by Ngaio Marsh
He couldn’t help rather wishing that there was a jalousie in his newspaper through which he could observe Mr. Mailer and the two strangers and he disliked himself for so wishing. It was as if any thought of Mailer involved a kind of furtiveness in himself, and since normally he was direct in his dealings, the reaction was disagreeable to him.
All the same he couldn’t resist moving his paper a fraction to one side so he could bring the group into his left eye’s field of vision.
There they were. Mailer’s back was still turned towards Barnaby. He was evidently talking with some emphasis and had engaged the rapt attention of the large couple. They gazed at him with the utmost deference. Suddenly both of them smiled.
A familiar smile. It took Barnaby a moment or two to place it and then he realized with quite a shock that it was the smile of the Etruscan terra-cottas in the Villa Giulia: the smile of Hermes and Apollo, the closed smile that sharpens the mouth like an arrowhead and — cruel, tranquil or worldly, whichever it may be — is always enigmatic. Intensely lively, it is as knowledgeable as the smile of the dead.
It faded on the mouths of the couple but didn’t quite vanish, so that now, thought Barnaby, they had become the Bride and Groom of the Villa Giulia sarcophagus, and really the man’s gently protective air furthered the resemblance. How very odd, Barnaby thought. Fascinated, he forgot about Sebastian Mailer and lowered his newspaper.
He hadn’t noticed that above the map in the wall there hung a tilted looking-glass. Some trick of light from the revolving doors flashed across it. He glanced up and there, again between the heads of lovers, was Mr. Mailer, looking straight into his eyes.
His reaction was indefensible. He got up quickly and left the hotel.
He couldn’t account for it. He walked round Navona telling himself how atrociously he had behaved, “Without the man I have just cut,” he reminded himself, “the crowning event of my career wouldn’t have happened. I would still be trying to re-write my most important book and very likely I would fail. I owe everything to him!” What on earth had moved him then, to behave atrociously? Was he so ashamed of that Roman night that he couldn’t bear to be reminded of it? He supposed it must be that but at the same time he knew that there had been a greater compulsion.
He disliked Mr. Mailer. He disliked him very much indeed. And in some incomprehensible fashion he was afraid of him.
He walked right round the great Piazza before he came to his decision. He would, if possible, undo the damage. He would go back to the hotel and if Mr. Mailer was no longer there he would seek him out at the trattoria where they had dined. Mailer was an habitué and his address might be known to the proprietor. “I’ll do that!” thought Barnaby.
He had never taken more distasteful action. As he entered by the revolving doors into the hotel foyer he found that all the tourists had gone but that Mr. Mailer was still in conference with the “Etruscan” couple.
He saw Barnaby at once and set his gaze on him without giving the smallest sign of recognition. He had been speaking to the “Etruscans” and he went on speaking to them but with his eyes fixed on Barnaby’s. Barnaby thought: “Now he’s cut me dead, and serve me bloody well right,” and he walked steadily towards them.
As he drew near he heard Mr. Mailer say:
“Rome is so bewildering, is it not? Even after many yisits? Perhaps I may be able to help you? A cicerone?”
“Mr. Mailer?” Barnaby heard himself say. “I wonder if you remember me. Barnaby Grant.”
“I remember you very well, Mr. Grant.”
Silence.
“Well,” he thought, “I’ll get on with it,” and said: “I saw your reflection just now in that glass. I can’t imagine why I didn’t know you at once and can only plead a chronic absence of mind. When I was half-way round Navona the penny dropped and I came back in the hope that you would still be here.” He turned to the “Etruscans.”
“Please forgive me,” said the wretched Barnaby, “I’m interrupting.”
Simultaneously they made deprecating noises and then the man, his whole face enlivened by that arrowhead smile, exclaimed: “But I am right! I cannot be mistaken! This is the Mr. Barnaby Grant.” He appealed to Mr. Mailer. “I am right, am I not?” His wife made a little crooning sound.
Mr. Mailer said: “Indeed, yes. May I introduce: The Baron and Baroness Van der Veghel.”
They shook hands eagerly and were voluble. They had read all the books, both in Dutch (they were by birth Hollanders) and in English (they were citizens of the world). They had his last (surely his greatest?) work actually with them — there was a coincidence! They turned to Mr. Mailer. He, of course, had read it?
“Indeed, yes,” he said exactly as he had said it before. “Every word. I was completely rivetted.”
He had used such an odd inflection that Barnaby, already on edge, looked nervously at him, but their companions were in full spate and interrupted each other in a recital of the excellencies of Barnaby’s works.
It would not be true to say that Mr. Mailer listened to their raptures sardonically. He merely listened. His detachment was an acute embarrassment to Barnaby Grant. When it had all died down — the predictable hope that he would join them for drinks (they were staying in the hotel) the reiterated assurances that his work had meant so much to them, the apologies that they were intruding and the tactful withdrawal, had all been executed — Barnaby found himself alone with Sebastian Mailer.
“I am not surprised,” Mr. Mailer said, “that you were disinclined to renew our acquaintance, Mr. Grant. I, on the contrary, have sought you out. Perhaps we may move to somewhere a little more private? There is a writing-room, I think. Shall we—?”
For the rest of his life Barnaby would be sickened by the memory of that commonplace little room with its pseudo empire furniture, its floral carpet and the false tapestry on the wall: a mass-produced tapestry, popular in small hotels, depicting the fall of Icarus.
“I shall come straight to the point,” Mr. Mailer said. “Always best, don’t you agree?”
He did precisely that. Sitting rather primly on a gilt-legged chair, his soft hands folded together and his mumbled thumbs gently revolving round each other, Mr. Mailer set about blackmailing Barnaby Grant.
All this happened a fortnight before the morning when Sophy Jason saw her suddenly bereaved friend off at the Leonardo da Vinci Airport. She returned by bus to Rome and to the roof garden of the Pensione Gallico where, ten months ago, Barnaby Grant had received Sebastian Mailer. Here she took stock of her situation.
She was twenty-three years old, worked for a firm of London publishers and had begun to make her way as a children’s author. This was her first visit to Rome. She and the bereaved friend were to have spent their summer holidays together in Italy.
They had not made out a hard-and-fast itinerary but had snowed themselves under with brochures, read the indispensable Miss Georgina Masson and wandered in a trance about the streets and monuments. The friend’s so-abruptly-deceased father had a large interest in a printing works near Turin and had arranged for the girls to draw most generously upon the firm’s Roman office for funds. They had been given business and personal letters of introduction. Together, they had been in rapture: alone, Sophy felt strange but fundamentally exhilarated. To be under her own steam — and in Rome! She had Titian hair, large eyes and a generous mouth and had already found it advisable to stand with her back to the wall in crowded lifts and indeed wherever two or more Roman gentlemen were gathered together at close quarters. “Quarters,” as she had remarked to her friend, being the operative word.
“I must make a plan or two, of sorts,” she told herself, but the boxes on the roof garden were full of spring flowers, the air shook with voices, traffic, footsteps and the endearing clop of hooves on cobble-stones. Should she blow a couple of thousand lire and take a carriage to the Spanish Steps? Should she walk and walk until bullets and live coals began to assemble on the soles of her feet? What to do?
&nb
sp; “Really, I ought to make a plan,” thought crazy Sophy and then — here she was, feckless and blissful, walking down the Corso in she knew not what direction. Before long she was contentedly lost.
Sophy bought herself gloves, pink sunglasses, espadrilles and a pair of footpads, which she put on, there and then, greatly to her comfort. Leaving the store she noticed a little bureau set up near the entrance. “Do,” it urged in English on a large banner, “let us be your Guide to Rome.”
A dark, savage-looking girl sat scornfully behind the counter, doing her nails.
Sophy read some of the notices and glanced at already familiar brochures. She was about to leave when a smaller card caught her eye. It advertised in printed Italianate script. “Il Cicerone, personally conducted excursions. Something different!” it exclaimed. “Not too exhausting, sophisticated visits to some of the least-publicized and most fascinating places in Rome. Under the learned and highly individual guidance of Mr. Sebastian Mailer. Dinner at a most exclusive restaurant and further unconventional expeditions by arrangement.
“Guest of honour: The distinguished British author, Mr. Barnaby Grant, has graciously consented to accompany the excursions from April 23rd until May 7th. Sundays included.”
Sophy was astounded. Barnaby Grant was the biggest of all big guns in her publisher’s armory of authors. His new and most important novel, set in Rome and called Simon in Latium had been their prestige event and the best seller of the year. Already bookshops here were full of the Italian translation.
Sophy had offered Barnaby Grant drinks at a deafening cocktail party given by her publishing house and she had once been introduced to him by her immediate boss. She had formed her own idea of him and it did not accommodate the thought of his traipsing round Rome with a clutch of sightseers. She supposed he must be very highly paid for it and found the thought disagreeable. In any case could so small a concern as this appeared to be afford the sort of payment Barnaby Grant would command? Perhaps, she thought, suddenly inspired, he’s a chum of this learned and highly individual Mr. Sebastian Mailer.
She was still gazing absentmindedly at the notice when she became aware of a man at her elbow. She had the impression that he must have been there for some time and that he had been staring at her. He continued to stare and she thought: “Oh blast! What a bore you are.”
“Do forgive me,” said the man removing his greenish black hat. “Please don’t think me impertinent. My name is Sebastian Mailer. You — had noticed my little announcement I believe.”
The girl behind the counter glanced at him. She had painted her nails and now disdainfully twiddled them in the air. Sophy faced Mr. Mailer.
“Yes,” she said. “I had.”
He made her a little bow. “I must not intrude. Please!” and moved away.
Sophy said: “Not at all,” and because she felt that she had made a silly assumption, added: “I was so interested to see Barnaby Grant’s name on your card.”
“I am indeed fortunate,” Mr. Mailer rejoined, “am I not? Perhaps you would care — but excuse me. One moment. Would you mind?”
He said something in Italian to the savage girl, who opened a drawer, extracted what seemed to be a book of vouchers and cast it on the counter.
Mr. Mailer inspected it. “Ah yes,” he said. “Others, also, would seem to be interested. We are fully booked, I see.”
At once Sophy felt an acute disappointment. Of all things now, she wanted to join one of Mr. Mailer’s highly sophisticated tours. “Your numbers are strictly limited, are they?” she asked.
“It is an essential feature.” He was preoccupied with his vouchers.
“Might there be a cancellation?”
“I beg your pardon? You were saying?”
“A cancellation?”
“Ah. Quite. Well — possibly. You feel you would like to join one of my expeditions.”
“Very much,” Sophy said and supposed that it must be so. He pursed up his full mouth and thumbed over his vouchers. “Ah,” he said. “As it falls out! There is a cancellation, I see. Saturday, the twenty-sixth. Our first tour. The afternoon and evening. But before you make a decision I’m sure you would like to know about cost. Allow me.”
He produced a folder and turned aside in a gentlemanly manner while Sophy examined it. The itinerary was given and the name of the restaurant where the party would dine. In the evening they would take a carriage drive and then visit a nightclub. The overall charge made Sophy blink. It was enormous.
“I know,” Mr. Mailer tactfully assured her. “But there are many much, much less expensive tours than mine. The Signorina here would be pleased to inform you.”
Obviously he didn’t give a damn whether she went or stayed away. This attitude roused a devil of recklessness in Sophy. After all, mad though it seemed, she could manage it.
“I shall be very glad to take the cancellation,” she said, and even to herself her voice sounded both prim and defiant.
He said something further in Italian to the girl, raised his hat, murmured, “Then — arrivederci,” to Sophy and left her to cope.
“You pay to me,” said the girl ferociously and when Sophy had done so presented her with a ticket and a cackle of inexplicable laughter. Sophy laughed jauntily if senselessly in return, desiring, as always, to be friendly with all and sundry.
She continued to walk about Rome and to anticipate, with feelings she would have been quite unable to define, Saturday, the twenty-sixth of April.
“I must say,” Lady Bracely murmured, “you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself very madly. I never saw such a glum face.”
“I’m sorry, Auntie Sonia. I don’t mean to look glum. Honestly, I couldn’t be more grateful.”
“Oh,” she said, dismissing it, “grateful! I just hoped that we might have a nice, gay time together in Rome.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“You’re so — odd. Restless. And you don’t look at all well, either. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Nothing.”
“On the tiles I suppose.”
“I’ll be all right. Really.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have pranced out of Perugia like that.”
“I couldn’t have been more bored with Perugia. Students can be such an unutterable drag. And after Franky and I broke up — you know.”
“All the same your parents or lawyers or the Lord Chancellor or whoever it is will probably be livid with me. For not ordering you back.”
“Does it matter? And anyway — my parents! We know, with all respect to your horrible brother, darling, that the longer his boy-child keeps out of his life the better he likes it.”
“ Kenneth — darling!”
“As for Mummy—what’s the name of that dypso-bin she’s moved into? I keep forgetting.”
“Kenneth!”
“So come off it, angel. We’re not still in the twenties, you know.”
They looked thoughtfully at each other.
His aunt said: “Were you a very bad lot in Perugia, Kenneth?”
“No worse than a dozen others.”
“What sort of lot? What did you do?”
“Oh.” Kenneth said, “this and that. Fun things.” He became self-suffused with charm. “You’re much too young to be told,” he said. “What a fabulous dress. Did you get it from that amazing lady?”
“Do you like it? Yes, I did. Astronomical.”
“And looks it.”
His aunt eyed herself over. “It had better,” she muttered.
“O Lord!” Kenneth said discontentedly and dropped into a chair. “Sorry! It must be the weather or something.”
“To tell you the truth I’m slightly edgy myself. Think of something delicious and outrageous we can do, darling. What is there?”
Kenneth folded his hands across the lower half of his face like a yashmak. His large and melting brown eyes looked over the top at his aunt. There was a kind of fitful affectation in everything he did: he tried
on his mannerisms and discarded them as fretfully as his aunt tried on her hats.
“Sweetie,” he said. “There is a thing.”
“Well — what? I can’t hear you when you talk behind your fingers.”
He made a triangular hole with them and spoke through that. “I know a little man,” he said.
“What little man? Where?”
“In Perugia and now here.”
“What about him?”
“He’s rather a clever little man. Well, not so little, actually.”
“Kenneth, don’t go on like that. It’s maddening: it’s infuriating.” And then suddenly: “In Perugia. Did you — did you — smoke—?”
“There’s no need for the hushed tones, darling. You’ve been handed the usual nonsense, I see.”
“Then you did?”
“Of course,” he said impatiently, and after a pause changed his attitude. He clasped his hands round his knee and tilted his head on one side. “You’re so fabulous,” he said. “I can tell you anything. As if you were my generation. Aren’t we wonderful? Both of us?”
“Are we? Kenneth — what’s it like?”
“Pot? Do you really want to know?”
“I’m asking, aren’t I?”
“Dire the first time and quite fun if you persevere. Kid stuff really. All the fuss is about nothing.”
“It’s done at — at parties, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, lovey. Want to try?”
“It’s not habit-forming. Is it?”
“Of course it’s not. It’s nothing. It’s O.K. as far as it goes. You don’t get hooked. Not on pot. You’d better meet my little man. Try a little trip. In point of fact I could arrange a fabulous trip. Madly groovy. You’d adore it. All sorts of gorgeous gents. Super exotic pad. The lot.”
She looked at him through her impossible lashes: a girl’s look that did a kind of injury to her face.
“I might,” she said.
“Only thing — it’s top-bracket for expense. All-time-high and worth it. One needs lots of lovely lolly and I haven’t — surprise, surprise — got a morsel.”