The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (18 page)

“No, not like that. Keep your feet still.” Olivia went spinning across the room, her mermaid's skirt swirling about her knees. The music flared and sharpened. Olivia could tell that the band smelled danger, they were thrilled by her dancing.

“I'm going to fall against your arm now,” she whispered. “Don't bloody drop me.”

The saxophone rose to a shimmering peak of sound. Olivia spun one last time before she let her body curve and dip backward, her hair brushing the floor.

“Bravo,” said Dickie, clapping noisily. “Olivia darling, I've never seen you dance with such fire. You must have inspired her, Antonio. That was marvelous.”

“
Meraviglioso,
” Bernard put in, in a jocular voice. His eyes were skewed as he approached Olivia, sliding his hand along her wrist. He desires me, she thought. He sees me in another man's arms and suddenly he wants me again.

“Let's go upstairs.” Bernard's face was so close she could feel his breath upon her cheek. “Nobody will miss us.”

Olivia glanced over her shoulder. Now that she was being taken from the party it seemed gaudy and enthralling. Penelope was flirting with Charles Connor. She looked the worse for wear, her hair wilting like an overdressed lettuce. Then Olivia saw Dickie. Something strange had happened to his face. One side had crumpled, and the corner of his mouth was drooping wetly. The next moment his glass thudded to the floor.

Antonio sprang forward, catching Dickie as he fell. “Mr. Rodway! Sir!” he called.

“What is it?” Bernard was still grasping Olivia's wrist. The briskness in his voice stopped just short of irritation. Releasing Olivia, he pushed his way toward his uncle. Dickie was sprawled on the carpet, Antonio's arm about his shoulders. He was trying to speak.

“Dickie,” said Bernard, “Uncle Dickie. Don't be afraid, everything will be all right.”

Dickie was still mouthing silence, his lips shaping a desperate O.

“I believe that he wants your wife,” said Antonio.

“Olivia? Where are you?” Bernard retrieved Dickie's cigarette holder, which was smoldering on the Turkish carpet. “Stay with him, will you? I'm going to telephone for an ambulance. I think he's had a stroke.”

Olivia crouched beside Dickie. “I'm here,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers, “I'm here, Dickie.”

Charles Connor had begun tactfully to shift party guests out to the garden. Dickie's breathing was shallow. Olivia felt the pressure of his hand. Neither of them spoke, or tried to speak. For one long moment they gazed serenely at one another; then Dickie turned his head, let out the whisper of a sigh and closed his eyes.

“Dickie!” Penelope dropped to her knees, nearly toppling Olivia. “Oh, Dickie, darling…”

Bernard had come back into the room. “It's all right, Mother,” he said in an authoritative voice. “An ambulance is on its way.”

Olivia, ousted, was struggling to her feet. The green sequins scraped against her thighs. In silence Antonio put out his hand to help her.

“He's dead,” she murmured, “isn't he?”

Antonio did not answer. Instead he slid the jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it about her. He did it carefully, you might say tenderly. Until that moment Olivia had not known it, but she was trembling; trembling uncontrollably, as though the nugget of ice deep within her had at last claimed her for its own.

“Don't pester me, Valentino.” Enrico flicked that week's
L'Italia Nostra
onto the kitchen table. “In three months' time we have to renew our lease upon the kiosk. We need every penny we can find. If you want to buy extravagant presents you should have saved some of your earnings.”

“But it is a question of honor, Papa. The christening will be a grand affair. I do not want Pasquale to think that we are paupers.”

“I do not understand why you have been invited in any case. We don't know this Pasquale. He is not from Lazio, is he?”

“He is a friend of Bruno's,” said Valentino, “and a good fascist.”

Enrico threw a look of appeal at Antonio. Frequently his older son came to his aid on these occasions, justifying his decisions in a way that made Enrico seem not harsh, but reasonable. Tonight, though, Antonio was in a world of his own. He had an English newspaper open before him, and he was staring at a grainy photograph. The
Stage
had published a long obituary of Dickie Belvoir, with a picture of Dickie as a young man, sleek and sprightly.

“I thought you were friendly with the wife, not the husband, Valentino,” said Filomena from the scullery, in an ingenuous voice. “Claudia. Isn't that her name?”

Valentino flushed, but he did not dare quarrel with his sister in front of Enrico. “I have met Claudia once or twice, yes. Pasquale sometimes brings her to concerts at the
fascio
. She is a devoted wife. She goes to mass at St. Patrick's three times a week, just like our dear mama.”

He crossed himself reverentially at the mention of his mother. Enrico did not respond. “It is no use, Valentino,” he said. “You must learn to live within your means. I have worked hard for our money, so has Antonio, so has Filomena. I am not squandering it upon a stranger's son.” Standing up, he took his hat from the peg and jammed it decisively upon his head. “That is my last word on the matter.”

Antonio glanced up from his newspaper. “What is the child's name, Valentino?”

“Riccardo, after his grandfather. He is a fine boy, a handsome boy.” Valentino lit a cigarette. “I want to show respect, that is all.”

“Ah,” said Antonio. He did not need to ask, So you think the child is yours?

In silence he turned to the paper once more. In his memory Olivia's party had acquired a lurid glamour, too fierce, too bright, like the photographer's dazzling flashbulbs. He thought of how she had pinched his fingers in reassurance, how she had touched the nape of his neck as they danced. He thought of Dickie's face, skewed and sweating. He thought of how he had raised Olivia from the floor and wrapped his jacket about her. That was when it had happened, between one gesture and the next.

“What are you looking at?” Valentino's voice was peevish, resenting the way his brother's attention had shifted from his own affairs.

“It is about Dickie Belvoir, Mr. Rodway's uncle. He was a famous stage designer.”

Valentino glanced at the photograph. “Pah! He looks like a
busone
. A queer.”

“Don't be absurd. He was married, his wife was a Russian dancer. And he adored Mrs. Rodway—”

“I wish you would not mix with such decadent people, Antonino. Homosexuals. Jews. They will corrupt you.” Valentino's eyes were wide and zealous. “I sometimes fear you have been corrupted already.”

Perhaps I have always loved her, thought Antonio, perhaps I fell in love that first night at the Paradise Ballroom. It is just that I did not realize it until now. He had not seen Olivia since the night of Dickie's death; the Rodways would not want intruders at such a time. How could he show his face in Bedford Square?

“I am sure that Danila does not like you spending your time with these people,” Valentino was saying. “In fact, I know she does not, she has told me so.”

“What?” said Antonio. He did not want to think about his wife; not now, with the knowledge of his love for Olivia burning in his veins. He and Danila had been living in an uneasy state of truce, neither daring to say anything that might start another quarrel. When he made love to her she did not push him away, but lay quite still, quite silent beneath him.

“She believes these people, these Rodways, are a bad influence upon you,” Valentino went on, in a self-righteous voice. “She believes you should be mixing with your fellow Italians, as I do.”

“Pah,” said Antonio irritably, “it has nothing to do with Danila,” and pushing back his chair he stalked out of the room.

The following night
Filomena was sitting in the kitchen with Danila and Renata. The men had gone out—Enrico and Valentino to the
fascio
, Antonio to the Golden Slipper—and they had the place to themselves, to gossip and drink coffee and eat macaroons. Renata visited Frith Street twice a week, partly to see her uncle Mauro, but chiefly, thought Filomena, to gloat. She did not mind the gloating, which was so blatant it was almost comical. What infuriated Filomena was the new alliance between Renata and Danila. You wouldn't understand, Mena, they seemed to say, tilting their heads knowingly, you're not married.

“Of course, I make a point of buying fruit and vegetables from Italy,” Renata was saying, sliding a macaroon into her mouth. “Bruno says that if all the forty thousand Italians in Britain did the same, our homeland would be richer by a thousand pounds a day.”

Danila nodded in approval. Although she was no longer breast-feeding she still occupied the most comfortable chair, close to the stove, a trim neat-faced matriarch. She was knitting a jersey for the baby in powder-blue wool.

“My cousin Bruno is right. It is a shame that every Italian woman does not follow his advice.” Danila threw a sidelong glance at Filomena, who bought whatever was cheap and plentiful, regardless of its provenance. Filomena thought of pointing out that patriotism was a luxury you could not afford when you had six mouths to feed, but she did not have the energy to start an argument.

“And has Bruno gained the promotion the hotel promised?” she asked instead.

A shadow crossed Renata's face. “It is not easy at the present time, especially for patriots like Bruno. His employers are British, they do not trust Italians. He was warned the other day for reading
L'Italia Nostra
. Imagine!”

“Tcha,” said Danila, “the sooner we return to Lazio the better. Does my cousin not think so?”

“He would like to return, but it is not possible, at least not yet. He earns more in London than ever he could in Italy.”

“That is what Antonio says, but I do not believe him.” Complacently Danila looped the blue wool about her tiny knitting needles. “It would be safer for the child in Lazio. If war comes Britain will be crushed by Germany. The fascists are so much stronger, they have conviction on their side.”

This remark exasperated Filomena. “You do not know that, Danila. Valentino may say so, but that does not make it true. Besides, Antonio is doing so well here in London, you cannot want to spoil his success—”

She was interrupted by a banging at the front door. It was loud and urgent, as if someone were hitting the panels with a stick. The three women looked at each other. There was fear in Danila's eyes, shadowy as a fish in deep brown waters. Filomena stood up.

“I will find out who it is,” she said.

There was another thwack at the door. A man's voice bawled: “Valentino! Valentino Trombetta! Come out like a man!”

Mauro's anxious wizened face was hanging over the banister. “What is it? What is happening?”

Filomena did not answer, but threw open the door. Three men stood outside, all carrying rounders bats. The man in front was black haired and muscular. He had a clipped mustache beneath a large beaky nose.

“What do you want?” said Filomena in stern Italian. “My brother is not at home.”

The black-haired man hesitated, nonplussed by the sight of Filomena. Then he said: “I do not believe you. Valentino is there, I know it. Hiding behind your skirts like the coward he is. Let me enter…”

Filomena planted her feet squarely upon the ceramic tiles of the hall. The posture filled her with a sense of power. This is why men fight, she thought, because they feel strong, they feel they can win. “What? You want to terrorize women and children in their own home? And yet you call my brother Valentino a coward.”

“Your brother has defiled my wife!” the man cried, and the men shoved their way past Filomena, clubs raised. Renata began to squeal.

“Fetch a policeman,” said Filomena to Mauro. “Don't argue with me, go.”

Pasquale, the black-haired man, was standing in the kitchen, jerking his club to and fro. One of the other men had gone into the scullery and was poking at Filomena's bedding, stored in the corner.

“We are just women,” clucked Renata, “please don't hurt us.” She was guarding Danila's chair, as though Danila, being the most beautiful, was bound to be the most at risk.

Pasquale took no notice. “He is here, I am sure that he is here. Giovanni, go and search upstairs.”

“You will not,” said Filomena. “My nephew is sleeping. I will not have him disturbed. He is only a baby…”

At the word
baby
Pasquale's mouth twisted like a terrible rope. Filomena thought of the damage her brother had done. That damage would haunt Pasquale and his family forever. How could he love his son, knowing what he knew? How could he trust his wife?

“Believe me,” she said more gently, “Valentino is not at home—”

There was a clatter of footsteps behind her. It was Mauro, accompanied by a police constable, an awkward young man with a spray of pimples upon his cheeks. At the sight of his uniform Filomena's heart gave a leap, instantly suppressed.

“What's happening here, then? I've been told there's a disturbance.” The young policeman stuck out his chin as though the gesture would, against the odds, give him authority.

Pasquale relaxed his grip upon his club. “It is a misunderstanding,” he said in English. “We intended to play a joke on a
paesano,
a compatriot, but we came to the wrong house. We did not mean to frighten these ladies.”

The policeman looked doubtfully around the kitchen, at Mauro, at Renata, at Danila rigid in her chair. When he spoke, though, it was to Filomena.

“Have these fellows been threatening you, miss?”

“I have explained, Constable,” said Pasquale smoothly. Filomena remembered that he was a waiter at Bianchi's, accustomed to dealing with the high and mighty. “It was a joke, a mistake. We are leaving now.”

“Miss?” said the policeman, his eyes still upon Filomena. She wavered for a moment and then shook her head.

“No, they have not been threatening us. We were startled, that is all.”

“Well, I'll see them off the premises,” the policeman said. “Come on then, let's be having you.”

Filomena saw Pasquale's fist tighten on his wooden club, but he thought better of it and followed the policeman to the open door. At the last moment he turned to Filomena.

“I will find your brother,” he hissed. “I will not rest until I find him. And when I find him I will kill him, even if I hang for it. You tell your brother that.”

Filomena thought that
Valentino would laugh off Pasquale's threat, but he did not. When Mauro fetched him home from the
fascio
his face was as pale as the tablecloths that arrived daily at the Goodge Street laundry.

“How many men were with him? Two? And they had clubs, you say?”

“Rounders bats,” said Filomena, who could not help feeling a glimmer of satisfaction, to see her swaggering brother so rattled.

“Claudia must have told her husband.” Valentino's hands were shaking; he could scarcely hold the cigarette to his lips. “She was afraid that she would go to hell if she did not confess the truth—”