The Lovers

by Morris West

  ‘Did you tell that to Lou?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I thanked him for letting me read it.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘I put my arms around him and cried. Afterwards, we tore the book apart, put it through Lou’s shredder, then dumped it down the furnace chute. Next day we drove to Boston to visit the Hadjidakis family. And that,’ said Sandro firmly, ‘is enough about Lou Molloy and me.’

  ‘More than enough. I’m grateful for your telling of it.’

  ‘So now it’s your turn, Cavanagh. What was it between you and my mother?’

  ‘It was love – on my side, at least – on hers too I believe. I was young. She was vulnerable, because Lou Molloy wasn’t handling her very well and she was just beginning to understand what this marriage might cost her. So when Molloy left the ship to go to Naples and New York, we became lovers. Giulia’s father and her Aunt Lucietta joined in a conspiracy to keep Giulia happy until Molloy returned and led her to the altar.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Sandro the bishop frowned unhappily. ‘It’s all in the grand family tradition! Please go on.’

  ‘I asked Giulia to marry me. I promised her and I promised your grandfather that if she accepted me I wanted nothing from the family and I would deal with Molloy. If she refused me, I was ready to walk out of her life and create no problems for anyone. Giulia didn’t want to make a decision until the last moment. I accepted that too. In the end, she opted for Molloy; but believe me, if I’d known she was pregnant, I’d have fought the whole of the heavenly host to keep her with me!’ He shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of total defeat. ‘What more can I say? Your mother’s story is her own to tell; but there’s one thing I can swear: You, my Lord Bishop of Trajanopolis in Phrygia, are truly a lovechild. You were begotten in love, even if you weren’t always nurtured in it. I’m just sorry it’s too late in the day to give you back a little of what you missed.’

  ‘I don’t think I missed too much.’ Sandro poured another shot of whisky for both of them. ‘What I had was different, that’s all. I often wonder whether my mother didn’t fare worse than any of us.’

  Cavanagh permitted himself an ironic smile at the notion. ‘I’d be interested to hear you explain that pastoral thought, Sandro.’

  ‘I know it sounds like a paradox, because now she’s free as the birds in the air, with both the Molloy and the Farnese trusts firmly under her control. I’ve asked her to administer my share along with hers until I can choose the right cause to spend it on. But what I’m really trying to say is that you were the big love of her life, the one hope of happiness she had; she lacked the courage to grasp it. So all her other affairs, short or long, were pale station lights in a long dark night of the soul. You, I understand, have found another love and made a happy family together. So, it is as I said: Mama is left alone.’

  ‘Are you blaming me for that?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Giulia still has you.’

  ‘I’m afraid she doesn’t. I’m in servitude now, to God and to the Church. You know that’s not a fiction. I go where I’m sent, do as I’m told. The Farnese line ends with me. The Molloy line, too. Perhaps it’s just as well. In today’s world, dynasties are out of date. To attempt to revive them or create them is to put new monsters on our planet, which already we are turning into a moonscape.’ He was silent a moment, hesitating over his next question. He was not smiling when he asked it. ‘Tell me, Cavanagh, are you still in love with my mother?’

  ‘You’d have made a hell of an inquisitor, Sandro!’ said Cavanagh with grim humour. ‘And you’ll probably want to burn me for the answer I’m giving you. No! I’m not in love with your mother. Being in love is a transient state, a malady of youth. You should be over it by your fifties. If you’re not, you’re in real trouble. Ask me, however, if I love your mother? Yes, I do. The world still lights up a little when I look at her, or think of her. We can still strike fire when we’re angry with each other, as we were today. When I thought she was in trouble I came instantly to her call . . . So I guess you could say I love her.’

  ‘Would you, if you had the chance, take her back into your life?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. There’s no more room left in my heart, in my house, or in my life; but I’d rather not have the pain of telling her that.’

  ‘She knows it already, Cavanagh.’ Sandro smiled at him over the rim of his glass. ‘Just don’t let her seduce you into a discussion about it.’

  ‘Which brings me to my last question,’ said Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh. ‘Where do you and I go from here?’

  Alessandro Aloysius Molloy Farnese looked very much the churchman as he put his fingertips together, pursed his full lips and pondered the question. His answer, when it came, was clear as spring water.

  ‘I don’t think we go anywhere, Cavanagh. Time, geography, history, are all against us. There is no place for me in your life. There is none for you in mine. I know something about women, a lot about my dear mother. She’s a perennial maker of small mischiefs and I doubt if even a seasoned attorney like yourself could cope with her. So, here is what we do. From tonight, the book is closed, shredded and burned; but you will think of me sometimes, as you think of my mother, with love. I will remember you with my mother, every day in my Mass, which is a sacrament of love. That way, I think we’ll all have the best of it – and none of us will be a nuisance to the others.’

  Cavanagh was near to tears. As always, he tried to conceal his emotion with a joke: ‘Do you think your mother will agree to that deal?’

  ‘She’s the one who constructed it, Cavanagh. In the best Farnese tradition, it’s the women who rescue the men, from debt collectors, irate husbands and the public executioner. You will, however, have to perform a small service for my mother.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To resign as her attorney. That way she dispenses with you, not you with her. Also, it may suit you to leave tomorrow instead of Monday . . . With my mother’s permission of course!’

  ‘I hope I’m up to all this,’ said Cavanagh with weary humour. ‘I’m getting too old for grand opera!’ He raised his glass in a final toast:

  ‘To my son; too lately come by, and the mother who bore him! Slàinte!’

  ‘To my father, well met, at last!’ said Sandro. ‘Hail and farewell!’

  As they drained their glasses, the sound of the dinner gong echoed through the halls of the Prince’s Villa.

  Sandro stood up first. He offered his hand to Cavanagh. With surprising strength, he heaved him out of his armchair into a long, silent embrace. Then they walked together down the tiled corridor to dine with Giulia the Beautiful.