruitless wait. She reached it at her normal time, surprised that there were no children in the playground. Not only that, the car park was empty except for the headmaster’s tiny Fiat. She parked near it, still thinking about the shock news of Italy’s declaration of war against France and Britain. It had explained the reason for the crowded train full of young men possibly on their way to become recruits, as well as the air of wild excitement and proliferation of flags. A crazy observance of a reckless decision. What on earth could it gain Italy she could only wonder, by resolving to take part in Hitler’s war?
Throughout the short drive she worried what affect this would have on Carlo’s arrival at the Villa Medici. She parked alongside the Fiat, regretting she had not telephoned Francois at the galleria, to find out what was happening there. That was when Gaston Fabritzi looked out his office window, smiled at the sight of her, then waved a little too eagerly.
She raised a hand to respond, without returning the wave. She had carefully tried to keep Gaston at arms-length lately. The accord over Carlo had changed since he’d left school. It had become a bit too palpable with sly reminders of the help Gaston had been, hints that he’d enjoy a visit to see her son’s progress, provided her husband was not at home. Or that she might bring some of Carlo’s recent work which they could study together after school. The pressure had increased; it was
clear he was aware of the crisis in her marriage. And she was conscious of renewed speculation in the teachers room, which she found disturbing but he seemed to relish, as if the revival of these rumours gave him some kind of sensual status.
“My dear girl,” he sounded buoyant, for she had to pass his open window to enter the school, and paused to ask why it was empty, “did no one call you? I heard it on the six o’clock news bulletin.” He was all smiles. “Rome will be packed, thousands reporting at recruiting centres. And Il Duce is to broadcast across the city. So I gave the children a holiday in celebration.”
‘Dear God,’ she thought, ‘the fascist bugger’s delighted we’re at war.’
“I was sure I put you on the list.” He smiled and she knew that this was a lie. She’d been left off. It was a typical ‘Gushing’ manoeuvre, the two of them alone in the empty school. She did not intend to fall for that old trick. “So at long last we’re at war,” he was busily saying.
“Are you pleased about that?” she asked.
“Of course! It was inevitable, Beatrice. And strategically quite clever. Come inside and I’ll explain it to you.”
Despite her making no attempt to do this he kept talking, eager to display his expertise. “It was strategy. Mussolini declares war this week and within a month Britain will have to surrender. For us it means our casualties will give us a seat at the peace table. He’s said so. I call it political brilliance.”
She couldn’t prevent herself. “I call it callous. Disgusting. Barbaric!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s insensitive. How many casualties, Headmaster? How many do we bury in order to give our Leader a seat on his fat arse at a peace table?” She felt a moment of revulsion, remembering what she’d put up with to aid Carlo, even exchanging smiles with this man.
There was no smile now, it was wiped from his face as he stared at her. “Are you mad, speaking of him like that? I hope you’re not a communist. I’d be very careful, my dear girl…” he was saying, before she interrupted.
The Last Double Sunrise Page 6