‘A “good person”? High praise from someone who follows the ten hard rules.’ He looked at her levelly. ‘So she’s determined to sell?’
Elena nodded.
‘And you want to stop her.’
‘She said she would leave it to Leonie and me.’ Elena blushed.
‘What about doing away with all your worldly goods? Wasn’t that why you refused my help?’
‘It’s not for me, it’s for him.’ She rested a hand on her stomach.
‘You look very pretty with some colour in your cheeks. A smacked bottom always did the trick.’
Elena checked to see if anyone had heard.
‘There is very little,’ Anthony continued smoothly, ‘you can do to influence a woman like your mother. She exists for no other reason than pleasure. It’s all she knows how to do. Unfortunately, she also finds pleasure in destroying things, so that’s what she’ll go on doing. She’s like some Hindi goddess of war. There’s not a man on earth who could stop her. I certainly couldn’t. The very sight of my name is enough to send her to whichever lawyer she’s fucking now.’ He spoke with the hardness of a man who knows the woman in question can no longer hurt him.
‘She’s not . . . like that now.’
‘Don’t bank on it. Never met a more sexual woman in my life. She made brushing her teeth a kind of dance.’
‘Please, Dad.’ For a moment she forgot that she no longer used that name.
‘It’s my belief,’ Anthony leaned forward and the scent of lemons washed over her, ‘that she was unduly influenced by that woman, that “mother” of hers. She hardly had a thought of her own for all the ideas she put into her head.’ He sat back. ‘She shouldn’t have been a mother really,’ he said.
‘You don’t think any woman should have been a mother.’
This time his eyes flicked over her. ‘Not true.’ He sipped his wine. ‘I’m thrilled mine was.’
‘Were you close to your father?’ Ivan’s voice broke into her thoughts and Elena jumped.
‘No,’ she said quickly.
‘I was impressed by the defence he built against your mother when they divorced. Managed to discredit the majority of her case.’
‘Yes.’ Elena looked down at the table. ‘He was good at that.’
‘And remained married to his housekeeper?’
‘Anita . . . yes.’
‘Did they have any children?’
‘No, thank God,’ she said. Laughter from the other end of the table caused them both to look over, and Elena smiled absently at the increasingly raucous story her mother was telling James. Something about Hemingway and the corrida.
‘Forgive me for saying so, Elena, but you seem rather tired.’
‘Yes,’ she said, willing James to meet her eye.
‘Motherhood.’ He smiled.
She shook her head. ‘Children are exhausting, but in the best possible way. It’s a gift to be so tired that one’s body pulls you into sleep. Left on my own, I’d barely lie down.’
‘A night bird,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing romantic about insomnia.’
‘You should try sailing again. Works wonders. You’re welcome to use my boat any time you’d like.’
‘That’s very kind.’ Elena looked down at her hands.
Her father’s hands.
‘What’s wrong with you, Elena?’ her mother said. ‘You look sick as a dog.’
Elena tried to smile. ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’
‘I hope you’re behaving, Ivan,’ Diana admonished, slurring a little.
He laughed. ‘Of course, Diana. Simply paying my respects to your beautiful daughter.’
Diana sat back and drank.
‘And to this wonderful meal.’
‘I agree,’ said James. ‘To Elena.’
‘It’s hardly cooking. Boiling some lobsters and putting leaves in a bowl.’
‘Death and salad. The perfect meal,’ Diana said, her glass at half-mast. ‘I’m glad I taught you to cook. It’s a wonderful gift to pass down the generations.’
Elena thought of Inés in her steam-filled kitchen, watching keenly as she lifted the casserole out of the oven. She would give a single, serious nod. But, looking at her mother in her ibicenca dress and straining gold belt, and the way Ivan’s eyes only ever passed over her, Elena merely smiled.
Diana leaned over the table.
‘I know what you two were discussing, Ivan,’ she said. ‘And spending a million dollars on a roof was an act of insanity, not philanthropy.’
‘But it was in the service of art, Diana,’ James said. Elena’s shoulders tensed.
‘What do you know about art?’ Diana turned on him viciously.
‘We were not actually discussing that, Diana.’ Ivan pressed his napkin to his mouth and deftly changed the subject. ‘James was telling me earlier that he’s managed to locate some of the remaining Black Sun Press editions that went missing after your mother died. As you know, they’re terribly hard to find these days.’
‘Oh, I see, the bookseller is on the make.’ Diana narrowed her eyes at James.
‘Hardly,’ he laughed, spreading his hands. ‘Independent bookshops are no goldmine, Diana. But I’ll always be fascinated by your mother’s press. I think the books they made are rather wonderful.’
‘I’ve heard enough about books for one lifetime. Writers are parasites.’ She drained her glass. ‘Children too.’
Elena stared at her mother across the table and then down at her plate. It was too late to do anything.
‘Come, Diana, you love books,’ Ivan said, smiling gently at her. ‘Writers need support.’
‘I like some books, Ivan.’
‘Don’t play the literary snob, Diana. There are more than a few Nevil Shutes knocking about in that library of yours,’ James said playfully.
‘A damned good writer. Much under-appreciated,’ Diana laughed, squaring up to him for more.
‘Well, I bow to your superior knowledge.’ James smiled. ‘Your library is still a thing of beauty and I’m grateful that you let me read what I do.’
‘Those are the dregs of what it was. My God, I used to have some books. My stepfather gave me one that was bound in the skin of a courtesan. And you might make that face, Elena, but they meant something to me. It was most careless of my mother to buy that wretched place and spend such an insane—’
‘Oh, I don’t care,’ Elena said. ‘Treasure things if you like. But I have no interest in ruining yet another meal by sitting and counting the losses. I’d prefer if we spoke about how grateful we are for what we do have, rather than what we don’t.’ Elena realised that she was echoing the closing words of the morning’s sermon.
Watching her, Ivan sat back and smiled. ‘Hear, hear, Elena. I’m sure I could learn from that too.’
‘Ugh,’ said Diana, with a toss of her head. ‘I loathe being grateful.’
Switzerland, 1927
Isobel and Diana lay in their slim dormitory beds. The huge moon shone in through the uncurtained window and if she lifted her head, Diana could just see their shoes, lined up neatly together in the corner of the room.
‘Diana, what happens in Paris? When you’re at home?’ The quiet voice reached for Diana in the dark.
‘I stay in my nursery mostly. Sometimes I go out on the town.’
‘What’s your mama like?’
‘Like a crazed bird, always flapping about.’
‘I saw her when she came to bring you. She had a beautiful black dog.’
‘That dog’s the devil. Mine’s much sweeter.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Waiting for me in our country house.’
‘I’d like a dog.’
‘The thing about animals, Isobel, is that you have to show them who’s boss. Harry gave me a whip for my birthday to beat the donkeys with if they don’t go. He uses a hammer, but I think that’s too sharp.’
‘But I don’t think animals like to be whipped.’
‘N
obody likes it, Isobel. But sometimes it’s necessary.’
Roccasinibalda, 1970
The castle was swarming with people. From her window, Diana could hear the endless tooting of horns as delivery trucks clogged up the village square and wheelbarrows were trundled up and down the entrance to the castle. She put her pen down in frustration. She’d already had to banish David, was she going to have to ask every fucking person in this madhouse to keep quiet? She undid her dress and stood in her slip, fanning herself. This letter to her wretched husband was turning into something of a chore. She couldn’t find the words. She groaned, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Fine if he wanted the boat, but she was bloody well keeping that house. He hadn’t even heard of Ibiza before she took him there. The audacity of the man, the sheer bloody-minded frustration of him. As the vitriol rose, so did something else and Diana felt a familiar longing begin to build between her legs. Oh, she hated him, she hated him, she hated him, hated . . .
The growing sound of raucous whoops and laughter sailed through the open window. Throwing her hands up, she went to the casement and stuck her head out. A troupe of men wearing offensively patterned clothing were hanging around in the walled garden below.
‘Do you mind!’ she shouted. ‘I’m trying to work up here.’
A man in pantaloons ran beneath the window and began shouting up at her in Spanish, his hands pressed to his chest. She glanced down at her flimsy slip and back at the men gathered below.
‘¡No voy a jugar contigo! ¡Tú, sigue jugando con tus bolas a solas, payaso!’ she shouted, laughing.
There was a cacophony of words in an accent she couldn’t place, but as she turned back to her desk, Diana was aware of something landing softly on the floor behind her. She whipped round, ready to pounce, and saw the flower on the rug, a red thread tied round its stem. An enormous blowsy rose, its petals loose and open, unable to contain its scent. She’d never much liked flowers, but there had always been something about the smell of roses that seemed to envelop her in a gentle embrace. She pressed her face into the blushing petals and breathed until her lungs began to ache. She felt a tug on the string and frowned for a moment but pulled back. A harder tug. Oh, she liked this game.
But really, she flung the flower back through the window, she didn’t have time to play. She wasn’t going to lose the battle this time. She was not going to let Elena’s father lord it all over her again. She sat down at the desk and tapped a finger against her lips, bringing to mind things said in the tender moments. What was the point of all these memories if one didn’t use them when they were needed most?
‘Did you come here hoping to find me weak?’ Caresse wheezed, sitting up in bed, her face quite grey. ‘You know I don’t go in for all that.’
Diana glanced at the nurse taking her mother’s blood pressure; she couldn’t remember if she spoke English or not.
‘No, not weak.’ She sat at the foot of the bed. ‘A little meek, perhaps. And your heart is weak, you can’t deny that.’
‘Meek? No, Christ had that all wrong. Being meek is neither chic nor helpful. We have to move with life, not sit in the corner waiting for someone to bring us a highball so we can get up the courage to dance.’
‘I’ve never waited for someone to bring me a drink in my life.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’ Her mother looked at her over her glasses. ‘If you’re not careful, you could end up like your father.’
The nurse murmured to Caresse in Italian.
‘Look, you’re making my blood pressure go up. I think you’d better say whatever it is you wanted to and then leave me and the evening sun in peace with one another.’
They heard a shout from outside.
‘As if there’s any peace in this place,’ Diana said, getting to her feet. ‘You know there’s a troupe of clowns living in the walled garden?’
Caresse nodded. ‘They’re from Peru. Real troubadours.’ She smiled, though her breath shuddered in her chest. ‘I’m making plans with Roberto to stage a Surrealist festival. Salvador and Gala have promised to come. Buñuel is going to film, and there’s the . . .’
‘Mother,’ Diana said.
‘The young here have so much to learn. I just want them all to enjoy.’ She coughed, one hand batting the air.
The nurse placed a tray with a folded white napkin and a bowl of steaming minestrone in front of Caresse.
‘Yes, but be realistic.’
‘Oh, Diana, you and your realism. We have to look forward—’
‘Mother.’ Her hands twisted the matter. ‘You might not be here.’
Giulia tiptoed from the room and closed the door.
Her gaze locked on the view outside, Caresse nodded, once.
‘Are you frightened?’ Diana tried to take her mother’s hand, but it moved blindly away. She continued to stare straight ahead, with a fierce, fixed gaze.
‘No, not frightened,’ she said after a pause, smoothing the blankets with a sweep. ‘I don’t think I ever have been, really. It’s the people left behind whom I feel for. It hurts me,’ she clenched her fist, ‘that people don’t realise that change is possible. That they can give birth to themselves. They think this is it,’ she held out an empty hand, ‘and lead sad, drab lives, freighted with whatever hell they’ve been lumped with. But anyone can escape, can make a different world. You see that, don’t you?’
‘Maybe they don’t want to change everything, or even anything.’
‘Of course they do.’
‘Well, I don’t want to.’
‘That’s because you’ve always been free, Diana.’
‘I didn’t have a choice.’
There were more shouts from outside and Caresse turned back to the window with a look of longing. ‘I just want them to enjoy,’ she whispered. ‘To know what it is to enjoy!’
Diana felt her cheeks burning.
‘I think all these people have enjoyed enough. You’re starting to sound ridiculous.’
‘Ridiculous?’
‘Yes. It’s absurd to spend this much time and money on a party. You haven’t finished paying for the roof!’
‘Always so protective.’ Her mother shook her head, picking up her spoon.
‘Well, I’m sorry if I’m looking out for myself. And the girls.’
‘You’re never going to starve, Diana. You have your little trust from your father, you know that.’
‘My little trust.’
‘Which you can do what you like with.’
‘There’ll barely be enough for a packet of razors after the death duties. I might not be fine at all!’
Caresse looked at her in surprise and then took a sip of soup. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. There will be plenty left for the girls, I’d hardly forget them. But here, now, all I want is to enjoy, for us all to enjoy. The soup is delicious, you should have some.’
Unable to move, Diana remained very still, glaring at her mother. Waiting. She did not know what for.
‘You know, you’re not tied here.’ Caresse moved her hand towards the door. ‘Now, I need to call about the orchids, or they’ll be delivered too late.’ She drew the telephone topped with a bright red lobster to her chest. ‘You needn’t hang about. You can go and do whatever it is that you do.’
‘You’re upset.’
‘Yes, perhaps a little.’ She laughed gently, wiping away a tear. ‘Talking seems to only get harder. I don’t know why I thought she would soften with age; people aren’t meat.’
‘Do you like the people here at the moment?’ With deliberate motions, David wiped his clay-whitened hands on a cloth and came towards her.
‘I can’t keep track, David. What with all these teenagers running about and that team of restorers covering everything in dust, and that ridiculous German . . . what does he call himself . . . bard? It’s too much. It’s making me long for something . . . something a little simpler. My boat, my home, my friends.’ She was quiet, gnawing at the inside of her cheek.
�
��You need to spend some time alone at sea. With me.’ He held her and she allowed herself briefly to lean into him. ‘And then . . . London.’
‘Ibiza.’ She grabbed his shoulder firmly and shook it a little.
‘Let’s see.’ He took her hand from his shoulder, kissed her palm, and then returned to his work.
‘I think we’ll sail well together, won’t we?’ she said, her head to one side. He looked levelly at her as he began to carve into the heavy clay. ‘You know, the first time I went on a boat was when I crossed the Atlantic with my mother to get to Paris. I never wanted it to end. Everyone else was sick as hell, but I loved it. I liked being in transit, surrounded by all that blue. Playing alone in the shadow of those huge funnels, with the sound of the creaking lifeboats and the clouds moving silently over the smooth wooden boards. That really was freedom. Probably the last of it.’
‘How old were you?’ David asked.
‘I was five.’
‘Did you want to leave America?’
‘No, I wanted my mother and father to remain together and for us all to be terribly happy.’
‘Poor little Rat.’
She smiled. ‘I forgot I told you that.’
‘A very beautiful rat.’
She stared at him, her heart beating. She had him. ‘Come to Ibiza.’ She leaned back and touched the inside of his leg with the tip of her shoe. ‘I know I said I’d come to London, but I’ve changed my mind.’ She looked at his young, tanned face, the fine bones beneath the skin. ‘Come with me.’ Her voice trailed over him. ‘I want you to say that you’ll come with me.’
He didn’t look up from his work. ‘I’ve said I’ll think about it, and I will.’
Diana felt panic begin to tread uncertainly inside her chest. She glanced at her reflection in the dirty mirror, hung by a nail to the wall. The north-facing room was filled with a harsh glare and her reflection was thrown back at her in an unforgiving light.
‘I’m not going to make any promises I can’t keep, that’s all.’ David’s voice spoke to her turned back. ‘I have my life too. That’s a good thing. You’ve said so yourself. I’ve said I’ll come to Ibiza for the time being. Let’s start with that.’
The Heart Is a Burial Ground Page 15