The Honeyed Peace (21 page)

When he suggested going back to his house for a drink, Moira said, sternly, 'Yes, there is so much we must talk about.' She had no idea how to talk about it, still their last meeting needed clarification.

Straight-backed on the mustard sofa, Moira announced angrily that she didn't even know his Christian name. Signor Chiaretti laughed and said, 'Enrico. Did that worry you, funny one?' Moira's objections were overcome by a steady, humble, tragic 'Please.' His obvious passion, his obvious need reassured her. He had apologized for his three days' silence, he was a frightfully busy man, after all work had to come first, one was bound to understand these things.

Moira lay with her head on Signor Chiaretti's shoulder, and thought that she was two people, herself and her body. Her body was apart from her now, fragile, transparent, burned hollow by such intense, repeated pleasure as she had never imagined possible. Her body was more important than she, beautiful and capable of a life which she missed, living decorously day after day. It was a miracle; nothing could harm or sadden her any more, it was unnecessary to worry about jobs and clothes and going back to London; she had this joy to live for. She wished that she could have learned sooner, there were years wasted that might have been so used, years gone forever; but she would not regret, it was ungrateful, there were years ahead, here, with this man, who had shown her the very source of life.

'Enrico?'

'Cara?'

'I never knew, I never guessed,' Moira said, awed.

'You will know more and more,' he murmured, and ran his hand lightly from her shoulder to her knee and felt her body answering as if he had given an order. He was excited by his own handiwork; he created this woman and was ensnared by what he had made. Pygmalion of course, an old story but new to him in practice: what if he taught her so well that she became wise and could teach him? Women were worth any amount of trouble; one could never predict how they would turn out. He had two more free weeks; he decided he would train and explore this unformed creature.

'We must meet every evening,' Signor Chiaretti said, standing in the dark oily evil-smelling street before the door of the Langdons' palazzo. 'You will make no engagements after eight?' Then, remembering her last good night here, he took Moira in his arms and kissed her; there would be no more offhand treatment.

'Every night,' Moira said.

'I will send the servants away. Meet me at my house always, don't you think?'

'Yes, darling.'

'Good night, my little one.'

'Enrico. Bless you.'

He kissed her hand slowly. It was quite right that she should be grateful; he was not ungrateful himself.

To Enid, Moira used the imaginary girl friend for one more night, and then invented with unforeseen creativeness an eccentric rich American divorcée, introduced by the imaginary girl friend. This woman lived at the Hassler, Moira explained, suffered from insomnia, and was writing her memoirs. She wanted to dictate them at night and had searched in vain for someone willing to work those uncomfortable hours. Moira had consented to try, she told Enid, and would be out from sometime after seven until any hour; wasn't she lucky to have stumbled on such a job? Of course her shorthand was not very fast but Mrs Martin did not seem to mind. No, the salary had not been discussed as yet. Enid was not displeased; Moira had the daytime free, which meant she could go on doing errands for the house and looking after the girls; and Enid and Hugh would not feel that they had to make their friends ask Moira too for dinner. If the American paid enough, Moira might rent a place of her own. It was far better for a grown-up woman to be independent. Enid knew that Hugh, although he said nothing, was getting a tiny bit restless about Moira's long stay.

The Langdons' servants, who had been considering a mass withdrawal, were delighted by the change in the Signorina. They dreaded her visits to the kitchen when, with a determined smile and in an Italian which was at once impossible to understand and an offence to their ears, Moira came to check up. She gave little clucking sounds and accusing stares, for matters of twenty lire in the accounts; she looked in the icebox and at the shelves, to see if the servants were eating more than they should or food not meant for them. She would call a maid to her in that whinnying gabbling voice, and run a finger over a table, a window-ledge, and hold up the dusty finger in scorn. She counted linen as if it were jewels and was always sniffing at towels and sheets to see whether they had been properly aired. The servants hated her; the fact that they had better wages and less work with these Inglesi did not compensate for Moira. Now the Signorina had changed, who knew why? She hurried to the kitchen and hurried out, she forgot to police the dusting and sweeping, she did not count the linen at all. Life was bearable; they would hold on for a while longer.

The children welcomed something new in Moira. She hardly talked to them any more, which was a blessed relief. They could not bear her bright observations and, between themselves, they imitated her voice saying, 'Isn't it
lovely
?' Lovely day, lovely church, lovely dress, lovely meal, lovely car, lovely, lovely, lovely. The children had no chance of happiness except in their secret dream worlds; they were waiting with desperate concentration to grow up and be free. Moira had been a hideous intruder into their obedient lives; they were defeated and knew it; if they didn't have Moira, Mummy would find someone else to look after them; but now, though Moira still took them out in the afternoons, it was almost as good as being alone.

She did have a new boring habit of going much too often to the Galleria Borghese, where she would stand in a trance before the marble busts of those dreary old Romans on the ground floor. (He is exactly like them, Moira would be thinking, that strong arrogant nose, those commanding eyes, the sensual mouth; it was a way to see Enrico when she could not be with him. She would not dare to keep a photograph in her room, even if she'd owned one. Thrilling, too, to recognize Enrico as the inheritor of the past, the dominant male who had ruled here forever. One could not tell, from the marble heads, how tall the early Romans had been, but surely like Enrico, strong, muscular,
not
frightfully tall of course, but who wanted an anaemic reed like Hugh, for instance.) The children were free, while Moira studied the marble faces, to roam as they wished and to peer unobserved at any naked bodies they could find on the upstairs walls. Twice Moira had taken them to the movies and left them, alone, saying that it was a little treat and they wouldn't tell Mummy, would they? it was a bit of fun between the three of them. They knew Moira was turning into a crook and approved of this.

She also dumped them in the English tea-room and rushed out saying she had to do an errand and they could stuff on pastries until she returned much later. They realized Moira was rich now; this was odd because Mummy had often said to Daddy that Moira was dreadfully hard up. They only prayed that Moira would not become herself again; they preferred her indifferent, distracted, mysteriously smiling.

Enid said to her husband, 'That Mrs Martin of Moira's must be most peculiar, don't you think, Hugh?'

'Um,' he said, and escaped again into the peace of the
Economist
.

'She is either madly fond of Moira or else madly rich; Americans are too strange. She's given Moira three dresses and very good ones, they look absolutely new to me, though Moira says Mrs Martin found them unbecoming and simply chucked them off on her as if they were rags. And it is curious that Moira never says what she's earning, but clearly it's a packet. She's always got her hair beautifully done and her nails, and she bought the most fetching pearls the other day.'

Hugh said, 'Moira seems all right.' Did they have to talk about Moira as well as live with her? Enid might leave him a few minutes a day to himself.

'She ought to be happy,' Enid said, 'really. She stays out so late that she's gaga all day, she's not doing a thing in the house any more, and taking the children for a walk isn't an effort. Being covered with gifts and paid millions is not what I'd call a bad job.'

'Um,' Hugh said.

The days were rather dim to Moira; she was of course sleepy. But the days were lovely anyhow and no part of her ordinary life jarred or disturbed the rich blazing quality of her happiness. She saw Rome with new eyes; Rome belonged to Enrico; this gaiety, this warmth, this crowded dallying life had made him. The shops which had hurt her before, because she wanted what she could not have, were here for her pleasure and amusement; Enrico offered her every luxury as well as his love. He gave her money, to be exact, because he had no time, as he explained, to buy the small tributes, the little surprises, he wanted her to have. She must do that service for him. To accept his money seemed the final proof of her confidence and their intimacy; it was like being married. And Enrico had so sweetly, so humbly, guided her, to the Via Sistina, where he said he had heard there were some nice shops; he had suggested a hairdresser who would be good enough for her; he had told her that black and pearls were what she should always wear. She felt herself beguiling, sleek, cherished; she walked these streets as one who owned them; the beauty of Rome was the intended background for the wonder of her love.

And there were the nights. The nights never left her. She was sometimes afraid the nights must show; Enid would sense that her skin was soft and waiting; surely her mouth was different, anyone could see that, surely her mouth was like an announcement of her passion. At night there was no need to hide from Enid and nothing she ever wanted to hide from Enrico. She had no words to tell herself how she felt. She had always a sensation of climbing, breathlessly, higher and higher, into a wild freedom. She had been shocked, long ago, that nothing shocked her, and then had forgotten this. There was no room for hesitation or surprise, there was hunger, revelation, fulfilment; and then the drifting ease of the day with, before her, the promise of the night's fury and magic. She was too engrossed in this joy to think of time, to worry about the future, to ask questions or make plans.

On a Tuesday at the beginning of November, Signora Chiaretti returned from Montecatini. The Parioli apartment was brightened with the harsh-coloured sparse flowers she now preferred; her husband had ordered an excellent dinner which would be served to them before the fire. Every time she returned from a journey, Enrico wrapped her in ardour for about a week like a new lover. Every time she left for a journey, he pined over her, making her feel that his heart would be cold and filled with ashes while she was away. Being a practical woman, Signora Chiaretti knew that Enrico simply meant he would rather be married to her than not. For a year or so, in the beginning of their marriage, she had suffered from Enrico's infidelity, but had then adjusted to it. He was a livable man; she could not bear moody morose people and Enrico was always active, busy, bright, and his conversation was diverting. He was very fit and presentable for a man of forty-five. They had lived their own lives for sixteen years, preserving not only for others but for themselves every appearance; Enrico lied convincingly, she appreciated his good manners. She had had the same lover for eight years, who was quieter and more romantic than Enrico, and she was content with the arrangement, as Enrico was. Gianna Chiaretti knew that her husband liked her. For a week now they would have an amusing love affair and then they would settle down for the winter.

Enrico Chiaretti did like his wife; she was good-natured but neither silly nor adoring, she was shrewd and had excellent judgement and could be counted on always to help him as a hostess, an adviser, a contact, a public partner. They dined out together two or three times a week, they met in passing in their home, they never quarrelled. He always noticed her clothes and was inventive and encouraging, he listened to her problems and thought about them, he remembered any occasions of sentimental importance, his wife was his only trusted friend. It would have been disgustingly bad manners not to offer her the occasional compliment of desire; she might otherwise feel unattractive; he would not hurt her under any circumstances. After his Week's devotion, Gianna would rely for company on her obedient lover whom she could not have endured as a husband.

A brief rest at home would be welcome, in any case. Signor Chiaretti admired his triumph with Moira, but he needed a little time to stand off and look at it. He had, in two weeks, undone thirty-one years of Englishness. He had to remind himself of what Moira had been in order to appreciate his own talent. Moira's appetites were stronger than his own; she revealed a natural childish viciousness; he was enchanted by the dishonest, greedy way she took money. It was only curious that she had no problems; faced with this total change of her life and personality, Moira was happy. A little tormented soul-searching would have been preferable, but as he was enjoying himself too, he did not hold Moira's serenity against her.

Still, the English thing in Moira was as strong as ever; a respectable female lump had turned into an accomplished poule and remained sure of herself, pleased with herself, as before. The secret of this English confidence might be that the English did not think about themselves; from birth they knew who they were and never worried. The
examen de conscience
was unknown; Protestantism, probably. No Italian girl of good family could have made this moral and sensual revolution without streams of tears, sleepless nights, anguish of spirit, fear, doubt, and trouble with her confessor. Moira, to hear and see her, might have done nothing more drastic than cross a street. It also astonished him that the Langdons asked no questions. Moira had told him of the invented Mrs Martin but could the Langdons believe that mad story? Didn't that horsy Mrs Langdon ever look at Moira; didn't she see those expensive but tartish clothes, the showy false jewels, the mascara, the complicated hair arrangement; did she see nothing in Moira's eyes?

Now that his wife had returned he could not spend as much time on Moira but he would fit her into his regular winter schedule, as convenient. They could no longer meet at the Parioli flat but must meet in the rooms he kept on the Via Cesare Balbo. That run-down street was an ideal hideaway and he would tell Moira that he had sub-let his flat, for six months, to Americans who were paying an immense rent. In any case, Moira was not inquisitive; she had a firm habit of drifting and attaching; she took without question what was given to her; polite dependence was her climate.