The Wedding Officer

15

RATHER TO his surprise, James had at last met a young Neapolitan woman of unquestionably good character.

The address was an elegant house in the hillside district of Vomero. When he arrived for the interview, James was shown into a drawing room furnished with great taste and an obvious abundance of wealth. Emilia di Catalita-Gosta was engaged to a staff officer; she spoke a little English, and was clearly well educated. Her delicate features, in fact, reminded James a little of Jane. Her father was also on hand, a distinguished gentleman of about sixty who was wearing an immaculate suit. He spoke to James about the family estates in Tuscany—at the present moment, of course, regrettably cut off by the front line—and they soon discovered a common interest in the works of Dante.

It was a pleasure to spend time in the company of civilized people. When the fading light finally indicated that it was time for James to leave, he was almost reluctant to go. As delicately as he could, he hinted to the father that his report would not pose either Signorina di Catalita-Gosta or her fiancé any problems, and gave her his best wishes for a long and happy marriage. With equal delicacy, the father nodded to show that he had understood.

James asked if he might see some more of the house before he went. Emilia’s father hesitated. “Unfortunately some German officers billeted here during the Occupation,” he said quietly. “I should be ashamed to show the other rooms to you in the state in which those animals left them. However, I would be honored if you would come to dinner in a week or two, when everything will be back to the way it should be.”

James told him he quite understood, and they made a firm arrangement for two weeks’ time.

“There is just one other thing,” signor di Catalita-Gosta said. “It is, I suppose, a kind of favor, although I am wary of presuming further on your kindness.”

James assured him that he would do his best to consider the request favorably.

“I don’t want to prejudge your report, of course. But if it does happen to be positive, as we dare to hope…my daughter, who is very religious, has set her heart on marrying on the first Sunday in Lent. There is a sort of tradition that people from the better families are wed on that day, in the Duomo.” He shrugged. “As, indeed, I was myself. It is only a tradition, you understand, but I know it would have meant a lot to Emilia’s mother, God rest her soul.”

The first Sunday in Lent was less than a week away. “I’ll see what I can do to hurry the approval along,” James promised.

Signor di Catalita-Gosta bowed. “You’re very kind.”

“Not at all. It’s a pleasure to be able to achieve something useful in all this mess.”

As James made his way back down the hill to the Palazzo Satriano, he felt a sense of good cheer that even the anticipation of Malloni’s warmed-up “Meat and Vegetables” could not entirely dissipate.

On Sunday morning he was woken at six A.M. by the telephone. It was Major Heathcote, and he got straight to the point. “What do you know about this mob at the cathedral?”

“I didn’t know there was a mob at the cathedral.”

“The MPs are worried it could turn into a full-scale riot. Take a look, would you?” The line went dead.

James got dressed and went downstairs. Deciding that if there was really going to be a riot it would be more safely witnessed from a jeep than a motorbike, he went to wake Eric.

The American came awake groggily, and James had some difficulty persuading him that attending to a potential riot was more important than having a cup of coffee. Even without the coffee, it was a good fifteen minutes before a grumbling Eric was finally driving the two of them toward the Duomo.

Near the cathedral their way was blocked by a solid mass of people. As Eric edged the vehicle forward, James became aware that the mood of the crowd was strangely fraught. Women were tearing at their clothes and sobbing. Elderly men were stabbing their hands at the sky. Young girls, their heads covered with scarves, jabbered and shrieked hysterically at one another. There was a high proportion of nuns and priests amongst the crowd, he noticed, and everywhere the sign of the cross was being made. It was all very mystifying.

Suddenly James saw a familiar face. Telling Eric to pull over, he swung the door of the jeep open. “Dr. Scottera,” he called. “Get in.”

The lawyer looked slightly embarrassed, as if he had been caught doing something slightly disreputable. But he climbed into the jeep and pulled the door closed quickly. “You should go back,” he said.

“Why? Is it dangerous?”

“For you? Yes, perhaps a little. The crowd is very overexcited. But at the moment I am more concerned about myself. I would rather not be seen with you, after your ill-advised attempt to control the penicillin dealers.”

“Ah. You heard about that,” James said.

“My friend,” Dr. Scottera said disdainfully, “the events of that day have already been turned into a fine ballad, which is being sold in the municipal gardens for five lire a sheet. Your own name features heavily, not only in the lyrics of each verse, but also in the chorus, where it is accompanied by certain gestures which are always guaranteed to cause amusement. You will recall that I advised against the operation at the time. Now, shall we go?”

“What’s going on here?” Eric asked, putting the jeep into reverse.

“It is the liquefaction of the blood.” They must have looked perplexed, because Dr. Scottera added, “The blood of San Gennaro. A famous relic, which is kept in a special chapel of the cathedral. Twice a year, absolutely regularly, the dried blood becomes liquid. If, as now, the blood starts to liquefy at the wrong time, it means a great tragedy is coming to Naples.”

“You mean, something worse than being occupied by the Germans, having your young men conscripted to fight in Russia and having Naples blown up by three different armies?”

“It is, of course,” Dr. Scottera said stiffly, “only a superstition, which an educated man such as myself would never give credence to.”

“You just happened to be up early?”

Dr. Scottera sniffed.

Eric pulled the jeep over and turned off the ignition. “We’d better go take a look, anyway.”

The two of them pushed their way through the crowd toward a side door of the cathedral. Inside, things were no calmer—a wailing sea of people surging from side to side, aimlessly, but with palpable tension. Eventually, they found a priest.

“It is the saint.” He sighed. “The blood. For certain, a terrible fire is coming, in which many people will perish.” At these words, a great weeping arose from those near enough to hear. The priest brightened. “However,” he said loudly, gesturing toward another priest who was emerging from the vestry with a tray around his neck, like a cigarette girl at a cinema, “it may be that a relic from one of the Christian martyrs will offer the faithful some protection.” There was a rush toward the priest with the tray.

Fighting through the throng, Eric and James found that the tray was laden with small white objects. “If I’m not very much mistaken,” Eric said, picking one up and examining it, “these are human bones.”

“Relics, signore, relics of the early martyrs,” the priest confirmed. “Free to anyone who makes a donation of fifty lire to the offertory.”

“Are there any catacombs around here?” James asked Eric.

“Miles of ’em. All stuffed to the ceiling with bones.”

They looked at the tray of bones again. “I suppose even priests have to eat,” James said.

“Screw that,” Eric said. Taking a priest in each hand, he pulled them toward the vestry. “See if you can locate this blood, will you?” he called over his shoulder.

The saint’s blood was encased in the stem of a magnificent silver reliquary, which was in turn being clutched reverently by another priest.

“Tell them if this goes on they’re going to have a riot on their hands,” Eric suggested.

James did so, but the priests just shrugged. “It is the saint,” one repeated. “He is trying to warn us.”

“I’ve had enough of this bullshit.” Eric pulled his pistol out of its holster and pointed it at the priest holding the reliquary. The other priests crossed themselves in unison. “Tell him that if that blood hasn’t unliquefied within two minutes, they’re going to have another Christian martyr to sell off in little pieces.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” James asked.

Eric waved the pistol in a threatening manner. “Tell him I haven’t had any coffee yet and I’m extremely grouchy.”

“What I’m trying to say is, I think it’s a really bad idea,” James said nervously.

“You’re not telling me you think this blood liquefied all by itself?”

“Possibly not, but we came here to prevent a riot,” James pointed out. “And I think that by any measure shooting a priest, in a cathedral, during the middle of a miraculous event, with around a thousand witnesses, many of whom are already in a somewhat agitated condition, might well not be the most effective way of achieving that. Particularly as there are just two of us.”

“You think I should put the gun away?”

“That’s what I think, yes.”

“I reckon that blood would unliquefy in about two minutes if this priest just set it down. It’s because he keeps shaking it around that it’s gone like that.”

“Quite possibly,” James agreed, “but if the Italians choose to believe in this stuff, that’s their business.”

“So how do you propose we deal with this situation?”

“Well,” James said, “it seems to me the priests have taken care of that already. They’ve allowed the crowd to get worked up into a frenzy, admittedly, but they’ve also provided a solution, in the form of these relics. So long as they don’t run out of relics—and from the sound of it, they’ve got an inexhaustible stock—it looks as if everyone’s going to be happy.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Eric put his gun away.

“Many apologies,” James said to the priests. “My friend has not had any breakfast.”

The priests looked sympathetic. One of them impulsively stepped forward and pressed a piece of bone into James’s top pocket. “It will protect you from the coming fire,” he whispered, “just as you have protected us from the American with no breakfast.” They all shook hands formally, and Eric was blessed by the priest with the reliquary.

“Incidentally,” James said as he prepared to go, “I believe I may know someone who is getting married here today. A Signorina Emilia di Catalita-Gosta.”

The priests looked blank. “Who?” one said.

“Emilia di Catalita-Gosta. She’s marrying an English staff officer today, here, in the Duomo.”

The priest shook his head. “Not today. It isn’t possible. Not in this part of Lent.”

“But it’s a tradition, I understood? That the brides from the better families get married here today?”

“On the contrary,” the priest said. “Today, and for the whole of this week, there are no marriages in the cathedral. Whoever told you otherwise was mistaken.”

As they walked back to the jeep James said slowly, “I think I may have been fottuto again.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I think I need to visit Signorina di Catalita-Gosta and find out.”

“Oh, shit,” Eric said suddenly.

“What’s up?”

Eric pointed. “You won’t be going in that.”

The jeep was now a foot lower to the ground than it had been when they’d left it, owing to the removal of all four of its wheels. The headlights, windshield wipers—indeed, the windshield itself—as well as the doors, hood, engine and seats were all gone. It was a mere skeleton, a husk of a car.

“Got a gun in that holster, James?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Please, shoot me right now. Because if you don’t, the quartermaster will.”

It took several hours to sort out a replacement for the ransacked jeep. Declining Malloni’s offer of a colazione all’inglese, an English breakfast—by which he actually meant, James knew from experience, yet another tin of “Meat and Vegetables,” but this time burnt into a crisp, blackened pancake in a frying pan rather than simply warmed through in a pot—James took the motorbike and went to the elegant house in Vomero where he had interviewed Signorina di Catalita-Gosta and her father.

The door was unlocked, so he stepped inside. It was very quiet. Silently, James went into the room where the interview had taken place. It was rather barer than it had been. The impressive paintings, the heavy furniture, the antiques—all had gone, replaced by newer, showier pieces of art deco. A man’s coat lay sprawled across one of the chairs. Behind a door at the far side of the room, James heard someone moving.

He went to the door and pulled it open. On the floor, a scrawny male bottom rose and fell rhythmically between the M of a woman’s legs. “I’m so sorry,” James exclaimed, stepping backward. And then he froze. At the sound of his voice, both the man and the woman had looked up at him. The man who was making energetic love to Emilia di Catalita-Gosta was none other than her own father.

“We appear to be having,” Major Heathcote said slowly, “an epidemic of miracles.” He turned his attention back to the report in his hand, pausing occasionally to look up at James and scowl.

James already knew the report’s contents. What he had failed to anticipate in the Duomo was that there were many other priests in Naples, all equally hungry. As a result, all over the city, crucifixes were now bleeding, sweating, weeping, growing their hair, losing their hair, grinding their teeth, or in various other ways animating themselves, to the delight and enrichment of the priests who attended them. In the church of Sant’ Agnello our Lord had been engaging in lively conversation with a statue of the Virgin Mary, a fact independently confirmed by several news reporters. In Santa Maria del Carmine he had to be shaved regularly by the royal barber, so thick was his stubble, while in San Gaudiso he had taken to winking at pretty girls. Meanwhile, the blood of the city’s saints had taken on a whole range of properties hitherto unknown to science. One lady’s was liquefying at precisely ten o’clock every Tuesday, while San Giovanni’s bubbled away obligingly whenever it heard Holy Scripture.

At last Major Heathcote put down the report. “But I’m sure you can explain all this,” he said with ominous mildness.

“Sir,” James said awkwardly. “The Italians seem to believe there’s some kind of great disaster on the way. The priests are simply taking advantage of their credulity. In the case of the Duomo, it didn’t seem appropriate to intervene in what was clearly an internal Italian affair.”

“Well, quite,” the major said reasonably. “The fact that the civilian population has now been whipped up into a state of hysterical delirium because they think the Allies are going to bring down some kind of unspecified catastrophe is clearly not something that causes you any concern.”

“Sir,” James began again.

“Don’t interrupt me.” The major banged the table in a sudden explosion of rage. “Some people are saying the Germans are going to come back and raze the city to the ground—did you know that? Others are openly talking about a return to fascism. Meanwhile the black market is out of control; the only people who can’t buy penicillin freely on the Via Forcella—thanks to you—are our own army medics; the streets are full of syphilitic girls spreading disease to our soldiers; the Americans are complaining that FSS owe them a jeep; and—oh yes.” He picked up another report. “On your approval, one of General Clark’s favorite staff officers has somehow got himself married to the mistress of a former high-ranking fascist.” He glared at James. “Have you any comment to make about that?”

“I thought the man in question was Miss Catalita-Gosta’s father, sir.”

“Did he say he was?”

“Now that I think back, sir, he never actually said it. But he deliberately gave me that impression. He said things such as, er, it would have meant a lot to Emilia’s dead mother if she and the major could get married quickly. And they’d borrowed pieces of antique furniture to make it look like a family home, rather than a love nest.”

“And you fell for it?” Major Heathcote demanded incredulously.

There was nothing James could say.

“The officer in question,” the major said, “is—was—integrally involved with preparations for the forthcoming sea landings, about which we would naturally prefer the Germans to hear as little as possible. He’s had to be sent on an extended honeymoon, without his new bride, while someone clears this mess up.”

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

“Captain Gould,” the major said heavily, “the only thing that is preventing me from sending you to the front line immediately is the knowledge that they need decent soldiers up there, not gutless incompetents.” He sighed. “I wish to God I’d never lost Jackson. Anyway, these are your orders. You will get a grip on the civilian population of this city, and use whatever means necessary to stop this shambles. You will impose the regulations and requirements of the Allied Military Government without exception or favor. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get out of here. And send in Second Lieutenant Vincenzo.”