The Wedding Officer

23

THE HOUR before lunch had become James’s favorite time of the day. It was the time when just enough work had been done to feel virtuous, but not so much as to induce fatigue. There was the anticipation of a wonderful meal, to be followed by a refreshing nap. Best of all, there was the sound of Livia bustling around the kitchen as she cooked.

This was itself an operatic performance, divided into five separate acts. First, there was a prelude, as she returned from the market with her purchases and went through each item, telling anyone within earshot—which, since her voice had considerable powers of projection, meant pretty much everyone in the apartment—what its particular qualities and defects were, how long she had queued for it, how much the thieving stallholder had tried to charge her for it, and that it was in any case not a patch on the produce available in her home village before the war. Then came the preparation of pasta. This generally involved less speech, since Livia was now concentrating, but if anything was even noisier. Livia made pasta the traditional way, adding eggs to flour and combining them into a smooth, hard ball of dough, which then had to be pummeled by hand for almost ten minutes, until the texture was light and airy. Livia’s slight frame might not look as if it was built for pummeling, but like a scrawny tennis player who compensates for a lack of muscle by grunting, she produced a range of expressive noises as she pounded the dough two-fisted, which left no doubt as to the sheer physical effort required. This might be followed by a brief intermezzo, a conversation with Carlo or Enrico about what was for lunch, or what the weather was like today, or what the latest rumors were in the market. However casual these conversations, they always sounded to James like fierce arguments, owing to the natural volubility of the participants. There then followed a quieter period, in which meat was prepared and vegetables chopped—a dramatic drumroll of knife blades clicking on marble. Water hissed into saucepans; lids began to rattle; delicious smells rippled outward from the kitchen, suffusing the whole apartment with the odors of cooking tomatoes, fresh basil and oregano. Finally, Livia would look into his office and inform him that it was time to stop work. As if by magic, the big table would be cleared of papers and transformed with oil, vinegar, bread and jugs of flowers and wine. People would gather; bread would be broken; the contented silence of the well-fed would alternate with the murmur of conversation.

Livia’s manner toward him could still hardly be described as friendly. But after the coquettishness and flirtation he had become accustomed to in his wedding interviews, it was still something of a relief to spend time with someone who was absolutely not trying to seduce him. And if her attitude sometimes bordered on the downright hostile, he found that for some reason it only made him want to laugh. There was something completely delightful about her glares and stares—so much so that on occasion he even found himself teasing her, just a little, for the simple pleasure of provoking them.

He was too unfamiliar with these symptoms to recognize them himself, but there was absolutely no doubt that James Gould was falling in love.

He was working at his desk one evening when he noticed that the glass of water he had by his left hand was behaving in a curious way. A series of concentric circles, pulsing inward from the rim, rippled across its surface. He studied it, fascinated, then carried it into the kitchen. “Livia,” he asked, setting it down, “do you know why it does this?”

She glanced at it. “An earthquake,” she decided. “Just a little one. We get them all the time here, particularly when it gets warmer.”

He put his fingers to the wall. He could feel something now, a tiny vibration that hummed through the old stones of the building. But it was getting stronger, he was sure of it. It couldn’t be an earthquake, surely? An earthquake would come and then go again, not build to a solid, thrumming hum like this.

“Don’t worry,” she said casually. “These buildings are very strong. They’re designed for it.”

Outside, the air raid sirens went off. “It’s not a ruddy earthquake,” he said, “it’s a raid. We should get to the shelters.”

She indicated the pan. “I can’t, or this will be ruined, and I queued over an hour for it. You go ahead.”

“I’ll wait with you,” he said. He looked out of the window. He could see the German planes now, wave after wave of pencil-slim Junkers 88s. They were coming in from the north, very high, to avoid the guns on the warships in the bay.

“Keep away from the windows, then,” she said grudgingly. “If the glass goes you’ll be cut to pieces.”

He stepped back. A loud boom cut through the noise of the sirens.

“And it’s better if the windows are open. That way the pressure won’t shatter the glass.” She caught his look. “We’ve had raids before.”

He pulled the windows open and went to stand in the doorway, his back against the frame. “They’re bombing the castle,” he said, listening to the explosions. This must be the Germans’ response to the big push in the north.

Suddenly, there was a deafening bang which seemed to lift the whole building, followed by the sound of cracking stone.

“That was close.” She was still chopping zucchini.

“Will you come here,” he snapped, pulling her into the doorway. She looked faintly surprised. “The lintel,” he explained. “Strongest part of the room.” He had his arm around her, but he had no intention of letting go now.

“Are we dancing a waltz, Captain Gull?” she said, looking pointedly at his arm. But she did not push him away.

Then there was another bang, even closer. He felt the ground heave under his feet, as if the building were a ship riding a sudden swell. Livia gasped, and he pulled her farther under the lintel. “Fuck,” he said, with feeling. They were right in the thick of it, and there was absolutely nothing they could do except wait. If they tried to reach a shelter now, they could be caught in the open.

They were so close he could feel the pounding of her heart. Then the loudest explosion so far slammed the wall into their backs. He felt his ears pop. “That was next door,” he said. If they were going to be hit, it would be soon, while the smoke from the building next to them was there to guide the next wave of bombers. But all he could think about was how wonderful it was to be this close to her, breathing in the heady rosemary aroma of her hair, feeling her fragile shoulders moving under his hand. Is this what it would feel like, he thought, if they were lovers? He wondered if he dared kiss her, and he suddenly experienced a kind of delicious, dizzying terror that had nothing at all to do with German bombs.

You mustn’t kiss her, he told himself. Of course you mustn’t.

He felt something hard in his breast pocket, and took it out. It was the little piece of saint’s bone the priest had pressed on him in the cathedral. He had almost forgotten it was there. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Just a lucky charm someone gave me.” He put it back. “Livia?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did, Captain Goot, so you might as well ask another.”

“If you died right now, is there anything you would regret?”

She thought about it. “No,” she decided. “And you?”

There were so many things, and none of them could be spoken out loud. But he was intoxicated with her presence. Once when he was at school there had been a competition to see who could jump off the highest branch of a tree into the river. They had dared each other to go higher, and then higher, and then higher still. He still remembered the extraordinary exhilaration of it—that mixture of fear and abandon. He felt the same way now. “Well, I won’t regret this,” he said. “It’s been the best ten minutes of the best afternoon of my entire ruddy war. Though I would regret not having taken the opportunity to kiss you.”

He leaned toward her. He was aware of her eyes flashing, and her foot stamped hard on the floor. Her lips were moving, and he realized she must be shouting, cursing him. But he could not hear the words. At that moment, the air was sucked from the room and an enormous explosion buffeted him around the head. His kiss, cut off a moment before their lips touched, turned into a clumsy embrace as he stumbled against her. A high-pitched whining filled his ears—concussion, he supposed. Dust poured through the doorway. Dimly, through the muffled aftermath, he heard a rattling sound as dozens of roof slates clattered into the courtyard, where they smashed on the flagstones one by one.

The explosion had caved in one wall of the Americans’ HQ. James immediately offered his own floor as temporary accommodation. It was the least he could do, and besides, he could hardly claim he was short of space.

Like a colony of ants moving nest, the CIC operation disgorged itself from the ground floor. Trunks of papers and crates of equipment were ferried up the stairs by purposeful, bustling orderlies. Desks, chairs, typewriters, document cabinets and endless lengths of telephone cable all moved themselves into the various nooks and crannies of James’s offices. Within a couple of hours the move was complete.

There was another problem, however. The Americans’ mess was temporarily unusable. A couple of roof beams had fallen in, and they needed to make alternative arrangements.

“Only for a few days,” Eric told James. “And if your charming cook could see her way clear to helping us out as well…”

“There’s far too many of you,” James said firmly. “Can’t you eat field rations?”

“Is there a problem?” Livia’s voice said behind him.

He turned. “These people were asking if they could eat with us. I said it was too many.”

He could not meet her eye. After the all-clear sounded he had made an excuse about inspecting the damage, and had hurried away before she could see how ashamed he was.

“It’s how many—about thirty people?” She shrugged. “I used to cook for that many every day at the osteria.”

“As you wish,” he said stiffly. “But is there enough food?”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” she said. “And we can eat outside, in the courtyard. There’s more room down there.”

“You’ll need some help with serving, at least.”

“I can get some people in. There’ll be no problem.” Angelo would know where to find temporary waitresses.

Eric bowed. “La quinta forza armata è molto grata, Signora. The Fifth Army is extremely grateful.” His Italian, James noted, was really getting quite good.

Livia, to her surprise, was enjoying herself. She might dislike the Allies on principle, but she had to admit that, taken as individuals, they were fairly easy to get along with. They were somewhat passionless, of course, and completely obsessed with their work, but after a lifetime of having to pretend that you hadn’t heard what men were muttering at you as you passed them in the street and being groped at the slightest opportunity, it was rather nice to be able to relax in the company of these shy, quiet, well-mannered foreigners.

And above all, she was cooking again. She had not realized how important it was to her. For four years she had been cobbling together odds and ends, just in order to put on the table something that resembled food. But now, thanks to Angelo and his black market contacts, she was cooking with real ingredients, and in the sort of quantities she had previously only dreamed of. A whole fresh tuna, a wicker basket of San Marzano tomatoes, a crate of anchovies, great handfuls of parsley…Dozens of new potatoes, still encrusted with the black volcanic earth of Campania, their flesh golden as egg yolks…A pale wheel of parmesan, big as a truck tire…A sack full of bloodred watermelons…An armful of mint, its leaves so dark green they were almost black…All afternoon and all evening she chopped and baked, and by the time darkness fell she had pulled together a feast that even she was proud of.

For many of the Americans, the air raid was the first they had experienced. That night there was an extra brightness in their chatter, and more wine was consumed than normal. And there was a kind of gaiety, too, in the setting, in eating on temporary tables in the courtyard under the lemon tree and the stars, with broken roof tiles still crunching underfoot. There were no candles, but someone had found a few kerosene lamps, and they made a bonfire out of broken roof beams. Angelo had supplied Livia with wine as well as food, all of which was served to the soldiers by half a dozen of the prettiest girls the maître d’ could locate at such short notice.

“I’m sure I just saw Silvana Settimo,” James told Eric as he watched yet another jug of wine pass him on the way to a table.

“Who’s she?”

“A girl I vetted. She was pretending to be a virgin at the time.” His head turned as another strikingly beautiful Italian placed a bowl of pasta nearby. “And that’s definitely Algisa Fiore. The last time I saw her she didn’t have any clothes on.”

“What an interesting life you lead, James.”

“But they’re all prostitutes.”

“You know, we should probably keep that information to ourselves,” Eric suggested. “Otherwise it’s going to be mayhem around here later on.”

The food, of course, was amazing. Livia had surpassed herself. Selfishly, James found himself hoping that the Americans would not realize just how good it was, since he had absolutely no wish to share Livia’s skills on a permanent basis. But from the noises of appreciation all around him, he realized that it was going to be impossible to keep her talents a secret.

After the meal was eaten, it was inevitable that there was going to be dancing. Eric picked up his clarinet, various other soldiers found instruments of one sort or another, and an impromptu jazz band struck up. Soon the Americans were enthusiastically showing the waitresses how to doo-wop and jitterbug.

James took the opportunity to go and speak to Livia. “Mrs. Pertini,” he said formally, “I want to apologize for my behavior earlier.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said to you during the raid.”

“What did you say?” she asked curiously.

He hesitated. “You didn’t hear?”

“I heard the bomb falling. And I shouted at you to get down, but I couldn’t hear what you were saying.”

“I was saying,” he paused. “I was talking nonsense. Must have been a bit rattled by those bombs. Anyway, I do apologize.”

“That’s all right,” she said, giving him a strange look. Then one of the Americans approached her, asking for a dance, and she was taken away from him.

Five minutes later she was back, a little out of breath, her face flushed with pleasure at the exertion and all the compliments she had received for her cooking. On an impulse she said, “Captain Gute, aren’t you going to dance with me?”

“Very well,” he said. “But it will have to be a proper dance, not this jive nonsense.”

“I’m sure that everything you do is proper,” she said with a sigh.

“I was referring,” he said, standing up and leading her onto the dance floor, “to the fox-trot, king of dances.”

Livia did not know how to dance the fox-trot, and said so.

“Then it’s fortunate that I do. Just follow my lead.” He interleaved the fingers of his left hand with her right, placed his other hand on her shoulder, and gently but firmly propelled her into the promenade position. “Slow—slow—quick—quick,” he instructed. “Really, it couldn’t be simpler.”

“So I see,” she said, fitting her movements to his.

“And now we turn…” He twisted into the conversation step, bringing their hips into momentary contact.

“Captain Ghoul,” she said, surprised, “you are a very good dancer.”

“I know,” he said, easing her into a box turn. “And quick…And slow.”

She studied her own left hand, where it rested on James’s shoulder. It was, she noticed, a rather firm, rugged shoulder. She remembered what he had looked like with his shirt off, when her sister was dressing his cut, and she found herself wondering whether, if she were to slide the hand down a little, she would discover that his upper arm, under his uniform, was just as hard as his shoulder. She didn’t, of course, but she met his eye and relaxed perceptibly into the movements of the dance.

For his part, James had suddenly become acutely aware of how close she was. Her glossy black hair, as she twisted this way and that, released more enticing waves of rosemary. Her hand and back, where he was touching her, seemed as fragile as birds’ wings, and her huge eyes were for the first time in their acquaintance regarding him with what might almost be considered a smile. He felt a sudden tension in his trousers, and was obliged to quickly introduce several more hip turns in order that Livia remained unaware of it.

What am I doing? Livia thought. These are the people who killed my husband. These are the people who killed Pupetta.

She was rather ashamed to realize that, in her mind, the two deaths were almost of equal significance. But after all, she had been present when Pupetta had been shot, whereas poor Enzo had been gone for almost four years when he died—four times longer, in fact, than he and Livia had ever been together.

But why, she asked herself, am I enjoying this so much? It’s only a dance, and not a very interesting one at that.

For both partners, it was both a relief and a disappointment when the music came to an end.

He led her back to the table, and an uncomfortable silence fell between them. Occasionally she glanced at him, hoping that he would say something, and occasionally he glanced at her, and seemed about to speak. But he remained tongue-tied, and for once, her Neapolitan volubility seemed to have deserted her as well.

Eventually she jumped to her feet. “I’ll show you how to dance the tarantella, if you like,” she said.

James, who was still suffering from intermittent amplifications below the waist, shook his head. “That’s very kind, but I’d better not. I’m all danced out.”

“But it’s how we Italians flirt,” she said mischievously. She stepped away from him, raising her arms above her head and spreading her fingers, then fluidly spun on her heels into the space beside the fire.

Just for a moment, he was tempted. “All the same,” he said, “I think I’ll sit this one out.”

She shrugged. “Carlo?” Instantly Carlo was in front of her, his shoulders squared as he began to move his body in time with hers. Enrico took a guitar from one of the Americans and strummed it meditatively.

“In most Italian dances,” Livia said over her shoulder to James, “the man pursues the woman. But in the tarantella it is the woman who is possessed by passion. So the man stays where he is, and the woman approaches him.” Enrico’s fingers moved more fluently over the strings of the guitar, picking up the pace, as Livia danced sinuously toward Carlo. “But then she changes her mind. She doesn’t need him after all; she’s happy on her own.” Abruptly she twisted away.

Everyone was watching her now, the other dancers pulling back to give her room. As she spun this way and that, the folds of her skirt spun with her. “Then she realizes she misses him. So she returns. But she doesn’t want him to touch her. Just when he thinks he has her, she slips away again.” She closed her eyes, twisting her hips lithely, pirouetting around Carlo’s barely moving body. The tempo of the guitar increased still further. “Now she is overcome. She is crazy about him, she is possessed, her whole body is on fire,” she called. “So at last, she lets him come to her.” She spread her arms either side of Carlo’s. Her shoulders were still, as if the two of them were embracing, but her hips writhed with the fluid, pulsating rhythm of the dance. With a final shout, the music ended. It was the most erotic thing James had ever witnessed. Next to this sensual, potent ritual of desire, the jitterbug and the doo-wop looked like mere gymnastics.

The men at the tables were on their feet, clapping and shouting their appreciation. Enrico started another tune, and the servicemen pulled the Italian waitresses into the circle of firelight and started enthusiastically copying what they had just seen.

Livia walked out of the ring of firelight. James stood up, hoping that she would come back and talk to him. She caught his eye and smiled. But then another man in uniform had intercepted her, was speaking to her, was leading her to a quiet table away from the firelight and the lamps. She cast James a rueful look, as if to say that he had had his chance and not taken it. He turned away, but not before he saw that the man who was so keen to have her company was Eric.