by David Nobbs
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Hilary. ‘I’m not going there again. They are beautiful, but too male-oriented for me.’
‘Look, if it’s any problem,’ suggested Henry, ‘we could go to the cathedral again.’
‘I’m not going to the cathedral again,’ said Lampo.
‘You said it was one of the loveliest buildings in Europe,’ said Henry.
‘It is,’ said Lampo. ‘I saw it this morning. I remember it distinctly. Big thing with pillars. I don’t want to see it again.’
The waiter looked puzzled as he took away their plates. Puzzled by the atmosphere. Puzzled at the food left on Lampo’s and Hilary’s plates.
‘You go and see the pictures, then,’ said Henry. ‘I’ll go to the cathedral.’
‘I want to see the pictures with you,’ said Lampo.
‘Oh God.’
The waiter brought a large bowl of fruit.
‘There’s no problem,’ said Lampo. ‘You go to the cathedral. I’ll go back to the room and read, and tomorrow we’ll look at the pictures.’
‘We’d better get the bill and get on, whatever’s happening,’ said Hilary. ‘Our bus leaves at five.’
‘Bus?’ said Henry. ‘You aren’t staying in Siena?’
‘No.’
He had second thoughts about going to the cathedral. There was hardly going to be an opportunity for ardent love-making in the North Transept, or even for declarations of love, especially with Hilary tagging on. His first meeting with Anna would end in anti-climax. And he knew where she lived. He could meet her in Thurmarsh. Their life stretched before them.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to upset you, Lampo. Or Hilary.’ He smiled at Hilary. Her answering smile was as thin as the ham in a railway sandwich. ‘Why don’t the girls go to the cathedral, and we’ll go to the art gallery, and I’ll arrange to see the girls later in Thurmarsh.’ He put his hand on Anna’s thigh. She put her hand on his, sealing the pact.
The waiter brought one bill. Lampo worked out what everyone owed. Henry didn’t think that was stylish. He longed to pay for Anna’s meal, but didn’t see why he should pay for Hilary’s, especially as she hadn’t finished it.
‘Quite reasonable, really,’ said Anna. ‘We had a drink in a café out here last night, and it was terribly expensive.’
‘It would be,’ said Lampo. ‘You pay extra to sit outside. You’re expected to sit as long as you like. You paid a reasonable price for a front seat in the stalls at the theatre of life.’
‘In Thurmarsh you’d pay less because you had to look at the view,’ said Henry.
‘We’re back in Thurmarsh,’ said Lampo. ‘Goodie goodie. How I’ve longed for a reference to it this last dreary hour.’
The waiter took their money. Henry felt disagreeably mean.
‘Come on, Anna,’ said Hilary. ‘Time to go to the cathedral.’
‘Yes, sir. Coming, sir,’ said Anna.
They stood up. Henry waved away the waiter with the change. They walked out, into the fierce sun. They walked up a narrow alley, into the Via di Citta, past the imposing Chigi Saracini Palace, round the corner and up the hill. Henry wished he had the courage to take Anna’s hand. They came to the parting of the ways.
‘Well,’ said Anna, ‘this is arrivederci time.’ She kissed Henry. He hugged her briefly. She kissed Lampo. Politeness demanded that Henry kiss Hilary. Their cheeks touched lifelessly. She didn’t kiss Lampo.
The girls set off towards the cathedral. Henry stood and watched them, although Lampo set off impatiently towards the art gallery. Anna turned and waved. Henry waved back. He was trembling with love, as a great ship trembles on the ocean.
Great indeed were the masterpieces hung in the red-brick, late-Gothic Palazzo Buonsignori. Delicate indeed were the works of Guido di Siena, Taddio di Bartoli, Pietro Lorenzetti, Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Duccio di Boninsigni and many more. Names little known outside Siena, men long dead, but immortalized in these gentle works.
Henry found that a little religious painting went a long way. He couldn’t feel the excitement, in these cool, silent rooms, that he’d felt in the cathedral. He wished there weren’t quite so many madonnas with quite so many bambini. He wished that so many of the madonnas didn’t look constipated. He wished that so many of the bambini didn’t look as if they were heroically suppressing wind in the service of art. He wished that the men didn’t look quite so disapproving of such fripperies as women and children, as if they found even a virgin birth too vulgar for their refined sensitivities. Was this the subtly subversive intention of the artists, or was it the product of Henry’s imagination?
He was in love. He was lonely. He was in the wrong mood. In several of the pictures there was a priest holding a red book. ‘Is that the Michelin guide, do you think, Lampo?’ he said. ‘Is that some medieval Father Ellis wondering where to eat after the adoration is over? “Little place round the corner does the best veal in Bethlehem. And the carafe myrrh is very reasonable.”’
‘For God’s sake, Henry,’ said Lampo.
‘I’m sorry, Lampo,’ said Henry. ‘But I can’t help thinking how much more interesting all this would be if they hadn’t had to paint religious subjects all the time.’
Lampo didn’t reply. Henry had spoilt his afternoon.
When they left the gallery, Lampo was still sulking. They walked slowly, past pink and gold palaces, through a hot city that was slowly crumbling, as it had always slowly crumbled. In the doorways of small dark shops and bars, men with faces that were cynical but not cruel talked the day away.
Cautiously, Henry touched Lampo’s arm.
‘It’s a lovely city, Lampo,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t mention Thurmarsh again the whole holiday. Oh my God!!’
Denzil Ackerman’s limp seemed even worse than usual, and his right eye had been comprehensively blackened.
‘I thought you were in Amalfi,’ said Henry.
‘How touching that you’re so pleased to see me,’ said Denzil. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your uncle?’
They stood stock-still in the middle of the Via di Citta. Businessmen and fat mothers swirled around them. Elegant young men drifted past them. Three American girls in unwise shorts, licking peach and pistachio cornets, bumped into them.
‘Ah! Yes!’ said Henry. ‘Denzil, this is my Uncle Lampo. Uncle Lampo, this is Denzil Ackerman.’
Lampo shook hands with Denzil like an automaton. He seemed stunned by his sudden elevation to uncledom.
‘You’re much younger than I thought you’d be,’ said Denzil.
‘What?’ said Lampo.
‘I always imagine uncles as rather grizzled,’ said Denzil. ‘Pipe-smokers. Wearers of carpet slippers.’
‘I smoke nothing, and I’m glad to say I own no slippers of any kind,’ said Lampo. ‘I must be …’ He raised a sardonic and inquiring eyebrow at Henry. ‘… a rather unusual uncle.’
The tide of humanity swept them back into the sunlight of the Piazza del Campo, as if it were a whirlpool and they were three dead eels.
‘Uncle Lampo isn’t a bit grizzled,’ said Henry. ‘You’d never guess he was thirty-seven.’ He turned to Lampo. ‘Denzil asked me to come to Italy with him,’ he said. ‘I said I couldn’t because I was going with you.’
‘Ah!’ said Lampo.
‘I … er … I explained that, you being my uncle, naturally I had to come with you.’
‘Ah!’ said Lampo.
‘I mean, not that I didn’t want to. I did. I wanted to go with you both.’
‘Henry and I are colleagues,’ said Denzil. ‘In Thurmarsh.’
‘Where else?’ groaned Lampo.
‘How’s your wife?’ said Denzil.
‘My wife?’ said Lampo.
‘My aunt,’ said Henry. ‘Since it’s several years since you split up, I expect you’ve almost forgotten you ever had a wife.’
‘Almost,’ said Lampo.
‘I told Denzil how I got in a bit of muddle,’ said Henry. �
�I thought it was my year to go to Filey with auntie. But of course it wasn’t.’
‘Shall we stop for a drink?’ said Denzil.
‘Not me,’ said Lampo. ‘I’m finding it quite a strain pretending to be so much younger than my thirty-seven years. I’m for a lie-down.’
‘Shall we meet up for dinner later?’ said Denzil.
‘An excellent idea,’ said Lampo. ‘It’s always interesting meeting my nephew’s friends.’
They dined in a little back street trattoria, at a table next to six exuberant Finns. Henry was uneasy. He was worried that Denzil and Lampo, his two friends from different parts of his life, wouldn’t like each other. He knew that he was feeling rather ashamed of his friend, but he didn’t know which friend he was feeling ashamed of. At first, he assumed it must be Denzil. He flinched at the artificiality of his voice, the affected outrageousness, as he gave his views on the merits of the Siennese School of Painting. But Lampo adopted an infuriating air of self-satisfied superiority. Henry felt that Lampo must see through Denzil’s affectations, and Denzil must dislike Lampo’s priggishness. And the Finns, who clearly understood English, were probably artists and laughing at them both. Oh, hot and uncomfortable young Yorkshireman, damp and inelegant between your two queer friends.
Denzil asked for the wine list and insisted on ordering a very expensive bottle of Chianti, although everyone else was drinking the house wine. It took them ten minutes to find the bottle. It arrived encrusted in dust and dirt. The waiter showed Denzil the completely illegible label. Denzil nodded. Lampo smirked. The Finns grinned. Henry sweated.
He tried to remain cool and detached, but heard himself say, ‘You two ought to get on well. You’ve a lot in common.’
They immediately revealed one thing that they had in common. They both disliked the idea that they had a lot in common.
‘Really?’ said Lampo. ‘What have we in common?’
‘Well … I mean … you know … you’re both …’
‘… as queer as coots,’ said Denzil, unnecessarily loudly. He roared with laughter.
‘No! Well … I mean … yes, but … that wasn’t what I meant.’ Why did he mind that the Finns were listening? The likelihood of his meeting them again was remote. ‘I mean … you both … hate sport, love art, admire style and dislike vulgarity. You’re both outrageous. You’re both contemptuous of the second-rate.’
‘We sound insufferable,’ said Lampo.
‘Two insufferable people,’ said Denzil. ‘Is that a sound basis for friendship?’
‘Either we’d find each other insufferable or the fact that the rest of the world found us insufferable would bind us together,’ said Lampo.
‘Contemptuous?’ said Denzil. ‘What am I ever contemptuous of?’
‘Thurmarsh.’
‘Ah well. It’s impossible not to be contemptuous about Thurmarsh, dear boy. Do you know, Lampo, there’s nothing in the town … nothing! … that could credibly be described as a delicatessen.’
‘My God!’ said Lampo. ‘What do you do for peppered salami?’
‘You see!’ said Henry. ‘You’re both such snobs.’ But he was pleased. They were getting on well. It was going to be all right.
‘Not snobs,’ said Denzil. ‘Preservers of standards.’
‘When have you seen me snobbish?’ demanded Lampo.
‘At school,’ said Henry.
‘At school?’ said Denzil. ‘Surely you weren’t at school together?’
‘Oh no. No. No,’ said Henry. ‘No. Of course not. He’s sixteen years older than me. No, I … er … I heard you were snobbish at school, Lampo. Living off egg mayonnaise with anchovies. Doing mimes. Your snobbery’s a legend in the old alma mater.’ At the end of term concert, Lampo had done a mime representing ‘Sir Stafford Cripps in the Underworld’. It had died a death. What a death it had died. Henry found himself smiling at the memory. Lampo and Denzil stared at his smile with curiosity. He wiped it from his face and tried to eat his spaghetti elegantly. He failed. He wiped that from his face too.
‘This wine’s undrinkable,’ said Denzil. ‘Sorry. Mario!’ he sang out. ‘Vino horribile. Vino repulsivo. We’ll try some of your plonk. Il plonko rosso, per favore.’
Henry cringed at Denzil’s arrogance and insensitivity, in front of the Finns, in front of Lampo, who spoke impeccable Italian and had such immaculate courtesy towards those whom he thought inferior to him, which was practically everybody. Yet the waiter, who’d have hated Henry, if Henry had behaved like that, smiled indulgently, as if Denzil were a child. Lampo smiled and frowned at the same time, as if wanting to despise Denzil but finding it impossible.
‘Did you not discover …’ Suddenly Denzil seemed to become extremely arch. ‘… your … er … your tastes till you were married, Lampo?’ he said.
‘What?’ said Lampo. ‘Ah. Yes. Precisely. That’s what did for the marriage, of course.’
The house wine arrived. Lampo poured it. He gave Henry half a glass. ‘Henry’s parents entrusted his moral well-being to me,’ he told Denzil. ‘They were particularly anxious that I should save him from the perils of drink.’
For their main course they had piccato di vitello, with various sauces. Henry’s was pizzaiola, thick with tomato, garlic and capers. Denzil’s was marsala, mature with wine. Lampo’s was al limone, as tart as an old cat’s gaze.
‘I can no longer ignore that eye,’ said Lampo. ‘Painful though it may be for you to discuss it, Denzil, I have to ask you how you came by it.’
Henry had been appalled by Denzil’s black eye. Was every journalist on the Argus destined to have one before the year was out?
‘You know perfectly well I’m longing to tell you,’ said Denzil.
‘I know,’ said Lampo. ‘That’s why I didn’t ask you.’
‘Bitch,’ said Denzil indulgently. ‘It’s a very sordid story.’
‘What a relief,’ said Lampo. ‘I was frightened it might not be.’
‘I had a brief affair in Amalfi,’ said Denzil. ‘He cut up rough when I wouldn’t give him money. He struck me with a piece of lead piping. End of sordid story. Pity. He was a dear boy, too.’
‘I’m not sure you should talk about this sort of thing in front of my nephew,’ said Lampo. ‘He’s very innocent. He’s led a sheltered life.’ Henry reached for the wine bottle. ‘Not yet, Henry. When uncle says.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Henry. ‘Lampo isn’t my uncle, Denzil.’
‘Oh my God!’ said Denzil. ‘How this revelation has shattered my illusions!’
‘You knew!’ said Henry. ‘You knew all the time.’
‘You made it up so as not to come to Italy with me. You prefer the company of young queers to old queers,’ said Denzil.
‘There’s nothing between me and Lampo,’ said Henry.
‘Oh good,’ said Denzil. ‘I was a bit worried about that.’
He smiled at Lampo. Lampo smiled back. Henry’s blood ran cold. He fought hard against believing the unbelievable. He heard, vaguely, their chit-chat.
‘Were you happy at school, Lampo?’
‘No. I should have been a naval rating.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘I’m very good at repelling boarders. Henry was one of the many boarders I repelled.’
Denzil laughed. What could Lampo see in this middle-aged and affected journalist, with his limp, his parchment skin, his hand-carved Scottish walking-stick and his black eye?
‘Did you have an unhappy youth?’ Lampo asked.
‘Yes,’ Denzil replied. ‘I think I cheered him up quite a bit.’
Lampo giggled! Giggled! Lampo … giggled.
‘Mario?’ called Denzil.
The waiter, whose name was Angelo, approached indulgently.
‘Bring us a bottle of champagne,’ said Denzil.
Lampo frowned. He thought champagne too obvious. But he said nothing.
They had arranged to meet at eleven, in a café in the great square. Lampo came alone, ele
gant in fawn, scattering the pigeons.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I imagine you enjoyed having the bed to yourself.’ He ordered an espresso. Henry ordered a cappuccino. ‘You could dream of Anna to your heart’s content.’
‘Dreams! They’re all I ever get.’
‘Well, I’ve got my dream.’
‘Denzil??’
‘It shocks you, doesn’t it?’
‘Not shocks. Astounds.’
‘We’re lonely, Henry.’
‘Lonely! You! I’ve always envied you your sophistication.’
Lampo gave his slightly twisted, slightly weary smile. A Belgian tour party filed into the square.
‘I’d have thought sophistication was quite a recipe for loneliness,’ said Lampo. ‘Don’t you think I felt lonely as I saw bloody Tosser leading Diana to the altar? Don’t you think I was bitterly envious?’
‘But you don’t want that, Lampo.’
‘That doesn’t stop me feeling envious.’
‘Of Tosser??’ said Henry, so loudly that a passing pharmacist turned to see what passion was stirring this young Englishman. ‘You’re worth ten thousand Tossers.’
‘Another recipe for loneliness,’ said Lampo. ‘Henry? We have the use of a villa in a place called Marina di Pietrasanta, on the Versilian Riviera.’
‘I might not want to go to the seaside.’
‘You might not be being invited to go to the seaside,’ said Lampo gently.
‘What?’
‘Homosexuality is illegal. Every time my feelings are stirred I become a criminal. Would you begrudge Denzil and me four days alone together, safe from prying eyes?’
‘Bloody hell, Lampo,’ said Henry. ‘The only reason I didn’t go off with Anna was because I was too considerate to you.’
‘One of life’s little lessons,’ said Lampo, smiling his twisted smile. ‘Never be considerate to your social superiors unless it suits you. We’ll never be considerate to you unless it suits us.’
Lampo paid for the coffee. Denzil was limping towards them. They went to meet him. They stood in the very middle of the great square, in the hot sunshine. Henry knew that his grumpiness was a lost cause.