The Dividing Stream (13 page)

‘‘This bed is hard,’’ Colin said, bouncing up and down.

‘‘Be thankful you have a bed,’’ his father retorted. ‘‘When we came through the Uffizi we saw one of those two boys asleep on a stone bench. How would you like that?’’

‘‘Which two boys?’’

‘‘Oh, you haven’t met them. I forgot.’’

‘‘Which two boys?’’

‘‘It wouldn’t interest you. They were two boys we met. I’ll tell you about it some other time.… Good night, old chap.’’

Max stooped clumsily and kissed his son on the forehead, and then watched while Mrs. Bennett also said good night. He noticed how, with her, there was none of the same stiffening on the boy’s part, as if for an irksome duty, and in the comparison a swift mingling of grief and anger swept through his being.

‘‘W
HAT
a strange thing to do, Mother,’’ Karen said.

‘‘Is it strange? Yes, I suppose it is, but it never really struck me. I saw them in the Signoria, and I stopped to have a word with them, because they’re nice children. And then I remembered that tonight we were going to the Piazzale Michelangelo, and I thought they might like to come too. The music,’’ she explained. ‘‘I expect they’ll like the music. But whether they’ll come or not is another matter. I spoke to the Tunisian in French, but perhaps he didn’t understand me.’’

‘‘Frankly, I rather hope he didn’t,’’ Karen said. ‘‘I don’t much fancy going up there with two boys off the streets.’’

‘‘They’re nice children,’’ Mrs. Bennett repeated.

‘‘One of them stole your pen,’’ Max reminded her.

‘‘And the other returned it.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Max said. ‘‘That’s true enough.’’

‘‘Be careful of confidence-tricks,’’ Mrs. Maskell put in. They were all seated in a circle in the lounge, but whereas the other chairs were at some distance from each other, hers was so near von Arbach’s that whenever she leant forward to pick up her drink, her knee could touch his. ‘‘ They all play confidence-tricks. The Marchesa was telling us about one of them when we had tea with her. It’s all to do with a bale of cloth, and a Greek merchant who has to catch a plane, and you’ve to lend him some money on the security of the cloth—and an Italian friend will pay you back. Isn’t that how it goes, Tiny? But, of course, the cloth is practically valueless and the friend doesn’t exist. They’re such crooks,’’ she said. ‘‘I wouldn’t trust them an inch.… Have my cherry,’’ she continued to von Arbach, fishing the Maraschino out of her drink on the end of its wooden stick ‘‘ You know that you adore them.’’

Von Arbach looked embarrassed, his long white eyelashes fluttering over his oblique eyes and his cheeks reddening at this attention; but he docilely accepted the proffered gift, opening his mouth for Mrs. Maskell to push the cherry in.

Tiny, who had obviously been thinking for some time, now announced, biting on his pipe: ‘‘Look at it this way. Taking those two lads up to that swagger place at the Piazzale is the equivalent of taking two barrow-boys into the Ritz. Well, isn’t it?’’

‘‘As bad as that!’’ Mrs. Bennett asked in a dismay which was not without its hidden irony.

The comparison seemed to please Karen: ‘‘Then it may be more fun than I had expected.’’

‘‘Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,’’ Mrs. Bennett sighed. ‘‘ Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked them.’’

But, at any rate, Colin and Pamela were delighted with the prospect of meeting the two Italians. At this moment they were seated in the entrance hall, one on either side of the vast central pillar, purple and veined like horse-meat, and were scrutinizing everyone who entered. When, at last, two boys in shorts thrust themselves round the doors and then looked about them, as if dazed by an excessive brightness, before lumbering across to the desk, the American children leapt to their feet and rushed into the lounge. ‘‘ They’ve come,’’ they announced. ‘‘They’re asking at the desk.’’

‘‘I’d better go and see,’’ Max said.

‘‘Are you joining us?’’ Karen asked Mrs. Maskell.

‘‘To the Piazzale? Oh, I don’t think so,’’ the other woman returned, smiling agreeably and yet managing to indicate by no more than an inflexion that really she couldn’t be expected to take part in this kind of social prank. ‘‘No, as a matter of fact, we’re thinking of going dancing again tonight. Béngt took us to a wonderful place, on a roof near the station, with a floor-show and an American band and simply marvellous food, and we thought we’d pay another visit. You ought to come some night.’’

‘‘My God, they fleece you!’’ Tiny said unexpectedly.

Chris looked at him for a moment with intense distaste; then she laughed. ‘‘That’s so like Tiny, always counting his pennies; I don’t see what’s the point of coming on a holiday if one doesn’t want to spend money on the things one enjoys.’’

‘‘I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy the place,’’ Tiny retorted. ‘‘ I merely said it was expensive.’’

‘‘Oh, it’s so vulgar always to discuss things in terms of expense,’’ Chris said.

‘‘Well, one’s got to be vulgar with an allowance of only fifty pounds.’’

‘‘Thank you, Béngt,’’ Chris said, turning to beam at him, as he extricated her greying Dauphin bob from under the collar of the musquash coat she had just dragged on. ‘‘Béngt has such lovely manners,’’ she boasted as a mother might of her child. ‘‘Have you noticed his family crest?’’ And she at once caught his little finger and showed it to the company. But before they could all see, Max’s arrival with Rodolfo and Enzo made her hurry away her men-folk. ‘‘Ta-ta for now,’’ she called. ‘‘Ta-ta!’’

Colin and Pamela stood with legs apart and fingers clasped behind their backs, like awkward soldiers at ease, waiting to be presented; nerves made them both want to giggle. Hands were shaken all round, even by Karen who, looking down, was amused to see that the muscles in Enzo’s bare knees were unmistakably twitching with panic. Although she was naturally unobservant, for such things her eye never failed her. When she glanced at his face, his gaze swerved away, as if they were two cars coming into collision. ‘‘I heard that one singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ the other night,’’ she said; and Rodolfo, understanding at least the word ‘‘singing’’, took it up with his unfailing desire to please by announcing, in Italian: ‘‘
Si, si
, Enzo sings beautifully.’’

‘‘No, I don’t. Don’t be such a fool.’’ The other boy dragged one toe of his plimsoll across the parquet floor so that it made a long grey smear, and then lowering his head, began to blush.

‘‘Yes, he has a beautiful voice.’’

‘‘Oh, shut up!’’

They all laughed, even Mrs. Bennett and the children who could not understand what had been said.

‘‘Well, let’s go,’’ Max suggested; and like a crocodile at school, the party at once formed up. Karen walked indifferently with Max, while a loquacious Rodolfo chattered beside them; Mrs. Bennett followed with Enzo, leaning her weight on his shoulder when they came to the steps and occasionally attempting to say something, either in French or English, which he could not understand; last, there were the children who, when they were not helping to push their grandmother from behind, carried on a conversation in excited whispers.

‘‘One of them smells rather,’’ said Pamela.

‘‘Yes, the Arab one. But it’s not really an unpleasant smell. Like an animal.’’

‘‘The other looks stronger. He’s the one that brought Granny’s pen back.’’

‘‘One can see he’s the nicer of the two. He was awfully embarrassed when they first came in. I smiled at him and kept smiling at him because I thought that might make him feel more comfortable. But then it struck me that he’d think I was making fun.’’

‘‘He has a hole in his trousers,’’ Pamela remarked. ‘‘They’re terribly old, they look as if they might fall to pieces at any moment. I suppose it’s unkind to notice such things.’’

‘‘One can’t help noticing things.’’

‘‘No, but to remark on them. He plays football, Daddy says.… I like the way he takes Granny’s arm—and the way Granny lets him.’’

‘‘Children, look at this lovely view,’’ Mrs. Bennett said, pressing one large hand over her heaving side, as if something were liable to burst out. Although it was night, her dark-glasses still dangled from her neck on their length of grubby twine and her other hand was fiddling with them. ‘‘Isn’t it lovely?’’ she asked.

‘‘
Molto bello
,’’ Enzo announced without looking at it.

‘‘It’s better at the top,’’ Colin said.

‘‘Now you’re being tactless,’’ Mrs. Bennett said with a laugh.

‘‘That’s unlike you. I asked you to admire the view because I was out of breath.’’

‘‘I’m sorry, Granny.’’

‘‘But it
is
beautiful,’’ Pamela said, making the discovery for the first time. She had plucked an ilex leaf on their way up and it lay between her lips as she looked down on the city. Far away the terrace of the Palazzo d’Oro floated, a cool square of light above a tramcar which at that moment passed, scattering it with grains of fire. The air was resinous and close.

A piercing whistle, which they guessed was Rodolfo’s, followed by a ‘‘Holloh’’, summoned them onwards. ‘‘I knew he’d be the sort of person who arrives at places first and then shouts to one to hurry,’’ Colin said. He turned to his sister: ‘‘That’s usually your job.’’

‘‘Come,’’ said Mrs. Bennett, the dry surface of her hand scraping on the Italian’s smooth forearm. ‘‘Let’s go on.’’ And they began to trudge onward to where they were awaited by the leaning crowds, Michelangelo’s colossus, and finally, the overture to
Traviata
, played by a string quartet on a shell-dilapidated terrace.

‘‘
Ah, la bella musica
,’’ said Rodolfo, as they arranged themselves at a table; but secretly he was wishing that they had gone to the other restaurant from which came the sounds of an Italian woman crooning an American song into a microphone which relayed it, even more horribly distorted, to the whole shadowy hillside. He was in no doubt what to order when Max asked him: ‘‘
A cassata
, please, and an orangeade, and some cakes.’’ He smiled impishly and put out a begging hand: ‘‘And a cigarette.’’

‘‘Well, that’s plain enough,’’ Max said in English, not sure whether to laugh or be displeased. ‘‘And you, Enzo?’’

‘‘Whatever you wish.’’ The Florentine was overawed by Karen and the splendour of the setting, shy of the children, and aware, for the first time, of the hole in his shorts. He could barely get out the three words.

‘‘Give him the same as the other boy,’’ Mrs. Bennett said, and added: ‘‘This air is suffocating. I feel I can’t breathe.’’

‘‘Perhaps the climb was too much,’’ Pamela said. She drew her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her grandmother’s forehead.

‘‘Still that filthy rag,’’ Mrs. Bennett said, smiling wryly. But she caught the girl’s forearm before she could stop, and said: ‘‘ Go on. I don’t mind a little dirt. You’re a good child.’’

‘‘Oh, this dreary music,’’ said Karen, evidently sharing Rodolfo’s opinion of the string quartet. She kept glancing around her as if she were expecting someone else to join their party, until Pamela, having watched her for several seconds, her chair tilted back, at last remarked maliciously:

‘‘You’re still waiting, Mummy.’’

‘‘Waiting? … Oh, don’t start that again, please!’’ Karen exclaimed with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. But she continued to look uneasily from table to table, her chin supported by her right arm.

After the children had gorged in a silence broken only by their occasional exclamations of pleasure and approval, Colin who had a flair for entertaining others, suggested they should play ‘‘Up Jenkins”. ‘‘Count me out,’’ Karen said, but the children insisted: ‘‘No, Mummy, you must play, it’s no fun with only a few people,’’ and Mrs. Bennett said quickly: ‘‘Yes, dear, you must play.’’ After a short period of bewilderment, the two Italians soon mastered the game, their excited shouts of ‘‘Bangs!’’ ‘‘Creeps!’’ and ‘‘Window-boxes!’’ sending the two English children into explosive shrieks of laughter. Enzo sat between Karen and Colin, and often his hand would touch hers, her flesh seeming wonderfully cool in comparison with the hot, sticky penny. At such moments of contact he would feel a strange, jolting collision within himself, as if an invisible blow had been struck upward through his whole body.

Beside Enzo’s hands, not merely Karen’s, but even Colin’s looked absurdly fragile. Usually so quiet, the English boy had lost his reserve; he kept jumping to his feet, issuing orders and then joining with his sister in yelps of derisive laughter. ‘‘ Sh! Sh!’’ Max attempted to quiet them. But the pandemonium increased. Rodolfo fell off his chair intentionally, though the others did not guess this; Pamela accused him of cheating and they began a good-humoured scuffle; the weird Italian shouts of ‘‘ Up Jenkins’’ were seriously competing with the mournful contralto who had now begun to sing with the quartet.… Guests at other tables were glancing round, some in amusement but more in disapproval; the two waiters had the look of being prepared for any emergency.

‘‘Enough!’’ Karen suddenly said, slipping the penny which Enzo had just passed her into her bag. ‘‘ You’re getting too excited, children.’’

‘‘Oh, please, Mummy,’’ Colin pleaded.

‘‘No, I think we’d better stop,’’ Max said quickly. ‘‘Let’s all have something else to drink, eh?’’

He clicked his fingers for the waiter, and as he gave the orders, did not notice that Karen was gazing with a sudden, almost frightened tension at the Piazzale, her brows drawn together and her hands, still lying on the table, clenched tightly. ‘‘Yours, darling?’’ he said.

But she had already risen to her feet: ‘‘Excuse me for a moment,’’ she murmured. ‘‘I won’t be long.’’

Max rose, too, and watched her in bewilderment as she hurried down the steps that led from the café to the Piazzale. He turned to Mrs. Bennett: ‘‘Where’s she going?’’

‘‘I haven’t an idea. She’s left her bag so she must be coming back.’’

‘‘Did we annoy her?’’ Pamela asked.

‘‘Perhaps we made too much noise,’’ Colin said, already subsiding into his usual grave manner. ‘‘Do you think that was it?’’

‘‘Oh, I don’t think it was anything to do with you all,’’ Mrs. Bennett assured them, with more truth than she realized. ‘‘Perhaps she wanted to see the view. Or to be alone.’’