The Invitation(38)

‘But wouldn’t that have given them proof?’

Gaspari laughs, an odd, hoarse sound. ‘They didn’t need proof – that was not a concern for them. No, I mean that if they had found us together it would not have been so terrible for him. It would have been more discreet.’ He sighs. ‘Rafe came from an important Sicilian family. Rather aristocratic, and traditional – but more than all of that, extremely pious. For them, Rafe’s actions were not merely a crime but a sin. And perhaps the worst he could have committed. I believe they might have preferred it if he had killed a man. At least that, in his father’s view, would have been a masculine act.

‘I tried to convince him that, no matter what society might make of what we were, he should not be ashamed. But he was, always – his upbringing had made him that way. Sometimes he would tell me he could not see me any more, and several painful weeks would follow. He would claim that he was going to join the army – or the church. Something that might help him “cure” himself. But he was always back, apologizing – and I would always forgive him, because I loved him. And I think he loved me too, despite his doubts about the morality of what we had together. I had no family, you understand. It was easier for me.

‘He had hoped, I think, that he might have been able to keep his true nature a secret from them always. Though how exactly he planned to do that was never clear, especially considering his mother’s matchmaking had begun to reach a fever pitch.’ Gaspari smiles his downturned smile. ‘We used to laugh about it. She was constantly throwing soirees, dances, presenting some suitable, willing daughter of an acquaintance. And they were always willing, you understand. Because he was so clever, and beautiful.’

Gaspari’s face grows solemn once more. ‘He was quite terrified of his parents finding out. He knew they loved him, but he didn’t believe that their love for him was unconditional. If they knew the truth, he wasn’t certain that they would be able to forgive him. His father, as I have said, had always made his views on such matters very clear. Such a thing, in his eyes was unmanly – even inhuman.

‘When those men came to get him, I am sure that they would have used some of the same words that were shouted at me. Perhaps they would have been slightly more respectful, because his parents were well known. But I have no doubt his family would have found out that night what it was he had been trying to keep from them. I don’t know for certain – but that is my guess.’

‘Why don’t you know?’

‘Because,’ Gaspari says, ‘he hung himself that night, in his cell.’

Hal wishes there was something he could say that would be adequate. Unable to think of anything, he remains silent.

‘They came to tell me, the next morning. He had been in the same prison as me and I had not even known it. One of them, I remember, seemed particularly pleased. But one was … almost kind. I think he could see how distressed I was and, later, he came alone to tell me that he was sorry for my loss.’ He stops. ‘I wish that he had not been so afraid – and so alone – when he died. I find myself wondering if there was something that I could have said to him that would have helped him to cope with it better. At the time I was even angry with him, because my love had not been enough.’

Hal cannot think of anything to say. He is grateful for the fact that the light has worsened to the point where he can hardly make out Gaspari’s face. He knows that the expression there would be one of great pain. Now he understands why the man wears sadness about him like a cloak. The long silence that follows is finally broken by Gaspari’s dog, who wakes and gives a little whimper. The director bends and picks her up, buries his face in her side. Hal is suddenly struck by Gaspari’s mention of his lack of relatives. This small creature, perhaps, is all the family he has.

Finally, Gaspari speaks. ‘You know, my friend, I have found that the best way to come to terms with one’s past is like this, through talk. It is painful, but, little by little, it helps to diffuse its power.’

Hal looks up, to find the director watching him, expectantly, as though waiting for him to speak. But there is nothing to say.





13


Late afternoon, and the light has assumed an unusual golden hue, like that of a pale white wine. Beyond the coast, the mountains are a steep, purplish shadow. To Hal they are surreal and ungraspable, like something read about in a child’s storybook.

They are running under motor now and the yacht cuts through the still waters effortlessly. The engine purrs.

Hal sits with Aubrey Boyd, playing gin rummy. Aubrey is surprisingly competitive, and a deft player. His gains are made all the more quickly for the fact that Hal isn’t able to concentrate properly on the game.

‘What did you mean,’ he asks, ‘when you said that we’re little projects for the Contessa?’

‘Well,’ Aubrey raises an eyebrow. ‘I mean, you only have to look at us all. Apart from Giulietta, perhaps. We’re quite a ragtag bunch. She collects hopeless cases. You have Gaspari, with his melancholy, Morgan, with his drinking. Me, well, look at me for goodness’ sake. And you, with whatever it is you’re carrying about.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The thing you’re carrying about. The thing that makes you act like the walking wounded. Aha! Big gin! That’s thirty-one points, I think.’ He sits back, happily.