by Alison Love
“Oh, that is quite the wrong idea,” she was saying to a solemn young man in a Fair Isle sweater. “I don’t care what the fashion is, there is no place for politics in poetry. It makes everything so ugly. Give me Keats or Shelley any day.”
“But Shelley was a revolutionary, you know,” the solemn young man broke in. “A democrat at a time when democracy was as maligned as Bolshevism is today…”
Penelope’s eyes glazed over; in a moment she would look around for someone else to talk to. Olivia, afraid it might be her, ducked from the room with a vague unhappy plan of going into the garden. She had reached the top of the stairs when she saw Antonio Trombetta ascending. There was a bright, deliberate expression on his face. It was the expression of one who has to give pleasure at all times, who does not dare show sullenness or boredom; Olivia recognized it from her own reflection.
“Your costume is very beautiful, Mrs. Rodway,” he said, looking at her gravely.
“Thank you,” Olivia said, and then, on impulse: “You are right, it is beautiful but—well, I worked as a dressmaker when I was a girl. All I can think of is how sewing sequins hurts your fingers. So much pricking and scratching. Mine feel sore just to look at this dress.”
A smile crossed Antonio’s mouth. “It is like that after a day selling sweets in our kiosk. Sometimes I think I will never get the smell of coins from my hands.”
“Olivia?” It was Dickie, plump and splendid in his Persian robes. “You’re the guest of honor, you can’t run off like that.” He positioned her by the balcony, pooling her green mermaid’s train at her feet. Then he glanced at Herr Fischer, who flicked aside the tails of his blue brocade coat and sat at the piano.
“Antonio?” said Dickie. “Where are you? ’Tis time, descend, be stone no more, approach.”
Antonio stood in the glossy curve of the piano. He tilted his head toward Olivia; then, as Herr Fischer struck up the rich opening chords, he squared his shoulders to sing.
“Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright…” The moment he opened his lips the air in the room seemed to alter. It resonated with his voice, and with the sudden rapt attention of his listeners. Olivia looked for Bernard. Surely he should be at her side for this performance, her devoted husband? He was on the far side of the room, though, next to Penelope, who murmured in his ear from time to time. He did not turn his eyes in her direction at all.
“Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear…”
At the piano Herr Fischer played a fading tremolo, and the song ended. There was a moment of silence before the applause began. The photographer’s flashbulb burst pale and fierce as lightning, capturing Antonio. Then he and Herr Fischer were engulfed by a surge of people: Bernard, Penelope, Charles the BBC man.
“That was your surprise.” Dickie’s round face glowed with the heat of the room. “Herr Fischer composed it, of course, but I chose the text.”
“Oh,” said Olivia, “I thought it might have been Bernard.”
Dickie pouted, caught between duty to his nephew and the urge to claim credit. “Well, I chose it for Bernard. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! We’ve been rehearsing it for days. Over in Chelsea, so you did not find out. You did like it, darling, didn’t you?”
“It was wonderful,” said Olivia, who realized that she had hardly listened to the song. She had been too busy watching Bernard, waiting to see if he would look at her.
“Listen, my angel, I have to buttonhole Charles Connor. I’m hoping he’ll find a nice little spot on the radio for our musical friends.” Dickie kissed Olivia on the cheek. “You enjoy your party, darling.”
—
For the next hour or two Olivia drifted like a green-clad ghost about her own house, trying not to drink too much, dipping in and out of conversations she did not understand, or which did not amend themselves to include her. It was nearly midnight when Dickie came bustling toward her once more. The band had begun Ravel’s Bolero, played as a tango.
“Olivia, my sweet, you have to dance, you haven’t danced all evening.”
“But I can’t interrupt Bernard. He hates it when I interrupt him.”
Bernard, clutching his incongruous gauze robe, was surrounded by a group of eager, talkative young men. He was holding forth on the threat facing Poland from Hitler’s lust for Lebensraum.
“Really, darling. By what law are you obliged to dance with your husband? Look, Antonio’s still here. He’ll dance with you, won’t you, Antonio?”
Antonio had been a huge success at the party. All evening he had been surrounded by women, flirting, gazing, making excuses to touch his arm or squeeze his hand. What better way to demonstrate her own status, thought Olivia, than by dancing with him now?
“I do not know the tango very well,” said Antonio rather anxiously, as he took her arm.
“Don’t worry.” Olivia gave his fingers a reassuring pinch. “I’ll make sure you don’t look foolish.”
In the center of the room she placed his palm upon her waist and threw back her head. At once the glorious skill of it returned to her, the way you could hint with your body, controlling the dance by a touch here, a twist there. “Good,” she murmured. “Now turn and look me in the eyes. Good.”
The floor had cleared. Everyone in the room was watching, Olivia knew, even Bernard. Especially Bernard. She curled her fingers about the nape of Antonio’s neck. She could feel the place where his hair began, warm and soft.
“No, not like that. Keep your feet still.” Olivia went spinning across the room, her mermaid’s skirt swirling about her knees. The music flared and sharpened. Olivia could tell that the band smelled danger, they were thrilled by her dancing.
“I’m going to fall against your arm now,” she whispered. “Don’t bloody drop me.”
The saxophone rose to a shimmering peak of sound. Olivia spun one last time before she let her body curve and dip backward, her hair brushing the floor.
“Bravo,” said Dickie, clapping noisily. “Olivia darling, I’ve never seen you dance with such fire. You must have inspired her, Antonio. That was marvelous.”
“Meraviglioso,” Bernard put in, in a jocular voice. His eyes were skewed as he approached Olivia, sliding his hand along her wrist. He desires me, she thought. He sees me in another man’s arms and suddenly he wants me again.
“Let’s go upstairs.” Bernard’s face was so close she could feel his breath upon her cheek. “Nobody will miss us.”
Olivia glanced over her shoulder. Now that she was being taken from the party it seemed gaudy and enthralling. Penelope was flirting with Charles Connor. She looked the worse for wear, her hair wilting like an overdressed lettuce. Then Olivia saw Dickie. Something strange had happened to his face. One side had crumpled, and the corner of his mouth was drooping wetly. The next moment his glass thudded to the floor.
Antonio sprang forward, catching Dickie as he fell. “Mr. Rodway! Sir!” he called.
“What is it?” Bernard was still grasping Olivia’s wrist. The briskness in his voice stopped just short of irritation. Releasing Olivia, he pushed his way toward his uncle. Dickie was sprawled on the carpet, Antonio’s arm about his shoulders. He was trying to speak.
“Dickie,” said Bernard, “Uncle Dickie. Don’t be afraid, everything will be all right.”
Dickie was still mouthing silence, his lips shaping a desperate O.
“I believe that he wants your wife,” said Antonio.
“Olivia? Where are you?” Bernard retrieved Dickie’s cigarette holder, which was smoldering on the Turkish carpet. “Stay with him, will you? I’m going to telephone for an ambulance. I think he’s had a stroke.”
Olivia crouched beside Dickie. “I’m here,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers, “I’m here, Dickie.”
Charles Connor had begun tactfully to shift party guests out to the garden. Dickie’s breathing was shallow. Olivia felt the pressure of his hand. Neither of them spoke, or tried to speak. For one long moment they gazed serenely at
one another; then Dickie turned his head, let out the whisper of a sigh and closed his eyes.
“Dickie!” Penelope dropped to her knees, nearly toppling Olivia. “Oh, Dickie, darling…”
Bernard had come back into the room. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said in an authoritative voice. “An ambulance is on its way.”
Olivia, ousted, was struggling to her feet. The green sequins scraped against her thighs. In silence Antonio put out his hand to help her.
“He’s dead,” she murmured, “isn’t he?”
Antonio did not answer. Instead he slid the jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it about her. He did it carefully, you might say tenderly. Until that moment Olivia had not known it, but she was trembling; trembling uncontrollably, as though the nugget of ice deep within her had at last claimed her for its own.
“Don’t pester me, Valentino.” Enrico flicked that week’s L’Italia Nostra onto the kitchen table. “In three months’ time we have to renew our lease upon the kiosk. We need every penny we can find. If you want to buy extravagant presents you should have saved some of your earnings.”
“But it is a question of honor, Papa. The christening will be a grand affair. I do not want Pasquale to think that we are paupers.”
“I do not understand why you have been invited in any case. We don’t know this Pasquale. He is not from Lazio, is he?”
“He is a friend of Bruno’s,” said Valentino, “and a good fascist.”
Enrico threw a look of appeal at Antonio. Frequently his older son came to his aid on these occasions, justifying his decisions in a way that made Enrico seem not harsh, but reasonable. Tonight, though, Antonio was in a world of his own. He had an English newspaper open before him, and he was staring at a grainy photograph. The Stage had published a long obituary of Dickie Belvoir, with a picture of Dickie as a young man, sleek and sprightly.
“I thought you were friendly with the wife, not the husband, Valentino,” said Filomena from the scullery, in an ingenuous voice. “Claudia. Isn’t that her name?”
Valentino flushed, but he did not dare quarrel with his sister in front of Enrico. “I have met Claudia once or twice, yes. Pasquale sometimes brings her to concerts at the fascio. She is a devoted wife. She goes to mass at St. Patrick’s three times a week, just like our dear mama.”
He crossed himself reverentially at the mention of his mother. Enrico did not respond. “It is no use, Valentino,” he said. “You must learn to live within your means. I have worked hard for our money, so has Antonio, so has Filomena. I am not squandering it upon a stranger’s son.” Standing up, he took his hat from the peg and jammed it decisively upon his head. “That is my last word on the matter.”
Antonio glanced up from his newspaper. “What is the child’s name, Valentino?”
“Riccardo, after his grandfather. He is a fine boy, a handsome boy.” Valentino lit a cigarette. “I want to show respect, that is all.”
“Ah,” said Antonio. He did not need to ask, So you think the child is yours?
In silence he turned to the paper once more. In his memory Olivia’s party had acquired a lurid glamour, too fierce, too bright, like the photographer’s dazzling flashbulbs. He thought of how she had pinched his fingers in reassurance, how she had touched the nape of his neck as they danced. He thought of Dickie’s face, skewed and sweating. He thought of how he had raised Olivia from the floor and wrapped his jacket about her. That was when it had happened, between one gesture and the next.
“What are you looking at?” Valentino’s voice was peevish, resenting the way his brother’s attention had shifted from his own affairs.
“It is about Dickie Belvoir, Mr. Rodway’s uncle. He was a famous stage designer.”
Valentino glanced at the photograph. “Pah! He looks like a busone. A queer.”
“Don’t be absurd. He was married, his wife was a Russian dancer. And he adored Mrs. Rodway—”
“I wish you would not mix with such decadent people, Antonino. Homosexuals. Jews. They will corrupt you.” Valentino’s eyes were wide and zealous. “I sometimes fear you have been corrupted already.”
Perhaps I have always loved her, thought Antonio, perhaps I fell in love that first night at the Paradise Ballroom. It is just that I did not realize it until now. He had not seen Olivia since the night of Dickie’s death; the Rodways would not want intruders at such a time. How could he show his face in Bedford Square?
“I am sure that Danila does not like you spending your time with these people,” Valentino was saying. “In fact, I know she does not, she has told me so.”
“What?” said Antonio. He did not want to think about his wife; not now, with the knowledge of his love for Olivia burning in his veins. He and Danila had been living in an uneasy state of truce, neither daring to say anything that might start another quarrel. When he made love to her she did not push him away, but lay quite still, quite silent beneath him.
“She believes these people, these Rodways, are a bad influence upon you,” Valentino went on, in a self-righteous voice. “She believes you should be mixing with your fellow Italians, as I do.”
“Pah,” said Antonio irritably, “it has nothing to do with Danila,” and pushing back his chair he stalked out of the room.
—
The following night Filomena was sitting in the kitchen with Danila and Renata. The men had gone out—Enrico and Valentino to the fascio, Antonio to the Golden Slipper—and they had the place to themselves, to gossip and drink coffee and eat macaroons. Renata visited Frith Street twice a week, partly to see her uncle Mauro, but chiefly, thought Filomena, to gloat. She did not mind the gloating, which was so blatant it was almost comical. What infuriated Filomena was the new alliance between Renata and Danila. You wouldn’t understand, Mena, they seemed to say, tilting their heads knowingly, you’re not married.
“Of course, I make a point of buying fruit and vegetables from Italy,” Renata was saying, sliding a macaroon into her mouth. “Bruno says that if all the forty thousand Italians in Britain did the same, our homeland would be richer by a thousand pounds a day.”
Danila nodded in approval. Although she was no longer breast-feeding she still occupied the most comfortable chair, close to the stove, a trim neat-faced matriarch. She was knitting a jersey for the baby in powder-blue wool.
“My cousin Bruno is right. It is a shame that every Italian woman does not follow his advice.” Danila threw a sidelong glance at Filomena, who bought whatever was cheap and plentiful, regardless of its provenance. Filomena thought of pointing out that patriotism was a luxury you could not afford when you had six mouths to feed, but she did not have the energy to start an argument.
“And has Bruno gained the promotion the hotel promised?” she asked instead.
A shadow crossed Renata’s face. “It is not easy at the present time, especially for patriots like Bruno. His employers are British, they do not trust Italians. He was warned the other day for reading L’Italia Nostra. Imagine!”
“Tcha,” said Danila, “the sooner we return to Lazio the better. Does my cousin not think so?”
“He would like to return, but it is not possible, at least not yet. He earns more in London than ever he could in Italy.”
“That is what Antonio says, but I do not believe him.” Complacently Danila looped the blue wool about her tiny knitting needles. “It would be safer for the child in Lazio. If war comes Britain will be crushed by Germany. The fascists are so much stronger, they have conviction on their side.”
This remark exasperated Filomena. “You do not know that, Danila. Valentino may say so, but that does not make it true. Besides, Antonio is doing so well here in London, you cannot want to spoil his success—”
She was interrupted by a banging at the front door. It was loud and urgent, as if someone were hitting the panels with a stick. The three women looked at each other. There was fear in Danila’s eyes, shadowy as a fish in deep brown waters. Filomena stood up.
“I will find
out who it is,” she said.
There was another thwack at the door. A man’s voice bawled: “Valentino! Valentino Trombetta! Come out like a man!”
Mauro’s anxious wizened face was hanging over the banister. “What is it? What is happening?”
Filomena did not answer, but threw open the door. Three men stood outside, all carrying rounders bats. The man in front was black haired and muscular. He had a clipped mustache beneath a large beaky nose.
“What do you want?” said Filomena in stern Italian. “My brother is not at home.”
The black-haired man hesitated, nonplussed by the sight of Filomena. Then he said: “I do not believe you. Valentino is there, I know it. Hiding behind your skirts like the coward he is. Let me enter…”
Filomena planted her feet squarely upon the ceramic tiles of the hall. The posture filled her with a sense of power. This is why men fight, she thought, because they feel strong, they feel they can win. “What? You want to terrorize women and children in their own home? And yet you call my brother Valentino a coward.”
“Your brother has defiled my wife!” the man cried, and the men shoved their way past Filomena, clubs raised. Renata began to squeal.
“Fetch a policeman,” said Filomena to Mauro. “Don’t argue with me, go.”
Pasquale, the black-haired man, was standing in the kitchen, jerking his club to and fro. One of the other men had gone into the scullery and was poking at Filomena’s bedding, stored in the corner.
“We are just women,” clucked Renata, “please don’t hurt us.” She was guarding Danila’s chair, as though Danila, being the most beautiful, was bound to be the most at risk.
Pasquale took no notice. “He is here, I am sure that he is here. Giovanni, go and search upstairs.”
“You will not,” said Filomena. “My nephew is sleeping. I will not have him disturbed. He is only a baby…”