The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (13 page)

“It's stifling in here,” he said, and indeed his round, childlike face was mottled with crimson. “Isn't it ridiculous that even in midsummer we men have to wear the full regalia, dinner jackets and white waistcoats and lord knows what, while women are allowed to go half-naked?”

“Ah, but in winter it's the other way round,” Olivia said. “In winter we're shivering and you can be as cozy as you please.”

Dickie smiled. “You're quite right, my angel. What a logical young woman you are.” The band struck up a quickstep, brisk and inviting. “You young people should dance. Don't mind Herr Fischer and me, we're happy to sit and chatter about music. Antonio, dance with Mrs. Rodway. She's a perfectly marvelous dancer.”

Antonio hesitated. Olivia's limbs would be cool and immaculate, she would feel the dampness of his skin, it would be mortifying. All the same he was about to speak when Bernard intervened.

“Forgive me, Antonio. I know it's your night of triumph, but every so often a man wants the privilege of dancing with his own wife. Especially when she's the most beautiful woman in the room.”

An expression of startled pleasure lit Olivia's face. Antonio watched as Bernard spun her across the floor. He had no right to feel aggrieved—he had not even wanted to dance with her—and yet he felt a pang of loss, to have that opportunity snatched from him.

His disappointment must have shown in his expression because Iris put her hand consolingly upon his wrist. “Never mind, Signor Trombetta,” she said. “You can dance with me. I know a girl shouldn't blow her own trumpet, but the fact is I'm a perfectly marvelous dancer too.”

At the end of July Penelope Rodway came to London, and Bernard took her to lunch at the Savoy. Penelope liked the Savoy. It reminded her of elaborate five-course dinners before the Great War, when she was a sweet-faced debutante and the world was still a settled place. She was in London to fulfill a string of pleasurable errands: visiting the hairdresser and the corsetiere, having her face healthily pummeled by Mrs. Gladys Furlonger, the Canadian masseuse who had treated Mrs. Simpson's poor complexion.

Penelope's eyes darted to and fro across the restaurant; she was disappointed not to see anyone she recognized, or, more to the point, anyone who might recognize her. What she wanted was a trio of men, at least, to leap up from their tables, crying, Penelope! How wonderful to see you! You haven't changed at all.

“Lionel is so dull,” she complained, poking at a shrimp soufflé with her fork. Penelope's taste was for light, expensive food—oysters, Scottish salmon, out-of-season fruit—which she pushed fastidiously around her plate as though its function were to be judged, not eaten. “All he talks about is the risk of war. I don't want to think about war, Bernie. I lived through it once, I don't see why I should go through it again. Politicians can always avoid it if they want to, can't they?”

“They can, yes, but it depends at what price,” said Bernard, who tolerated a much higher level of political naivety in his mother than in anybody else, including Olivia. “Does Lionel think that we should be doing more to stop Hitler?”

“Oh, I've stopped listening to what he says. It gets on my nerves.” Penelope thrust out her chin in a not very good impression of Lionel. “It's a serious matter, you know, Mother. We could be at war with Germany before the year is out.” She lit a cigarette and blew smoke effusively over her shoulder. “Now, tell me, darling: why didn't you bring Olivia with you? Don't tell me that you've quarreled already.”

“Of course not. I wanted to have you to myself, that's all.” In fact Bernard had decided not to tell Olivia about the lunch. Since their visit to Cheshire his wife and his mother had met two or three times. On those occasions Penelope had been deliberately, remorselessly
kind
to Olivia, who as a consequence disliked her more than ever.

Penelope laid her free hand upon his sleeve. “You've always been such a generous boy, Bernie. A boy who thinks about others. I can say this to you now, but with those endless refugees of yours, I was afraid that you'd end up marrying a foreigner. A noisy red-faced Czech girl or one of those irritating Russians who insists they have royal blood. Or even—I'm sorry, Bernie, I know this will offend you, but I can't help how I feel—even a Jew.”

“I know that Lionel thinks Olivia is impossible,” Bernard said, with satisfaction. Penelope did not answer.

“I blame Dickie. He encourages you to be Bohemian, and it doesn't suit you.” Taking her hand from his sleeve she pushed at the lock of fair hair falling over his forehead. “I hope you're not going to wait too long before you have children, Bernie.”

“Oh…” Bernard shifted his weight from one buttock to the other. He had always imagined that one day he and Olivia would have children, but the prospect lay vaguely in the future, not to be considered now. In the meantime he had no intention of discussing his sex life with his mother.

“Well, I don't want my only grandchildren to be Lionel's. At least Olivia's a looker. She doesn't have the absurd modern view, does she, that children ruin your figure? It's nonsense, you only have to look at me. My waist's as small as it was when I was twenty-two. And it's good for a woman to have children. It gives her a purpose in life.”

Bernard smiled. Well, perhaps she's right, he thought. Children would settle Olivia, she would have an occupation, she wouldn't be so restless. And I would be a wonderful father, I am sure of it; so much kinder than my own father.

Penelope was looking pensive now, head on one side, birdlike. “Does she make you happy, Bernie? Olivia, I mean?”

“Of course,” said Bernard. “That is, as happy as it is possible for any thinking man to be. Look, Mother, here comes the waiter. Why don't you have
omelette surprise
for pudding? You know how much you love ice cream.”

On the night
before Bruno's wedding all the men went to drink at the
fascio
. Antonio accompanied them, dressed in his expensive new suit; he had to sing at the Golden Slipper later that evening.

Bruno's engagement to Renata had been announced in June. He told Enrico first, in private, out of courtesy to the man who should have been his father-in-law. They would be married in London: a simple wedding, without fuss.

“I cannot travel to Lazio, so soon after returning to my job at the hotel,” Bruno said. “It would be asking for trouble, and besides…”

A silence, cloudy with disappointment, hung in the air. Magnanimously Enrico embraced Bruno, as if he were indeed his son-in-law. His chagrin he kept to himself until he was at home, in the Trombettas' kitchen.

“Well, Filomena,” he said, leveling his eyes upon his daughter, “you have lost the love of a good man. You have squandered it as if it were nothing, spitting it out like the pips from an apple. I hope that you are pleased with your conduct.”

Filomena was at the stove, cooking some fritters of onion and minced meat. Her face flushed, but she did not speak.

“You're a fool, Filomena.” Valentino looked up from his copy of
L'Italia Nostra,
which he was reading at the table. “You'll never find a husband now.”

Filomena spun round from the stove, mouth open. For a moment Antonio thought she was going to snap, and reveal her secret. She thought better of it, though, and turned back to her frying pan, scraping and prodding ferociously at the fritters.

“Bruno's engagement won't make any difference, Mena,” he said, when they were alone. “You know that, don't you? Papa would never agree to let you marry an Englishman.”

“Yes,” breathed Filomena, “I know that. I am not a fool.”

“Have you been in touch with Constable Harker? Have you told him what has happened?”

Filomena let out another breath. Then, so quietly that he could scarcely hear her, she said: “I made you a promise, Antonio. Do you think that I won't keep it?”

In the bar
of the
fascio
Valentino was playing cards with a couple of Blackshirts. It was a game called
scopa
that he liked because you left your tricks on the table, to show that you were winning.

“Well, good luck to you, Bruno, my boy.” Enrico's cough had improved during the summer, but his skin had taken on a sallow look, like a crumpled sheet of newspaper. “I wish you every happiness. We all wish you happiness, don't we, Antonio?”

Bruno was leaning against the bar without saying much. His eyes were as wide as an owl's.

“It will be a fresh start for you,” Enrico went on. “A new wife, a new home. You are pleased with your lodgings, I hope?”

Bruno nodded. Now that he was to be married he had moved from his cramped quarters at Mauro's to a room in Maddox Street, not far from the hotel where he worked. He had managed to get his job back after his return from Africa; a piece of good fortune, since Renata would leave the laundry in Goodge Street after the wedding. It was not right, Bruno declared, for his wife to continue slaving in another man's service. If he could not afford to keep her, well, he should not be getting married.

In the corner Valentino gave a whoop of triumph as he won the game of
scopa
. “I am invincible, I am like the
duce
's army, I cannot be beaten. Time to pay your dues, oh vanquished ones.”

The men were reaching into their pockets, disgruntled, when the door from the marble Sala dell'Impero was flung open. It was the secretary of the London
fascio,
Bernardo Patrizi. He toured the Casa d'Italia most evenings to greet the club's members, accompanied by a couple of officials. The men stood to attention and gave the fascist salute—even Antonio, to avoid attracting attention, although he did it halfheartedly.

From the doorway Signor Patrizi gazed benignly at Bruno. “I hear that you are to be married, my friend. I wish you happiness, and many children. The new Roman empire needs the sons of good fascists.”

Bruno opened his mouth and closed it again, like a fish. “You do me a great honor, sir,” he managed to say, but it was too late: Signor Patrizi had turned back toward the Sala dell'Impero. The official behind him gave a compassionate smile, as if he understood that Bruno's awe had struck him dumb. He was a handsome man in his thirties, with piercing blue eyes.

“Times are hard for honest Italians,” he said, sliding a coin into Bruno's palm. “We in the
fascio
recognize that. If you find yourself struggling, my friend, remember that we are here to help.”

Bruno held the money in the hollow of his hand, staring. The official cast his bright blue glance about the room.

“Ah, Valentino. Even off duty it seems the
fascio
is a second home to you. Excellent. And this as I recall is your father? I'm glad to see you here. We must draw strength from our fellow Romans. It will help us to walk among our enemies with our heads held high.”

“It is a pleasure—” Enrico began, but the official had moved on, fixing his eyes upon Antonio.

“And who is this? I do not think I have encountered you before.”

“It is my son Antonio,” Enrico said. “He works with me in our kiosk—”

“But not enrolled within the
fascio,
I believe? I do not think you have paid your twelve lire to be one of us, have you, my friend?” There was a glassy jollity about the official's face.

“No,” said Antonio, “I have not.”

The official held his gaze, searchingly; then, still smiling, he looked away. “I hope that in due course you will recognize your duty to the fatherland, Antonio. The time is coming, you know, when we must stand up and be counted. Better then to be among patriots.”

The drinking went
on until past nine o'clock. Bruno's eyes grew wider and more owl-like than ever. Valentino won three further games of
scopa
before one of the Blackshirts, irked by his jubilance, led him off to play billiards instead.

“I must go to work,” said Antonio to his father, whose eyelids were beginning crêpily to droop. “I'll walk you home first though, Papa. You're looking tired.”

At once Enrico straightened in his chair. “No,” he hissed, “honor demands that I stay. Bruno must know that there is no bad blood between us. He must know that we forgive him for his marriage.”

At the word
marriage
Bruno looked up blearily. There was an air of bewilderment about him, as if the events of his own life had moved too fast for him and he could not keep up.

“Antonio,” he said, reaching out his hand, “my friend. My brother.”

Hardly your brother now, Antonio thought, but he accepted Bruno's hand. He felt sorry for him. After the first triumph of his return nobody had showed much interest in Bruno's adventures in Africa. There was greater excitement about the Italians leaving for Spain, to support General Franco's army. Besides, there were other men who had fought in Abyssinia, with more glorious tales of war than Bruno's; louder voices too.

“You hoped that in spite of everything I would marry your sister, Antonino.” Bruno spoke with the slurred precision of a very drunk man, mortally determined to make himself clear. “Don't pretend, I know you did. I loved Filomena, I believed she would be my wife, I thought about her all the time I was in Africa. But after that night—”

“It is all right, Bruno. You do not have to explain.”

Bruno's grip tightened upon Antonio's hand. “No, you don't understand. When she threw my present to the floor—”