The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (33 page)

The afternoon post fell through the letter box with a clunk. Bernard got to his feet. Avril, who usually brought up his letters, was in bed with a sick headache: one of several ailments she had acquired since her heartbreak in Egypt. Bernard wished her misery were not so conspicuous. It was as though her nose were perpetually dripping, and she did not have the wit to pull her handkerchief from her pocket.

On the doormat was the usual clutch of envelopes: three stiff ivory invitations, a typed note from his publisher, six or seven handwritten letters, probably fan mail. I ought to get a secretary, thought Bernard, to deal with this kind of thing. He scooped up the envelopes and took them back to his study. As he dropped them upon his desk he saw that one was an airmail envelope, with an Australian stamp upon it.

Filomena visited Danila after siesta, on her second day in the village. She took Nina, still drowsy from her nap. The little girl had spent the morning roaming with Paolina's wild children, tumbling into the moss-edged springs where they stopped to drink, poking sticks at the chickens and the scrawny local cats.

The house that had belonged to Filomena's grandmother stood at the top of the hill, along the crooked cobbled path that climbed through the village. As they passed, half a dozen people came out of their houses to stare. They did it openly, not pretending that they were doing anything else. Like Paolina they looked thinner and shabbier than Filomena remembered.

“
Ciao,
Filomena,” they said, raising their hands in greeting, and they fixed their eyes upon Nina, examining her face, her hair, her clothes.

“Why are they looking at me?” said Nina. “I don't like it.”

Filomena tightened her grip on the child's hand. “It's because they don't know who you are. It's nothing to be frightened about.”

Danila had lost
her kittenish plumpness but Filomena had to admit that in its place was a piquancy that made her more alluring than ever. She wore a black and white checked dress with a sweetheart neckline, and her hair had been cut and jauntily permed.

“Filomena, at last,” she said, as though she had been kept waiting, “come in.”

Filomena stepped into the room that had been her
nonna
's proudly guarded parlor. The brown chenille curtains had been pulled half-shut to protect the furniture from the brutality of daylight. Everywhere Filomena looked, she saw signs of Danila's presence, Danila's taste. On the sideboard there was a battalion of ornaments, gilt-painted china animals, little vases of Murano glass. Among them was a photograph of Antonio, taken on his wedding day. The sight caught Filomena unawares, and brought sudden salty tears to her throat.

“Rico,” called Danila from the kitchen, where she was clattering with plates and glasses, “come and meet your aunt Filomena.”

A slim, dark boy of ten wandered shyly into the room: Enrico, Antonio's son, named for his grandfather and for the singer Caruso.

“Zia Mena,” he said, lifting his face to be kissed. He was beautiful: so beautiful, thought Filomena, that you feared for him, with his long-lashed eyes and his curls like glossy purple grapes. Nina put her fingers in her mouth and gazed idolatrously.

Danila returned with a plate of almond biscuits, the kind you had to dip into coffee or Marsala, or else they would break your teeth. Then she settled herself against the beige plush cushions just as she used to settle into the comfortable chair beside the stove at Frith Street.

“I'm glad you're here, Mena. There is something I need you to do for me. It's seven years since Antonio died”—like Paolina she crossed herself briskly as she spoke her husband's name—“and still I do not have the papers to prove it. There did not seem much sense chasing them during the war, but it is different now.”

“I am not sure that I can help,” said Filomena. “We have never had official confirmation of my brother's death, not like poor Papa's. I wouldn't know where to begin.”

“Oh, not you, Filomena, I know you can't do anything. But this employer of yours, this Mr. Rodway. He's an influential man, isn't he? Surely he can make inquiries, ask the authorities to send the papers I need?”

Filomena remembered, across the gulf of time, how annoying she found Danila. “Why?” she asked ingenuously. “Do you want to get married again?”

Danila flushed. “Of course not. But if I
did
want to marry—well, I have a right to do it, Mena. Your sister, Paolina, may think that I should wear widow's weeds for the rest of my life, but in my opinion I deserve some happiness after all I've been through. You have no idea what it's been like here.”

“I can imagine,” said Filomena. “Life has been hard in England too.”

“Yes, but England wasn't occupied. That's the difference. You didn't have German tanks rolling along the streets. Everywhere we went we saw posters on the walls, threatening to hang ten Italians for every German soldier who was killed. Even after the Allies marched in we didn't know what would happen next, we had to live with the uncertainty. It was terrible.”

Filomena said nothing. She was not going to remind Danila that once upon a time she had applauded the Germans as good fascists. She felt a great desire to be at home in England, reading stories to Nina, drinking gin and Its with Bernard.

“And it was so cold,” Danila went on. “Do you know, in the winter of '45 there was snow in Rome?”

Before Filomena could answer there was the sound of a key in the door. Danila's face softened in expectation.

“Valentino!” she called. “We have a visitor. Filomena is here at last.”

Her brother was the only person Filomena had seen who had actually grown fatter during the war. Once lanky, he had the sleek look of a man who has never been denied oil on his salad or Bel Paese cheese on his plate. He greeted Filomena cheerfully, kissing her hard on both cheeks.

“Well, I've done a good day's work,” he said, throwing himself in a chair. “I've managed to find a job for your cousin Bruno, Danila. Not a well-paid job, but it will keep the wolf from his door. Poor old Bruno. He is a broken man after the way the British treated him. He can barely haul himself out of bed to support his family.”

Valentino cocked an eyebrow at Filomena as if Bruno's misfortunes were somehow her fault. She resisted the urge to snap. She did not want her first meeting with her brother to break down into a quarrel.

“I am glad that you've helped him,” she said. “It is generous of you, Valentino.”

“Oh, I am in a position to be generous. You've heard that our fortunes are on the rise, haven't you, Mena? I daresay that's why you've come back to Italy.”

“I haven't come back. I'm here on a short visit, that's all. A holiday, with my employer's daughter, Nina.”

Filomena gestured toward the couch, where the children were sitting, their bare brown legs dangling. At the sight of Nina, Valentino gaped.

“Good God,” he said. Nina, whose mouth was full of sucked biscuit, stared back without speaking.

“Rico,” said Danila, “take Nina off to play. Show her your canary, she'll like that.”

Languidly Rico stood up. “Come,” he said in Italian, and reaching for Nina's hand he led her from the room.

Valentino fixed his eyes upon his sister. His face had turned turkey-cock red. “I always knew you'd disgrace us, Filomena. Ever since that day when you shamed poor Bruno in front of all his friends. But I didn't think that even you would do something so stupid. I suppose he promised you marriage, this employer of yours? Or maybe he paid you, like British soldiers pay the sluts who pleasure them on the Palatine. And now he's chucked you aside like a used rag, and you've come here expecting me to support his bastard.”

Filomena snorted. “Don't be ridiculous, Valentino. Nina's not my child. I was there when she was born, I helped to deliver her—”

“I'm sure you were there when she was born. You can't fool me. She's a Trombetta. Look at her hair, look at her nose.” Valentino touched his own face as evidence. “It's exactly like mine.”

“Oh,” said Filomena, “you mean she looks like your friend Claudia's child? He had a big nose too, didn't he? Surely you remember Claudia, Valentino. The one whose husband scared you so much you ran squealing back to Italy.”

With a yelp Valentino raised his hand to smack Filomena. It was Danila who intervened, leaping up to seize his arm.

“You should not reproach your brother, Filomena. It is not fair. Valentino may have been wild once upon a time, but he has changed his ways now that he is with me.” She laid her small possessive fingers upon Valentino's wrist. “I may as well tell you, Mena, we are engaged to be married. As soon as my papers are in order we are going to fix a date. Isn't that true, Valentino?”

In spite of his fury Valentino could not help giving the rueful grimace of a captured man. Aloud he said: “Yes, my love, it's true.”

“Be nice to Mena, Valentino. She has offered to help us when she goes back to England. She is going to ask her employer to speak to the authorities in London. He will persuade them to give me the documents we need, and then we can be married.”

Filomena looked directly at her brother, composing her face into sincerity. “Believe me, Valentino, Nina is not my child. Nothing improper has ever occurred between me and Mr. Rodway. I swear it on our mother's grave.”

Grudgingly Valentino met her gaze. They were both conscious that neither their father nor Antonio had a grave on which to swear. From the bedroom came the sound of a boy's high, bittersweet voice: Rico, singing a snatch of the Neapolitan song “Funiculì, Funiculà.”

“Well, Filomena,” said Valentino, “I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Since you swear such a solemn oath. You have to admit there's a resemblance, though.”

Filomena did not answer. “I congratulate you on your engagement,” she said. “Is Rico pleased?”

“Oh, Rico adores Valentino,” said Danila at once. “He's been like a father to him. Paolina won't like it, but it is nothing to do with her. She's jealous, that's all. And she's convinced that I want to lay claim to this house, when nothing could be further from the truth.” She looked scornfully around the little parlor. “Valentino and I wouldn't dream of staying here. When we're married we'll move to Rome, to a proper apartment with running water. I'm not spending my life traipsing to the fountain twice a day like a peasant. It may be good enough for Paolina, but it's not good enough for me.”

“Of course it's not.” Valentino patted Danila's hand, smiling down at her. “Now, fetch the prosecco, my angel, we'll have a drink to celebrate. You'd better stay for supper, Filomena. You're in for a treat. Danila makes the best gnocchi in Lazio. With a big pinch of black pepper, just the way our poor dear papa liked it.”

In Rome the morning was hazy, the dull milky haze that presages a hot and unforgiving day. Bernard was passing through one of the
borgate,
the shantytowns at the city's edges, on his way into the countryside. These settlements had sprung up in the 1930s, to house those who had been displaced by Mussolini's grandiose reshaping of central Rome. The tenement walls were covered in graffiti, scrawled in angry red. Half a dozen men were hauling at their bicycles, ready to go to work.

Bernard had not been to Rome for more than twenty years, since his great journey after leaving Cambridge, and in his eyes the city was gilded by the memory of that momentous time. Returning now he was shocked by the shabby streets, the air of destitution. He felt glad that he had not come here for a holiday, frivolously, as he had originally planned. I have a purer motive now, he thought. I am that sacred thing, a messenger, I bring news that will change lives.

The drab suburbs were receding, giving way to sun-scorched hills. Instinctively Bernard touched the pocket where he had put Antonio's letter. He thought of how Filomena's face would be transfigured when he told her. A sense of excitement grew within him, building and swelling as the heat of the day built and swelled.

Filomena was in the kitchen, wrapped in one of Paolina's ancient stained aprons. It was the day of the wedding, and she had risen early to take charge of the food for that afternoon's feast, a task for which she had somehow acquired total responsibility. Paolina herself was upstairs with her daughter Giulia, helping her to get ready. Giulia had returned home two days before: a pretty, lazy, sloe-eyed girl, who spent most of her time squabbling with her siblings and trying on makeup. Her gown, made by the village dressmaker, was carefully pleated to disguise her pregnancy.

On the splintery kitchen table Filomena marshaled a pile of mismatched plates. Half the village was coming to the wedding, and they had all lent crockery and glasses for the feast. That morning vast quantities of food had arrived from Guido Rossi, soon to be Giulia's father-in-law: pale ham and mottled pink salami, round creamy slices of straw-colored cheese, white bread from a Roman baker, olives, pickled artichokes. His largesse annoyed Filomena, who had spent the previous day toiling in the heat, trying to stretch a tiny panful of
ragù
across four dishes of lasagna. Gathering up the plates she carried them through the yard. Valentino had taken one of the doors from its hinges and mounted it on a pair of trestles behind the house, overlooking the mountainside. A checkered cloth was laid across this makeshift table, weighted down with stones so it did not blow away in the wind.

Paolina's children were supposed to be helping Filomena, but they had soon grown bored and wandered off. Now, buttoned into their Sunday clothes, they were throwing a ball around the garden, leaping and pushing to catch it. Nina in the middle was squealing with delight. Her cries were as loud as the shrilling of the cicadas. She wore a green and white striped dress that had been Olivia's, cut down to fit.

“Nina,” said Filomena, “you're going to ruin that dress. Come inside and sit down quietly, please.”

A mutinous expression crossed Nina's face. All the same she was about to obey when she caught sight of a man approaching them along the cinder track. He was wearing a cream linen suit and a Panama hat. The bridge of his nose was already pink from the sun.

“Papa,” said Nina. “Zia Mena, it's Papa.”

“Hallo, Nina.” Bernard laid his hand upon the child's head like a benediction. He was wheezing a little after his walk from the village.

Filomena stared. “Mr. Rodway. I did not expect you so soon. In fact, I did not expect you here at my sister's house at all—”

“Yes, I know, Filomena. I changed my plans at the last minute.”

For a moment Bernard held her in his gaze. Filomena wished that she were not wearing Paolina's grubby pinafore, that her face were not pink and greasy from her efforts in the kitchen. “Nina,” she said, “come, we will take your father indoors—”

“No, let her play, she's having fun, aren't you, Nina? And it's you that I've come to see, Filomena.” Bernard pulled an envelope from his breast pocket: a creased airmail envelope with an Australian stamp. “I have brought you some good news.”

They had to
find a quiet place to sit before Filomena fainted. Bernard put his arm about her and guided her toward a crumbling stone wall, beneath a white oleander tree. The noise of the cicadas seemed suddenly deafening.

“I have replied to Antonio,” said Bernard. “I replied at once, by telegram. Your brother has been doing well in Australia, he has made a name for himself as a singer. In fact, he has earned the money to pay for his passage home.”

“So he is coming back? I will see him soon?”

Bernard smiled at the radiance in her face. It was just as he had imagined it; better, if anything, warmer, more rapturous. “Oh, yes. He is coming back. It is a long voyage, but it should not take more than—what?—six, seven weeks.”

“Oh, Antonio.” Filomena pressed her palm against her mouth. “I cannot believe it.”

“Of course, you must decide what to tell your family. It was you Antonio wanted to find, not his brother, not his wife. He was very clear about that.”

“Oh, I will tell them he is alive,” said Filomena at once. “It would be unkind not to tell them.”

Gently Bernard took Filomena's hand, cradling it in both his own. “As you wish, Filomena. Everything will be as you wish.”

There was a clamor from the house as Paolina began to round up her children to walk to church. Filomena scrambled to her feet. “I must change my clothes, we will be leaving in a moment, I cannot go to Giulia's wedding dressed like this.” She turned shyly toward Bernard. “Perhaps, Mr. Rodway, you would like to rest here while we go to the church? And then—if you would not mind—perhaps afterward you will stay and help me to break the news?”

“Of course,” said Bernard, “I will be delighted.”

“I should warn you. If you stay for the wedding feast, people will stare at you. They will stare and they will whisper. It is how they—how we—do things in the village.”

Bernard laughed. “I am a man of the world, Filomena. I have survived Rugby School, I have survived the blitz. I think that on your account I can endure a little staring.”

Filomena was right.
Everyone at the feast stared at Bernard. He had chosen what he thought was an inconspicuous place to sit, at one corner of the table, but that only made matters worse. The guests kept leaning forward and twisting their heads to look at him, ignoring the groom and the young bride at the table's head. Filomena's family had greeted him politely but warily; none of them, it seemed, knew quite what to say to him. As for Nina, she had run off to join the other children. He could see her now, in her green and white dress. A dark-haired boy of about ten was whirling her about so her bare feet flew through the air. Her beaky changeling's face was alight with bliss.

Bernard poured himself more wine from the jug. It was a local white wine, brackish but refreshing. He felt stupefied by the heat. From the mountainside he could smell the healthful scent of pine trees. He watched Filomena as she glided from one end of the table to the other, fetching bread, refilling glasses, clearing plates. There was an unconscious grace in all her movements. Perhaps I will move to Italy, thought Bernard. I can write here as well as anywhere; better, maybe, away from the hubbub of London. I will find a house in the countryside where I can live with Nina and with Filomena. I will start again. It is not too late, after all, to start again.

For Filomena the
wedding passed in a daze. She had watched the luscious black market food vanish without being able to eat any of it. All she could think of was Antonio, impatient for the moment when she would tell her family he was alive.

The guests were beginning to relax now, some pushing back their chairs, others strolling across the garden to stretch their legs. One of the neighbors had begun to play his accordion, accompanied by another man with a violin. Guido Rossi, a hawklike man with hooded eyes, was handing out cheroots. Valentino puffed extravagantly at his, blowing smoke rings just as he used to do in the yard at Frith Street.

“Finesse, that's what it takes,” he said to Franco, the bridegroom, who was pursing his lips without success. “Some men have it, my friend, some men don't.”

Franco shrugged. Tossing aside his cheroot with the negligence of a rich boy, he wandered off to talk to one of the village girls, a plump girl in a yellow dress. Rico, his stiff wedding suit rumpled, was singing the Neapolitan song “O Sole Mio.” His voice, which had not yet broken, was high and sweet and raw.

Bernard in his expensive linen suit picked his way toward Filomena. “Who is that boy? I saw him playing with Nina just now.”

“It's my nephew Rico, my brother Antonio's son. He's a nice boy, he's been very good with Nina.”

“Good lord. I'd forgotten that Antonio had a son. Well, he has his father's looks, that's for sure, lucky fellow. His father's voice too.” Bernard paused and said more softly: “Will he remember Antonio, do you think?”

Filomena shook her head. “He was only a baby when he and his mother left England. Antonio will be a stranger to him. Mr. Rodway, I cannot bear to wait any longer. The wedding is nearly over, I must talk to my family now…”

Before Bernard could answer there was a shrill wail from the corner of the garden. It was Giulia, her dark sloe eyes wide with rage.

“Don't lie to me, Franco. You were kissing her, I saw you kissing her. On your wedding day, too.”

Franco sidled away from the girl in yellow. “No, I wasn't,” he said, sticking out his chin, “and even if I was, well, it was only meant in fun—”

“You were kissing her. And I've been your wife for what? Five hours. Your wife, Franco, and the mother of your child—”

“Shut up, Giulia. You're behaving like a peasant,” said Franco, and he tapped Giulia on the rump. She let out a shriek.

“How dare you call me a peasant?” she said, diving for his face, her nails out. Guido Rossi stepped in, grasping her by the wrist. He spoke a few rapid words, too low for anyone else to hear. Giulia's face changed at once. She fled toward the house, half-stumbling over her long white dress. Paolina ran after her, calling her daughter's name.

“Oh, glory,” said Filomena, “the poor girl.”

“Not such a poor girl.” Valentino had sauntered toward them, still smoking his cheroot. “She will have a very comfortable life, once she learns how to conduct herself. Don't waste your sympathy on Giulia.” He turned to Bernard with a wheedling expression, fueled, thought Filomena, by a great deal of white wine. “Mr. Rodway, we have a favor to ask you when you return to London. You were always so kind to my dear brother, Antonio, I hope you will help us. It concerns Danila, my brother's widow—”

Filomena clutched her brother's arm. “Oh, Valentino. Don't say any more, everything has changed. I have news for you, news from England. Fetch Danila, fetch Rico, we will go inside where it is quiet. There is something that I have to tell you all.”

Valentino burst into
tears when Filomena gave him the news. It took her a moment to realize that they were tears of pure joy.

“What? So Antonino is not dead? He was rescued after the ship went down?”

“Yes,” said Bernard, “a Canadian destroyer picked him up. He was taken to Scotland, and from there to Australia.”

“My God, Filomena.” Valentino embraced his sister, throwing his arms about her; then he hugged his nephew. “You have a father after all, Rico, your papa is still alive. Oh, Danila, my love, isn't it wonderful? Antonio wasn't lost at sea with Papa, he survived. At this very moment he is sailing back to England.”