The Wedding Officer

39

STRICTLY SPEAKING, the obligations of the Allied Military Government of Naples Province did not extend to acts of God, but four years of war had given the Allies an unshakeable belief in their ability to deal with any crisis. The Americans were still full of confidence and can-do optimism, while the British, perhaps, remembered their colonial past and the responsibilities it had once brought with it. Individual soldiers of all nations, from New Zealanders to Free French, suddenly recalled small acts of generosity by ordinary Italians in the theater of war—a bottle of wine brought out by a housewife during a long, hot march toward Cassino, a smile or a wave from a pretty girl, a brief moment of conversation in which the war stopped and ordinary humanity reasserted itself for a few minutes—and now, almost without thinking about it, they decided to return the favor.

It began with the evacuation plan, but the evacuation was only the beginning. At Cercola a soup kitchen was set up by the Red Cross which dispensed food to over a thousand refugees. At Pollena-Trocchia a food distribution center was established. Allied NAAFIs, cinemas and mess huts for miles around were turned into makeshift accommodation for the homeless. Every unit loaned what it could, from bulldozers to clear the roads, to trucks for transporting livestock. The Lancashire Fusiliers held a whip-round and raised enough money to restore a whole village. Not to be outdone, the Royal Engineers simply loaded their vehicles with timber and hardware and one by one began rebuilding houses that had been damaged. Sappers enthusiastically dynamited buildings made unsafe by the earth tremors—so enthusiastically, it was said ruefully later, that they created more work for the engineers than was strictly necessary—and the RAF dropped food parcels. The RAVC, the veterinary corps, turned up with horses and mules, while Logistics donated a whole shipload of potatoes, originally transported from Canada as food for the troops but now a valuable seed crop.

Most extraordinary of all, however, was the reaction of the fighting units. Men who had spent months in the grimmest of conditions at the front volunteered to spend their precious leave helping to clear roads, rebuild houses, and shovel clinkers off the fields by hand. The enthusiasm with which they did so made it seem almost as if they actually preferred rebuilding to drinking and whoring, and more than one commanding officer was heard to observe that he wished a volcano would erupt more often, so beneficial was the effect on morale.

Back at the Palazzo Satriano, James found an air of purposeful activity. Two large flagpoles had been erected on the outside of the building, from which the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack fluttered proudly side by side. In the entranceway, two military police stood on guard duty. An Italian man in overalls was busy painting over the racy frescoes with the contents of a large bucket of whitewash.

James spotted Horris. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“The general’s visit. Thanks to you, the Film Unit are going to make a newsreel about it. Apparently we’re now a wonderful example of Allied cooperation.”

As James passed Carlo and Enrico’s office he glanced through the open door, and stopped dead. It had been quite transformed. Papers had been filed, the desks had been dusted, and both men were wearing the bow ties and spats they usually reserved for expeditions involving tommy guns. In addition, they were now both sporting small waxed mustaches, and their hair was brilliantined in the manner of some of the flashier American GIs.

“Hey, kid,” Carlo said in an American accent. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” James said faintly.

Carlo snapped his fingers. “Then I plant you now and dig you later, cat.”

Bemused, James continued to his own office. It was evidently being used as a receptacle for everyone else’s junk. Boxes of papers were piled everywhere, and a huge chandelier had been dumped on the table. Its pieces had been decimated by German air raids and, like a tree in the autumn that had shed its leaves, it was now more iron than glass. He tried to heave it onto the floor, but it was surprisingly heavy.

Major Heathcote strode into the room. “Better get this place cleared up, Gould.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The general will be with us Thursday, at noon.” The major eyed James’s uniform, which had barely been standard issue before the eruption, and was in a considerably worse state now. “Don’t forget to draw a new uniform.”

“No, sir.”

The major hesitated. “Incidentally, Gould, about this relief operation. It seems to have caught everyone’s imagination—I suppose because it’s the first positive news there’s been for a while. Anyway, the Bureau thinks it best to emphasize that it was a team effort. So as far as the public are concerned, you and Vincenzo came up with the plan together. And I, as the officer in charge, had overall responsibility.”

James found he did not care in the least who took the credit for the relief operation. “Really, sir, it’s perfectly all right.”

“That’s the spirit, Gould. Of course we know it was mostly your work, but it looks better for the people back home this way.”

After the major had gone James began to tidy up. There was a lot to be done, and it was a couple of hours before he had made much impression.

Suddenly he smelt something. A wonderful, rich aroma was wafting through the apartment. He would have recognized it anywhere—it was the smell of Livia’s fettuccine al limone. With a burst of happiness he rushed through to the kitchen.

The girl who was cooking turned around with a polite smile. “Oh,” he said, disappointed. “I thought you were Livia.”

Horris was standing next to her, chopping a large pile of zucchini. “I took the liberty of engaging Maria here on a temporary basis,” Horris explained. “Just until Mrs. Pertini comes back.”

“Yes, of course. Give me a shout when it’s lunchtime, then.” Horris and Maria were looking at him, clearly waiting for him to go. “You probably want to slice those at slightly more of an angle,” he said to Horris. As he closed the door he heard the two of them start to talk again in low voices. A little later, there was a muffled giggle.

The following day both the new flags had vanished from their flagpoles, and the traders on the Via Forcella were offering a new line in luxury striped underwear. After that, the poles were moved to the inside of the building, where two replacement flags hung, limply but safely, side by side in the windless courtyard.

The courtyard itself had been spruced almost beyond recognition. The Americans’ jeeps were cleaned, polished and lined up as if in a car salesroom. Tables, hurricane lamps and other evidence of al fresco dining were carted away, and the chairs were rearranged on a podium for visiting Italian dignitaries to sit on. The Psychological Warfare Bureau was putting on a show, and everything had to be stage-managed to reinforce the impression of a grateful populace thanking their liberators.

For five days Nino slept, occasionally opening his eyes to see who was washing his wounds or changing his bandages. Sometimes it was Livia, but more often he found Marisa sitting by his bed.

“Dov’è Livia?” he murmured. “Where’s Livia?”

“She’ll be back later. Now sleep.”

Each day, Livia used up another of the ampoules of penicillin Alberto had given her. Then, suddenly, Nino was well enough to sit up. His daughters brought him broth made with the last of the chickens, and milk still warm from Priscilla’s teats. They pulped the last of the precious tomatoes to make a passata, halfway between a juice and a food, easily digestible and full of vitamins. He was weak, and Livia dared not stop his penicillin yet, but it looked as if he was going to be all right.

That afternoon, she went back to Alberto’s for what she hoped would be the very last time.

The Bugatti was parked outside his farmhouse, its dents repaired and its bodywork gleaming.

She stepped inside his door. Alberto was waiting for her in the kitchen, but today he was wearing a dark suit. A dress hung from a hanger on the kitchen door.

“This is for you,” he said, taking it down and handing it to her. “Put it on.”

“Don’t you want me to cook?” On the table were ingredients for a meal—a live lobster in a saucepan, a bottle of wine, a pile of eggplants.

“Later.”

He watched without comment as she took off what she was wearing and pulled on the dress. It was a short dress, pencil-thin, made of silk covered in hundreds of tiny black glass beads.

“I need a mirror,” she said, looking around.

“I’ll be your mirror.” He adjusted the neckline. “There. You look perfect, Livia.” He held out his clenched fists. “Choose one.”

She frowned. Was he going to hit her? She tapped his left fist, and he opened it to show her a silver necklace.

“Turn around.”

As he fastened it she felt his breath on her neck, deep and regular. Then he stepped back and handed her a bonnet.

“Now we’re going for a drive.”

The road to Massa was still covered with clinkers which crunched under the car’s wheels. Alberto drove slowly, careful not to damage the bodywork.

The town was deserted, many of its buildings destroyed. But in the main square they found a truck parked with its engine running. Two men were carrying goods out of the houses that remained—candlesticks, mirrors, anything of value—and throwing them into the back.

“Those people are looting,” Livia said, horrified.

“It certainly looks like it.” Alberto stopped the car. “Giuseppe, Salvatore,” he called. “How’s it going?”

One of the men shrugged. “There’s not much here. These people were all poor.”

“Maybe you’re not looking in the right places.” Alberto jerked his thumb at Livia. “Look what I found.”

The men eyed Livia. With a laugh, Alberto put the car into gear and swept away from them.

Livia closed her eyes. For a moment she had thought that something truly awful had been going to happen. But that was the point, she realized. Alberto was making it clear that until he had handed over the penicillin, she was his, to dispose of as he wished.

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“Into Naples.”

As Alberto drove through Naples, he seemed to be struggling with a decision of some kind. Once or twice he tried to engage Livia in conversation, but she ignored him and stared out of the window.

Eventually he drove into a quiet road at the back of the Questura and stopped the car. A carabiniere standing guard at the door nodded to him.

“A friend of yours?” Livia said at last.

“Yes. I do a lot of business with the people in this building.”

“And what’s that got to do with me?”

“Today you’re the business I’m here to do.”

She did not ask him to explain. Whatever he had in mind for her, it was bound to be unpleasant. She would simply shut it out of her mind until it was over.

“Livia,” he began, “I want to ask you something.”

James sat at his desk, resplendent in a brand-new uniform. His boots were polished to a mirror finish, his brass belt buckle shone and his cap was hanging in readiness on the back of the door. He was pretending to work, but work was actually impossible, not least because of the constant interruptions from other members of the section who kept sticking their heads in the door to wish him good luck or to say “well done.” In the next office, Carlo and Enrico had abandoned all pretense of employment, and were rearranging their straw boaters and bow ties, using the newly cleaned windows as mirrors. From somewhere Carlo had acquired some reflective Ray-Ban sunglasses, of the sort issued to American aviators, and he was admiring the way they hid his eyes.

A howl of microphone feedback came from the courtyard. “Testing,” an amplified voice said hesitantly. James went and looked out of the window. Even now, in the last few minutes of preparations, more bunting was being hung above the microphone where the general would deliver his speech. A man from the Forces’ radio station was wandering around with a tape recorder, and the cameraman from the Army Film Unit was trying different angles, ensuring that no bomb damage was visible through his viewfinder.

James picked up a letter from his In tray and scanned it. It was headed “Commune of Cercola.”

Dear Sir,

The administration of this commune, in expressing the gratitude and thanks of the citizens of Cercola for the work done for the public benefit during the recent eruption of Vesuvius, feels bound to mention in particular the prompt intervention of the Allied authorities for the safety of about 500 families, who were transported with their household goods in Allied vehicles, and the abundant distribution of rations…

He added it to the pile of similar letters. The thanks were genuine, he had no doubt, but once those who had benefited from the Allies’ help realized that they were being encouraged to make a song and dance about it for propaganda reasons, they had all tried to outdo one another in the effusiveness of their gratitude. Many of the letter writers were even now gathering on the raked seats downstairs, decked out in the extravagant plumed hats, robes and chains of office which denoted a minor Italian dignitary.

Eric put his head in the door. He, too, was wearing a new uniform in readiness for the general’s visit, though he had at least had the decency to be embarrassed by the suggestion that the idea for the operation had had anything to do with him.

“See you downstairs, buddy,” Eric said. “General’s car’s on its way.”

James nodded. “I’ll be right down.” He opened another letter.

Dear Captain Gould,

I just wanted to let you know that Corporal Taylor and I have had our baby. He is a beautiful little boy, nine pounds, with blue eyes and dark coloring, very hungry. If you will let us, we would like to call him James, in recognition of all that you did for us.

Regards,

Gina Taylor (née Tesalli)

He smiled, and opened the next.

Dear James,

I am sorry that we parted on bad terms when you came to see me at Fiscino after the eruption. However, it doesn’t matter now. What I am about to write has nothing whatsoever to do with our quarrel.

I have decided that I am not going to return to Naples to resume my position as your cook. My life has taken a different course now, one which however much I regret I cannot undo. It is probably for the best, in any case. I enjoyed our time together, but I would never have been happy in England with you. In fact, I could never be anywhere but here, looking after my father, and I have decided that I shall do that for the rest of my life rather than marry again. My reasons for this are complicated, but there is no chance whatsoever of persuading me otherwise. You would do much better to forget all about me.

This has been a painful letter to write, and I only ask one favor of you: that you do not make it any more painful for me by trying to change my mind.

With best wishes for a happy life,

Livia

He stared at the letter. It was not possible. He read it again, twice. His first reaction was that she did not mean it, that she was simply angry with him. But that last paragraph seemed to leave little room for apologies. And the tone—it seemed resigned, even wistful, rather than furious. He peered closer. Was that a tear stain, blurring her final salutation?

Then the awful reality of it hit him. She was ditching him. He would never kiss her again, never see that mischievous smile, or her eyes flashing with passion, never hear the words tripping out of her mouth as she talked nineteen to the dozen. He would never again taste her sweet flesh, never stand shoulder to shoulder with her, chopping zucchini. She wanted him out of her life.

This is all wrong, he thought desperately. This is all completely wrong.

Livia was aware of Alberto looking at her in a strange way, but she kept her gaze fixed on the bonnet of the Bugatti. She shrugged. “If there’s something you want to ask, then ask.”

“Will you marry me?”

Her head did swivel then. “What? After everything you’ve done? You’re even crazier than I thought.”

“It got complicated. I was angry. You’re so beautiful, Livia, but so damn superior. No, wait.” She was trying to protest. “Sometimes I wanted to cut you down to size. But everything I did, I did because I love you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I love you. That’s why I had to do anything, anything in my power, to have you.” He paused. “Even if it meant hurting you. But I see now that it wasn’t your body I had to have. Livia, you’ve seen how much respect I have around here. After the war I’ll be a rich man. I need a woman by my side. I need you. I’ll give you everything you want. And I promise that I will never, ever harm you again. I will treat you like the princess you are.”

“What about…” She swallowed. “What about the restaurant?”

“Of course we must rebuild it. More than that—I’ll put money into it, we can build it up into a proper business. With me behind it it’ll become successful again, you’ll see. We’ll make money there. There’ll be jobs, good jobs, for Marisa and your father, and if your father wants to retire there’ll be plenty left over to make him comfortable.”

She stared out of the windscreen with unseeing eyes. What Alberto was offering was more than she would ever be offered by anyone else, she knew. Logically, there was no alternative.

“Gould.” It was Major Heathcote, standing at the door. “For heaven’s sake, man, get a move on.”

“Yes, sir.” Despite his shock at the letter, he automatically fell into step beside the major as the CO hurried downstairs to the courtyard. Some of the Italian dignitaries, seeing the two British officers striding out together, broke into a round of applause. There were even a few shouts of “Bravo.”

“Not yet, not yet,” the major muttered, glaring at the clappers. “Wait for the general.”

They halted, then stood easy. The Italians applauded again, more politely this time. “It’s not a bloody parade,” the major muttered disgustedly under his breath.

Outwardly James was impassive, but inwardly he was reeling. She had ditched him. Why? It made no sense. What could possibly have made her change her mind about him?

The general’s armored car swung in from the Riviera di Chiaia, and two smartly dressed military policemen presented arms on either side of the entrance. A moment later, all the Allied servicemen in the courtyard snapped to attention as one. The Italians, having clapped politely when they saw two men halting, went wild. There was a two-minute standing ovation, laced with many cries of “Viva gli alleati.”

The general’s car was turned off and the great man got out. Major Heathcote stepped forward and saluted.

“At ease, guys,” the general said through the din of cheering Italians. “Is that camera rolling?”

The Army Film Unit director said that it was.

“Great. These the guys?” The general came around so that he was standing between Eric and James. Flashbulbs went off. Then he raised his hand for silence. An expectant hush fell on the crowd.

“Alberto,” she said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t. It’s a generous offer, but the answer’s no.”

He sighed. “I thought you might say that.”

“I just can’t,” she repeated.

“Does this have anything to do with the Englishman?”

However afraid she was for herself, she was even more fearful for James, knowing that Alberto would have him killed without a moment’s hesitation if he deemed it necessary. She shook her head. “I’m not seeing him anymore.”

She felt his eyes on her. After a moment he grunted and pointed toward the police station. “In there,” he said, “there are people who have been given the job of rounding up women with syphilis and sending them north, behind the German lines.”

She felt a cold spasm of fear closing around her stomach. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“I told them I’ve got a girl they can take.”

“But they’ll find out—”

From an inside pocket he produced a piece of paper. As he unfolded it she saw that it was some sort of certificate. “An Allied army doctor has examined Livia Pertini and found that she is carrying the infection. It’s already signed. All I have to do is fill in the date.” He paused. “Unless, of course…”

“So that’s the choice you’re offering me, is it?” she said. “Marriage, or that?”

“I would rather you had agreed of your own free will. But everything I said still stands. Livia, I have to have you.”

“You certainly know how to make a romantic proposal, Alberto.”

“Which is it to be?” he said doggedly. “You have to choose.”

“We came not to conquer this ancient country, but to free her,” the general said into the microphone, his voice rolling around the courtyard. “And these fine officers at my side are a shining example of our respect for you. Through vigilance, enterprise and democratic endeavor, they have shown that we are ready to combat tyranny in all its forms.” He expanded on his theme. Soon James was almost convinced that the volcano had been, if not actually caused by Hitler, then part of an international conspiracy, which the general pledged himself to fight from whichever direction it appeared. “The conflict against Hitler,” the general declared, “is just the opening battle in the wider war on tyranny.” At one point, he hinted at “dark forces” at work in the civilian population, “ready to seize upon disaster to sow discord and undermine democracy.” He was talking about fascism, but his words, James realized, could equally be taken to refer to the communists.

“Finally,” the general said, “to the tyrannists I say this: With men like these in our fine army, you cannot hope to undermine our ideals. And to these brave officers, I say: The free nations of the world salute you.” The audience, most of whom had not understood a word but who had realized from his tone that the end had been reached, burst into applause.

“What was it you guys did, exactly?” the general murmured as he pinned a ribbon to James’s chest.

“Organized the civilian evacuation from Vesuvius, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Good work.” The general saluted them, and they saluted him back. “Either of you speak Italian?”

“I do, sir,” James said miserably.

“Say a few words, would you?” He gestured at the crowd.

“Sir?”

“A few words of thanks. Though if you could mention the war on tyranny, that would be good.”

“Yes, sir.”

The general held up his hand for silence. Instantly, silence fell. James leaned toward the microphone. “I just want to thank the general for his kind words. And to, er, reiterate that the war on tyranny is, er, very important to us.” The echo of his amplified voice interrupted him, putting him off his stride. He looked at all the expectant faces. Suddenly he knew that he could not go through with this nonsense any longer.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not a hero. I’m not even a good soldier. The truth is I only came up with the evacuation plan because of a girl.”

The Italians gave a collective murmur of interest. Political speeches were all very well, but romance was much more fascinating.

“She lives on Vesuvius, you see. That was the point—I wanted her to be safe. But when it came to it, instead of seeing that she was safe, like a fool I went to Terzigno to make sure the aircraft were all right.”

As one man, his audience gasped with anguish at the thought of James’s folly. Those in the back rows craned forward to get a better look.

“What’s he saying?” the general said in Eric’s ear.

“It’s, uh, a little too fast for me to follow, sir.”

“I made the wrong decision,” James said slowly. “I realize that now. Her house—her family’s restaurant—was damaged. I still don’t know exactly what happened during those ten days, or what she went through, but I know it was enough to somehow make her change her mind about me. And although I’m not going to take off this ribbon here and now, because the man standing beside me would have me shot, I would throw it in the sea tomorrow if I could only have her back.”

“This is fascinating, James,” Eric murmured out of the side of his mouth in Italian, “But if I were you, I’d start to wrap it up.”

James looked at the crowd of Italian faces gazing sympathetically back at him. The emotions he had for so long been choking off suddenly, inexorably, welled to the surface, and his eyes filled with tears. “I love her,” he said simply. “I love her more than anything. And now she’s asked me to forget her. But that’s the one thing I can never, ever do.”

The audience sighed. In the front row, a mayor wiped his eyes on a corner of his ceremonial robes.

“And now,” James said, “if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and get drunk.”

The Italians broke into applause. Many were openly weeping. One or two even got to their feet, running forward to hug James and press their tearful cheeks against his own.

“Extraordinary,” the general said, looking around him with an air of bemusement. “Quite extraordinary.”

Zi’ Teresa’s was deserted apart from a barman polishing glasses. James went to the bar and ordered Scotch.

“We’re not open,” the barman began. But Angelo, seeing who it was, came out from the back and motioned for the barman to leave them.

“Would you like some company, James?” he said as he placed the glass in front of him.

“Just the bottle.”

Angelo raised his eyebrows. James took Livia’s letter out of his pocket and pushed it toward him. “Here. You might as well read it.”

Angelo read the letter in silence. Then he reached under the counter for an unmarked bottle of pale brown liquid. “Scotch is not what you need at a time like this. And in any case, that stuff you’ve been drinking never went anywhere near Scotland.” He threw the contents of James’s glass in the sink, unstoppered the new bottle and poured two small balloon glasses of the pale liquid. James picked one up and sniffed it.

“What is it?”

“Grappa. Triple distilled, blended in the cask, and over a century old. If, God forbid, we were in France, it would be called cognac, and the Germans would have stolen every bottle I had.”

James shrugged and knocked it back in one gulp. Even in his present mood, however, he could not entirely ignore the unctuous, venerable fumes that caressed his sinuses and lingered as a soft, rich, smoky aftertaste on his palate—a taste redolent of cobwebbed warehouses, damp cellars, incense-filled churches and dusty wooden beams. Just for a moment, he seemed to see his problems as this ancient liquid would see them: tiny and insignificant and fleeting.

As if reading his mind, Angelo said, “When this spirit was locked away into the first of its many oak barrels, Italy was not even a nation, and your Queen Victoria was still a child. Sometimes it helps to take a long view.” He poured James another shot and touched his own glass against it. “To history.”

This time James drank a little more slowly.

“So,” Angelo said thoughtfully, “Livia has decided she will not marry you. She has chosen duty over love.”

James pushed his glass toward the maître d’ for a refill.

“It occurs to me that the two of you are probably more alike than I ever realized.” Angelo poured James’s drink and picked up his own glass. “And now, I should imagine, you are feeling rather bad.”

“I let her down,” James said. “I wasn’t there when she needed me.”

“I see.” They drank in silence for a moment. “You are being too hard on yourself,” Angelo said thoughtfully. “You were simply doing your duty. Livia, I think, will forgive you for that.”

“Forgive me? She never wants to see me again.” He buried his head in his arms and groaned. “Angelo, I’ve been such a fool.”

“That’s true,” Angelo agreed. “However, it may not matter.”

“What do you mean?”

Angelo turned his glass a little, inspecting its depths. “Sometimes, when you look into a grappa as old as this, you can almost fancy that you see the future.” He took a small sip, rolling it around his tongue for a moment. “And when you drink it, you can almost believe that you can change what that future will be.”

“What are you getting at, Angelo?”

“Simply this. Have you ever actually told Livia that you love her? That you want to spend the rest of your life with her? That no obstacle, however insurmountable it seems, will ever be enough to keep you apart?”

James sighed. “No,” he admitted. “It was a difficult situation—you know that. As the wedding officer…”

“James, James. Remind me why Britain is in this war.”

James shrugged. “We decided that certain things were worth fighting for, I suppose.”

“Such as?”

“Well—fair play. Sticking up for people who can’t do it for themselves. Not letting ourselves be pushed around by some tinpot military dictatorship.”

“Yet when it comes to your own heart, you are prepared to let other people tell you what to do, to have your life dictated to by the military, even at the expense of kindness, of decency, of fair play—and yes, even of love.” Angelo nodded. “You decided that our country was worth fighting for, and we’re grateful. But what about our people? What about Livia? Isn’t she worth fighting for?” He placed his finger on the letter, and pushed it back across the bar toward James. “You can keep this letter next to your heart. You can carry it round with you until it’s faded and torn and coming apart at the seams like a piece of old lace. Or you can say that a piece of paper is not a decision, that a love renounced in circumstances like these has not been renounced at all, only tested, that this parting will not be permanent until both of you accept that it is. In short, my friend, if you really think the cause worth fighting for, then you can choose to fight.”

“But she says not to try to change her mind.”

“She’s a woman, James. If you do change her mind, she’ll thank you for it. And if you don’t”—he shrugged—“it doesn’t really make much difference, does it?”

“By God, Angelo,” James said, staring at him. “You’re absolutely right.”