The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (9 page)

Behind the bar Peppino was polishing glasses with a linen cloth. For a man of his great size he had unexpectedly deft fingers. “Your wife is from Lazio too, is she?”

Antonio nodded. “She is a kind girl, a beautiful girl, I love her very much, but—I do not know—since our son was born she has changed. It is as though she thinks of herself as a mother first, and then as my wife.”

“That is what happens,” said Peppino sagely. “That is what women are like. I have heard the same story many times. You should take a mistress, my friend. English women like you. I have observed it. If I were not such a sweet-tempered man I should be jealous.” He gave Antonio a wolfish smile, revealing his large pointed canines. “I would not mind finding an English woman for myself. A plump grateful one, with a nest egg to keep us both comfortable. I'd be happy to marry her. It would be no bad thing, in my opinion, to become a British citizen.”

“What?” said Antonio. “You?”

“Why not? I cannot return to Italy. And if Mussolini continues licking Hitler's fascist arse we'll soon see the mood in Britain change. We Italians will no longer be harmless, friendly folk: we will be the enemy.”

“But we belong here. My family has been in London for more than seventy years.”

Peppino shrugged and drank his grappa with gloomy pleasure. “It will count for nothing, believe me. In dangerous times people favor their own kind.”

The amorous young man beckoned then, asking for a song. Antonio adjusted the strap of his accordion and began an Italian love song with a yearning melody: “Tornerai,” or “You Will Return.” He could hear his voice reverberate in the half-empty restaurant. One of the Englishmen, a fair-haired man, older and more smartly dressed than the others, turned in his chair to listen while his fellow diners gabbled on.

“We are on the edge of a volcano. Think how quickly the Great War began. A fat archduke gets himself shot in Sarajevo, and the world blows up like a tinderbox. That is why, if we want peace, we have to rearm. We have to rearm at once.”

The love-struck couple
left after Antonio's song, but it was eleven o'clock before the table of Englishmen called for their bill. There seemed to be some confusion about paying: they began to slap their pockets, looking sheepish. In the end the fair man took charge. “I'll cover the damage,” he said, shooing his friends toward the door. “Be off with you.”

Antonio shouldered his accordion. Like it or not, it was time to go home to Frith Street. It was late; he would have to tiptoe into his cramped bedroom, so as not to waken Danila or the baby. He thought of the frowstiness of the room, the milky, faintly sour smell of the baby's crib.

“I enjoyed your singing,” the Englishman said, as he thumbed out coins. “Your voice is exceptional. Who is your teacher?”

“I do not have a teacher, I am not a trained singer. I only perform in places like this, restaurants, dance halls—”

“Oh, but you should train. With the right teacher you would go far. I'm a well-connected fellow, I daresay I could get a recommendation for you.”

His effusiveness unsettled Antonio. He did not want to have to explain to a stranger—a wealthy, educated, English stranger—that he had no money for singing lessons.

“Perhaps you would like another song, before you go?” he said, to change the subject.

“That would be a great pleasure. Do you know ‘Core 'Ngrato'?”

“Of course,” said Antonio. It was one of the tragic full-blooded Neapolitan ballads Peppino liked, that reminded him of home. He was just beginning the song when the door to La Rondine jangled open and two Italian men came in. One was in his thirties, a sallow swaggering fellow, the other a boy of about seventeen. Under their overcoats they wore black shirts.

“We're closed,” said Peppino swiftly.

“I do not think so.” The older of the two pointed contemptuously to the glasses on the bar. “Two grappas, if you please. We want to drink a toast to the
duce
.”

Antonio guessed why they had come. Peppino's dislike of Mussolini was well-known in the Soho community. It was considered great sport—a rite of passage, almost—for young fascists to come and taunt him; Antonio had had to dissuade his brother, Valentino, from doing it. Sure enough the boy, lounging against the bar, began to sing the “Giovinezza,” the fascist anthem.

“
Salve o popolo d'eroi, salve o patria immortale.
” His voice was loud and brassy. “Hail, nation of heroes, hail, immortal fatherland.”

“Aren't you going to sing too?” said the other man, glancing at Antonio. “You were warbling like a canary when we came in.”

Peppino let out a gruff cry, and seizing the two Blackshirts, he banged their heads together. The boy shouted in triumph; then he snatched up the grappa bottle, ready to smash it against the bar.

“Stop that!” said the Englishman, in a commanding voice. Rising from his chair he grasped the boy's arm. At once the boy jabbed his elbow backward. It struck the Englishman hard in the solar plexus, and he doubled up with a groan, his knees buckling beneath him.

“
Santa Madonna,
” said the older Blackshirt. At once he put a weighty hand on the boy's shoulder and steered him rapidly from the restaurant, leaving the glass door ajar.

Antonio eased the fair man into a chair, where he slumped forward, wheezing. His face had turned cheesily pale.

“We should call the police.” Peppino shut the restaurant door, flicking the sign belatedly to “Closed.” “It is an assault upon an Englishman, they cannot dismiss it as foreigners squabbling.”

“Forgive me,” the fair man said, “but I am feeling rather giddy.” His voice was unnaturally precise, as though he were trying to be heard above the roar of a hurricane. “Perhaps you could loosen this…”

Antonio undid his bow tie, then the studs of his collar. They were made of gold, small and disproportionately heavy. “You would be better off at home,” he said. “Let us find you a taxi.”

The fair man was still struggling for breath. After a moment he said: “I suffer from asthma, quite seriously sometimes. If you would not mind accompanying me—it is not far, and my wife will be at home to receive me. It would be a great kindness.”

Peppino got the taxi, stepping into the street to hail it as if he were a constable arresting a particularly insolent felon. From the backseat Antonio watched the familiar lamp-lit streets spin past, Old Compton Street, Charing Cross Road, St. Giles Circus; then they were among the tall, dense, silent houses of Bloomsbury, set around their shadowy squares of lawn. High in the sky there was a crescent moon. Beside him the Englishman was breathing ponderously, as if he had only just learned how to do it and was afraid that if he paused, even for an instant, he might lose the knack.

The taxi drew to a halt. Antonio helped the Englishman from the car, supporting his elbow as they climbed to his door. The curtains were drawn back in one of the upper rooms, and Antonio could see light spilling upon a wrought-iron balcony. He rang the bell once, twice, three times. At last he heard the scuffle of feet, the creaking of hinges. The next moment the front door sprang open, and he came face-to-face with the girl from the Paradise Ballroom.

Olivia Rodway had spent the evening in the upstairs drawing room of her husband's house, trying to read
Anna Karenina
. It was on a list that Bernard had given her, of the books that any educated person ought to have read by the age of thirty. She was enjoying Anna's story but she found Levin—the character Bernard himself most admired—earnest and insufferable.

Rising from the silk-clad sofa she rang the servant's bell. She had been putting this off for the past half hour. Olivia was not accustomed to asking other people to make her pots of tea, bring her trays of supper. It seemed much easier to go to the kitchen and do it herself.

“Yes, madam?” said Avril, the housemaid. She was a gaunt young woman, all chin and elbows. Bernard had inherited her from his mother, who had trained the girl herself.

“I am ready for supper, Avril,” Olivia said, in a lofty voice. She knew that Avril idolized Penelope, who was a proper lady—she had been a debutante, ostrich feathers and all, before the Great War—and that nothing she, Olivia, could do would win the same devotion. If she was firm, Avril would call her snooty; if she was friendly the maid would despise her as weak.

At least I look the part, thought Olivia when Avril had gone, throwing herself onto the sofa once more. She was wearing dark yellow evening pajamas with a tobacco-colored cashmere wrap, an engagement present from Bernard, and her hair had been very expensively cut, which made the sharp lines of her face look distinguished rather than gawky. All of Bernard's friends admired her: the poets, the journalists, even the earnest young socialists with their pipes and their corduroy trousers, who did not generally notice women. I told you, Olivia, her husband had said triumphantly: you're an original. And it's I who discovered you. We should both be very proud of ourselves.

Olivia had married
Bernard in January, two months after their first meeting. The wedding took place in a registry office. The only guest was Uncle Dickie, who bought them lunch afterward at the Ivy. Olivia had considered inviting her aunt from Croydon, but she knew that it would be from the worst of all motives, and she thought such pettiness might put a curse on her own good fortune. Once upon a time Olivia had wished her sister dead; she was nervous about curses.

For their honeymoon Bernard took Olivia on a winter cruise to the Caribbean. She had not believed it was possible to be so happy. They drank champagne cocktails among the potted palms, they watched flickering Hollywood films in the ship's cinema, they danced the tango and the foxtrot in the green and ivory ballroom. They also spent a great deal of time in their mahogany-paneled cabin; specifically, in their large double bed with its cool Egyptian cotton sheets and its Vi-Spring mattress. More than once they arrived late and flushed for dinner, and the other passengers would look at them with a spellbound mixture of indulgence and envy.

Avril brought in
her tray of supper and laid it on the table. “I'll close the curtains, madam,” she said, bustling toward the tall window that overlooked the square. It was twilight; a fingernail of moon was turning from chalk to silver.

“No,” said Olivia, “leave them, thank you. And that will be all, Avril, if you wish to go to bed.”

Avril raised her eyebrows. Olivia could hear what she was thinking. It is not for you to dismiss me, what if the master needs me when he comes home? She did not say anything, though, but bobbed in acknowledgment and left the room.

Olivia ate a mouthful of cold chicken, piquant with thyme. Of course, their life was different now that they were back in London. She could not expect her honeymoon to last forever, Bernard had work to do. Every morning after breakfast he would shut himself in his study, hammering away on his Remington Noiseless typewriter. He was writing a novel, he confessed to Olivia, a novel about the very nature of society, set in the future; soon he would let her read it. Then, after lunch, there were meetings of one or other of his committees. The refugee associations were especially busy, preparing for a flood of arrivals from Austria. In the evenings they would dine out or go to the theater, and sometimes they went to parties, but often, as tonight, Bernard had commitments that did not include Olivia. Have an evening at home, darling, he had said as he dressed, struggling before the mirror with his collar studs. It's only drinks with a couple of journalists, and then a Labour Party meeting. Not much fun for you. I'm sorry I'm so hectic at the moment. It will quieten down, I promise.

Well, thought Olivia peaceably, drinking Scotch and soda, I am glad that he cares about such things. I would not change him, even if I could. She picked up her book once more. She had reached the place where Anna gives in to her lover, Vronsky: a scene she had been anticipating with a shivery, half-erotic thrill. When she came to it, though, it filled her with unease. Anna's surrender was raddled with guilt; there was no joy or defiance in it. Olivia fingered the pages of the book. They were thin as cigarette papers, edged in gold. She remembered how, on her honeymoon cruise, one of their fellow passengers had asked her to dance. He was a flashy businessman of about forty, and there was a glint in his eye that Olivia recognized. She glanced at Bernard, hoping he would forbid it, but of course he did not.

“It will be a pleasure. I love watching you dance, my sweet, and I can't do it when you're in my arms.”

The dance was a tango, and once she was on the floor Olivia could not help showing off, twisting her slim satin hip, spinning upon her heel. She knew that all eyes were upon her. Bernard's gaze was crooked, as though he could not look at her for fear of being dazzled.

When the tango was over the businessman's wife, who had fair curls and a pretty, sulky mouth, commented rather pointedly on her skill.

“I used to be a professional,” Olivia said, calmly accepting the cocktail that Bernard gave her.

The businessman's face broke into a smile. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. “So you're a woman of the world, eh? I thought so.”

Olivia drank. She had the feeling that she was skating on thin ice. In a facetious Marlene Dietrich accent she said: “Oh, yes, my friend. It took more than one man to change my name to Shanghai Lily.”

The businessman's wife gave a squeak of shock. Olivia felt Bernard seize her wrist. “Come, Olivia. I've just remembered, I told them to take some champagne to our cabin.”

As he pulled her through the door she thought that he must be furious, but the moment they got into the cabin she realized it was not rage at all. Oh, no; it was a different passion entirely. Bernard could not wait for her to take off her green silk dress, to unfasten the warm pearls about her neck, could not wait for her to undo the buckles of her high-heeled shoes.

Afterward, though, as they lay in a slippery tangle on the cabin floor, he said: “I wouldn't talk too much about your past if I were you. Not with people like that, anyway. Strangers.”

“I'm not ashamed of the way I used to live, Bernard,” said Olivia.

“Of course not, my darling.” Bernard kissed her neck, just above the collarbone. “It's one of the many things that has made you the remarkable woman you are. But it's over and done with. You're my wife now, remember.”

In bed, when Bernard had fallen asleep, Olivia lay awake in the beautiful darkness. The ship's engines hummed like a persistent drum roll as the ship plied its way south toward Barbados, where, the following day, they would be driven at a stately pace through field after field of white-plumed sugarcane. Olivia thought of the commercial traveler from Cardiff, she thought of the abortionist's flat, she thought of the horror she had glimpsed in the Italian singer's eyes. Bernard might claim to understand, he might describe her old life as
interesting
and
colorful,
but she had never told him about any of those things. Would he forgive her, would he still love her, if he knew?

That fear returned
to Olivia now as she sat on the sofa, blankly gazing at
Anna Karenina
. To quell it she crossed to the gramophone. One delight of living with Bernard was the sheer quantity of things he owned: books, pictures, records, clothes. Since her pinched genteel childhood Olivia had always had to choose, knowing that if you had this you could not have that, until your pleasure was corroded by doubt. Luxuriantly she fingered the black shellac discs in Bernard's collection: Caruso singing Italian arias, Dinu Lipatti playing Chopin, the Hot Club de France. How can you die, she thought, when there are such solid exquisite things in the world? She put on some Django Reinhardt, dizzy and invigorating. Sliding off her shoes she began to dance about the room, the treacle-colored floorboards smooth beneath her toes.

The music was so loud that at first she did not hear the doorbell. Remembering that she had sent Avril to bed she ran down the stairs and pulled open the front door. On the porch stood Bernard. He was leaning upon the arm of Antonio Trombetta. She recognized the singer at once, and a shock ran through her, sudden as electricity. Then she saw that Bernard's face was white and sweating, as if he were about to faint. Behind her Avril, wrapped in a flannel dressing gown, let out a squeal of dismay.

“Bernard!” said Olivia. “What's happened?”

“He had an accident.” Antonio's eyes were fixed upon her face. He remembers me too, thought Olivia. “In the restaurant where I work—”

“Don't caterwaul, Avril,” said Olivia, unfairly since after that first squeal Avril had been silent. “Well, thank you for your trouble. He is safely home now.” She reached out to draw her husband indoors, away from the interloper.

Bernard took a careful breath. “Take the taxi, if you wish, my friend.” His arm flailed in the direction of the cab, which was still waiting in the square. Antonio hesitated, and Olivia guessed that Bernard had not yet paid the fare.

“You had better step indoors,” she said. “Bernard, give me your wallet.”

Olivia paid the cab driver, who looked askance at her naked feet. Antonio, his hand still cupped about Bernard's elbow, hovered in the black and white tiled hallway.

“The master's having an asthma attack, madam.” Avril tightened the cord of her dressing gown in a businesslike way. “He needs a bowl of steaming water, to help him breathe.”

“All right,” said Olivia. “You'd better fetch one, then, Avril. Come, Bernard.”

As they climbed the stairs Antonio tried to tell her what had happened, but it sounded like gibberish, some tale of Italian fascists fighting in a restaurant.

“Why on earth would Bernard get into a quarrel with a Blackshirt?” she was asking when Avril came in with the hot water.

“I've put in some Friar's Balsam.” Avril set down the basin, a beige Mason Cash mixing bowl, and flicked a towel from her shoulder. “That's what Mrs. Rodway told me to use. It works wonders.”

“Well, it smells nasty enough. Thank you, Avril, I can manage.” Olivia threw the towel over Bernard's head, settling him above the basin. Then, her hand proprietorially between her husband's shoulder blades, she glanced at Antonio. “Sit down, since you are here. Would you like a drink? Avril, bring some ice.”

“There is no need…” began Antonio.

His diffidence, as he lingered there beside the grand piano, annoyed Olivia. He must know he is not wanted, why doesn't he have the wit to leave? “You have done a great service to my husband,” she said. “The least that I can do is to offer you a drink.”

At the frostiness in her voice Bernard's head reared up. “Antonio is a singer,” he said, pushing the towel aside. “He has one of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard. I am going to find him a teacher, so he can make the most of his talent—”

“Breathe, Bernard.” Olivia slid her hand to the nape of his neck. “Don't chatter, breathe. God, that water reeks.”