The man shrugged.
‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But it was worth trying.’
‘Perhaps they could make it worth three payments?’ suggested Ernesto. ‘If you ask them?’
The man shrugged and didn’t say anything.
‘What was the favour you did for them?’ asked Seymour.
‘It was nothing,’ the man said. ‘That’s the trouble. I just looked the other way.’
‘When the man stepped into the basso?’ said Seymour.
‘Yes,’ said the basket-maker, surprised. ‘That’s right.’
‘Important to him,’ said Seymour. ‘But perhaps not to them.’
‘It was important to him at the time,’ said the basket-maker bitterly.
‘And so it should have been to them,’ said Seymour.
‘Suggest it’s worth three payments,’ urged Ernesto. ‘Perhaps they will think again.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the basket-maker. He seemed unconvinced.
The children came out again with the empty bowl and gave it back to Ernesto. Then they drew themselves up in a line formally.
‘We thank you, Ernesto.’
‘It is nothing, it is nothing,’ said Ernesto.
‘Our mother says you are a good man, Ernesto.’
‘Not good enough,’ said Ernesto.
Chapter Eleven
Seymour went out into the streets around the Porta del Carmine and at last he found what he was looking for. The open doors of a basso extended across the street and he stood in the partition they made, behind a row of washing, and watched the man work his way up the street. Then he went back to the pensione.
Maria was putting out the dishes for the evening meal: a heavy white plate and then a bowl on it for the soup.
‘I have just made some coffee?’ she said.
‘Please.’
He sat down at a table in the corner and waited. When she brought the coffee he thanked her and then said quietly:
‘Did they call here, too?’
‘Call?’ she said, startled.
‘The people whose name we don’t mention.’
Maria said nothing but continued to put out the plates.
‘I have seen them collecting in other streets,’ said Seymour.
‘They collect here, too,’ said Maria.
‘From you?’
Maria shook her head fiercely.
‘Not from us,’ she said. ‘From us, never!’
‘But they have tried?’
‘Oh, yes, they have tried. Once they came with a gun. But Giuseppi went into the bedroom and came back with his gun. It was the one he had used on the barricades, but that was when he was a young man and he has not used it since. There was a time when he kept it clean but he hasn’t done that for twenty years. If he fired it, it would probably blow him up. But they were not to know that, and ran away.’
‘And haven’t come back?’
‘They know Giuseppi and respect him. They know that in the quarter he is admired, as a man of the barricades. They know it is best not to touch people like that.’
‘And yet you allow them into your house,’ said Seymour quietly.
‘I?’ said Maria.
‘Bruno,’ said Seymour. ‘He is a collector, isn’t he? Jalila said he was, and I have just been watching him at work.’
‘We have known Bruno for a long time,’ said Maria. ‘His mother and I were delivered in the same week. In the same street. We have stayed close since. Our boys played together, Marcello and Bruno . . . Bruno has been in and out of the house ever since he could walk. He has been a good son to his mother. When his father died, that very day he went out to find work. He knew he had to.’
‘And he found collecting?’ said Seymour.
‘Not at first. He did other jobs. But he was young, and he was small, and he couldn’t do the heavy jobs, like lifting barrels. But they knew he was a sturdy boy and, I suppose, they knew his need.’
Maria shrugged and wiped the table.
‘A man has to earn a living,’ she said. ‘All of us. And sometimes it may not be in the way we would like.’
‘Is it the way you would like for Jalila’s husband?’
‘That is for Jalila herself to say.’
‘And what does Jalila say?’
‘She wonders. Bruno thinks he is doing right by Tonio.’ She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know if that is true. If our Marcello were here, I would ask him. He would probably agree with Bruno.’
‘The three of them, Bruno, Tonio and your Marcello, were close, weren’t they?’ said Seymour.
‘As close as that,’ said Maria, holding her fingers together in the manner that Chantale said Bruno had when he was talking to her.
‘And does Jalila wish it?’
‘To marry Bruno? She doesn’t know what she wishes.’
‘He has money.’
‘While he does what they ask, he has money.’
‘I can understand her doubts,’ said Seymour.
‘He would be a good husband to her, as he has been a good son to his mother. And she would be a good daughter to his mother. That is important, as his mother is old now and has not been well for some time.’
‘And the children? Would he be a good father to them?’
Maria thought.
‘He would not be a bad father,’ she said. ‘He is kind, although not always patient. I do not know.’ She shrugged. ‘Who does know what a man will be like when be becomes a father? And when the children are not his? I do not know. But this I know: any father is better than no father.’
Giorgio appeared in the doorway.
‘Hello, Maria! Is Francesca inside?’
‘She is. But she still has work to do.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘Sweeping the floors.’
‘Perhaps I can help her,’ said Giorgio, disappearing inside.
‘Will he do that?’ asked Seymour. ‘When he gets older?’
Maria considered.
‘Most of them go and hang about in the piazza,’ she said, ‘and leave their wives to do everything in the house.’
‘I am not sure that Francesca would be content with that,’ said Seymour.
‘I am not sure, either. In the first flush, perhaps. But after? I wonder.’
She rubbed the table.
‘Francesca deserves better things,’ she said.
Francesca came into the room.
‘Have you any small change?’ she asked. ‘Jalila wants to send a letter and they have only given her big notes.’
‘Look in my purse,’ directed Maria. ‘How much does she want? If it is to send a letter to Libya – I expect she wants to tell her people about the pension,’ she said to Seymour – ‘then it will be a lot.’
‘No, it’s to Rome,’ said Francesca.
‘I didn’t think she knew anybody in Rome,’ said Maria.
Francesca inspected the letter she had been given.
‘No, it’s definitely Rome,’ she said. ‘It is addressed to someone at a bank.’
Seymour went upstairs to find Chantale. They had arranged to go out for dinner that evening and she was changing her dress.
When they came down they found Jalila standing uncertainly in the door of the kitchen.
‘Maria has forgotten to take her purse with her,’ she said. ‘She has gone out to do some shopping and she will need it.’
‘Do you know which way she went?’ asked Chantale.
‘I think she will have gone to the baker’s,’ said Jalila. ‘It’s just round the corner and I can catch up with her if I run.’
She hesitated, and then said to Chantale, gesturing at the children: ‘Would you mind? Just for a moment?’
‘Of course not!’ said Chantale, slipping her hand into the hand of the little boy. ‘Shall we go out on to the patio?’
‘Thank you,’ said Jalila gratefully. ‘I won’t be a moment. I think Maria had been putting some money in her purse and then someone called for her an
d she put it down.’
She sped off.
‘I don’t want to go on to the patio,’ said the child.
‘Where do you want to go? We cannot go far, because your mummy will be back in a minute, and we don’t want to miss her.’
‘He wants to go to the sweet shop,’ said the boy’s sister.
`Well, I don’t know about that . . .’ said Chantale. ‘We’ll see what your mother says. We can go and look in the window if you like. Then you can make up your mind and we’ll see what your mother thinks when she gets back.’
They trooped along the street, the little boy holding happily to Chantale’s hand, his older sister in earnest conversation with Seymour.
Miss Scampion came round the corner pushing her bicycle.
‘Good heavens!’ she said. ‘Where did you get these from?’
‘They’re Jalila’s children,’ said Chantale. ‘You know, the Libyan lady you sometimes see around here.’
‘Libyan, yes,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘You can see the Arab.’
‘And the Italian,’ said Seymour.
‘And the Italian, of course,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘So that is their mother? Jalila?’
‘Yes, we are minding the children just for the moment.’
‘Kind of you, yes. And – Jalila is the name of their mother?’
‘Yes. She lives nearby. With her parents-in-law. She is a widow. Her husband was killed in the war. So one could say that this is a military family, too.’
‘Ah, yes, but it is not quite the same, is it, my dear? He would have been just a trooper.’
‘Troopers get killed, too,’ said Chantale.
Miss Scampion was not, however, listening.
‘Jalila,’ she said meditatively. ‘Lionel spoke about her.’
‘Did he?’ said Seymour, surprised.
‘I am almost sure Jalila was the name.’
‘I wonder how he ran into her?’
‘I think he knew someone in Florence. Or was it Rome? I think it might have been Rome. Anyway, this person, a diplomatic acquaintance of Lionel’s, I believe, was trying to do something for her. In her plight, you know. Somehow he had become acquainted with her and wanted to help her. He had helped her, I believe. Anyway, he knew that Lionel was being transferred to Naples and asked him to look her up.
‘I had my doubts about this, I must confess. How could he be expected to find her? A woman new in Naples. And then what could he do for her when he found her? It was all very well for his friend, a rich man, I believe, to say: look her up. But in the Diplomatic, you know, you move in fairly restricted social circles. And they do not include the wives of troopers.’
‘Perhaps Mr Scampion’s acquaintance gave him an address?’ said Seymour.
‘Perhaps. Yes, almost certainly. But then, what was Lionel supposed to do for her? See that she was all right for money? But, you know, although Lionel was always most generous, he did not have money to give. The two of us were scrimping and saving, especially after the move to Naples. Fitting out a new house costs money, and I do not think the people in London quite recognize that. There is an allowance, of course, but no one would call it generous. It was all very well for Lionel’s friend to ask him to look after her, but he was a rich man.’
‘Perhaps he gave Mr Scampion some money to pass on to her?’ said Seymour.
‘Perhaps. I hope so. I was afraid that Lionel might be tempted.’
‘To give her money?’
‘That, too, yes. But . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I feared that he might be tempted in another way, too. If she engaged his sympathies. And Lionel’s sympathies were easily engaged, you know. All too easily. That dreadful Marchesa! And I feel that a woman alone might well engage his sympathies. More than they should. Lionel was always very susceptible, you know.’
Miss Scampion dropped her voice. ‘It runs in the family. On the male side. There was a cousin of his – oh, I don’t like to speak about it. Cashiered. And even Uncle was not immune. You can understand it, I suppose. Soldiers are men, after all. As I am sure you found, Miss de Lissac. And in a lonely outpost –’
‘I am not sure that Naples counts as a lonely outpost, Miss Scampion,’ said Seymour.
‘No, no, of course not. But is it not nearly the same thing, Mr Seymour? If not a lonely outpost, a lonely man. In whom passions – well, rise. And then perhaps his work – or, as in Lionel’s case, the request of a friend – brings him perforce into contact with a lady who is not entirely –’
‘I don’t think that is the case here, Miss Scampion,’ said Seymour. ‘I feel I must speak in defence of your brother. And the lady in question. She has always seemed most scrupulous to me.’
‘Oh, yes, I am sure, I am sure. But, you see, it was more than once. It was, in fact, quite often.’
‘What was, Miss Scampion?’
‘His going to see her. Once I could understand. At the request of a friend. Especially if it was to give her something. Like money. But he met her several times, Mr Seymour, and he could not always have been giving her money, could he? Or, at least – well, no. No, I am sure!’
‘He may have felt she needed support,’ said Seymour.
‘Oh, yes, indeed! And Lionel was always more than generous with his support. He could always be relied upon to give a helping hand. And that might have been how it started. But could it not have led on, Mr Seymour, to something more?’
‘I don’t see why you should suppose that, Miss Scampion.’
She was silent for a moment. Then she said: ‘Once I saw them. They were talking together more intimately. I had always imagined that he called on her at her residence. But, no, this was in a public park. Among the trees. I was on my bicycle taking the air. And I saw them.
‘When he got home, I tackled him about it. “It’s a lady I am helping,” he said. “Well, that’s very nice of you, Lionel,” I said. “But do you have to help her in such an intimate fashion?”
‘He went red, and I knew he was angry. But this was at the time when he always seemed to be angry and I felt that I had had enough of his deception. “Is this what has been making you so angry?” I said. “A guilty conscience?”
‘He just looked at me. “No,” he said, “not a guilty conscience. At least, not over this. Not over something I have done, but over something I haven’t done and ought to have done.”
‘“Is it to do with that woman?” I demanded. “No,” he said. “At least, not directly. All she has done is help me see things in perspective.” “I cannot believe that, Lionel,” I said. “For lately you do not seem to have been seeing things in perspective. You have always seemed so angry.” “Over some things,” he said, “anger is the only right response.”’
Late that afternoon, when the heat was beginning to lift from the streets and the piazzas to fill with people taking the air, Chantale went out by herself to buy something. She arranged to meet Seymour at the Capuana Gate.
When he arrived she hailed him with relief. Vincente, she complained, was following her around ‘like a little dog’.
She had run into him in a shop and then not been able to shake him off. He had offered to carry her shopping for her. How much he thought she would be buying, she couldn’t imagine. She suspected that, used to performing a similar function for the Marchesa, his estimates were large. Chantale’s shopping, however, was governed by her purse, and that was small. She didn’t need a carrier, and she certainly didn’t need someone going round behind her droopily all the time.
Except, possibly, Seymour. However, going shopping with him was usually a dead loss. He was so plainly uninterested in any shopping that it put her off. Usually she sent him away after the first few minutes.
Today, however, she would have been glad of him, for Vincente was worse. At least Seymour could be relied on to confirm the shrewdness of her shopping. Admittedly, in the field of shopping, at any rate, he tended to confirm all her judgements and she was slightly suspicious about this; but Vincente didn’t seem able to rise
to even that level. He just followed her around with blank, dog-like eyes of devotion, and it got on her nerves.
How the hell he would manage in the army in Libya she couldn’t think. Perhaps that was what everyone else thought, too. Certainly the Marchesa, who, for all her faults, seemed to be a sharp judge of people. Perhaps that was why she refused to let him go out there? Got her husband, who seemed able to pull plenty of strings, to intervene?
A sharp judge, but possibly a soft heart? She seemed to have taken Scampion’s measure; but hadn’t she intervened when he had proposed to volunteer for Libya? From all that Chantale had heard, she had been completely right about that.
‘Ah!’ said Chantale, now brightly. ‘Here is my fiancé!’
And waited.
But Vincente did not go.
‘We’re just about to go back to the pensione,’ said Chantale firmly.
‘Are we?’ said Seymour, puzzled.
Really, he was rather obtuse at times, thought Chantale.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly; and took her fiancé by the arm and started off.
Vincente followed.
And, what was worse, Seymour started talking to him!
‘I expect you’re very busy just at the moment. With the race coming off at the weekend.’
‘Oh, I am, I am!’
‘But then I expect you always are. Handling things on the bicycle side, I mean.’
‘Well, that’s true.’
‘There are always problems, I expect.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Like that package a few weeks ago.’
‘Package?’
‘Of bicycle parts. Fortunately, Signor Scampion spotted it in time.’
‘Oh, yes. That package. He got very excited about it. Said I ought to do something. They had been misdirected, you see. They weren’t meant for us at all. “Does it matter?” I said. “Yes,” he said. “It matters a lot!” And he kept on at me. Saying I ought to do something. He seemed quite angry. I was puzzled, because – well – it didn’t seem that important. “Stores are always doing that kind of thing,” I said. “Oh, are they?” he said. “Then that’s all the more reason to do something about it.”
‘He went on and on and in the end I thought I had better do something about it. Of course, I’m not Stores but I am, in a way, Bicycles, and this was bicycles, so I sent a message back to the factory.
A Dead Man in Naples Page 16