The Invitation(20)

‘Hear what?’ We turn, and see Tino, trailed by his elderly cat, Se?or Bombón.

My father is, I think, about to tell him – but I get there first. ‘Nothing, Tino,’ I say now. ‘It’s nothing.’ For what is the point in a six-year-old worrying over something that does not concern him, that will be over before it has even begun? Especially a child who has terrible nightmares already: whose imagination is an overly fertile place. Even innocuous-sounding phrases – a chance mention by my father of ‘the trees in the distance’ turned those trees into one of his great fears. When he woke up screaming one night and I went to ask what the matter was, all he would say, as he clung to me, was: ‘los árboles, los árboles’. Sometimes, still, he wets the bed – a thing that we have to keep a secret from Papa, because Tino can’t bear the shame of him finding out.

Now, when he looks unconvinced, I say: ‘I’ve been wondering, something, Tino. About the bees. Perhaps you could explain it to me?’

It is a low trick, perhaps, but it works.

How long, though, will I be able to hide it from him? Because the thing is not crushed. Not in twenty-four hours, not in forty-eight. It spreads to the mainland. It moves through the country like a forest fire, snatching new fuel to feast upon. Seville, Cordoba, Saragossa, Papa tells me: all have fallen to these men they call the rebels. There are soldiers, trained marksmen, marching from their barracks to massacre unarmed townspeople. Besides the Spanish soldiers – known for their skill in the fine art of killing – there are the Moorish soldiers, known too for their talent, but also for their absolute lack of mercy.

Often, now, we hear the roar of aircraft above us. Tino will run out into the garden and watch them with a kind of wonder. And there is something awesome in them: in their speed and deadly grace. They are German, Papa says: Adolf Hitler is sending them to help the rebels. Mussolini, of Italy, is sending tanks and soldiers.

We are not their target, yet. Some other small town is, perhaps – or one of the big cities. How long before that changes?

Even as I understood the danger, there was a part of me that didn’t believe it would come. Or that even if it did it would only sear us a little, it couldn’t change us. The thing we had, our happiness, was too sacred. The arrogance of imagining that I was unchangeable. That what we had was stronger, somehow, than this thing that had engulfed the whole country. That was a hard lesson to learn.





PART TWO





7


Liguria, 1953


Appearing around the dark finger of land is a yacht: the same one Hal saw on his swim. Her navy blue hull gleams, the line of her prow is as sharp as a shark’s tooth. There are gilt fittings all about, sheening in the sunlight like newly minted coins. The twin masts appear, from this perspective, to pierce the sky. Even Hal, who knows so little about boats, can recognize that she is a beautiful work of construction.

‘She is quite something, is she not?’

He turns to find Frank Truss beside him. Hal nods.

‘I own a schooner,’ Truss says. ‘She’s in the States at present, of course. Southampton. Need to get her transferred over here some time. Sixty foot – a beautiful creature.’

‘Goodness,’ Hal says. ‘I used to own a Firefly.’

Truss frowns. Hal has the distinct impression that he doesn’t like to admit ignorance on any point. Finally, he says: ‘It’s a yacht?’

‘It’s a small wooden dinghy,’ Hal says, and steps away.

Aubrey Boyd wants to take a photograph. He gestures to Hal. ‘You, dear fellow, if you wouldn’t mind. Yes, you have exactly the look.’

‘I don’t think it would be right,’ Hal says. ‘I’m the journalist. Surely it should be Giulietta, or Gaspari …’

‘Not for this one,’ Aubrey Boyd tells him. ‘Anyway, why so shy? Are you afraid that the camera will steal your soul? It’s only a little fun.’ As though the matter is decided, he attaches the flashbulb and frames the scene. Hal steps forward reluctantly and stands before the sea, the yacht behind him. The other guests observe – perhaps trying to understand the supposed perfection of the fit.

Then Aubrey finds his next subject. ‘Mrs Truss, if you wouldn’t mind.’

She smiles, politely, and tries to demur. Hal catches sight of Giulietta Castiglione, whose expression is unforgettable. She is not used to being passed over.

Aubrey is not to be deterred. ‘Please, Mrs Truss. Your blonde hair, with his dark. You look so picturesque together. The perfect contrast …’ He turns to Truss. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, of course.’

Truss nods his acquiescence.

Still, she does not step forward. Then Truss reaches over and takes her by the wrist. ‘Come on, Kitten. Do as the man asks.’ Like an errant child, she is guided to stand beside Hal. She stops a foot away, near enough that he can make out the fine gold hairs on her bare forearms, but far enough that there is no chance of any part of them touching.

Aubrey raises his camera. ‘A little closer together, if you wouldn’t mind.’ He laughs. ‘Anyone would think you two were the married couple.’

Giulietta’s co-star – the man who plays the sea captain of the film’s title – arrives moments before they set sail. Hal doesn’t recognize him immediately. He knows from somewhere the great golden head, the exaggeratedly handsome features, but can’t place them. Only when Aubrey Boyd whispers the name does he understand. Earl Morgan. He can’t believe he didn’t know him. But then there is a marked difference between the figure standing here and the heroic one he has viewed onscreen.