The Dividing Stream (18 page)

‘‘Enzo’s terribly strong,’’ Colin said dreamily. ‘‘Look at his muscles.’’

‘‘You haven’t any muscles at all,’’ Pamela answered with her usual brutal frankness. ‘‘Brains instead of brawn,’’ she added and then exclaimed: ‘‘ Oh, look! Aren’t they silly?’’

The two Italians were taking it in turns to dive under the water, get between each other’s legs, and somersault each other over and over. Rodolfo shouted breathlessly: ‘‘
Regardez, regardez
!’’ in case they were not being seen, and then, pushing aside the dripping black hair which stuck to his forehead: ‘‘Lookee!’’ he shouted. ‘‘Lookee!’’

‘‘We’re looking,’’ Pamela shouted back. ‘‘ Oh, he does show off.’’

‘‘So the coolies got you here,’’ a voice said behind them. They both swung round. ‘‘And now they’re performing for you.’’

‘‘I—I thought you were going to the swimming-pool with Mummy,’’ Colin stammered.

‘‘It was packed with the most awful people, and it seemed stupid to pay three hundred lire when I could bathe for nothing here. Besides I find the Maskells boring. I left your mother there,’’ Frank Ross added.

‘‘The river water is dangerous,’’ Pamela said.

‘‘Oh, nonsense! Is that why you’re not bathing?’’

‘‘I’m not allowed to. Granny says it’s all right for Italians, they’re used to it, but English people can catch all sorts of diseases—diphtheria and typhoid and infantile paralysis and all that.’’

‘‘You children are molly-coddled.’’

‘‘Do you think so?’’ Pamela asked equably, as if the idea had never occurred to her before. ‘‘Perhaps Colin is, but I don’t think I am. At least nobody’s ever said so before. At school most of the girls are far more faddy than I am.… Are you going to bathe?’’ she asked, seeing that Frank Ross had pulled off his khaki tunic and was now removing his shorts to reveal the bathing-slip he wore underneath. ‘‘Goodness, you are brown! You don’t look English at all.’’

‘‘Why do you lie in the shade?’’ Frank Ross said to Colin; he had removed his watch, and where the silver strap had lain the skin was strangely white and puckered as if the wrist had been severed and then rejoined.

‘‘I don’t like the sun. It’s too hot.’’

‘‘It’s good for you. And why do you want to clutter yourself up with all those clothes?’’ He put out a hand and tugged at Colin’s pull-over: ‘‘ Fancy a pull-over on a day like this.’’ Then he drew back Colin’s sleeve and held his own arm against the boy’s fragile one. ‘‘ Look! You look as if your mother had washed you in Persil.’’ Pamela laughed, and Colin eyed her with a hurt resentment for this betrayal. ‘‘You ought to sunbathe; do you good.’’

‘‘I don’t like the sun,’’ Colin repeated stubbornly.

‘‘Colin isn’t like other boys,’’ Pamela said. It was impossible to tell whether she was joining in Frank Ross’s attack or whether the remark was intended to be some sort of clumsy defence of her brother’s attitude.

Frank laughed: ‘‘I had guessed that for myself.’’ He got to his feet and hitched at his trunks; then he yawned and stretched luxuriously, scratched the hair under one armpit and dashed for the water. He challenged the two Italians to a race which involved swimming many hundreds of yards, most of them against the current.

‘‘I hate him,’’ Colin said simply.

‘‘He was only trying to help you. The sun
is
good for you, everyone says that.’’

‘‘He’s as bad as Rodolfo, showing off his swimming. I hope he doesn’t win.… He didn’t win at chess,’’ he added with subdued triumph.

‘‘He did wonderful things in the war,’’ Pamela said. She ran her stubby fingers through her luxuriant blonde hair and then drew a strand of it through her mouth.

‘‘Oh, don’t,’’ Colin remonstrated; it was a habit which revolted his fastidiousness. ‘‘I wonder why he came,’’ he mused.

‘‘Who came?’’

‘‘Colonel Ross. It was funny his coming just here, it couldn’t have been a coincidence, could it?’’

‘‘I don’t, see why not.’’ Again Pamela put some hair in her mouth.

‘‘Please don’t!’’ Colin said irritably. ‘‘You know it makes me feel quite sick.… I think he wanted to find us,’’ he added slowly.

‘‘Wanted to find us! Don’t be silly. Why?’’

‘‘I don’t know. I wish I did. It’s, not as if he likes me,’’ he went on. ‘‘ I know he doesn’t. He thinks me a milksop, I can see that. But He wanted to find us, I’m sure he wanted to find us. After all, when he found us, he needn’t have joined us, need he? Need he?’’

‘‘That was just friendly.’’

‘‘But he’s not a person who does friendly things.… Oh, Enzo’s winning. Good, good, good!’’ Suddenly, in a strangely shrill voice, he began to shout in English: ‘‘ Come on, Enzo! Enzo, Enzo, Enzo! Come on!’’ He banged the iron on his broken leg against a stone so that it rang like a bell in time to his reiterated: ‘‘Enzo, Enzo, Enzo!’’

But, had he known it, it was precisely that shouting which gave Ross the energy to drive himself onward like a flogged horse, pass the Florentine, and fling himself, breathless, exhausted, but first, at the feet of the children. ‘‘Oh, well done!’’ Pamela said, in admiration. ‘‘But I knew you would win.’’

‘‘That current,’’ Ross gasped. ‘‘Judged it all wrong. Should have known better.’’ He rose to his feet to greet the Florentine as he came from the water. ‘‘Well done,’’ he said in Italian, and he gripped both his hands, put an arm round his shoulder, and led him up the sand. ‘‘ You nearly beat me,’’ he said. There was a real cordiality in his voice, for in Enzo he had found what he always sought in men; a physical prowess which almost, but not quite, matched his own. He hated easy victories; he even more hated defeat.

Rodolfo came from the river a sulky third. He massaged his leg, pulled faces, and gave an excellent performance of someone who has cramp. But no one, except Pamela, took him at all seriously.

‘‘You swim beautifully,’’ Enzo said to Frank Ross in naïve admiration. ‘‘ Doesn’t he?’’ he turned to Rodolfo.

Rodolfo waggled his right hand loosely from the wrist as he always did when he wished to indicate a superlative; then he again doubled himself in simulated agony.

‘‘Beautiful,’’ Enzo repeated, lying on his naked side in the sunlight and looking at the Englishman. He closed his eyes and at once, like a dog, fell asleep.

Colin experienced an agony of jealousy. The Florentine, stretched still and glistening in the dust, had forsaken him for the enemy; they had all forsaken him, Pamela had forsaken him, he was along. The iron rang out on the stone as he turned over on his stomach and lay with his face in a clump of grass.

Frank Ross sprinted up and down the bank three or four times to get dry and then began to pull on his clothes. As the watch covered the white patch on his wrist, Pamela suddenly asked: ‘‘Did you find us here just like that—by accident?’’

He laughed, but he seemed unusually clumsy, for one so deft by nature, as he fastened the strap. ‘‘ Of course. Did you think I’d followed you? I often bathe here. And I don’t get diphtheria or typhoid or any other of those diseases,’’ he added, as if to taunt her.

‘‘That’s what I told Colin,’’ Pamela said.

‘‘Oh, shut up, shut up!’’ her brother shouted, suddenly raising his face.

‘‘Told him—told him what?’’ Ross asked.

‘‘Nothing,’’ Pamela said.

‘‘Well, I must be going to my lunch.’’ He felt in his pocket, took out a cigarette, broke it in two with scrupulous exactness, and then dropped a half by each of the sleeping Italians. ‘‘Tell them,’’ he said, before he sauntered away.

‘‘He might have given them one each,’’ Colin said.

‘‘Perhaps he isn’t rich,’’ Pamela said. ‘‘In fact I’m sure he isn’t. His clothes are terribly shabby, have you noticed?’’

‘‘You like him,’’ Colin said.

‘‘Yes, I do like him.… Is there any harm in that? Well, is there?’’ Her brother did not answer.

‘‘T
HAT
’
S
where Enzo lives,’’ Rodolfo said, pointing down the tight, claustrophobic Borgo.

‘‘There?’’ Colin looked at the plaque, blue lettering on white, and read out ‘‘Borgo Canto Rivolto.’’

‘‘What does that mean?’’ Pamela asked. ‘‘The Street of the Revolting Song?’’ She alone laughed at her own joke.

‘‘Can we go down there?’’ Colin asked. Then, when the Tunisian appeared to hesitate, he addressed himself to Enzo: ‘‘
È possibile andarvi
?’’

‘‘
Dove
?’’

‘‘
Alla sua casa
.’’

The two Italians looked at each other and Rodolfo said: ‘‘But why?’’

‘‘It would be interesting.’’

‘‘There’s nothing to see.’’

‘‘It’s always fun to see where others live.’’

‘‘But this street is ugly.’’

‘‘
Brutto, brutto
,’’ said Enzo.

‘‘That doesn’t matter.… Oh, come on,’’ Pamela said, already striding down the Borgo. ‘‘It’s a shorter way to the hotel anyway. Come on, do!’’

After the Italians had followed her for some yards, Colin said apologetically: ‘‘If you’d rather not, let’s turn back.’’ He knew now that he had forced them to do something which, inexplicably, they did not wish to do. ‘‘ Let’s turn back,’’ he repeated.

‘‘Turn back? But why turn back?’’ Rodolfo asked; and his tone was one of such astonishment that Colin wondered if he had been mistaken after all. ‘‘But why?’’ Rodolfo said.

‘‘Oh, nothing.’’

The street was deserted and there was no movement either outside or within the narrow, bare house where the Rocchigianis lived. ‘‘That’s it,’’ Enzo said.

‘‘That? It looks big.’’

Rodolfo explained that others lived there also and then, to amuse his English friends, he tried to tell them about the epileptic girl; but their French was not equal to it and he had to give up. A pity, he thought. A good story that.… But—perhaps Bella was in?

‘‘
Ecco
!’’ he jerked his head up to one of the windows, unable to point because his hands still supported Colin.

‘‘
Ecco, ecco
!’’ Bella sat at her usual place, her sewing in her hands, and she was looking down at them, her face held in profile so that the shrivelled half where she had burned herself could not be seen. Rodolfo whistled and she quickly turned away.

‘‘Oh!’’ Pamela exclaimed. ‘‘She looked so beautiful before, and now.… Look, Colin.’’

‘‘I’ve seen.’’ The crimson, puckered skin had made him feel slightly sick. ‘‘Who is she?’’

‘‘A lodger, I suppose.’’

The boys were about to carry. Colin on when Signora Rocchigiani appeared at a downstairs window, her head bound in what appeared to be a dish-cloth. She asked Enzo a question in Italian, he answered, there was much use of the word ‘‘
Inglese
’’, Rodolfo joined in, and eventually Signora Rocchigiani came out carrying a rocking-chair in which they deposited Colin. A moment later she brought another chair, one leg mended with two splints of wood, and motioned Pamela to it. ‘‘
S’accomodi
,’’ she said. ‘‘
S’accomodi
.’’

‘‘What is going on?’’ Pamela giggled. But she nevertheless sat down.

‘‘
Un momentino
,’’ Signora Rocchigiani said. They noticed for the first time that she was wearing no shoes.

Rodolfo and Enzo squatted on the steps, and Rodolfo cleared his throat and spat at two flies that were locked together on the cobbles. He laughed and nudged his friend; then he blew his nose between two fingers.

‘‘Daddy said that was how the Indians did it. I tried once, but it didn’t work. There was an awful mess,’’ Pamela said.

Signora Rocchigiani emerged carrying two cups which seemed to have come from a doll’s tea-service, and handed one to each of the two children. Colin sipped his cautiously and restrained himself from pulling a face. ‘‘I think it’s coffee,’’ he said. ‘‘But it’s awfully bitter.’’

Pamela tried hers and said: ‘‘Oh, Colin, I can’t!’’

‘‘You must.’’

‘‘It’ll make me sick.’’

‘‘You must,’’ he repeated. ‘‘ She’ll be awfully hurt. Gulp it, in one.’’ He put back his head and poured the thick mixture down. ‘‘It’s not so bad like that,’’ he said. ‘‘Go on. Don’t be a coward.’’

Pamela gulped, looked as if she were about to retch, and then somehow returned Signora Rocchigiani’s questioning smile with a smile of her own. ‘‘
Buono
,’’ she said.

‘‘
Buono
?’’

‘‘
Molto buono
.’’

‘‘
Sì, molto buono
,’’ Colin said.

‘‘That teaches you not to be inquisitive about other people’s houses,’’ Pamela said, as they moved off again. ‘‘But it was kind of her, wasn’t it? Enzo takes after her, they have the same voices and the same blue eyes. She looked awfully ill and tired though.’’

‘‘She works, in the hotel laundry. Rodolfo told me.’’

‘‘
Our
hotel laundry?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

As they came out into the Signoria, they saw ahead of them a grey alpaca coat, with horizontal creases from armpit to arm-pit, a protruding rump below it and a bush of grey hair above. ‘‘ Signor Commino,’’ said Pamela. Both shoes, once black but now grey for want of cleaning, had split their seams at the heels, and one of the shaggy socks had a hole the size of a florin. Under one arm was a parcel, wrapped in newspaper, while the other swung vigorously, fist clenched with the thumb between the fingers. Suddenly, as if he had seen them in a mirror, Signor Commino turned. His two rabbit-teeth were revealed in a grin; the fist was unclenched and extended to greet them. The spherical stomach seemed to swell with good nature, as he shouted: ‘‘Coleen, Coleen.… I was coming to speak with you.’’ He nodded briskly to the two Italians and then held out his parcel. ‘‘It is for you, Coleen—a loan,’’ he added quickly, in case of misunderstanding. ‘‘I cannot give it, because it is antique and therefore costly and belongs to my mother.’’ He began to tear off the sheets of newspaper with a reckless disregard for the tidiness of the city, backing at the same time towards the Loggia de’ Lanzi. Once there, he placed his treasure on a stone seat, and the last sheet of the
Corriere della Sera
was ripped off and away. There was a box.

‘‘What is it?’’ Pamela asked. A crowd was collecting.

‘‘Wait.’’ Signor Commino raised the lid, touched something within, and after a grind, a whirr and a series of clicks, a tune, infinitely faint and tinny, penetrated to their ears.