by Angela Arney
He settled down to work. The office looked out on to the garden and the sliding glass doors were permanently open. In England, Peter knew he would be constantly distracted if he looked out into the garden of his home, either by the antics of the dogs or by a flock of starlings strutting self-importantly about. But here, he found it easy to ignore the exotic garden, so perfect it looked like a film-set rather than a real garden.
‘The post, Mr Chapman.’ The Chinese maid, who came with the rented house, entered the room. ‘And a package by courier from Milton Hyam of Twentieth Century Fox. He said you were expecting it.’
‘Thank you, Lin Din.’
Peter took the post and the package. He zipped through the post. Nothing of importance. Every day he hoped for a letter or postcard from Eleanora but was always disappointed. He turned to the package and silently cursed Milton Hyam. I should have said no, he thought irritably, and forced Milton to get someone else to look at his friend’s script.
But that had not proved easy. ‘Gee, Pete,’ said Milton in the familiar way he had which Peter hated. ‘I told this Italian guy that I’d get the best scriptwriter I’ve got to read it. And, Pete, old buddy, you are the best.’
‘I’ll look at it,’ Peter said reluctantly.
‘Great, Pete. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. And while you’re at it, just draft out a rough sketch of how you see it on the screen.’
‘Only if it’s any good,’ said Peter, thinking how unlikely that was. He knew it was the first thing the author had written; it was probably pathetic.
‘Sure, sure,’ said Milton. ‘But it’ll be good. This guy’s got talent. Besides I owe him a favour.’
Well, at least it’s not too thick, thought Peter, resentfully eyeing the package Lin Din had dumped on his desk. It shouldn’t take too long to flick through. Heaving a sigh, Peter decided to get the wretched project out of the way before going on with his own work. Opening it, he read the title page. The Two Girls – hardly a gripping or even a very original title. That did not bode well. Uninterestedly, he turned to the first page and began to read.
Two hours later Lin Din came in with his luncheon tray. Peter looked up at the sound of her footsteps, his face ashen.
‘Mr Chapman, sir. Is something wrong?’
‘What?’ Peter shook his head, trying to clear it, then attempted to drag his mind back to the present and the worried Lin Din standing before him. ‘No, no. Everything is OK. Thanks, Lin Din, you can go now.’
She went, but not without a backward glance. Everything was not OK. That was quite obvious.
Peter sat quite still, the luncheon tray untouched. His grey eyes, fixed with intensity on the vivid red of the hibiscus flowers tumbling over on to the patio outside the window, did not see them. All he could see were the words of the manuscript dancing before his eyes.
The Two Girls, a true story, or so the author had written. The storyline was good – a chronicle of passion and tragedy, and unusual, too, because it concerned the selfless, devoted love between two young girls, both of whom were doomed to die, one from tuberculosis brought on by malnutrition, and the other eventually being obliterated by German bombs. A good story, well worth considering as a film script.
He looked down again at the manuscript on his desk then put it together neatly so that the title page was on top again. There it was in black and white, scrawled in the unknown author’s handwriting at the top of the title page: ‘I have felt able to use the true names of the girls concerned as they are both dead. Also this is their only memorial. Both lie in unmarked graves.’
True names! That was not possible. The author, whoever he was, must be lying. But if he were lying why, out of all the names in the world, did he choose those names?
With trembling hands, Peter opened the manuscript again and began to read for a second time. He felt sickened, unwilling to believe, but still he read on, retracing the lives of two girls who had lived in Naples more than twenty years ago.
A peasant girl called Liana. She was the one who had made the greatest sacrifice, working as a prostitute on the streets of Naples; selling her body for food, in the vain hope that her dearest friend might live. Her clients were soldiers who paid her with American dollars and tins of army food. Liana had been killed in one of the last bombing raids on Naples and, according to the story, her body had never been recovered. Like many others it lay in a mass grave beneath a mountain of rubble which covered vast tracts of Naples. The other girl, Liana’s friend, was a marchesa, the marchesa Eleanora Anna Maria, Baroness San Angelo di Magliano e del Monte, and she had died in December 1943 of tuberculosis. Her body was buried somewhere on a hillside near the village of San Angelo in the bare earth, with nothing to mark the spot.
Peter tried to think clearly. But now, when he most needed his writer’s analytical mind, he found it almost impossible to concentrate. Two names filled his head to the exclusion of everything else. Eleanora and Liana, Eleanora and Liana, the repetition hammered in his ears. Why these two names? Why were the girls in the story named after the two women who, in their different ways, were so important in his life? He pondered again on the identity of the author and his claim of truth. Loyalty and love to the women he knew made him reject the claim. It was too absurd. But in spite of that, a deeper gut instinct sensed a grain of truth. The writer had used the name and the place where his own aunt, Lady Liana, had originally lived, and her full name and title had also been used. Idly he wrote down the two names, Eleanora and Liana, then crossed out the name Eleanora. The girl he loved could not possibly be implicated in the story; she had not even been born in 1943. But Liana – thoughtfully he ringed round the name in pencil – she was alive, and she had been there in the castello near San Angelo. He thought of the marchesa’s name, Liana’s name; strange that the exact name had been used and surely an impossibility that anyone else, apart from Liana, should be called that. But Liana was not dead; she was very much alive. It was always possible, of course, that the writer might have used the name thinking that the marchesa had perished in the war; but something else bothered Peter, something he had never thought to question before, but now the story forced him to do so. Why was it that Liana had always insisted on being called Liana, and never by her real name Eleanora? Why did she use the name of the peasant girl in the story? And why was the girl he loved called Eleanora, the name of the marchesa? Liana and Eleanora. Much as he hated himself for even entertaining such thoughts, Peter began to feel suspicious. He had to find out more.
Reaching for the ’phone, he dialled Milton Hyam’s number.
‘Milton?’ He cut short the other man’s effusive greetings. ‘Hello, this is Peter Chapman. I’ve read that story you sent me. Yes, yes, it’s not bad, not bad at all.’ The receiver almost slid out of his hand; he was slippery with perspiration. What an effort it was trying to sound casual, when his mind was reeling with unanswered questions! ‘What I want to know is, who actually wrote it? You only told me he was an Italian, and there’s no name on the manuscript.’
‘Who wrote it? Oh, a guy called Levi, Raul Levi. You must have heard of him, he’s made a name for himself staging all those weird operas and some pretty fancy Shakespeare as well. He’s a great guy, and as I said before I owe him a favour, that’s why I asked you to read it. Boy! If you are ever in Rome and need a woman, Levi is the guy for you. He can . . .’
‘I want to talk to him.’
Peter abruptly interrupted Milton’s enthusiastic flow of information. He did not like the man, and only tolerated him because they saw eye to eye artistically. On a personal level, Peter considered him to be an unscrupulous lecher, and wanted nothing to do with him socially. The moment Milton Hyam said Levi he understood why they were friends. From all accounts they were two of a kind.
Levi, he had directed Dido and Aeneas in London! He suddenly felt afraid, and shivered. Levi, Levi, what was he doing now? Good God! Peter remembered. He was directing Euridice in Florence this summer and Eleanora was there singing in
the chorus. The breath caught in his throat. Like one of his own plays the inevitable was unfolding. But what? That was the worst part – he did not know what it was.
‘You wanna talk with him? Is there a problem?’
The feeling of alarm made Peter’s voice sharp and abrupt. ‘If you want me to write a film-script for this, then I need to talk to the author. And as I’m a very busy man, it will have to be as soon as possible. Do you have a number where I can reach him?’
‘Sure, Pete, hang on.’ Milton Hyam put down the ’phone and fished out his diary. A stuffed shirt of an Englishman, that’s what Peter Chapman was. He grinned suddenly, maliciously gleeful. Peter Chapman and Levi would not get on. Oh, no, they would not get on at all. Those two would mix about as well as oil and water! But, hell, if a good film-script came out of it, who would be complaining? He put on his friendly, I’m-your-buddy-type voice. ‘Hey, Pete, I’ve got a couple of numbers for you. One is his office in Rome, manned by a woman called Monika Muller, and the other is his temporary number in Florence. I’d try the Florence number first.’
‘Thank you.’ Peter made a note of both numbers then put the ’phone down.
He longed to ’phone immediately, but forced himself to wait. It was infuriating having to hang around because of the time-band difference but Peter had to contain his curiosity until he judged the time suitable. Then he put the call through. He was in luck. The ’phone was answered first time.
‘Pronto.’ It was a man’s voice at the other end of the line.
Peter spoke in English. ‘I wish to speak to Raul Levi.’
‘This is Levi.’
Peter hesitated. Now he had him on the telephone what should he say? Certainly he could not blurt out that he was related to a woman who bore the name of the marchesa in Levi’s story. A degree of subtlety was necessary and Peter decided to get Levi to tell him as much as possible without too many questions from himself, and to keep it on a strictly business level.
‘I’m ringing from Hollywood. I’m a writer with Twentieth Century Fox, and Milton Hyam gave me a story of yours to look at, The Two Girls. You remember the one?’
In Italy, Raul sat up and paid attention. ‘Of course I remember. You like it?’
‘It’s very interesting and I think has great possibilities.’ As Peter spoke, he tried to visualize Levi. He had never actually met him, and had only seen him once, very briefly, when he had gone to pick up Eleanora from a rehearsal. Peter remembered him as being tall and very dark, but that was about all. He wished now he had paid more attention. It was difficult concentrating on the conversation, but vital to find out more. ‘Indeed it has all the ingredients for a good film, and that is why I’m calling. I need to know if the story is true in its entirety and that you’ve omitted nothing. As you say it is a true story, we must be certain that there is no likelihood of anyone left alive who might contradict you or even worse sue you or the studio. The studio’s lawyers are very hot on this sort of thing.’
‘I assure you, it is true. Every word is true.’
In Florence Raul pulled an expressive face as he spoke. Most of it was true: only the ending was fabricated to suit his own purposes. And there was no-one left alive to disprove what he said.
‘How, then,’ Peter chose his words with great care, ‘did you come to know of this story? Both girls are dead, you say, lying in unmarked graves. So who told you about them?’
For five minutes Raul spoke without interruption. At the end of that time Peter was convinced that, for the most part, Raul was speaking the truth.
Raul explained how, after he had deserted the army, he had sheltered in the castello with the two girls for almost a year. During that time, in spite of Liana’s sacrifice of her own body in order to get food, Eleanora had died and he and Liana had buried the body on the mountainside. And then Liana herself had been killed in Naples. After that he had left and eventually had met and teamed up with Simionato. Raul explained to Peter that his part in the affair was the only part he had changed. He was, in fact, the unnamed village boy who had helped the two girls. Otherwise it was as it had happened.
But Peter knew it was not the whole truth; one did not need to be endowed with a sixth sense to realize that. There was more to be told, and Peter was certain that only Liana, Countess of Wessex, could do that. He sat holding the ’phone against his ear, hardly conscious of the voice at the other end still talking. Something was wrong, very wrong, and he must speak to Liana as soon as possible. There was no alternative but to show her the story and ask her if she knew of an explanation.
Of course, it was perfectly possible that there was an answer, a very simple one, something he had overlooked. Maybe, because he was a writer, he automatically looked for dramatic, complicated reasoning behind any storyline, and maybe because Levi was in the theatre world, too, he had taken small grains of truth and concocted them into fantasy. It was easy enough to do, and Levi would have no reason to suppose anyone in Hollywood would be likely to challenge his story. No-one other than Peter would have thought twice about it, and why should they? It was pure coincidence which had landed the manuscript in Peter’s lap, the only man in Twentieth Century Fox with the background knowledge enabling him to recognize the names.
‘Does that give you all the answers you want?’
Peter flinched. He had forgotten Levi on the other end of the line. He thought of Eleanora in Florence and almost asked Levi how she was getting along. But he kept silent. With a chorus of a hundred or more it was unlikely that he would know what each individual chorus member was doing. Anyway, now was not the time to speak of Eleanora, particularly in view of her name. Nothing must be allowed to alert Raul Levi that the story’s validity might be questioned.
‘Yes, thank you for explaining your part in the story.’ Peter hoped his voice was suitably smooth in spite of the fact that his head was buzzing with unanswered questions. ‘I’ll be in touch again when I have drafted the film-script. Then we can talk further.’
*
In his apartment in Florence Raul put the ’phone down and suddenly realized he had not the slightest idea of the name of the man he had just been talking to. He shrugged. No matter. He said he would be in touch, and Milton Hyam would know anyway. Pure luck, though, that he had telephoned this morning. A few hours later and he would have been on the way to Milan. Eleanora had already gone on ahead. He frowned now, thinking of her. Why the hell did she decide she had to be so damned independent all of a sudden? Renting her own separate apartment in Milan, against his wishes. An utter waste of money when she would be spending all the time in his, as he had forcibly pointed out.
‘But I might want to be alone sometimes,’ she said, ‘or have my mother and father over. They couldn’t stay with you.’
‘They could stay in a hotel.’
‘If either of them do come, I want them to stay with me,’ Eleanora said stubbornly and refused to discuss it further.
She did not add that lately she had begun to have doubts about their relationship. Mesmerized as she was by Raul, sometimes she even thought she loved him, indeed was almost sure of it. But then something would happen which made her recoil from his presence, and she wanted to leave. Although the strength of will to make a final break was always lacking. Adding to her doubts was the fact that every now and then, in spite of trying not to, she thought of Peter. Those were her lowest moments when she found that she missed him so much it was a physical pain. Those were the moments when she needed to be alone, the moments when Peter and thoughts of Broadacres flooded her with homesickness. At those times, Raul was an intruder, and she needed a place of her own.
Raul had no idea that Eleanora ever had doubts; to him she was just the same as the first day he had met her. Just thinking of Eleanora made him desire her. Damn it! If she had been here they would have made love right here on the floor, the way they always did whenever the mood took them. But no, obstinate and determined, she had gone on to Milan before him. No other woman in the past had
defied him, and if one had, then he would have summarily dispensed with her services in no uncertain manner. Women like that were a nuisance. If there was one thing Raul could not tolerate, it was not getting his own way. But for some reason he could not explain, he wanted to hang on to Eleanora. Even now, after their terrible row – and what a row that had been! – the weekend after the end of Euridice.
‘Where the hell do you think you’ve been? A whole weekend away. Not a word, not a ’phone call.’
‘You don’t own me, Raul. I’m a free agent. Just as you are.’
‘Have you been with another man? If you have, I’ll kill you.’ Grabbing her arm roughly, Raul swung her round to face him.
And face him she did, with not a trace of fear. ‘Kill me? How melodramatic, how very Victorian! I didn’t know you rated fidelity high on your list of priorities. It must be a recent addition!’
‘I’ll throw your belongings out on the street. I’m not having a two-timing bitch living with me.’
Eleanora shook herself free. ‘Don’t waste your energy, my dear. I’m going anyway. I can’t live with a man who thinks he owns me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Bondage, Raul, bondage, that’s what it is. You told me you were free and proud of it, and I agreed. Now I find out the freedom is only for you, not me!’
She began to run up the stairs. ‘Eleanora, no, don’t go. Just tell me where you’ve been.’ Raul could hardly believe it was himself speaking.
Eleanora paused, looking back down the curve of the staircase. ‘I go where I want when I want,’ she said fiercely. ‘Take me the way I am or let me go.’
He took her the way she was and they ended up making passionate love, and Raul never found out where she had been.
Now he made himself a coffee and lit a cigarette. What was I thinking of, letting her get away with it? I must be going soft in the head! But he grinned at the memory, anger dimmed now, only admiration left for the ferocious way she had stood her ground. Dark hair flying, black eyes flashing, she had matched him word for word, not intimidated in the slightest, and not giving an inch. Eleanora was very impressive when she was at the height of anger.