The Lovers

by Morris West

  ‘What else have I been telling you, for God’s sake! You don’t have to be without me.’

  ‘Papa is very angry with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of me, because you forced him to change his plans with Mr Jordan and Lieutenant Doria.’

  ‘Did he tell you what his plans were?’

  ‘No. He was talking to Aunt Lucietta. I was standing with Doria a few paces away. He called you a dangerous young upstart. He said the sooner you were gone, the better.’

  ‘He’ll have his wish. The both of us will be gone the moment Molloy gets back. The both of us, do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you; but I don’t want to talk any more. I want to make love again. Come back to bed!’

  ‘Then you’d better give me the glassware. It’s fragile. If it breaks in bed we’ll do ourselves a damage.’

  Giulia giggled and re-wrapped the piece in tissue paper. She laid it on the bedside table and wedged it with Hadjidakis’ diary. It was the first time she noticed the book. She ran her hand over the leather binding and asked:

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s Hadjidakis’ journal. I have to pack it in with the rest of his gear and hand it over to Molloy in Ischia.’

  Giulia picked up the book and leafed through it. She frowned in disappointment.

  ‘It’s written in Greek.’

  ‘So it is.’

  ‘Molloy told me you read Greek.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Have you read this?’

  ‘Just enough to know that it’s a private document.’

  ‘Come now, Cavanagh.’ She began tickling and teasing him.

  ‘How much more private can we be – two lovers naked in bed at three in the morning. Read it to me please!’

  For Cavanagh, suddenly – after wild and happy sex, in an afterglow of tender sentiment – there was the high, Luciferian moment of which he had dreamed. He had only to translate a few passages and all the dust sheets that covered this proposed marriage of convenience would be tatters in the wind. Giulia would be brought, untimely, to the ordeal by fire; but at least he, the lover, would be there to hand her, only lightly singed, through the flames. Giulia opened the volume at the title page and handed it to him. He accepted it, pondered awhile, then closed it firmly and shoved it into the drawer of the bedside table. He said curtly:

  ‘I can’t do it, my love. The man wrote in Greek to keep his thoughts private. He’s dead now and entitled to the decencies.’

  Giulia was instantly in a rage – like a spoilt schoolgirl denied a lollipop. She could not scream, but her whispered abuse came out a viperous hiss:

  ‘I don’t need a lesson in manners, Cavanagh – not from you, not from anyone. This is just what papa complains about! You presume too much. You’re too big for your deck-shoes! You swear you love me. I come creeping to your bed like a whore, just to be near you, but you won’t share a silly thing like this. What’s in the book anyway? Dirty stories?’

  ‘Very dirty stories.’ Cavanagh was cold and unyielding. ‘Stories that I hope his wife never gets to read, that I’d rather not tell you either, for fear they’d turn the things we do so happily into something spoiled, like bad fruit. So will you please give over now and drop the subject?’

  He slipped into bed again and drew the covers over them both. She turned her back to him and lay a long time, stiff, silent and unyielding. Finally, she found voice to tell him like a petulant child:

  ‘The words on the medal are a lie. I called and you didn’t come.’

  ‘Not so! I was here all the time. I’m still here. I love you. I will not offer you poisoned fruit.’

  ‘Why? Because you want to keep the poison for your own use?’

  ‘That’s a very Renaissance point of view.’

  ‘We’re a Renaissance family. You’d be wise to remember that.’

  ‘I’m forced to remember it every day.’

  ‘Does my father know you have this book?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does Molloy?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. After tonight, it will be locked in the ship’s safe until I can deliver it to Molloy.’

  ‘That means you don’t trust me.’

  ‘On the contrary. It means I’m confessing a mistake. I should have put it in the safe the moment I realised what it was. It was the most natural thing in the world for you to ask me to read it to you – and the hardest thing for me to refuse. Can we kiss and make up now?’

  ‘If you’ll answer a question for me.’

  ‘I’d like notice of the question before I promise to answer it.’

  ‘I hate you, Cavanagh! I hate you twice over when you talk like a lawyer.’

  ‘I’m not talking at all unless I have notice of the question.’

  ‘Does Lou Molloy appear in the book? Does he appear in any of the dirty stories?’

  ‘That’s two questions instead of one.’

  ‘And the answer?’

  ‘The same to both: niente da dire, no comment.’

  ‘Then no more loving, Cavanagh. I’m going back to my own bed.’

  ‘It’ll be cold, Giulia my love, and full of prickles instead of rose petals. You’ll be much cosier here, I promise.’

  In the end, she stayed dangerously late, passing through the saloon just two minutes ahead of Rodolfo with his vacuum cleaner and Chef, who came to the galley to brew the first batch of morning coffee.

  By ten in the morning, they were at sea again, coasting slowly southward past Porto Cervo and Golfo Pevero and the long white beach of Romazzino and the islet with the sinister name, Mortorio, the funeral place.

  It was a clear, bright day, with a high-pressure system clamped solid over the northern end of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Farnese was on the bridge with Cavanagh, scanning the coastline through binoculars and giving a running commentary for the benefit of Miss Aurora Lambert, who was looking very much the star of stage and screen in a halter top and white shorts, her hair tied back with a scarlet ribbon, her lily-white skin gleaming with suntan lotion.

  ‘. . . At the moment, everything you see is wasteland: rocks and scrub and wild herbs. There is no water, no electricity. The only roads are what they call strade bianche, all-weather tracks bulldozed to make connection with the main highway round the island . . . But look at the sea, sapphire blue, emerald green, with virgin beaches, and a low hinterland and all those dramatic contours behind it . . . It could be – it should be a tourist paradise. But Molloy is right, the time is not ripe. It’s a fabulous development project, but a lousy investment. One would need a bottomless well of money even to put in the substructures . . . That’s why he wants us to concentrate on places where the substructures are already in existence . . . Still, one cannot help dreaming.’

  ‘But why, Sandro, is it still so deserted?’ Aurora Lambert prompted him to continue.

  ‘Because, cara mia, until after the war, this whole island was infested with malaria. When the Allies took it over, they conducted a huge campaign to wipe out the anopheles mosquito. Walk into any village and you will see daubed on the doors of the cottages ‘DDT’, signifying that the place has been disinfected . . . But there are historic reasons too. The island folk always mistrusted the sea. That’s where the raiders came from, the mainland tribes, the Etruscans, the Phoenicians from Africa and later the Corsairs and all the other plunderers from Italy and Spain and France and Sicily and Malta . . . The original inhabitants built the nuraghi as watchtowers and forts. The later ones fled inland, leaving only a small seaboard population of fisherfolk and traders . . . I wish I knew more of the history of these names. Over there, see! That’s Cala di Volpe, Fox Cove . . . Was it named for the animal, I wonder, or for some old pirate? The bay bends round behind the cape. It would have made a wonderful ambush . . .’

  Cavanagh interrupted his narrative to announce quietly:

  ‘We’ve got company, sir, about a mile astern.’

  Farnese looked first at the radar and th
en astern through the binoculars. He said:

  ‘It’s the Jackie Sprat.’

  ‘Yes. She picked us up as we passed Porto Pevero. She’ll loiter behind us all the way.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing. We proceed as planned. Have a picnic, spend the day on the beach, take a siesta, have a cocktail cruise, snug down for the night in another bay – or the same one, if it pleases you.’

  ‘Nobody’s told me where we’re going!’

  A friendly critic had once complimented Aurora Lambert on ‘a querulousness, which stops just short of boring, but in the context of this play, is sometimes dramatically effective’. So, even in her daily discourse, the tiny whine of complaint was always audible. Cavanagh answered cheerfully:

  ‘Step over here and I’ll show you on the chart. Then, if you like, you can take us part of the way yourself . . .’

  ‘I’d love that.’

  It surprised them both to find that she had a steady hand on the helm and a gift of silence when she was about something that interested her. Farnese kissed her, gave the thumbs up sign to her performance, then bent with Cavanagh over the table to examine the somewhat unsatisfactory chart for their next port of call, the stretch of water defined by the two islands of Tavolara and Molara, and the hooked headland which was called Coda Cavallo – the Horse’s Tail. Farnese was at once enthusiastic and concerned:

  ‘. . . For a picnic, for your diving and swimming, it is a fabulous place. It has good holding ground, with sand and weed, a variety of beaches and always a prospect of archaeological finds. This little island here – Molara – was once a Phoenician trading port. There are traces of an ancient shrine. The shallows are littered with fragments of amphorae and assorted pottery. Occasionally you find an old stone anchor, with the hole bored through the middle . . .’

  ‘What about the big island, Tavolara?’

  ‘A secret military zone. Access is prohibited. There’s a tiny harbour from which tunnels go into the centre of the mountain. You’ll be fired on without warning if you stick your nose a metre inside it.’

  ‘So far, so good,’ said Cavanagh. ‘What other problems do we have?’

  Farnese pointed to the chart. ‘Reefs, here and here, between the islands and the shore. You’ll need to go dead slow and keep a man on bow-watch, if you get anywhere near this point.’

  ‘I’ll be steering well clear.’

  ‘But remember them, for God’s sake, if you have to get out fast or manoeuvre in close quarters.’

  ‘It’s good advice, sir. Be sure I’ll take it.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Farnese persisted, ‘what will Jordan and Doria be doing?’

  ‘I haven’t been told, sir. I’m doing exactly what was requested. I’m anchoring between Molara and Coda Cavallo. I’m taking you all ashore for a picnic while I give your daughter her first diving lessons. Miss Pritchard will come with us to serve lunch. Rodolfo will drive the tender and set up beach umbrellas for you. I’ll take the small rubber dinghy with an outboard. I’ll bring Giulia to join you on the beach for lunch. Leo, Jackie and Chef will remain on board. They will be armed and they will maintain a deck-and-signal watch until we return.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Everything. We’re on a Mediterranean pleasure cruise, sailing under the Stars and Stripes and the courtesy flag of the Republic of Italy.’

  ‘Then why the arms?’

  ‘The deck watch is always armed, sir, to protect the swimmers against sharks and other sea monsters. Your Excellency may relax. I know that I am carrying very precious cargo.’ He glanced across at Aurora Lambert and switched to English. ‘Turn the wheel to the left, until the bow is clear of that far point. That’s it, now look at your compass. It should be reading a hundred and sixty-five.’

  ‘A hundred and sixty-three.’

  ‘That will do very nicely, thank you, Miss Lambert.’

  ‘Why is it,’ mused Farnese, softly, ‘why is it that I like you so much and trust you so little, Cavanagh?’

  ‘It’s called conflict of interest, sir.’ They were back to Italian now. Cavanagh was eloquent and cheerful. ‘If I were the one marrying your daughter, you’d trust me to the world’s end and have brass bands out to welcome me into your house as the perfect son-in-law. As it is . . .’ He gave a theatrical shrug and made a rueful mouth. ‘As it is, I’m the cuckoo in the nest, and short of bloodshed, or a blow-up with Molloy, you’re wondering how the hell to get me out of it. I’ve told you plainly. It’s Giulia who has the answer to that problem. She knows now that it’s she who must tell me to go or stay. So, why don’t you and I relax and enjoy this God-given day.’

  ‘Why not indeed,’ said Alessandro Farnese. ‘Who knows how many more God will grant to either of us.’

  The traffic became more active as they approached Capo Figari, the northern sentinel to the port of Olbia, so Cavanagh took the wheel again, while Farnese watched the Jackie Sprat, trailing a mile behind them. Suddenly he snapped:

  ‘My God, they’re arresting her!’

  ‘Who’s arresting what?’ Cavanagh had his eye on a big ferry charging into port from Civitavecchia.

  ‘Two vessels, one’s a motor torpedo boat from the Italian Navy, the other’s a Customs cutter from the Guardia di Finanza. They’re closing on the Jackie Sprat, ordering her to stop.’

  ‘Board and search operation.’ Cavanagh’s tone was casual.

  ‘Did you know about it?’

  ‘No, sir. It was simply one of the options Jordan discussed with me. A delaying tactic, he called it. If they found – or indeed if they planted – any contraband, then they could hold and interrogate Benetti and his crew. I’d love to know what’s going on below decks right now. Would you mind if we hove to for a few moments?’

  ‘Better we don’t.’ Farnese was curt. ‘You made a great fuss about ordering him off the Salamandra. He won’t thank you for turning this operation into a spectator sport. Let’s keep moving. How long now to Coda Cavallo?’

  ‘We’ll have anchors down in fifteen minutes. The ladies can start changing for the beach if they like. Rodolfo will run the gear ashore first and put up the sun umbrellas and set the picnic site . . . That’s Tavolara ahead . . . According to the chart the best way in is round the south side . . . It’s a massive chunk of rock, isn’t it?’

  Massive it was, and curiously sinister. Its lower slopes were covered in brushwood. Its precipitous limestone crags, shining in the sun, were wreathed with chattering sea birds, while a peregrine falcon climbed high into the blue, above its summit.

  On the north side of it, the tiny harbour mouth was dark and unwelcoming. All that could be seen within it was a causeway and a wall and a series of black tunnel mouths leading into the depths of the mountain. On the south, the rock walls were dazzling and the sea birds raucous, and a pair of seals sunned themselves on a wet rock. The bay itself was ringed with small white beaches, beyond which the hillocks were covered with golden broom, while a few goats grazed on the coarse grasses.

  Cavanagh called Rodolfo to stand watch in the bows, while Jackie handled the winch. He turned left into a perfectly sheltered anchorage, out of the lurch of the sea, in a wide, deep basin, fringed with rocky fingers and sandy beaches. He pushed far up under Coda Cavallo and laid his anchors in a wide spread with plenty of chain to prevent dragging if the sea breeze freshened in the afternoon.

  He watched with a certain youthful satisfaction as the boys locked the winches and then hurried to load the tender and the rubber dinghy and lower them overside, ready for embarkation. He had been up early to drill them on what he wanted: a speedy disembarkation and a trouble-free day. When Farnese and Aurora Lambert left the bridge, he switched the radio to the frequency Carl Jordan had given him and announced his presence with the pre-arranged signal:

  ‘This is Letter Coda to Cavallo. Do you read?’ The answer came back a few seconds later, read in English at dictation speed. Cavanagh copied it word by word. ‘This is
Cavallo to Coda. Operation now concluding. Ship and company under arrest for possession of prohibited substances. Three crew members in custody and under question aboard Customs vessel. Captain and first mate driving arrested vessel to Maddalena under Navy escort. Enjoy your holiday. Sicily is beautiful at this time of year. Thank you. Out.’

  Cavanagh gave a whistle of satisfaction, shoved the message in his pocket and walked out on deck. Rodolfo was just pushing off in the tender to set up umbrellas, wind-breaks, deck-chairs and the picnic table on a white beach. Jackie and Leo were loading diving gear into the small rubber dinghy and fitting the outboard motor. The women were below changing into beach wear. Farnese was leaning over the rail watching the proceedings. Cavanagh showed him the message he had just received. Farnese nodded indifferently.

  ‘It is good that these people are in custody. I imagine they will be taken to the prison at Tempio di Pausania and held without bail, while the magistrate conducts his primary inquiries. That will take them out of the argument for a while. By the time the Navy and the Guardia di Finanza make their depositions and the instructing judge has studied them and the prisoners have made their depositions and the judge has studied those too, it will be, oh, at least six months, more than enough time to . . .’

  Before he had time to finish the sentence there was the sound of an explosion, muffled and distant. It was followed by two others. Then over the low, northward ridges that hid the city of Olbia, they saw a high, billowing cloud of black smoke, spreading at the base, its apex shot through with flames, thrusting higher and higher into the blue sky.

  Cavanagh was caught in a sickening moment of horror – a moment he had lived before during the combat years: a steel ship erupting into fragments, human bodies tossed like rag dolls into the air, the sea aflame, the sky blackened by smoke, the water putrid with tarry waste and oil that choked the lungs of any who survived the blast. Then he himself was choking on his own anger. He hammered his fists on the rail and finally found voice for a torrent of curses:

  ‘That son-of-a-bitch! That rotten, treacherous bastard! He told me he was going to stage an arrest and plant enough evidence to hold ’em and get ’em into custody, while the carabinieri on Elba investigated the murder of Hadjidakis . . .’