The Invitation(27)

The sea is still as glass. ‘It looks all right now,’ Hal says.

‘Ah, not now. Coming. I have lived in Liguria for my whole life: I know when a storm is on its way. The Contessa, she do not believe me – but I know.’

At this hour, Portovenere appears painted in watercolour. It seems deserted, too, save for one waterfront café where a man is putting out chairs. Suddenly hungry, Hal ambles over and takes a seat. The man spots him, smiles. ‘Ah,’ he says, in almost faultless English, when he sees Hal. ‘You are from the big yacht, yes? Signor Gaspari’s boat?’

Hal nods – lacking the energy to correct him.

‘She is a beauty,’ the man says, reverentially. ‘And he is a great man, Gaspari.’

‘Yes. He makes wonderful films.’

The man nods, vigorously. ‘I thought he died, during the war. Many people thought it.’

‘Why?’

‘He …’ the man makes a flitting motion with his hand, ‘… disappeared. Before the war, he used to come here in the summers, with a friend. They kept to themselves, you know, but everyone knew who he was. But then they stopped coming.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s not so strange. People don’t live in the same way in wartime.’

The man shakes his head, adamant, ‘No, it was more than that. No one heard anything of him for a long time. His name vanished, completely. Nothing in the papers, when before there had been so much. And then he appeared again, a few years ago, and made that beautiful film. It made me weep.’ He remembers himself. ‘Vuole qualcosa da mangiare? You want something?’

Hal orders an espresso and some pastries to go with it. When the man comes back with his breakfast, he asks, ‘Does anyone know what happened to him, Signor Gaspari?’

The man shrugs. ‘No. It happened, you know, in the days of Mussolini. Capisci?’

Hal nods. As a child he had not properly understood his mother’s distress as she watched the metamorphosis of her homeland into a dictator state. Now he does. A nonconformist to her core, and one who wore her national identity about her like one of her brightly coloured scarves, she must have felt it as a personal affront. And she must have felt powerless, too, watching from afar – feeling, perhaps, like a deserter. She tells Hal often that she had been brave, once upon a time. She had been helping her own father, a surgeon, when Mr Jacobs had come in as a wounded soldier, and left with her as his betrothed.

There is sudden noise and movement in the harbour: the fishermen are returning with the first catch of the day, unloading their cargo and their catch onto the quay. Some are shirtless, some wear full waterproofed overalls. There are men of every age but all have a common, sinewy strength about them, their skin tanned dark by wind and sun. They look done-in, Hal thinks, seeing the purple shadows beneath eyes, the set jaws. Bone-weary. He wonders: have they chosen this life, or has it been handed down to them, with no possibility of escape? But then one of the younger men, for a joke, hits his fellow across the face with a sardine and all descends into chaos and laughter. More fish are brandished, water is thrown. And suddenly the group is transformed, becoming vital, joyful.

He finishes his breakfast, wanting to explore the rest of the place while he still has it to himself. He starts with the steps that lead from the waterfront up towards the castle. The place is less eerie – and less enthralling – in the stark light of morning. There is no enchantment here, he realizes, only so many lifeless stones. Weeds thrust their way among them, reclaiming the land that was theirs before man built here. Seagulls wheel and caw and land to stalk along the ramparts – untroubled by his nearness as he passes, black eyes watchful, beaks violent-looking.

Led by an aimless curiosity, he makes for the great church below the fort. Inside it is dark and several degrees cooler than without. The air has a musty quality: faint notes of mould and incense. He feels a clumsy intruder, his feet echoing loudly upon the stones. Any second, someone will find him here, discover him to be a fraud. He will be asked to leave. Yet no one comes – in fact, he seems to be alone. He steps more confidently, giving greater rein to his curiosity. He has made it halfway up the aisle when he stops. There is someone else after all. At the front, head bowed so low between the pews that they had been almost invisible.

The figure turns, and he sees that it is Signor Gaspari. He blinks at Hal like a sleeper wakened. There are tears in his eyes.

He stops, begins to retreat. ‘I’m sorry – I’d thought there was no one here. I’ve disturbed you …’

‘No,’ Gaspari says. ‘Please, don’t apologize.’ He grimaces. ‘I’m not a man of religion. Someone I knew was. So, I suppose it has now become something of a habit of mine.’ He points to a small, framed picture on the wall. ‘And I wanted to see her, too.’ From afar it appears unimpressive, but as Hal moves closer to make it out he sees that it is a small, exquisitely rendered image of the Virgin and Child, the faces flat Byzantine ovals, the details embossed in gold.

‘The White Madonna,’ Gaspari says, softly. ‘Isn’t she something? She was carried here on the waves, in a plank of wood. There are a number of theories, I believe. Perhaps a merchant ship, attacked by pirates. Or a band of Crusaders, knowing they were doomed to die on a Moslem battlefield, and feeling it important that their treasure should be salvaged.’