The Golden Lion

by Pamela Haines

  When she arrived at the monastery, a cab was waiting outside, the lean horse, a nag really, head hanging. At that moment a party of seven or eight people walked out, blinking in the sudden sunlight. A brown-robed monk standing at the entrance said goodbye to them. Out in the road, some children had a puppy on a string and were pulling it, bewildered, in circles.

  She said to the monk, in her halting Italian, ‘I’ve come to see the catacombs.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘But you see this party of people just leaving – they are the last this morning. We close now in ten minutes.’ They would open again at three, he said. But this was not an area she could stay in for two or three hours. She must have looked crestfallen at her mistiming, because he said suddenly:

  ‘You have walked here? All right, then. Do please go down …’

  Down the stairway, and along the first of the corridors. It was all right to begin with. Even though she was alone. (She had thought he would accompany her. But she had had difficulty in making out his accent, could not have heard him right.) In the airy vaulted corridors it was cool, clean, dry. The exhibits well lit. There were arrows pointing – it would be difficult to get lost.

  She walked along slowly. The mummified bodies standing upright in niches shaped like coffins had their wrists and feet bound. Burial place for embalmed corpses, it was all much as Adrian had said.

  ‘They desiccate them, dear heart, bathe them in sweet-smelling herbs and roast them in the sun, before stuffing them with straw and dressing them up in their Sunday finery. Some who’ve lain in a bath of arsenic have their hair and skin. It’s all absolutely delicious.’

  Here they were in their finery. Silk, satin, lace – tattered. Their expressions sometimes comical, sometimes contorted – as if surprised by death. Some were serene. One man, preserved she supposed by arsenic, had a startlingly brick red face and, after a hundred years, the hair still on his head.

  The arrow pointed: a section for men, for women, for lawyers, professors, judges.

  There were the children. Babies in lace. Two children standing upright, holding hands. A premature baby. A brother and sister killed by the collapse of a wall.

  Little Rosalia Lombardo, dead at two. Her perfectly preserved body lay under glass. Impossible to believe she was not breathing. But the doctor who had achieved this miracle had died suddenly. He had not passed on his discovery. Secret injections – and the secret gone for ever.

  Rosalia, dark hair tied with a bow, heavy-lidded eyes, rose-olive complexion – who was she reminded of but Maria? Photographs at Moorgarth of the eleven-year-old Maria, saved from the Lusitania.

  Oh, Maria. Gone for ever. But to think of Maria was to think of Eddie. Eddie, older than her by almost thirty years. Eddie, one day a grinning skull, like these …

  Suddenly she could no longer bear to be down here. What had seemed interesting, not frightening, as she’d walked peacefully the aseptic corridors was now …

  I must get out, or I shall go crazy.

  Driving me crazy. You, Eddie, you’re driving me crazy. What did I do what did I do?

  A panic attack. I must get out. Get out, get out. (’Get out,’ Maria had said. ‘Get out. I never want to see you again.’)

  The skulls, the grinning faces … An arrow pointed to The Judges. She began to run in little circles. It was clearly marked, she couldn’t be lost. She could not get lost.

  She began to sob.

  My tears for you, make everything hazy, clouding the skies of blue …

  I am going crazy. You’re driving me crazy.

  She leaned against the glass case, waiting for the panic to subside. But she could not stop the sobbing. Or the tune going maddeningly round in her head.

  You, you’re driving me crazy …

  My tears for you … my tears for you …

  Oh Eddie, oh Eddie. How I loved you. Breathing in gulps of the cool, clean-smelling dry air, she wept for Eddie, and his touch.

  By the exit the monk waited with the key. She made a small donation. ‘It was so interesting,’ she said in careful Italian.

  Half an hour with the dead. What am I doing alive? She walked slowly and tiredly back along the road towards the Porta Nuova.

  My tears for you make everything hazy. She was crying again as she walked along. She did not care who saw her. The voice in her head, the song, surely driving her crazy. Oh my darling Eddie.

  In the month of August, she travelled with the family across the island to a villa near Agrigento. It belonged to the Di Benedetto grandparents, who travelled with them. The town’s name had originally been Girgenti before Mussolini changed it to the more Roman sounding Agrigento. Grandfather called it Girgenti still. ‘Ah, my beloved Girgenti,’ he said over and over on arrival.

  After visiting the beautiful Greek temples she bought a folding picturecard. She wanted to send it to Maria. But she knew that she could not. Yet she longed for news of her. Before leaving for Agrigento she had asked Guy, carefully casual, ‘Any news of Maria?’

  Guy, equally casually – she was certain he knew nothing – said, ‘No. Not lately … Why not write to her yourself?’

  ‘We had words,’ she said.

  Again, the awkward exchange. ‘Ah, about the love-affair,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, about the love-affair.’

  He gave her a talking-to. ‘You should write. I’m amazed at her silence. The upset should be over.’

  The stay in the villa was good for her. By day they bathed, or picnicked near the temples. In the evening, when the children were back from the beach and were being bathed, she sat in the villa garden – dreaming, watching the view. The sea would be lost in mist, the sky, shades of rose through to pale blue. Swallows wheeled and circled over the rooftops, twittering and calling. In the distance as they flew away they became black dots like insects.

  She dated from that place, that time, the beginning of her getting well again. Her cure. (If I am ever to be cured.) Sitting in the cool of the evening beside the ornamental palms. Peace in her body. Peace, almost, in her mind.

  In September Marcello was back at school. Each morning now she was up early with both the children and the nurse. They breakfasted at seven: cold boiled milk, bread and a little goat’s cheese and fruit. Marcello would pick his way through this, leaving the milk always. Then his satchel must be got ready, his books checked, his white socks, his sandals. Usually she went with him in the car. They would arrive: ‘Kiss plis Miss?’ and then she would see him merge in with all the other blue overalls –crying out a greeting to his friends.

  As before, she fetched him on foot, Tuesdays and Thursdays, when Virginia had the car. Otherwise she was free in the mornings. She was still a great museum visitor.

  She hadn’t heard from Adrian. That’s the end of that, she thought. (Perhaps when he goes back to Cambridge for the new term?) She longed sometimes for the ordinariness of a ‘boyfriend’. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ people asked. Randall, she had never expected to hear from. She hoped he would marry soon.

  Lovely September days. There was talk of how long she could stay. She agreed to stay till Easter when the new baby would be six months. And afterwards? She didn’t want to think too hard of the future. Guy suggested she might want to go to university or college. Her maths after all had been very good. But she could not bear this idea, seeing it somehow as a life with great acres of shapeless time, infinitely unattractive. (Students – the word now brought the image, the sound always, of Eddie mocked.)

  Virginia was very large now. The child was expected in about six weeks. Helen dressed Natali’s doll for her and talked to her about the coming baby. She loved the little hands entwined round her neck, the wet kisses.

  And above all, she loved the trusting hand clasped in hers as she walked Marcello back from the convent. The leafy plane trees, the wide pavements. Coming out from the convent, she knew the street so well. The little alleys running off that she would never go down, or let Marcello enter. Then turning into the large
r busy street: the lemonade stall, the buns and ice-cream, the news stand. Marcello liked to stop everywhere, but it was forbidden. No snacks, no sweets – except the one boiled one she hid in her pocket for him. He tried to get it out. She made him ask.

  ‘Caramella, plis, Miss?’

  Today he wanted a comic paper. They had to stop at the stall, he pleaded so, to buy his Topolino. Then with it tucked in his satchel, he was dancing again beside her, on her inside always, away from the traffic which whizzed and roared past.

  A Lancia screeched to a halt just ahead of them. A face leaned out of the back as they came near. A voice called:

  ‘Signorina Connors –’

  She stopped, surprised.

  ‘Signorina Connors, momento…’ Smiling, hand held out. She moved forward. ‘Si, ma …’

  Suddenly, the door was flung open. She felt herself grabbed, she was pinched, prodded in the shoulder, a foul-smelling cloth was stuffed in her mouth. A squeak from Marcello, then silence. She felt his body against hers.

  The door was slammed. She lay, face downwards. A hand was on the small of her back. Her legs seemed entangled with Marcello’s bare ones.

  It had all been over in seconds. The car was moving fast, swaying, screeching round corners. Pray God someone had seen, someone was giving chase, the police had been called, the number of the car taken …

  She struggled to speak, shaking her head to and fro, chewing, gagging on the cloth. The car smelled of sweat and fear. She could hear Marcello whimpering.

  The men, she thought there were three, two in the front and one with her and Marcello at the back, talked amongst themselves. Rapid, urgent, often angry-sounding.

  One of them said in English, ‘You talk – he dies.’

  The car careered wildly. The horn blazing. It seemed an eternity of jolting and twisting. Half an hour, an hour? The road was bad. Once she thought they were on tramlines.

  Three voices. Urgent, bad-tempered. She could understand nothing. She chewed and gagged on the evil-smelling cloth. Her head held down. Rough fingernails through the cotton of her blouse.

  Oh my God – she who had not prayed, had scarcely prayed since Eddie – God get us out of this, Jesus save Marcello. Oh, Our Lady, help.

  The car came to a halt with a suddenness that sent her jerking forward. The gag was pulled roughly from her mouth.

  ‘Marcello,’ she cried out.

  ‘Vasciu!’ shouted the man beside her, harshly. ‘Vasciu!’ The car door opened, and she was pushed out roughly on to the roadside. The same man who had smiled and called her name. Dark face, shadowed, pinched nose. (’You talk – he dies.’)

  The car turned with a screeching sound, and drove off down to the right. She could not see Marcello.

  She tottered at the roadside. The car was far out of sight now. Only lorries seemed to be passing. She was shaking and sobbing. She began to walk along the dusty road to where it was a little built-up. She came to a small shop. She spoke through bruised lips, but she was crying so much she could not make the owner understand. Telephone? No, they had no telephone. What was the matter, they asked. ‘Ma ch’é succeso?’ But she ran off.

  She saw tramlines, a familiar name on a tram. She milled in with the crowd, standing on the journey, face pressed against the window. She got off in the Via Roma. She went into the Hotel des Palmes. Running up the steps, across the marble floor, dishevelled, dirty, beginning to sob again. At the reception desk, she said to the startled porter:

  ‘Telephone for me, please. Di Benedetto. At his office. I must speak to him, urgently, privately. At once …’

  ‘Where were you?’ Laura asked. ‘I’ve been trying to get you since about two. You weren’t at the Institute …’

  ‘They should have known,’ Guy said. ‘I was over at the University. The lecture course … I told you about it.’

  ‘I can’t have heard.’

  She was sitting near the telephone, a glass of white wine beside her on the small onyx table. The windows were open to the balcony. There was the roar and clang of the evening traffic below. She was dressed in a white skirt with a green belt, and a fawn silk shirt. Cool, elegant. Smoking through her long ivory holder.

  The coolness of the room was like a benison. He said:

  ‘Well, what did you want me for?’

  She was looking away from him. Her voice quavered.

  ‘Marcello’s been kidnapped.’

  His first reaction: ‘Christ – Why didn’t you tell me? The moment I stepped through the door, why didn’t you tell me? Where is he, where’s Ruggero?’

  ‘Have a drink or something and try to keep calm.’

  ‘Why, for what reason keep calm?’

  He was pacing up and down the room. She remained quite still. He pumped her for information. He learned only that Helen had been involved, that she’d been released and had telephoned Ruggero from the Hotel des Palmes.

  ‘But she’s all right’

  ‘As far as I know. Frightened. Shocked. Virginia –’

  ‘Oh my God.’ He walked from the drinks cabinet to the bookcase. And back again. Then back again.

  He sensed Laura’s fear. The air was full of it, like a scent. Not for her the sweats of terror, of agitation. Just a cold calm, Her body, as it had been in Naples, that night of the air raid.

  ‘I was afraid to go over there,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll go together, Silvi and Titì –’

  ‘I’ll speak to Agata,’ she said.

  On the drive over she was silent, smoking all the while. He knew it was useless to ask her more questions. When he had telephoned Ruggero he had spoken only to the manservant, leaving a message that they were on their way.

  Virginia was in bed, under sedation. In the drawing-room, Ruggero sat white-faced. Dr Anello was with him. A bottle of wine and glasses stood untouched. Helen, looking like a bedraggled little bird, was on the far end of the sofa. Her mouth was bruised, the area round the upper lip already blue-black.

  He put his arm round her.

  ‘Oh, Guy.’

  ‘Was it terrible?’

  She nodded. ‘I just want him back. I –’

  ‘We all want him back.’

  ‘I just want it to be all right. Poor ‘Ginia. There must have been something I did wrong. If I hadn’t… You see, they knew my name. It was my name they called out … Guy, it was very terrible.’

  He stroked the top of her head, absently. They had spoken in English. Now Dr Anello said in Italian, ‘The little girl – she’s pretty shocked. I’ve given her something … And something stronger for bedtime.’

  The drawing-room, at this time usually so full of life: Marcello running from sofa to chair, Natali clambering up on Ruggero’s lap. The bottle of wine was opened. The wine poured out. Helen refused any. Laura sat beside her, smoking.

  The telephone rang twice in the next half-hour. The first time it was Grandfather, about arrangements for a picnic next Sunday. Yes, Ruggero told him, everyone was fine. And of course they looked forward to Sunday, though it was just possible they wouldn’t be able to make it. The second call was a crisp business exchange. Each time Ruggero hurried to put the receiver back.

  At nine-thirty it rang again. Dr Anello had already left. Guy was opening a second bottle of wine.

  Ruggero picked up the receiver. ‘Casa Di Benedetto … Pronto. ‘

  In the silence, there was the fussy ticking of an ormolu clock. Ruggero saying nothing. Only listening. ‘Si. Si… Allora, vediamo.’

  He replaced the receiver. His hand was trembling. There was a fine sweat on his upper lip.

  Guy said, That was?’

  Ruggero nodded.

  ‘I don’t want to hear,’ Laura said.

  Ruggero sent both her and Helen into the dining-room. ‘Try both of you to eat something. You’ll feel better.’

  Helen thrust her hand into Laura’s free one. Laura clasped it lightly. When they had gone:

  ‘All right,’ said Guy. ‘It was, of course?’


  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twelve million –’

  ‘Good God. Can you do it?’

  ‘Probably not – I think not –’ A muscle in his eyelid twitched. ‘What sort of conditions?’

  ‘Twelve million, in forty-eight hours. They’ll ring back to say where and how.’

  ‘Twelve million – or else?’

  ‘Or else.’ He seemed too dry-mouthed to enunciate.

  ‘You can’t negotiate?’

  ‘I shall have to – for that sum … Dear God, this country. My inclination is to –’

  ‘Helen saw the face – a face, of course. She was afraid even to tell me that. “You talk – he dies” they said. At least she didn’t run to the police …’

  Which I would have done, Guy thought. How English I am, with my instinct to rush to the police, to a lawyer – to somebody or something representing law and order. Fair play. Safety. Security.

  ‘Of course she has nothing really to tell. Her description of the car, it’s of the vaguest. Black, medium size, that kind of thing. And the men … well, they’ll only be hired thugs, expendable, anonymous. The one who lured her – they’d have taught him to call out Signorina Connors – probably the only bit of standard Italian he can manage –’

  Guy said, ‘The worst is, the conclusion from it all – Someone knows your habits. That Helen goes to the convent on Tuesdays and Thursdays –’

  ‘That’s not so difficult.’

  ‘Her name too.’

  ‘These matters. If someone is determined. It is quite easy …’

  ‘And the voice, what sort of voice? Was anything else said? Or just the demand. The money.’

  ‘The words were –’ he spoke with difficulty. Ashen still. ‘They were – “I think you wouldn’t like a dear little soul to go to Jesus?’”

  ‘Why ever bring religion into it? They have sick minds.’

  ‘Their manner of speaking. It skirts round the dread word. That way, they haven’t actually said it.’

  Guy quizzed him. If only perhaps to calm him, help him.

  ‘How much can you raise?’

  ‘Eight, even nine. Twelve, no. Someone has an exaggerated notion of the Di Benedetto wealth –’