by Penny Feeny
He addressed her in the old-fashioned plural. ‘Volete fare un giro?’
‘A ride? With you? No, grazie.’ She was slurring her words but her accent had given her away. Now, as an unaccompanied foreigner, she was presented with further tempting invitations. His tone changed from insolent to ingratiating. He offered to take her to a club where the drinks were half the price of the Vesuvio, to show her the magnificent slopes of his cousin’s vineyard, or the spot where the thermal waters foamed into the sea. Feigning reluctance, she turned him down. His friend, struggling with the starter motor, growled with impatience.
‘Are you stealing that bike?’ asked Helena.
At that, the man grabbed her wrist and began to pull her towards it. Surely, she thought, it’s not big enough to take three people. What could he have in mind? Was she to be sandwiched between them, driven to the top of the mountain, raped and abandoned? Not that she felt threatened just yet – the pair didn’t seem competent enough to be organized criminals. When he refused to release her, however, she shouted and waved her cigarette in his face. Already some drops of oil had spilled on the tarmac.
‘Attento, la benzina!’ he hissed.
‘Then let me go!’ said Helena, trying to wrench her wrist free, and inhaling so that the tip glowed red and dangerous.
Another man appeared in the club doorway. At this point her delayed sense of panic asserted itself. She couldn’t possibly take on three of them. There wasn’t any exit available to her and she wouldn’t get far on foot. Were they really thieves? Should she take the initiative and warn someone? She yelled anyway. ‘Aiuto!’ She supposed she needed help; her captor was refusing to relax his grip.
The man in the doorway rushed forward. He was not, it transpired, an ally of the other two. Instantly his fist shot out, whistled past Helena’s cheek and thumped the exposed chest a fraction to the left of its medallion. Helena was let go, shoved aside so fiercely that she teetered against a mud-spattered Vespa. This in turn jostled a second scooter, causing a ripple effect of rocking windshields and handlebars. In a kind of syncopated harmony the stranger’s fists continued to thrust and parry while his opponent ducked and stumbled. Then came the sudden roar of an engine firing.
Powered by this success, the first man straddled the Suzuki and opened up the throttle. The second threw a futile, wayward punch and leapt on the pillion seat. The bike screeched down the road and around the corner.
Helena discarded her cigarette and massaged her bruised arm. Fabrizio would say she took too many risks but, really, how could you know that nipping out for a breath of air would get you into trouble? The stranger, brushing his sleeve but not looking at all dishevelled, came over. His eyes were large, brown and anxious. A black moustache hovered above his mouth with a sense of impermanence, as if it had been recently acquired and might as easily be ditched again.
‘Questi uomini, le hanno dato fastidio?’ he asked.
Did they bother her? Not any more. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For the heroics. You were terrific.’
He replied in careful English. ‘You are not hurt?’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ She attempted humour. ‘Shaken, not stirred.’
He didn’t understand it. ‘You would like to drink?’
‘Yeah, guess I could do with a beer. What about you? Are you okay? Hope you didn’t get too battered.’
‘Me? No. Coglioni like that are no problem.’ She frowned at the graze on his knuckles, but he misinterpreted her concern. ‘They are not your friends I hope? You do not know these men?’
‘God, no, never seen them before in my life.’
‘Allora, andiamo.’ He clasped her elbow and steered her back inside.
The tiled floor of the bar was slick with the spillage of beer and the splash of rainbow-coloured cocktails. A huddle of young men brandished bottles of Peroni to punctuate their anecdotes and she wondered whether one of them was the rightful owner of the Suzuki. Already the incident was receding; it had happened so quickly she wasn’t sure if she could remember the sequence of events. She might have imagined the whole thing – as if the wobbling scooters had been an illusion and the skirmish pure shadow play.
Helena’s new escort passed over her drink. His shirt collar was unfastened, his face above it soft and plump. His jeans were particularly well-pressed, despite the dust-up. He was either married or living at home. She pictured his mother, a widow naturally, rigging up the ironing board in the kitchen of their three-room apartment, bringing her weight to bear on the crease of his trousers, guiding the point of the iron into the corners of his collars and cuffs.
‘I am Enzo,’ he said, proud of his English. ‘You?’
‘Helena.’ She waved her bottle and drank directly from its neck. ‘Well, Enzo, thanks for that amazing rescue. I really didn’t have a clue what was going on . . .’
‘Ouf, is nothing,’ he said modestly. ‘You are on holiday, I think?’
‘Actually I’m working. My friend and I, we look after the children of families who have villas here.’
‘Yes, I have seen you with them,’ he said, slipping back into Italian. ‘I didn’t think they could be yours.’
‘You’ve seen us?’ Should she be disturbed by this? ‘Where?’
‘At the port sometimes. In the playground. This is a small place and I’m often outside on the street. In fact, two days ago you greeted me.’
‘I did what?’ She tried to imagine why she would hail an unknown man. She tried to remember what she might have been doing at the time, but the days blended into one another, into a soup of sea and sun and small children’s incessant demands for gelato. Perhaps that was it? Perhaps her protector was really an ice cream vendor. ‘What do you do?’
‘I am a carabiniere.’
‘Oh my God!’
The girls often saw pairs of carabinieri patrolling the port area, conferring beneath shop awnings or beside their powerful, gleaming motorbikes. Helena had been in Italy for long enough to know that the police expected to be taken seriously – they didn’t wear their guns, their polished boots, their aura of menace for fun – but sometimes sheer devilment made her want to tease them. She must have tipped her hat in a mock salute, but she could never have recognized him again. Didn’t men in uniform realize they all looked the same? Your eye was so busy being drawn to their shiny boots or the swagger of their epaulettes, the face was an afterthought. It was good to know that he wasn’t merely decorative, leaping to her assistance like that (though she did consider his performance a little over the top).
‘A policeman is never off duty.’
‘Ah, now you want to see my permesso. They always used to tell us that in Rome. Keep your papers with you, you never know when someone will ask for them. I’m afraid I don’t, though. My friend Liddy’s taken charge. I’ve such a bad record for losing stuff.’
He nodded. ‘The only reason I need to see your papers is if you are in trouble.’
She cocked her head and rubbed the mouth of the bottle. ‘Is that an invitation? Only I might not be so lucky second time around.’
He didn’t get her jokes. He was a serious young man, well, youngish; probably in his late twenties, which accounted for his gravity and the quaint old-fashioned quality that must come from spending his whole life (apart from military service) within an area of thirty-odd square miles.
Jake’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. He spoke in a laconic drawl with the mid-Atlantic accent he’d devised for this new persona, this parody of a DJ. It made no difference whether he was understood as long as he sounded authentic. ‘Now it’s time to get grooving, folks. We’re heading back to the sixties and the sounds of the late, lamented king of rock’n’roll, Elvis Presley.’
‘You want that we dance?’ said Enzo.
Helena’s response was noncommittal but at the first beat of ‘Suspicious Minds’, he caught her around the waist and spun her into the music. She could just make out Liddy sitting at the table, scanning those who passed near enou
gh for her to see them properly. Liddy’s short sight had always been a joke between them. There’s no way she’ll be able to identify me, she thought in amusement. No way she’ll believe I’ve been dancing with a carabiniere. She tried to harness her giddy feet to the slow rhythm of the music, letting Enzo steady her. He was very correct, she had to admit: his hand light but firm in the small of her back, his cheek a respectful distance from hers. And so chivalrous! Muscling in, saving her from those creepy youths, an instant avenger. She giggled at the memory. And if she had not been quite so drunk, a glimmer of self-preservation might have surfaced, might have warned her not to mess around. Instead, she thought, what the hell, I owe him a kiss at least, and moved her lips closer. She was taken aback by his response, the passion of it, the way he devoured her.
‘I can see you again?’ he asked when she pulled away in alarm.
‘You don’t have a girlfriend already? A, what’s it called, fidanzata?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Boh, I’m very busy. Italian girls, you know, they like a lot of attention. Also I have not found the right one.’
‘So you’ll make do with a foreign girl in the meantime?’
He smiled as if he had only half understood. ‘I may telephone you?’
She imagined Fabrizio’s reaction, his blustering indignation because he knew he had no right to be jealous. ‘Oh, I don’t know if they’d like that, the Verduccis I mean. We’re supposed to look after the children most nights.’
‘But not every night?’
‘Well, no.’
‘So you could meet me again, here?’
‘Yes, I expect we’ll come back to this place from time to time.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know right now.’
‘Tomorrow I am on duty, but the next week? Tuesday?’
‘No, I don’t think . . .’
‘Maybe is better after all if you give me your number.’
This was getting complicated. A gentle disentanglement was what she was aiming for, but Enzo was already borrowing a Biro from the barman. He patted his pockets in search of something to write on but there was nothing to clutter the clean line of his trousers. He held out his palm so she could scrawl her number down. Another drink, another dance, and a layer of sweat would, she hoped, render it illegible.
Jake’s session had come to a close. The evening was winding down with a medley of sentimental Italian ballads looping around the tape deck. People were drifting out into the street, into waiting taxis. Helena was nowhere to be seen. Liddy, peering unsuccessfully into gloomy alcoves, wondered what on earth could have happened to her. There appeared to be a small riot going on outside the club, bursts of altercation, accusations of theft. Perhaps she was caught up in it. Before she could find out, she stumbled into Jake. He had a bottle of J&B whisky in his hand. ‘I’ve got some catching up to do,’ he said. ‘Want to join me?’
Liddy didn’t much like the taste of whisky or its viscosity. She made a half-hearted excuse, citing Helena’s absence.
Oh,’ he said, ‘she’s probably bunked off with her dancing partner.’
‘Who?’
‘Didn’t you see them smooching together? Cheek to cheek?’
‘She might have told me! I’ll have to go back by myself now.’
‘Do you want me to get you a cab?’
There was definitely a fracas on the forecourt. ‘Later,’ said Liddy. ‘Maybe I will have a drink with you first.’
‘Great! Come on up.’
Which was how she found herself in his room above the club. The ceiling was low and sloping. The tap dripped in the corner basin. The air swathed them in hot, thick folds like a blanket even though the window was open. Crammed on to a table were Jake’s possessions: packs of cards, a travel clock, a radio, and a selection of books – she balked at the titles: Goethe’s Italian Journey, Norman Douglas’s South Wind, and Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. Clothes poked from a chest with two ill-fitting drawers; the bed – cheap metal mesh – was unmade.
‘I travel light,’ he said, watching her face.
‘I didn’t mean to be nosy.’
‘I’m not into possessions. One suitcase, that’s all I need. Then I can just get up and go.’
‘Sounds like you’re always doing a moonlight flit.’
‘It’s called keeping your options open.’
‘And the books, are they for show?’ She picked up the Lowry, its silver spine proclaiming it was a Penguin classic.
‘Who the hell would I show them to?’
She put it down again. ‘You must be awfully clever.’
‘Hey.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘I’m the product of an expensive, wasted education. Officially I’m a black sheep. Loitering around film studios was not what my family had in mind for me. Still, one of these days I plan to write and direct, and in this industry it’s all about the people you know. You have to be what the Americans call “good in the room”. Not that Hollywood interests me.’ He poured a shot of whisky into a tumbler and added a dribble of tepid water from the tap. ‘Is this okay for you? Can’t face going back downstairs for ice.’
Since she wasn’t going to drink it anyway, she nodded and sat gingerly on the edge of his bed. Jake came to sit next to her and clinked glasses. Close-up she could see the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, his mouth almost womanly in its winged bow shape. He drained his whisky in one rapid gulp and poured another. She began to chatter, a string of nonsense, gush she often came out with when she was nervous. She could see he wasn’t listening to anything she said.
He removed her glass from her unresisting hand and set it on top of the pile of books. She knew what was coming next and the few remaining seconds of anticipation felt delicious to her. Even more delicious was the pressure of his lips and the thrust of his tongue. She might have been composed of chocolate. Her bones lost substance and since they could no longer support the rest of her, she collapsed backwards. That Jake was dextrous she already knew; that he could unbutton a blouse so adroitly or unwrap a skirt in such a fluid sweep took her by surprise. She felt as though she were being skinned like an apple, the ribbon of peel spiralling away in a single piece. Balanced on one elbow, he examined her body as a doctor might, tracing the rise and fall of her sternum, her diaphragm, the swell of her hips and pubis, until his hand glided between her legs.
The outside clamour receded. The tingling at her nerve endings was filling her brain, driving out everything else. Jake raised his head from her breast. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
Much of Liddy’s previous experience with schoolboys and fellow students had been of intercourse as a race against time: urgent, unfettered, up against a wall or under a pile of party coats; over and done with. There had been little enjoyment in it. ‘Quite sure,’ she said, thinking how perfectly simple were the ingredients of a holiday romance, how effortless the process of seduction. ‘Please don’t stop.’
He was shedding his own clothes now. Their flesh bonded with soft slurping sounds that made them both chuckle. She dug her fingernails into his back and gripped him with her knees. He moved with a steadily increasing rhythm until she thought the feeble bed would collapse beneath them. It bucked and creaked and even seemed to give a curious hoot of triumph.
Afterwards they propped themselves up against the hard, unyielding bolster. Jake lit a cigarette and stroked Liddy’s curves with his free hand.
‘Okay?’ he said.
‘Yes, great.’
He peered at the travel clock. ‘Can’t keep you here all night.’
‘It’s all right.’ She could lie there for ever, quietly fizzing.
‘You know what I’d really like to do . . .’ He had a butterfly touch, delicate but ticklish. ‘Is to find somewhere cooler than this joint, out of doors, say, somewhere I could explore every inch of you, somewhere we could screw each other into oblivion. How about that?’
Liddy swallowed. He was drumming on her ribs no
w, a light tapping rhythm that was causing her insides to dissolve again just as they had begun to rally and regroup. ‘I thought you weren’t interested in me, you didn’t want me.’
‘Why on earth would you think that?’
She considered. ‘It’s just, I suppose, because we’ve never actually been alone together . . . I thought you preferred Helena.’
‘Oh . . .’ He swung his legs off the bed and into his jeans – no underpants she noted, admiring his trim, creamy buttocks. ‘What has she said to you?’
‘Nothing. But when you went off together in the boat the other day, I assumed it was because she was more your type.’
‘My type?’
‘Well, she’s so slim and sexy. I’m dumpy in comparison.’
‘Dumpy? Are you fishing for compliments here?’
‘No!’ She blushed and fumbled for her clothes.
‘Here, let me.’ He slipped her knickers over her feet, caressing her calves and thighs on the upward journey, smoothing the cotton intoplace in tantalizing slow motion. ‘As for the boat . . . I just wanted to check I had a clear field.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That I fancied you right from the off, but I didn’t want to tread on any toes.’
‘But why couldn’t you just ask me out straight? You don’t have to get Helena’s permission!’
‘It was a bit more complicated than that.’
‘I don’t see why it should be. You can say anything you like in front of her. And me. We’re best friends, we’re really close. We tell each other everything.’
‘Perhaps not quite everything.’