The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (19 page)

“So the child is yours?” said Enrico. His eyes, fixed upon his favorite son, were like granite.

Valentino shrugged. “I do not know. He could be mine. Nobody will ever be certain, not me, not Pasquale, not Claudia herself.”

Or the child, thought Filomena. What would it be like for that child, never to know his own parentage?

At the table Enrico put his head in his hands. “Oh, Valentino, my son,” he said. There was despair, not reproach, in his voice now.

“Do not be angry with me, Papa.” Valentino crouched beside his father's chair like a chastened schoolboy. “It is not my fault, Claudia was willing, she tempted me…”

Reaching down, Enrico caressed his son's black tangled hair. Then he said: “You had better leave the room, Filomena. This is no conversation for an unmarried woman to hear.”

“I don't see why,” said Filomena stoutly. “I understand what has happened. And I am the one who dealt with Pasquale.”

“Yes, by calling in the British authorities.” There was a zest in Valentino's bitterness, as he seized the chance to divert blame. “It is dishonorable, it is not how we Italians do these things, we settle our affairs within our own community—”

“Filomena did what she thought best,” said Antonio, who had been silent until now. “She had my wife and child to protect. The question is, what should we do next? This man Pasquale is serious, Valentino. Next time you may not be so fortunate.”

Valentino let out a whimper. “There, there, my son,” said Enrico. “We will think of something. Antonio will think of something.” He looked eagerly across the room. “Can we talk to this Pasquale, do you suppose, Antonio? I could speak to him. It will be better coming from an older man, from a father. I persuaded Carlo Ricci to forgive Valentino after that business with Lucia.”

“That was different,” said Antonio. “Lucia's father chose to be deceived, you know that, Papa. Pasquale will not be mollified so easily. You will have to lie low for a while, Valentino. Leave Soho, leave London for six months, maybe a year.”

“But where will I go?” wailed Valentino. “I do not want to leave my home, my family…”

All eyes were upon Antonio now, part in appeal, part in fear. “You should go to Italy,” he said. “Back to Lazio, back to the village. Pasquale is not from our region, he has no friends or relations there, he cannot pursue you.”

A mutinous expression crossed Valentino's face. “I do not want to take flight like a coward. It would be shameful.”

“It is not cowardice, Valentino. It is wisdom.” Antonio paused. He guessed that what he was about to say would change his life, and yet when the words came out they sounded casual, reasonable, not dramatic at all.

“Danila wants to return to her parents' house in Lazio, she thinks it will be safer for our son. She cannot travel alone, and I cannot go with her. I cannot leave Papa, I cannot leave my work. You will not be taking flight, you will be protecting your sister-in-law. What is shameful about that?”

Four days later Danila and the baby left for Italy, escorted by Valentino. They took the train from Victoria, as once the children of loyal fascists had done, gleefully gathering for their summer camps while Ambassador Grandi doled out sweets.

Antonio accompanied the travelers to the station. Enrico had hoped to go too, to catch the last possible glimpse of his favorite son, but his breathing had grown worse and he was confined to bed in Frith Street.

“Courage, Valentino,” said Antonio to his brother, who was weeping as the bus trundled inexorably along Piccadilly. “Papa will travel to Lazio soon. This summer, perhaps. It is not as though you will never see him again.”

“If the war comes it may be impossible to travel,” Danila said in a flat voice. She was in the seat behind the two brothers, beautifully dressed in a fawn coat and a yellow-ocher hat. Her sleeping child was cradled in her lap. She had cried when Antonio first told her he was not coming with her to Italy. For the rest of the night she had wheedled and wept and caressed him, trying to persuade him to change his mind. Once she realized, though, that he would not, it seemed to Antonio that she hardened, becoming brisk and organized. During those last days she showed no sign of intimacy or regret.

“We will find a way,” said Antonio. He did not want to think about the future. All his concentration was fixed upon the task ahead. Farewells were muddled, awkward affairs; you could be tormented afterward by your own clumsiness. He was hoping that he would manage the departure of his wife and son cleanly, decently.

The platforms at Victoria were busy with day-trippers to the south coast. Antonio hauled Danila's suitcases toward the train. Most of the things she had packed were for the baby, christening gifts, the soft mass of jerseys she had knitted. Antonio knew that his son would not need so many warm clothes in Lazio—Danila would have to find him cooler things, of cotton or linen, to survive the Italian summer—but, like so much, the words had gone unsaid.

He turned to watch his wife follow him demurely along the platform. Last night, in the darkness, he had taken her in his arms, sliding his hand along her thigh to give notice of his intention to make love to her. Danila did not move. Antonio raised the hem of her white cotton nightdress, then let it fall once more. I do not want a wife who submits, he thought, I want a wife who desires me. He patted her knee—a peacemaking gesture, as if to say, It is all right, I will not insist—and he slid to the far edge of the mattress, where he lay awake until the room grew light.

On the platform the baby was chuntering irritably, his chubby limbs eeling from Danila's grasp. Soon he would be too big for her to carry. When I see him next, Antonio thought, he will not recognize me, and who knows? Perhaps I will not recognize him, for all that he is my flesh and blood. Putting down the valises he threw open the carriage door. Danila stepped forward to embrace him. For a moment he remembered the early days of their marriage, when she had nestled against him like a trustful bird.

“Oh, my love,” he said, softening. At that moment the baby began to cry, pushing furiously against his father.

“Mama,” he said, seizing a black lock of Antonio's hair, “Mama.”

“Hush.” Danila's attention turned to the child, uncurling his plump fingers. “We had better get him settled, Antonio. He will howl all the way to Dover otherwise.”

And that is how it is, thought Antonio, as he helped his wife into the railway carriage. That is how it will always be.

“Take care of them, Valentino,” he said, throwing his arms about his brother. “I am trusting them to you. Do not let any harm come to them, on the journey or in Lazio.”

Valentino rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Of course, Antonino. You can count on me.” He gripped his brother once more, fiercely. “And promise me that you will look after Papa?”

“It will be my greatest care, Valentino. Keep your spirits up. We will see each other soon.”

The whistle was blowing now. There was a frantic slamming of doors; then, like a pantomime dragon, the train began to huff and puff out of the station, gathering speed. Valentino leaned from the window, waving, but of Danila there was no sign. Antonio watched until the guard's brown van had disappeared along the track. Once the train was out of sight he walked back through the platform gates into the ornate brick ticket hall. A sense of unfamiliar lightness swept through him; he could almost taste it at the back of his throat. It was only when he had stepped into the sunlit street that he recognized it as freedom.

At home in
Frith Street Filomena was stewing an oxtail for Enrico's supper. She was humming one of the songs she had heard Antonio practice. Unlike her brother, Filomena knew that she was happy: knew it straightforwardly, without shame. She had often imagined a home from which Danila and Valentino were absent, but she had never dreamed that it could be achieved so easily. Joyful vistas opened before her. She would be able to come and go without sniping or grumbling; nobody would complain that she was late home from the laundry, or that she had put too much nutmeg in the gnocchi.

“
These foolish things…
” sang Filomena, not very tunefully, as she poked at the oxtail in the pan. There was a rap upon the front door: a loud rap, full of bravado. Filomena wiped her steam-damp hands upon her apron. If it is Pasquale, she thought, I will tell him that he is too late, Valentino has gone, he will never find him. I will not be afraid, I will take pleasure in telling him.

It was not Pasquale, though: it was Stanley Harker, in his blue high-buttoned uniform. His copper's face was screwed up in a determined expression.

“I heard there'd been some trouble here,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Filomena stared. Then in a matter-of-fact voice she said: “You had better come inside. Be quiet, though. My father is asleep.”

Stan wiped his stout boots carefully on the mat. Once they were in the kitchen Filomena closed the door, so they could not be heard.

“Salty told me that he'd been here.” Stan was looking around the kitchen, at the well-scrubbed table, at the black stove: all the things Filomena had described, in their walks between Goodge Street and Frith Street, but which until now he had never seen. “Constable Sellers, I mean. Salty's his nickname, that's what we call him down at the station. He said there'd been some trouble, a gang of men with clubs. It bothered me.”

Filomena stood beside the table with her arms folded. She knew she ought to offer Stan something—coffee, a bottle of beer—but to do so would compromise her. It would confirm once and for all that Stan had been present, in her home; she would never be able to deny it.

“It was my brother Valentino. He caused offense to one of our countrymen. But it is all right now. My father has sent Valentino to Lazio, out of harm's way. He has gone with Danila and the baby.”

“But you did not go too?”

“Of course not. Papa is ill, his chest is weak still, he needs nursing. And someone has to keep house for Antonio.”

“Ah,” said Stan, and then: “Is that the scullery where you sleep?” There was an incredulous note in his voice that annoyed Filomena. How dare he criticize her family's arrangements?

“Yes,” she said fiercely.

Stan gave a faint smile. “You did not send me word, Filomena. I thought that I would hear from you, but there was nothing. Even though you did not marry this fiancé of yours, this Bruno.”

Filomena lowered her head. She could feel the blood burn in her cheeks. “I promised Antonio that I would not see you again. He said that he would not tell my father about you—about our friendship—as long as I gave him my promise—”

“And you agreed?”

The words crowded to Filomena's lips. I told you it was impossible, my father would have packed me off to Lazio, what in the world did you expect me to do? She did not say any of them. She stood silent, her head still bowed.

“I have another reason for coming,” said Stan, after a moment. “I'm joining up. My father died at Christmas, so there's one less mouth to feed. And I want to do my bit against Hitler when the time comes.”

Filomena looked at him then. “I'm sorry about your father,” she said. “Does it mean that you'll be leaving London?”

“Yes. I'll be off for basic training in a couple of weeks. I'm going to Catterick, in Yorkshire.” Stan paused. He was gazing at Filomena. A quite other dialogue was taking place within that gaze. “I've never been so far north before. Never been further than King's Cross, if truth be known.”

He is going to kiss me, thought Filomena. The memory of their last kiss, sudden and thirsty, swept through her.

“Will you write to me?” she said abruptly, twisting sideways. It wrong-footed Stan.

“What? But won't your family find out?”

“You can send letters to the post office in Charing Cross Road, I'll collect them there. It will be easier now that Danila and Valentino have gone. I will have more freedom.”

Their eyes met once more, as they each registered what Filomena's new freedom might mean. For an instant everything hung in the balance. Then, from the floor above, Enrico called out.

“Mena! Where are you, Mena?” It was a sick man's querulous voice, and it brought Filomena to herself.

“It's my father.” She put out her hands, as though she could shoo Stan from the house without actually touching him. “You had better go, Stan.”

Stan held his ground a moment longer, doggedly. “If I do write, Filomena, will you write back?”

“Of course I will. Only you must go now, Stan. Please, before my father hears you.”