by Morris West
‘That’s quite a testimonial.’ Giulia gave him a small, dubious smile. ‘Do you have any photographs?’
‘Of course.’ He gave an embarrassed grin. ‘Never travel without ’em. That’s Louise, with our two sons and our daughter and their respective spouses. These in front are our four grandchildren.’
‘That’s already a tribe, Cavanagh!’
‘Fortunately, none of them lives with us. They join us sometimes for holidays. And Louise is on permanent call as matriarch – which I tell her is crazy.’
‘Where did you and Louise meet?’
‘In Paris. She was studying at the Conservatoire, cello and composition. She and three other students had formed a quartet which played each night in a little boîte on the Left Bank. They were all classical players, but they had developed a comedy act, skits and musical parodies, which went down well with the audience. I dropped in there most nights and – God help me! – I conned them into letting me join their act as a vocalist. After that, I conned Louise into letting me be the man who walked her home. Et voilà!. We married. We settled in Paris. My career started to prosper. We bred a trio of our own musicians!’
‘Very romantic! Now tell me what your Louise is really like. I can see she’s beautiful. I expected that. You always had good taste in women, Cavanagh. But tell me the rest of it.’
‘The rest of it so simple you’ll laugh at it.’ Cavanagh stared out across the sunlit land towards the misty hills. ‘With Louise, life is always and only “now”. She refuses to brood on the past. She tells me I’m so good at worrying about the future that she doesn’t have to bother about it. She says to our children: “All you have is this moment. Make the most of it!” Nothing frightens her . . .’
‘I might, if she knew I was back in your life.’
‘I doubt it. Besides, this is a weekend visit, not a sojourn.’
‘Are you going to tell her about the visit?’
‘She already knows I’m here in Rome.’
‘But you haven’t told her about me?’
‘No. It’s an agreement we have. I don’t bring my business home. We entertain only our friends. Besides, you’ve paid me a fee. You’re a client. I have no right to discuss you or your business.’ He cupped his chin on his hands and studied her face. Then he challenged her: ‘Why are you playing this game, Giulia?’
‘Because, suddenly, I’m jealous.’
‘You have no cause to be.’
‘You mean I have no right to be.’
‘Put it either way, it’s true!’
‘I know. I had first offer on you, Cavanagh. I turned you down. I shouldn’t have any complaints.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I’m teasing you, Cavanagh.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘I won’t do it again.’
‘You’re forgiven. Now, I want to hear about you.’
‘It’s a long story. I don’t know where to start.’
‘Start where it ended for us.’
For a woman at once compulsive and calculating, she seemed to have great difficulty in framing a simple narrative. Cavanagh waited in silence, until finally she found the opening phrase:
‘After we left Ischia for Rome, everything happened in a rush. Everyone seemed to want the wedding over and done with. I did myself; that would force me to go forward, instead of looking back all the time. As soon as we got to Rome, Molloy was summoned to a private audience with His Holiness at Castelgandolfo, where he was created a Knight of St Gregory. It was really a trivial occasion, as Molloy was quick to realise. He got a scroll and a medal and a papal blessing – and fifteen minutes’ conversation with the Pontiff, mostly about the Communist plot and the defects of US policy in Europe. The Vatican, like the British monarchy, makes much use of these old-fashioned honours, which cost nothing but a little paper and metal and coloured ribbons but keep the illusions of monarchy alive. After that Lou demanded a very quiet wedding, which papa and I were very happy to give him. By the time state and church documents were ready, another month had passed. Lou and I were married in Mongrifone with the local bishop celebrating the nuptial mass for a small congregation of close relatives and friends and a church full of local townsfolk. We were all glad when it was over. The wedding party was held here at the villa and we spent our honeymoon night in the Royal Suite at the Grand Hotel in Rome. The day after that, we left for America. There, the money men laid out red carpets for him everywhere. Back in Europe, the old families and our European cousins ignored him as much as they dared; but Lou did a better job of ignoring them, and I had to acknowledge his courage.’
‘But the marriage itself, how did all that work out? Or would you rather not talk about it?’
‘I need to talk about it, Cavanagh, if you are to understand why I asked you here. The truth is that I was totally unprepared for what happened on my wedding night. I was expecting – how shall I say it? – at least a vigorous encounter, possibly a violent one. I wasn’t afraid of that. You know what I’m like in bed – or used to be! I was even looking forward to the experience. If the sex was good, life with Lou would be at least half-way tolerable. In fact the night was a disaster, not because he wasn’t potent – he was as strong as a bull! – but because he was so tender and caring and protective! The last thing I needed was protection for the innocence I didn’t possess. It was a laughable situation, but I didn’t dare laugh. I couldn’t confess to my past, while he was trying to shield me from his. So I pretended. I went on pretending that I was getting what I needed, that Lou Molloy, the penitent Don Juan, was conducting me gently through the rose gardens of love. All the time I was hating him and trying to dream you back into my bed; but you just drifted further and further away and all I could feel of you was the medallion between my breasts. Lou used to complain about it and say it got in his way when he fondled me, but I refused to take it off and made up some fairy-tale about a love spell which great-grandmother Farnese had attached to it. I tell you, Cavanagh, I was not a happy bride or a good wife, but Lou didn’t deserve what I inflicted on him, because for those first twelve months at least he was really trying to be a good husband, and a better man. However, in my own defence, I do have to say I was pregnant. I had a lot of minor ailments. I developed some kidney problems and in the end the baby was delivered by Caesarean section in Professor Peroni’s private clinic. Lou was travelling a lot at that time and he was in New York when Sandro was born.’
‘Sandro?’ Cavanagh was intrigued. ‘I can’t imagine Molloy giving up his naming rights to the first-born.’
‘Oh, he didn’t surrender them easily, by any means. The original nuptial agreement specified that the child, if a boy, should be named by him, without prejudice to the child’s rights to continue the Farnese name and any titles that might devolve to him. So, because papa was ailing, I worked hard on Lou to have him agree to naming the baby for my father. Lou argued a lot but finally consented. The baby was baptised Alessandro Aloysius Molloy Farnese. When you meet him, he’ll tell you himself, it’s a large mouthful to cope with. He prefers to call himself Sandro.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s in Rome. He’ll be here for dinner tonight.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a diplomat, well advanced in his career, too.’
‘How old is he now?’
‘Work it out for yourself. He was conceived in the summer of 1952.’
‘That makes him thirty-nine or thereabouts. Whom does he take after?’
‘The Farnese, I’m glad to say, though he does have a lot of his father’s mannerisms and an occasional expression round the mouth and eyes. But looking at his photographs, you’d swear, boy and man, he was a Farnese.’
‘How did Lou take to him?’
‘He adored him. Whenever he was home he would croon over him for hours, insist on being present at his bath, caress him, answer to his slightest cry. I was surprised at first, and always touched, when I saw how m
uch he loved the child.’
‘Didn’t that make any difference to your relations with him?’
‘You’d think it would have, but it didn’t. All my attention was focussed on Sandro. I had a nurse, of course; but I wanted to rear him myself. I breast-fed him, I changed diapers, I played with him and laid him down to sleep. Lou once told me that was the best image he had of me: “a happy peasant, with a boy child at the breast”. The sad thing was that when we bent together over the cradle, there was always a wall between us, a transparent wall that we could see through, talk through, even smile through, but never reach through to touch each other. Now, perhaps, you will understand why I had a moment of jealousy about you and your wife.’
‘Perhaps,’ Cavanagh suggested gently, ‘perhaps you should finish your pasta and let me tell you something about this Lou Molloy whom you met for the first time on your wedding night.’
‘How can you possibly know anything about him?’
‘He told me himself, when he came aboard the Salamandra in Ischia to give me my sailing orders. I’m not quoting you the exact words, but I’ll guarantee the message is authentic. He said he needed to talk. He was talking to me because I had been taught the same doctrine as he, about sin, guilt, repentance, new beginnings. He said he had tried to make a confession to Cardinal Spellman in New York, but Spellman had recommended he use another confessor. He shied away from that. He said all he wanted to do was make a clean start with you and found a family that could be proud of Lou Molloy. For God’s sake, Giulia! You have to give the man full marks for trying.’
‘We’re talking about a marriage, Cavanagh, not a dog show!’
‘Nevertheless, the marriage did last until he died!’
She put down her fork very carefully, wiped her lips with the napkin, then signalled to Luca to clear the platters away and absent himself for a while. Then with more than a touch of impatience, she told Cavanagh:
‘There were a number of very good reasons for our staying together. First, my father’s position at the Vatican; second, Lou’s long and important connections with Cardinal Spellman; third, the terms of the marriage settlement, which would have robbed me and Sandro of millions if I initiated divorce or annulment proceedings against Lou – and in those early years there was no divorce in Italy anyway. The only solution was a civilised live-and-let-live arrangement, which Lou himself proposed.
‘He was sitting there, where you are now. We had just finished coffee; Lou told Luca to leave us and asked: “Giulia, why don’t we end this sad comedy and give ourselves and the boy a chance?” Of course, I had to make a little scene and demand to know what sort of an ending he proposed. He shrugged and told me he didn’t want to play games, just to keep some dignity and peace in our lives and give Sandro some sense of a united family! I was tempted to make a sharp reply, but the look in his eyes frightened me. So, we talked quietly and agreed to rearrange our lives on live-and-let-live terms, broad enough to keep the domestic peace, preserve the social hypocrisies and spare young Sandro any experience of conflict in the home.
‘After that, the going was easier for all of us. Lou travelled a great deal and spent much time in New York. He had bought an apartment on Park Avenue and installed a housekeeper to run it . . . You’ll remember her of course: Lenore Pritchard from the Salamandra.’
‘My God! I wonder what happened to Rodolfo?’
‘God knows!’ Giulia waved an indifferent hand. ‘After our break-up, I never stayed in the apartment. I had nothing to do with her, beyond asking her to pass messages to Lou. If I went to New York to see Sandro, I always stayed at the Pierre.
‘The fact is, that I was gradually opening up my own social calendar. I had some affairs, not enough to cause a scandal, just enough to keep my confidence up and my skin looking good. Then, a few years before Lou died, I formed a serious attachment with a son of one of the old papal families. He, too, was married, so there was no question of breaking up two homes. We took an apartment in Rome, furnished it to our taste, hired a maid to keep it, and spent our times of liberty there. What Lou’s arrangements were I didn’t ask and I didn’t care. Sometimes I heard gossip. I shut my ears to it. This was the time of La Dolce Vita. Everybody was playing. Nobody cared.’
‘What about your father?’
‘He died in the early seventies. He and Aunt Lucietta were killed in a car accident on the autostrada. I missed them both terribly; but having a stable love life helped a great deal.’
Cavanagh poured himself some mineral water. The Farnese wine left a sharpish after-taste on the palate. His comment was non-committal.
‘It sounds like a very civilised arrangement.’
‘It was. The only hitch came when Lou insisted on the agreement that Sandro should go to college in America and afterwards complete his university education there.’
‘Not unreasonable, one would have thought.’
‘Not unreasonable; but I still bitched about it on principle, until I realised that it would make my own Roman affair much easier to manage.’
‘Is the affair still going?’
‘No. I grew out of it and he found someone else. But he did pay me handsomely for the apartment.’
Cavanagh reached across the table and imprisoned her restless hands in his own. He asked softly:
‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Daubing yourself with penitential ashes. Lent is long over. Give yourself a break for pity’s sake. Lou’s dead and gone and I’m sure he was never so bad they couldn’t find a small corner in heaven for him – which he’d have made twice as big the moment he got there. Your son’s a middle-aged man. You’re still a lively woman who has had a very good life and is now the chatelaine of the Farnese and Molloy estates, which must be worth a mint of money. Nevertheless, you’ve got a problem. You think I can help. You’ve paid my retainer, I am now your attorney and legal counsellor. Please, Principessa, let me have your instructions!’
She pulled away from him abruptly and stood up.
‘Let’s go for a walk. I’ll choke if I eat another mouthful. I never believed it would be so hard to say a few simple words.’
He offered her his arm and let her lead him down the gravelled driveway and across a green lawn to a sunken garden with a pool tiled with mosaics. At either end of the pool, there was a stone bench, and around the sides gardens full of tulips and narcissus in full bloom. She made him sit down while she herself remained standing, a little to his right between the water and the flowers, against a background of blue hills and fleecy clouds. It was a very conscious piece of staging, which reminded him of the old Giulia, posed carefully on the afterrail aboard the Salamandra. He smiled his approval, but made no comment. She made a tentative beginning:
‘. . . Just so you have the time elements right. My husband died in 1980. He was sixty-seven years old. Sandro, my son, was born in 1953, which means he was 27 at the time of my husband’s death. Lou died alone in his New York apartment. I was here at the villa. Sandro was in Rome working at the Secretariat. I heard the news first: Lenore Pritchard called me. The next day Sandro and I flew to New York.
‘We found Lou had left everything very tidy for us. His instructions were precise. He wished to be buried beside Giorgios Hadjidakis in the cemetery of the Greek Orthodox Community in Boston, where, years ago, he had bought the grave site. He asked that the final dismissals be given in the Latin and the Orthodox rites. When we arrived in New York, the body was already on its way to Boston to await our arrival. I confess I was shocked and insulted. I said some bad things to Lenore. Sandro had to intervene. Afterwards, he scolded me harshly: “Funerals are for the living, not for the dead. Lenore was his lover long before she became his housekeeper. Giorgios Hadjidakis had been papa’s closest friend. His widow and his children were my friends too – my only family indeed, while I was studying here. For papa, their house was a refuge when the black moods came on him. He knew he didn’t have much life to gamble
on. He died of lung cancer. Lenore nursed him almost to the end. So your abuse of her was quite brutal! You owe her an apology. Papa was not an easy patient. Sometimes he was weighed down with guilts about what he saw as his failed marriage to you and his unorthodox parenting of me. I used to tell him neither of you was to blame and that I loved you both. But mama, it’s time you learned to be kinder to people. I think he deserved better than you offered him!”
‘My son’s reproach was a harder blow than Lou’s death. It made me feel small, mean and very guilty. It made me understand that Lou was a bigger and wiser man than I had taken him for in his lifetime. The funeral was another blow to my pride. The Farnese slept in their marble tombs, while my husband was being buried, by his own choice, in a suburban plot beside the son of a Greek peasant. Lenore was there, with the Hadjidakis family and a few – a surprising few – of Lou’s old business friends. I was the outsider, and I knew it. Sandro, my son, was protecting me; but the Hadjidakis family were helping him to bear his own grief and purge it in their embraces, not mine. I had no grief to purge, only a relief that I could not share, and hardly dared admit to myself.’
Cavanagh held out his hand to draw her down beside him, but she rejected the gesture abruptly.
‘No! Please don’t touch me. I have to get through this, before I fall apart.’
She gathered herself again, like an athlete making a final leap, then launched herself into the story.
‘When we got back to New York, there were the usual conferences with lawyers and accountants, the normal, interminable routines of probate. Before we left for Rome, each of us was handed a sealed envelope. We were told that they contained Lou’s last communications. On the outside of each envelope was written: “Please open this when you are alone and private. Lou.”’
Giulia put her hand in the pocket of her slacks and brought out a folded sheet of notepaper which she thrust at Cavanagh:
‘This is why I called you here, Cavanagh. Read it!’