Bombón.
My father is, I think, about to tell him – but I get there first. ‘Nothing, Tino,’ I say now. ‘It’s nothing.’ For what is the point in a six-year-old worrying over something that does not concern him, that will be over before it has even begun? Especially a child who has terrible nightmares already: whose imagination is an overly fertile place. Even innocuous-sounding phrases – a chance mention by my father of ‘the trees in the distance’ turned those trees into one of his great fears. When he woke up screaming one night and I went to ask what the matter was, all he would say, as he clung to me, was: ‘los árboles, los árboles’. Sometimes, still, he wets the bed – a thing that we have to keep a secret from Papa, because Tino can’t bear the shame of him finding out.
Now, when he looks unconvinced, I say: ‘I’ve been wondering, something, Tino. About the bees. Perhaps you could explain it to me?’
It is a low trick, perhaps, but it works.
How long, though, will I be able to hide it from him? Because the thing is not crushed. Not in twenty-four hours, not in forty-eight. It spreads to the mainland. It moves through the country like a forest fire, snatching new fuel to feast upon. Seville, Cordoba, Saragossa, Papa tells me: all have fallen to these men they call the rebels. There are soldiers, trained marksmen, marching from their barracks to massacre unarmed townspeople. Besides the Spanish soldiers – known for their skill in the fine art of killing – there are the Moorish soldiers, known too for their talent, but also for their absolute lack of mercy.
Often, now, we hear the roar of aircraft above us. Tino will run out into the garden and watch them with a kind of wonder. And there is something awesome in them: in their speed and deadly grace. They are German, Papa says: Adolf Hitler is sending them to help the rebels. Mussolini, of Italy, is sending tanks and soldiers.
We are not their target, yet. Some other small town is, perhaps – or one of the big cities. How long before that changes?
Even as I understood the danger, there was a part of me that didn’t believe it would come. Or that even if it did it would only sear us a little, it couldn’t change us. The thing we had, our happiness, was too sacred. The arrogance of imagining that I was unchangeable. That what we had was stronger, somehow, than this thing that had engulfed the whole country. That was a hard lesson to learn.
Liguria, 1953
Appearing around the dark finger of land is a yacht: the same one Hal saw on his swim. Her navy blue hull gleams, the line of her prow is as sharp as a shark’s tooth. There are gilt fittings all about, sheening in the sunlight like newly minted coins. The twin masts appear, from this perspective, to pierce the sky. Even Hal, who knows so little about boats, can recognize that she is a beautiful work of construction.
‘She is quite something, is she not?’
He turns to find Frank Truss beside him. Hal nods.
‘I own a schooner,’ Truss says. ‘She’s in the States at present, of course. Southampton. Need to get her transferred over here some time. Sixty foot – a beautiful creature.’
‘Goodness,’ Hal says. ‘I used to own a Firefly.’
Truss frowns. Hal has the distinct impression that he doesn’t like to admit ignorance on any point. Finally, he says: ‘It’s a yacht?’
‘It’s a small wooden dinghy,’ Hal says, and steps away.
Aubrey Boyd wants to take a photograph. He gestures to Hal. ‘You, dear fellow, if you wouldn’t mind. Yes, you have exactly the look.’
‘I don’t think it would be right,’ Hal says. ‘I’m the journalist. Surely it should be Giulietta, or Gaspari …’
‘Not for this one,’ Aubrey Boyd tells him. ‘Anyway, why so shy? Are you afraid that the camera will steal your soul? It’s only a little fun.’ As though the matter is decided, he attaches the flashbulb and frames the scene. Hal steps forward reluctantly and stands before the sea, the yacht behind him. The other guests observe – perhaps trying to understand the supposed perfection of the fit.
Then Aubrey finds his next subject. ‘Mrs Truss, if you wouldn’t mind.’
She smiles, politely, and tries to demur. Hal catches sight of Giulietta Castiglione, whose expression is unforgettable. She is not used to being passed over.
Aubrey is not to be deterred. ‘Please, Mrs Truss. Your blonde hair, with his dark. You look so picturesque together. The perfect contrast …’ He turns to Truss. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, of course.’
Truss nods his acquiescence.
Still, she does not step forward. Then Truss reaches over and takes her by the wrist. ‘Come on, Kitten. Do as the man asks.’ Like an errant child, she is guided to stand beside Hal. She stops a foot away, near enough that he can make out the fine gold hairs on her bare forearms, but far enough that there is no chance of any part of them touching.
Aubrey raises his camera. ‘A little closer together, if you wouldn’t mind.’ He laughs. ‘Anyone would think you two were the married couple.’
Giulietta’s co-star – the man who plays the sea captain of the film’s title – arrives moments before they set sail. Hal doesn’t recognize him immediately. He knows from somewhere the great golden head, the exaggeratedly handsome features, but can’t place them. Only when Aubrey Boyd whispers the name does he understand. Earl Morgan. He can’t believe he didn’t know him. But then there is a marked difference between the figure standing here and the heroic one he has viewed onscreen.
There is something off about the man, though Hal cannot quite work it out until he steps nearer. Up close, Morgan looks terrible. The boyishly handsome looks are marred, as though in a state of decay. There is a loose, febrile look to his skin. His eyes, his most famous feature, are still very blue, but the whites are pinkish-yellow, as though pickled.
He puts up a hand, smiling slowly as he looks about himself. Hal thinks that even now he appears to be playing a part: the star greeting his audience. ‘Hi.’ There is a resounding silence. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it for the party,’ he says. ‘I had to catch up on some sleep, you know how it is.’
‘Mr Morgan.’ The Contessa smiles graciously at him. ‘You look well rested.’
Morgan nods. ‘Indeed I am. It seems this Italian air is the thing for me.’
Hal tries to decide whether he is imagining the slur to Morgan’s speech. He turns to Aubrey, and whispers. ‘He seems a little … well, drunk.’
‘Dear chap,’ Aubrey says, ‘he’s drunk all the time. It would be far more remarkable if he were sober. They say he’s spent the last couple of years in a spa, trying to dry out – though it’s clear he’s still soused in the stuff. He’s one of the Contessa’s little projects. I suppose we all are, in a way.’
Before Hal can ask exactly what he means, Aubrey has made his way over to Morgan, to ask if he may take a photograph.
They set sail. It is a mere few kilometres across the Gulf of the Poets to Portovenere, their first stop, but the commotion with which their departure occurs would be better suited to a ship taking off on a great voyage. The Contessa’s household staff come to see them off: some standing on the jetty, others amidst the terraces. The house soars behind, nestled in its dark bank of trees. But gradually it, too, is diminished – becomes a cottage, a child’s doll’s house.
Then there is only the water and the wind. The guests look at one another, unsure of what to do, whether