The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (34 page)

Filomena looked at Danila, who was sitting at the kitchen table. Her face had turned cheese white, all its charm, all its piquancy, quite gone.

“But it is seven years. For seven years I thought he was dead. He can't just come back like this, it isn't fair—” She began to cry. Rico, his huge eyes wide with trouble, inched toward her.

“What is it, Mama? Why are you crying? Aren't you glad that Papa is alive?”

“Yes, I am glad—of course I am glad—but why couldn't he have kept quiet? Why did he have to tell us? He has ruined everything.”

Valentino stared. Filomena could see that it had just dawned upon him what his brother's resurrection would mean for Danila. He licked his lips uncertainly.

“Don't cry, my angel,” he said at last. “I know my brother, Antonio. He will not stand in our way, he will want us to be happy. Marriages can be annulled, can't they?” He turned to his sister. “You will have to talk to him, Filomena. Explain the situation, tell him that he has to set Danila free.”

“I think that when he returns to England Antonio will have more urgent things on his mind,” said Bernard drily.

Valentino opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again. “Of course, you are right. I am being selfish. It is the shock—” He pulled out a large white handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “I have always loved my brother, Antonio. I love him with all my heart. You know that, don't you, Mena?”

“Yes,” said Filomena, “I do know that.”

Danila was still sobbing. “And I suppose you'll tell Paolina, and she'll never stop gloating. She was sick with rage when Valentino and I fell in love, she will do anything in the world to prevent our marriage—”

“Don't cry, my love, don't cry.” Valentino sat beside Danila, making soothing throat noises as he clasped the nape of her neck. “It will be all right, I promise. We will find a way…”

From the far side of the table Rico fixed his eyes upon Filomena. His beautiful face was pale and tense. It was the face of a child who has been pushed before his time into the adult world. Filomena had a glimpse of what it must have been like for Rico: the loss of his father, and the war, and then to see his mother's attention purloined by Valentino. She hoped he would not ask if Antonio had sent a particular message for him.

“Zia Mena,” said Rico, “will you be seeing my father soon?”

“As soon as I can, yes,” said Filomena. “As soon as he arrives in England.”

Rico's taut forehead relaxed. “When you see him, tell my father that I will meet him wherever, whenever he wishes. And, Zia Mena: tell him that I want to be a singer too.”

Outside, in the
dusk, the musicians were still playing. A few of the wedding guests were dancing in loose relaxed embraces. Franco, the bridegroom, was slumped at the trestle table, blearily trying to blow smoke rings once more. There was no sign of Giulia.

Filomena hauled Nina from a tangle of children and took her upstairs to bed. While he was waiting for her, Bernard had another drink, feeling the alcohol percolate exquisitely through his limbs. He gazed out at the expanse of hills that stretched toward Rome, fold upon bluish fold. Lamps like stars were beginning to come out in the distant villages. The warmth of the night was thrilling.

When she returned Filomena had a frown on her face. “I hope you do not mind, Mr. Rodway, I have made up a bed for you in one of the attic rooms. I am afraid it will not be very comfortable, but it is too late for you to return to Rome now, I am sorry—”

“Hush, Filomena, hush. You're not responsible, you know, for everything that happens in the world.” Reaching out Bernard took her hands: capable hands, he thought, hands that have pulled up cabbages, delivered children, dug the chalky Sussex earth. “And now, will you dance with me? Nobody will notice us, and if they do, well, they'll be too drunk to gossip.”

“Oh!” said Filomena, startled. Then she stepped forward, and he felt her body relax trustfully in his arms. There was a solidity about her which filled him with delight. More than delight: a sense of rightness. He breathed in the smell of pine trees, the sun-scorched scent of Filomena's hair. It was as though he had spent weeks, months waiting for this moment, and now at last it had come.

“There is a question I want to ask you, Filomena,” he said. “You don't have to answer at once, I know what you are like, you will want to think about it. But I would be so honored—and so grateful—if you would consider becoming my wife. Human beings are not meant to live alone.”

The dressing room at the Golden Slipper had not changed at all. It was still cramped and airless, with a glaring row of lightbulbs around the mirror. Antonio breathed in the sweetish, faintly stale smell of makeup as he laid his brush and comb upon the little table. This afternoon he had come to the nightclub to rehearse; tomorrow he would sing in public for the first time since his return to London. The club's manager had been delighted to hear from him. You were one of our greatest stars before the war, he said. We'll give Hutch a run for his money now that you're back.

Antonio turned toward the chrome rail to put on his suit. The movement made him momentarily giddy. Three weeks had passed since his return, and still he could not trust the ground beneath him, expecting it to buck and sway under his feet. He thought of Peppino, who had come to the harbor front in Melbourne to see him off.

“Well, Antonino, good luck,” he had said. “We will see each other soon. You will return to Australia, I am sure. And who can say? Perhaps one day I will come back to London.”

Antonio had nodded as he embraced his old friend. They both knew that Peppino would never again set foot on an oceangoing ship.

In the nightclub the musicians were tuning their instruments. Antonio pulled on his jacket. He remembered how he used to stand in the dimness of the wings, waiting for the moment when he would step onto the stage. And at that moment he would look for Olivia, scanning the lamp-lit tables, the glimmering bronze chairs, hoping that tonight she would be there. Bernard had broken the news of Olivia's death in his first long eager telegram.
My beloved wife is dead but she has left me a daughter.
What will it be like? thought Antonio, as he straightened his collar. What will it be like to step into the light knowing that I will not see her, knowing I will never see her again?

The call boy knocked on the dressing room door. “Ready for you now, Mr. Trombetta,” he said.

Antonio cleared his throat. He could feel the familiar thrum of stage fright fluttering against his breastbone. It will pass, though, he thought. It will pass as soon as I open my mouth to sing. This is what I was born to do.

Filomena was waiting
on the quayside in Southampton when Antonio's ship docked, standing tense and eager eyed in the drizzle. Afterward they traveled together to the house in Sussex. It was Bernard's idea, to give Antonio a few days of peace to recover from the voyage, and to be reunited with his son. Rico had arrived the week before; he was staying in Sussex with Nina and with Bernard himself. It will be easier for the boy, Bernard said, to have other people present, it will not matter then if he is tongue-tied or embarrassed. And Nina will be thrilled to see him.

“You have never been here before, have you, Antonio?” Filomena said, as the taxi wound through Lewes, past the De Luxe cinema, over the river Ouse. The sky had cleared; it was a golden rain-washed afternoon, with the sharpness of autumn in the air. Filomena kept gazing at her brother as though she could not believe he was really present.

“Once,” said Antonio. “I came here with Mrs. Rodway, just after war broke out. Mr. Rodway asked me to accompany her—” He paused, staring hungrily at the curved green hills. “So you have been living here, Mena, with Mr. Rodway's daughter? I am glad that he has been good to you. And I expect you were a comfort to him, after his wife died.”

“I hope so,” said Filomena in a sober voice. She did not want to talk about Bernard—at least, not yet. Since their return from Lazio they had been living in a curious, vaguely pleasing kind of limbo. There was the warmth of an understanding between them, although the actual words—
Yes, I will marry you
—remained unspoken. The only change in their behavior was that sometimes, after their evening drink together, Bernard would kiss her lightly on the lips when they said good night.

The taxi had turned along the lane that led to the house, lined with hawthorn bushes. “We are nearly there, Antonino,” Filomena said, clutching her brother's hand. “Mr. Rodway must have heard the car, he's come outside to welcome us. And look, Antonio! There is your son, waiting for you. There is Enrico.”

As Bernard had
predicted, the reunion of father and son was ecstatic but awkward. Once they had embraced, fiercely, they did not know what to say to one another. Even Filomena was struck dumb. It was left to Bernard to ease the situation, ushering them indoors, pouring drinks, chattering. He was shocked by the sight of Antonio, with his gray hair, his harrowed face, but he thought—hoped—he had managed to hide it.

“Rico has a wonderful voice, did you know, Antonio?” he said. “I heard him sing in Italy, at your niece Giulia's wedding. We ought to find him a school where he can train properly, in Rome maybe, or else in London.”

Antonio nodded. He had a dazed air as he looked all about him, at the russet velvet curtains, at the stage designs upon the walls, at Filomena, at his son.

“Is your daughter here too, Mr. Rodway?” he asked at last. “I would like to meet her.”

“Nina? Oh yes, she's playing in the garden. She and Rico get on famously, they've been having a marvelous time, romping about and climbing trees.” Bernard refilled Antonio's glass, squirting soda into his inch of whisky. “And Nina's very excited about having dinner with the grown-ups tonight. Roast chicken and plum tart with cream, just the kind of food my dear old uncle Dickie used to love. You remember Dickie, don't you, Antonio?”

“Of course.” Antonio moistened his lips with the whisky and soda. “How old is she, your daughter?”

“Six. That's right, isn't it, Filomena? She was born during the war, Filomena here delivered her. Your sister is remarkable, Antonio, I do not know how I would have managed without her. It seems there is nothing she cannot do.”

“Oh, yes,” said Antonio, “my sister has always been remarkable.”

Briskly Filomena stood up. “It is nearly time to eat,” she said. “I'll go and call Nina.”

“No need,” said Bernard, “here she comes now.”

The door clattered open and Nina burst into the room. She looked wilder than ever in her tartan Viyella dress, which had split at the shoulders. Her dark untidy hair was ragged as a broom.

“I'm hungry,” she said, “and I couldn't find Rico—”

“Good lord,” said Bernard amiably, “what a little ragamuffin you are. Nina, say hallo to Signor Antonio. He is Rico's papa, he's come to stay with us.”

Nina did not answer. She put her fingers in her mouth and stared at Antonio. He stared back. He could not take his eyes from her. Nobody spoke. Silence quite suddenly filled the room, sharp as electricity.

It was Filomena, in the end, who broke it. “Come along, Nina, upstairs with you. You can't sit at the dinner table dressed like that. Your father's right, you're a ragamuffin. And, Rico, I expect you'd like to wash your hands before we eat. Come along, both of you, we'll leave your papas to finish their drinks in peace.”

Holding out her arms she shepherded the children away. Antonio turned his head to look at Bernard. He could feel his heart thump in his throat. “She is my child,” he heard himself say, “isn't she?”

“Ha!” Bernard let out an abrupt forced breath. Rising to his feet he walked across the room. As he walked he touched his fingertips to the chrome-edged decanter, the stone mantelpiece, the lead-lighted window. Then he said: “Yes. She is your child.”

“Did you—” Antonio paused, swallowed, tried again. “How long have you known?”

Bernard smiled. “It is curious, don't you think? How you can know a truth and yet deny it, even to yourself? I think I realized when I first saw her, in Olivia's arms. And then, after Olivia died—well, that was like a madness, I would have believed anything. I did believe anything, from one day to the next. But it was seeing her in Italy, with her cousins, with your son, Rico—”

“And Filomena? Does she know?”

“Ah, Filomena,” said Bernard. “Filomena is the wisest woman I have ever met.”

Antonio's hands were shaking. He had to set down his whisky glass before it fell from his grasp. “You must have hated me,” he said, his voice very low.

“No. Not at all. Is that surprising? Of course, when I look back I think what a fool I must have been, how could I have failed to notice? But it was a different world. We were different people in it.”

Tears came to Antonio's eyes, hot and stinging. “Oh,” he said, “I do not deserve your generosity, Mr. Rodway.”

“It is not a question of generosity,” said Bernard. “It is a question of survival. We have endured a great deal, you and I, and we have survived. Nothing else matters.” From the sideboard he took the photograph of Olivia, in her oyster silk dress. “She was a beautiful woman. Look! Do you remember how she danced the tango? Nobody could resist her when she danced the tango.”

Antonio took the photograph in both his unsteady hands. His eyes devoured it. So did Bernard's, leaning over his shoulder. And that was how they were when Filomena returned to call them in for dinner: two men engrossed by one lost, desired, unreachable face.

In the days
that followed Filomena could not get the memory of what she had seen from her mind. It surfaced at unexpected moments, as she was laying the table for breakfast, as she was brushing her hair at night. She could not name the expression on Bernard's face; all she knew was that she had never witnessed it before.

After a week in Sussex they took the train to London. Bernard had work to do: his writing, his committee papers, his letters from refugees. As for Antonio, he had to prepare for his first night at the Golden Slipper. For the present he was living at Bedford Square with Filomena and the children, but once Rico returned to Italy he intended to find a place of his own.

“It's a pity that Antonio's first engagement is in a nightclub,” Bernard remarked. “Otherwise we could have taken the children to hear him. Nina is a little young, perhaps, but Rico would have loved it. I do hope his mother lets him come to England again. I'm afraid that once she gets her way over the annulment she'll be difficult.”

“Well,” said Filomena, “it would be like Danila, to make life difficult. But perhaps my brother Valentino will persuade her to be amenable.”

They were having coffee after lunch, while upstairs Rico and Nina were resting. Later that afternoon Filomena was going to Soho with the children. Rico wanted to see the house in Frith Street, the house where he was born, and today was his last chance: in the morning they were taking him to Victoria, to begin the journey home. They had decided not to tell Nina about her true parentage. Best for the child to get to know Antonio first, Bernard had said, before baffling her with such a shock.

Filomena put the empty coffee cups on the tray, ready to take it to the kitchen. She still felt ill at ease in Bedford Square, uncertain of her own status, employee or future mistress. Bernard glanced up from the newspaper he was reading.

“Don't do that. I'll ring for Avril. She'll have to get used to fetching and carrying for you once we're married. If she wants to stay on, that is.” Bernard flicked at the newspaper, turning the page. “I've been meaning to ask you, Filomena. Do you have anything to wear for Antonio's first night?”

“Oh,” said Filomena. “I've got a lilac coat and skirt. I thought I'd wear that.”

Bernard shook his head. “You need a proper evening dress. It's an elegant place, the Golden Slipper, all the women will be dolled up to the nines. And it will be our first public appearance together. There may even be photographers there. Have you got enough clothing coupons to buy yourself something?”

Pulling out his wallet Bernard peeled off some white five-pound notes and passed them to Filomena. In her hands they felt leathery and well thumbed. She thought of the yearning expression on Bernard's face as he looked at his dead wife's photograph. She thought of the real Olivia, pampered and beautiful and unhappy. Gently she laid the notes upon the table, next to the coffee tray.