Rancid Pansies

by James Hamilton-Paterson

  ‘The best in town,’ I say. ‘I’ve patronised him for years but I’d no idea he was Bettina’s father. This prosciutto is quite amazing.’

  ‘’na favola,’ says the mayor indistinctly, the compliment escaping wetly from a mouth stuffed and leaking. ‘Superlative.’

  There follows some topical and local chit-chat which I recognise as the hors d’oeuvre to the main meat of the evening that is surely the reason for my invitation. I listen more or less curiously to the small talk of these small-town grandees. The mayor mentions the trouble a professor friend of his is having with an Islamic student at Pisa university. This triggers a peculiar and passionate outburst by Benedetti that reminds me of the claim he made to me of having once had priestly leanings. He suddenly puts down his fork and says, ‘It’s all wrong, Orazio, and everybody senses it. We Italians, we Europeans don’t want to be dragged back. We don’t want any more Middle East, thank you very much. It has taken us two thousand years to Europeanise our scripture: to blanch Christ a decent asparagus white and set him in Renaissance landscapes and have snow fall at his birth. We’ve had quite enough of deserts and camels and the sickening cruelties of Arabian tribalism. We’ll keep our bourgeois little Saviour and they can keep their scimitars and stonings and implacable deity baying for blood and vengeance. But we don’t want them here. I don’t mean the people. I mean their quite alien cultural beliefs.’

  ‘Well of course,’ the fat mayor says placatingly. ‘I’ve got churchmen in my family who would whole-heartedly agree with you. But as you know, we have Moslems in this town and if they go on breeding like rabbits they’ll soon be asking the Comune to build them a mosque. And what then? Build it, obviously. If those Testimoni di Gèova can have their “Kingdom Hall” or whatever the damn thing’s called up there by the cinema on the old Bartoli land, why shouldn’t the Moslems have their mosque? At least they’ll use it, which is more than you can say of our churches and the Catholics in this town. They’re still happily fornicating in bed while Mass is being said.’

  Interesting. I had no idea such arguments raged in private in the world of Tuscan town councils. Giardini fixes me with his turtle-lidded eyes and asks me: ‘Well, Mr Samper? Are you a religious man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not. Eros here wasn’t so certain. But then he’s more attuned to mysteries than I am. Maybe it’s the failed priest in you, eh, Rosi?’

  Eros Benedetti? Incredible. Until this moment I’d no idea he even had a Christian name – not that Eros is remotely Christian. If I’m touched it must be the alcohol. This house – or I’m the proverbial Dutchman – is surely childless. No signs of toys anywhere; no rusting basketball hoop fixed to a tree outside or over the garage door; no indefinable feeling that in distant rooms upstairs small children are asleep or morose teenagers are playing computer games and doing their homework. Eros. The Greek version of Cupid. An old weasel disguised as the god of love in a gleaming black wig, pouring me yet another glass of a wonderful complex Chianti Classico (Castello di Ama’s Bellavista ’99 in case you’re interested, as you certainly should be).

  ‘Hard words, Razi,’ chides Benedetti, but with a distinct glitter. ‘Since you know I never became a priest you can hardly say I failed at it. My failure, if you insist on calling it that, lies elsewhere entirely. As again you know.’

  I can’t read the mayor’s expression because his gaze, fixed on the food he is shovelling into a mouth as loose and capacious as the top of a Wellington boot, is hidden behind his heavy eyelids’ scrotum-like wrinkles. But something is undoubtedly going on here between these two rogues Razi and Rosi and I have the startling impression that it is Benedetti who holds more power. He turns to me apologetically.

  ‘You must forgive two old schoolfriends bickering, maestro. It’s the eternal problem of small towns. We all know too much about each other.’

  ‘But we don’t know enough about you.’ Giardini raises chill eyes to me, his chins glistening. ‘I don’t mean that inquisitively, of course, just that your presence here is bringing about certain changes and it behoves us to understand how far indebted we are to our benefactor. Our host quite naturally sees more behind these recent events – these so-called miracles – than maybe I do. The hand of God, possibly. But an earthbound creature like myself tends to be interested in the machinery rather than in the cosmic mechanic. Strictly between ourselves, then, how many of these incidents are your invention or at your instigation?’

  ‘None of them,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Don’t worry, whatever you tell me won’t change any deal you have entered into with Eros. A bargain’s a bargain. But you understand that if at some future date a piece of evidence emerges that proves you somehow engineered the Diana myth from start to finish for your own ends, this poor town of ours will become the laughing-stock of Italy, Europe, probably the entire world. As its mayor, I am not prepared to countenance that.’

  Oh good Lord, how pompous and dreary these functionaries become when they try to ‘talk turkey’ or ‘lay it on the line’ or some such cliché. I didn’t agree to dine with men in suits merely so they could grill me at their leisure. I catch my host’s bland eye.

  ‘How can I put it more clearly? I and some internationally distinguished guests were celebrating my fif–, my birthday up at Le Roccie when something happened that we all of us still find hard to describe. I was just serving my guests with wine – a Chianti, I think: yes, a Cellole Riserva 2000 – when I became aware of somebody standing behind the guest at the far end of the table. It was a woman in a sensational blue-grey gown. I remember noticing that her blonde hair seemed to sparkle as though dusted with frost or tiny diamonds. I ought to explain that by this stage of the meal we were none of us stone-cold sober so I wasn’t particularly alarmed. Actually, I think I forgot where I was for the moment. It was like being at a party where you suddenly notice someone hovering on the outskirts of your group and feel obliged to bring them into the circle. In my role as host I believe I said something like “Can I help you? A glass of wine?” But immediately I’d said it I recognised her. It was unmistakably Princess Diana. There was no question. What’s more, my other guests must have realised I wasn’t addressing them because one by one they broke off their own conversations and followed my gaze. I can remember the scene with the utmost clarity. There was total silence, and then Diana spoke. She said very urgently and clearly: “You must all leave this house at once. Get out now, this instant. Don’t wait.” We all heard her, and then she was gone. She didn’t gradually fade or anything. It was as though we all glanced away before focusing again and finding with a small shock she just wasn’t there. But we knew she had been and we’d all heard her speak. Even more convincingly, there was suddenly a very strong smell of “Mitsouko” in the room. Everybody smelt it and no one else was wearing anything like it that night.’

  The mayor has been listening with enough attention even to suspend chewing, as evinced by a motionless sprig of watercress dangling from a corner of his mouth.

  ‘Remarkable,’ he says, his freezing eyes fixed on mine. ‘And in obedience to this spectral command you all immediately left the table, the food, the fireside, the warmth, and went outside on what I remember was a chill and misty winter’s night that must have been even colder up at Le Roccie. I see.’

  ‘That’s exactly what happened,’ I say. ‘The strange thing is how unanimous it was. No one hung back saying it was just a mass hallucination. We all felt a sense of emergency because of the Princess’s tone. And as a result we have all lived to tell the tale.’ I allow myself a gulp of wine, like a lecturer on reaching the end of a particularly dense paragraph read to a particularly dense audience.

  ‘And what a tale,’ observes the mayor as he resumes eating. The ignored watercress retreats into his mouth in jerks before vanishing, reminding me of a guinea-pig I once had as a child that used to eat dandelions in similar fashion. Without warning he begins to heave like magma, his face glowing furnace red from wine and hig
h blood pressure. Suddenly we are all three helpless with laughter. It feels both surprising and inevitable. Nor is it ordinary dinner-party jollity. It has the element of hysteria that comes of ditching solemnity and breaking taboos. Anyone who can remember their schooldays will recognise it. Nothing short of Alzheimer’s will make me forget an English lesson one morning when we were doing Macbeth for A-level under a rather serious-minded, even slightly priggish teacher. Someone in our class had found an old copy of an acting edition of the play with stage directions added in a nineteenth-century hand. Those for the sleepwalking scene ran: ‘Enter Lady Macbeth with candle right upper entrance’ and ‘Exit Lady Macbeth with candle left upper entrance’. The ensuing collapse of twenty adolescent boys was so complete the class had to be suspended. The memory can still afford me pleasure at low moments. Some thirty-four years later in Italy our laughter is not quite as immoderate but we have still drunk a good deal and it’s quite a while before we sag back in our baronial chairs, wiping our eyes on our napkins, the mayor making dangerous gasping snorts. I have particularly relished the sight of Benedetti’s toupee holding itself aloof from its wearer’s shakings and heavings, noticeably detached from such worldly displays of emotion. I suddenly feel a bizarre pang of fondness for the man.

  ‘A most interesting account, maestro,’ says Benedetti at last. ‘Orazio needed to hear it from your own lips. Although I knew the outline of the story myself I have never heard you tell it with such a wealth of convincing detail. We’re greatly indebted to you. So indeed is the Comune. There’s no question that the late Princess did us a very good turn.’

  ‘And she didn’t leave it at that, either,’ I point out. ‘Don’t forget she also threw the Barringtons’ little girl over the precipice – Marcie or Darcie or whatever she’s called. A wonder the kid wasn’t killed and a wonder she regained her eyesight: two miracles for the price of one. Short of returning in person to sort out your parking crisis I can’t see what else Diana can be expected to do for this town.’

  ‘No, no, we mustn’t be greedy,’ says Mayor Giardini, his wattles shaking again. ‘The point to remember is that this version of events is now holy writ. The, er, gospel according to Gerry.’ He wipes his eyes. ‘Have you by any chance ever run for public office?’ he enquires.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘I believe you might do it quite successfully. You seem to have grasped the vital element of fantasy. One expects the brutal calculations and the dirty tricks but one never quite bargains for the success of flamboyant untruth. No doubt it’s what Hitler meant by the Big Lie. Your present gospel is a surreal masterpiece. My worry is no longer that it will be disbelieved but that it may be actively countered in some way. Never forget the dirty tricks! I agree, Le Roccie looks well on the way to becoming a major site of pilgrimage. I gather there are already some smelly friars hanging about up there and they’re often a reliable indication that there’s money around. They’re the pit canaries of scams. In any case, you may be sure none of this will have gone unnoticed by our neighbours up and down the coast. They will enviously be trying to dream up ways of equalling or upstaging our town’s increasing celebrity. They will also have people looking to explode Gerry’s gospel. We need to be seen as a Comune that is playing host to a remarkable manifestation but in all innocence. Our story needs to be bombproof. I assume,’ the mayor adds with a brief glimpse of his old glacial manner, ‘that the other guests at your dinner party are not likely to suffer from lapses of memory?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘A personal account in a London newspaper that was greatly at variance with your own would provide our enemies with all the ammunition they’d need.’

  ‘There won’t be one,’ I say confidently. ‘If I were you I’d be more bothered about what the Church might do.’

  ‘The Church?’ says the mayor scoffily. ‘Who cares what the Church thinks? By now the cult at Le Roccie surely has a life of its own.’

  ‘You may be right, Razi, but the maestro’s point is a good one all the same,’ says Benedetti as he gets up to pour us yet more of his fabulous wine. It is a pleasant thought that this meal must be costing him. ‘The Church still has considerable power in certain quarters, as you know very well. Our opponents would be only too happy to exploit an official denunciation if one were given. Our bishop is a notorious sceptic and supporter of the Vatican’s modern demystification policy. This is, that such popular but unverified manifestations of religious hysteria – their phrase, not ours – ought not to be encouraged. You will remember the Church authorities have recently inveighed against the craze for cutting up the late Pope John Paul’s papal vestments for sale as relics, and he is not yet even a saint. Our bishop preached a sermon last Sunday saying the Church has an urgent need to return to its doctrinal and scriptural roots and can only be weakened by “charismatic sideshows”.’

  ‘But surely you can have the bishop assassinated?’ I ask with a guilelessness that becomes me.

  For a moment Benedetti looks genuinely shocked. The mayor merely rolls his eyes regretfully. ‘If only. Unfortunately, times have changed. Besides, he is my cousin.’

  ‘I don’t think, Razi, that our friend is being entirely serious. It’s that famous English sense of humour of his. It can be disconcerting until one gets used to it.’

  But Benedetti’s prim caution is quite unnecessary as we all spontaneously start giggling again. Suddenly my case for the Church as a plausible threat seems absurd. When he gets his breath back our host says reflectively: ‘You know, what I like best of all about this is that nobody gets hurt and nobody loses. That’s almost unheard-of in politics.’

  ‘It’s not quite true,’ I say. ‘There is one loser: my poor neighbour Marta, who now badly needs another house. She was, ofcourse, a witness to Diana’s apparition,’ I add meaningfully.

  ‘Of course,’ Benedetti corrects himself. ‘La signora Marta. I agree, there is an injustice here. I think there’s no doubt the Comune is anxious to help her, Razi, wouldn’t you say?’

  The mayor is noisily chomping pecorino and fresh figs and merely nods.

  ‘I bet it is,’ I observe pointedly. ‘Sooner or later you’re going to need a visitor centre up there, a souvenir shop, God knows what else. That old house of hers would be ideal, to say nothing of her land.’

  ‘As a matter of fact an outline planning application has already been filed for a hotel in the meadow behind her house should she decide to sell,’ admits the mayor. At this, Benedetti flashes him one of his cautionary glances and I suddenly wonder which of these two rogues put in the application.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I say a little untruthfully. I can’t deny I’m piqued to think that since Marta has oodles of her family’s ill-gotten gains behind her she hardly needs the tidy profit her squalid dump is undoubtedly going to net her. Typical. To those that have, still more shall be abundantly added. ‘To jump to an almost unrelated topic, dottore, might I ask how my own house is progressing?’

  ‘Do forgive me, maestro. I completely forgot to tell you earlier that all the services are now installed and working, except for the telephone which will be connected this week. Essentially, your spectacular new house is already habitable so long as you can make do with a telefonino until your landline is usable.’

  ‘I’m impressed. Also very grateful. I can’t wait to get my own roof over my head at last.’

  ‘Just as well,’ says the mayor around an oozing bolus of fig and casein. ‘Before I left home this evening the police rang me from Puglia to say they’ve found your present landlord’s body. So I imagine the apartment you’re living in will have to be vacated. He was a Belgian, I believe.’

  Benedetti looks shocked yet again. ‘How dreadful. Whatever happened to him?’

  ‘Who knows? Apparently he was found floating in Taranto harbour. I believe there was severe damage to the body from ships’ propellers but he had documenti on him including his press card. He interviewed me some months ago about how I won the last el
ection. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, perhaps a little green. Having nothing to hide I was naturally happy to tell him everything he wanted to know. Although at the end I warned him that not everyone would feel the same way, he evidently didn’t take the hint and carried on regardless. It is the problem of the journalistic profession, especially with foreigners, as I’m sure you will agree, Gerry.’ His eyes swivel towards me with the dispassionate panning of a CCTV camera. ‘How can one ever be certain of the full implications of even the most innocently asked questions unless one knows a culture from within? In which case one would know not to ask them. Politics is a touchy subject everywhere. I’m afraid our Belgian must have been naive as well as an indifferent swimmer. Being out of one’s depth often proves fatal.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like a badly scripted noir film, Razi,’ says Benedetti. ‘Not only is the maestro here superbly experienced in his profession, he is so wonderfully at home in both our language and culture that I can never remember he is not by birth one of us. Besides, I’m sure that poor Mr Swanepoel’s death was a complete accident.’

  The mayor is licking fig seeds off his fingers. ‘Even so. One can’t be too careful.’

  I can’t get the hang of this evening at all. Something in the dynamics between Benedetti and Giardini remains baffling. More and more I’m convinced that of these two rogues it is the weasel estate agent rather than the mayor who calls the shots, but I couldn’t say why. With all this talk about floating corpses I can scarcely be blamed if my mind turns to thoughts of organised crime. I remember hearing someone allege that places like Lourdes and Fátima and Santiago de Compostela are run by mafias attracted by the constant stream of desperate pilgrims with money to spend on anything that might somehow be translated into miraculous cures. Maybe even here in Tuscany the racketeers are beginning to lick their lips in anticipation of a steady source of income and some fiefdoms are being staked out? Could it possibly be that beneath Eros’s shining and luxuriant wig there sits a made man, an éminence grise who helped put his fat old schoolfriend Orazio into office? It would explain how it is that a mere local estate agent has been able to do deals with me on behalf of the Comune. And most convincingly of all, how he has been able to arrange for the services of my new house to be connected in record-breaking time.