62. Unwelcome Thoughts
It was as Matthew was crossing the road on his way back from Big Lou’s that he saw Pat walking down the hill towards him. From the safety of the pavement he stood and waved. She waved back before quickening her pace.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said as she reached him. ‘It took longer than I thought.’
Matthew smiled. ‘You don’t have to apologise. I was talking to Big Lou and I suddenly remembered that I’d arranged to meet you.’
They had not shaken hands, nor embraced, as long-lost friends might do. Between them there was that strange half-intimacy of former lovers, a feeling that can so easily become awkwardness, but which, in their case, had not. It was fondness, really; that fondness that comes, in Rupert Brooke’s words, from having done one’s best and worst and parted. Now, in the moments after a rather stiff beginning, Pat suddenly leaned forward and gave Matthew a kiss on his cheek. He moved, though, surprised, and she ended up kissing him on the lips. He reached out and put a hand upon her shoulder; she did the same.
And then he recoiled; a social kiss, as meaningless and often less warm than a shaking of the hands, had become something else. He had felt within him, around where he imagined his heart to be, although it could have been anywhere within his chest, a physical sensation that signalled desire.
She looked concerned. ‘What is it?’
He did not meet her gaze but looked away; the 23 bus, lumbering down the hill, passed within yards, and he saw for a moment his reflection in the windows, fluid, as on water.
‘What?’
She reached out to touch him. ‘Is something wrong?’
He shook his head. The social self reasserted itself: he was married again; there was nothing between him and Pat; they were in the street, in broad daylight, about to have what amounted to no more than a discussion between employer and part-time employee.
‘I’ve got a lot on my mind,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back to the gallery.’
They began to walk. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch,’ said Pat. ‘I’ve been working rather hard. And I’ve moved, you know. I’m in Warrender Park Terrace. A flat right up at the top.’
He could see it. ‘One of those big flats?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a round room, because it’s under the tower.’
He smiled at her. And then, unbidden, there came into his mind an image of Pat in her room looking out towards the crown spire of St Giles and to the Castle, like a ship, its ramparts protection against waves that were the clouds, and he saw her at her window and then as she walked, unclothed, across the room. It was a vision sent by Eros, who does not ask our permission for his whisperings.
He almost stumbled.
‘Careful,’ she said. And then, seeing his expression and noting the sudden high colour, she asked, ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Matthew?’
He sought to reassure her, but even as he did so, the vision returned and took his hand, and …
‘Oh,’ he muttered.
‘Matthew?’
He forced himself to think of something else, a trick mastered by every schoolboy troubled by wandering thoughts in mathematics lessons. In his case he had always thought of the Forth Bridge, and of its painting; a subject sufficiently devoid of emotional significance to distract one from the temptation of fantasy.
‘What are you thinking of?’ asked Pat.
The question, posed in innocence, could hardly be ignored. For a moment he was tempted to tell her, to say that he was picturing her in her flat in Warrender Park Terrace, but he could not do that, and so, without thinking, he answered, ‘The Forth Bridge.’
She frowned. ‘Odd. Why are you thinking of the Forth Bridge?’
‘I sometimes do,’ he said lamely. ‘The old bridge, that is. The railway bridge.’
‘Matthew, are you sure you’re all right?’
They were nearing the gallery, but she had stopped and laid a hand gently on his arm. She looked at him searchingly, and he realised then why he had always been so attracted to her: her eyes. And then he thought: how ridiculous that one can feel for a person on such slender, inconsequential grounds.
‘I’ve been under a lot of strain,’ he said. ‘Elspeth is having triplets.’
Pat gasped. ‘Three?’
‘Yes.’
‘It must have been …’
‘A shock,’ he supplied. ‘Yes, it was. But we’ve adjusted to it. And we’ve got a move on top of it. We’re going to Moray Place.’
‘Moray Place?’ She was silent for a few moments, remembering the invitation that she had received to the nudist picnic there.
‘Yes, it’s a really nice flat. With its own garden.’
The discussion of Moray Place had brought him back from the territory that had so surprised and appalled him. He was back to being Matthew, the husband of Elspeth, and father of triplets. The moment of danger, it seemed, had passed.
‘But let’s not talk about all that,’ he said. ‘I’m really pleased that you can work for me again.’
They had reached the gallery and were standing in front of the glass door at the front. Pat looked in, through the door, and saw, at the back, the figure of Kirsty, who was bending down, looking in one of the print drawers. ‘Matthew?’ Pat began hesitantly.
‘Yes?’
‘That’s her, is it? The other girl working here?’
Matthew glanced into the gallery. ‘Yes, that’s Kirsty.’
Pat suddenly drew Matthew away. ‘I’m not going in,’ she said.
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘I know her,’ said Pat. ‘I know that girl.’
‘So?’
‘I can’t work with her. I just can’t.’ She paused. ‘And you can’t either.’
‘What do you mean I can’t work with her? I’ve been working with her for the last two months.’
Pat shook her head. ‘Matthew, listen to me. Do you know who she is? Clearly not. Kirsty is a big figure in a group called Woman’s Revenge.’
He savoured the name of the organisation: Woman’s Revenge. It spoke to its purpose, he decided; it was not an organisation that really needed a mission statement to clarify anything.
‘They punish men,’ whispered Pat. ‘They’re dangerous.’
‘Then I’m going to have to get rid of her,’ he said. ‘Where’s the problem?’
‘That’s the one thing you can’t do,’ said Pat. ‘Remember? Woman’s Revenge.’
63. Italy At Last
‘Here we are,’ said Angus, looking out of the window at the squat, unexceptional buildings that made up Pisa airport. ‘And you’d think that their control tower would lean – but it doesn’t. How disappointing!’
Domenica, seated next to him, glanced past his shoulder. ‘How amusing!’ she said. ‘The Leaning Control Tower of Pisa.’
Antonia, who was occupying the third seat in the row, had not heard Angus’s remark. ‘Did Angus say something witty?’ she asked. There was an air of anxiety about her question, as if she feared that she was somehow excluded by what had gone before. She had tried to sit next to Angus on the journey, but Domenica had pointed out that while Angus occupied Seat 6A, her own boarding pass very clearly said 6B, and Antonia’s, she assumed, said 6C.
‘That’s notional,’ said Antonia. ‘We have seats 6A to 6C at our disposal – that’s all the letters mean.’
Domenica was not to be so easily overruled. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘When an airline gives you a seat number, then that is where they want you to sit. They don’t say, “Please sit somewhere around here.” They say, “You are to sit in this exact seat.” It is quite clear – unambiguously so, if I may venture an opinion.’
Antonia had listened to this thin-lipped. ‘I don’t think …’ she began.
‘Moreover,’ Domenica continued, ‘if people were to change seats off their own bat, then the weighting arrangements in the plane could be disturbed. Airlines put people in certain places in order to balance t
he aircraft. I was told that once by a pilot of my acquaintance. He explained it quite clearly. They do not want people to shift about – therein lie the seeds of anarchy.’
This discussion, which had taken place while they were at Edinburgh airport, waiting to board the waiting plane, was polite, but revealed the fault lines which lay perilously close to the surface of the entire outing. Domenica knew that Antonia had her eye on Angus, and was aware, too, of her neighbour’s determination somehow to snare the artist on this Italian trip. But resolute and calculating as this intention might be, so too was Domenica determined that Angus should not be enticed by this woman; if anybody were to take on Angus, then it would be she who would do the taking on, and that, she had decided, was what she now should do. And in the pursuit of this objective, it was clear that at the very start of the trip she should sit next to him; this would give her a vital head start on Antonia, who would have to address any remarks she wished to make to Angus either through or across her.
This position had proved to be highly advantageous. Thus, when Antonia had, by way of conversation, asked Angus whether he could see the Alps through his window, she herself had been able to provide an answer. ‘No, I don’t think he can,’ she said. ‘Particularly since we are still currently above the Netherlands.’
And then, later into the trip, when Antonia had tried to ask, above the background hum of the aircraft’s engines, whether Angus had enjoyed the limp, damp sandwich which the airline had so kindly distributed to its passengers, Domenica had again been able to deal with the situation in an entirely satisfactory manner. Angus had been aware of the fact that Antonia was saying something to him, but had not been able to make out what it was.
‘I believe Antonia said something,’ he said. ‘What was it?’
‘It was nothing important,’ said Domenica.
And now, as they taxied on the runway at Pisa airport and Antonia asked about Angus’s witticism, Domenica was again able to fob her off. ‘He made a remark about the control tower,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
Antonia’s irritation showed clearly. ‘Well, what did he say?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Domenica. ‘Oh, look over there – no, I suppose you can’t see from where you’re sitting – but there’s a set of steps waiting for us. How thoughtful of the dear airport.’
‘They would hardly expect us to jump down from the door,’ said Antonia, in a surly tone.
Angus turned to Domenica. ‘Did Antonia say something?’ he asked.
‘Nothing much.’
They deplaned, as the language of aviation so neologistically puts it, and were then bussed to the terminal, where they were debussed. There then followed a brief and entirely wordless encounter with the Italian border authorities, who glanced at their passports in a pitying way before waving them through.
‘It’s so sad,’ said Domenica, ‘that the land of Dante and Michelangelo should be guarded by such men. Even if they have very ornate uniforms.’
Angus smiled. ‘All Italian officials have splendid uniforms,’ he said. ‘I remember reading about the formation of an Italian railway company in the nineteenth century. They spent much of their time and start-up capital on designing elaborate uniforms for their officials.’
‘They have a proper sense of theatre,’ said Domenica.
Antonia disagreed. ‘Running a railway has nothing to do with theatre. It is all about engineering.’
‘At which these people excel,’ said Angus. ‘Engineering, opera, great art – is there nothing they cannot do?’
‘They are very talented people,’ said Domenica. ‘And I do hope that their talents run to transporting suitcases from A to B without losing them.’
‘And transporting dogs too,’ said Angus.
‘Of course,’ said Domenica. She had forgotten Cyril was with them and had made the trip in considerably less comfortable circumstances, somewhere in the hold.
They need not have worried. By the time they found themselves in the baggage reclaiming area, they saw that Cyril was already there. He too had been deplaned and was sitting patiently in his travel crate with its barred front and its special water dispenser. He knew immediately that Angus was in the room and barked loudly to attract his master’s attention.
‘Cyril!’ shouted Angus. ‘Cyril! Siamo arrivati!’
They made their way quickly to join him. Cyril attempted to lick Angus’s hands through the bars, his tail thumping wildly against the sides of his portable prison. Bending down, Angus released the catch on the front of the cage, and Cyril bounded out. There then followed an orgy of licking and emotional canine howling as dog and master were properly reunited. For Cyril the last few hours had been an ordeal; a time of roaring noise and strange, unsettling movement. But now that was all over and Angus had been restored to him; the discomfort and confusion could be forgotten – it simply had not happened.
Then Cyril suddenly stopped in his tracks. He turned his head and lifted his nose, pointing it in the direction of the carousel on which the suitcases were now beginning to appear. One piece of luggage, in particular, attracted his attention, making the moist end of his nose twitch uncontrollably.
64. Services to the Republic
Angus was the first to notice Cyril’s odd behaviour. ‘I think Cyril’s picked something up,’ he said to Domenica and Antonia. ‘Look, his nose only twitches like that when he’s got a whiff of something very interesting.’
They all looked at Cyril, who was now standing quite still, the fur of his coat bristling as he sniffed into the air.
‘One of the suitcases,’ said Domenica. ‘Do you think that he’s seen yours, Angus? Have you got anything of his in it?’
Angus shook his head. ‘No, Cyril travels pretty light. In fact, he’s come with nothing.’
Cyril now began to growl.
‘What is it, old chap?’ Angus asked. ‘Picked up something?’
Cyril’s answer was now to bound across the room towards the luggage carousel. Extracting a lead from his pocket, Angus called him back sharply, but Cyril paid no attention. He was now at the carousel, trotting around after a rather battered red backpack. He uttered a bark, and then, seeing that nobody was reacting, another one, louder this time. This second bark was sufficient to attract the attention of a Sergeant of Carabinieri, who was standing idly at the side of the room, talking to a man in a grey business suit. The officer, along with the man in the suit, now sauntered over towards Cyril.
‘I’m sorry about my dog,’ said Angus, who had walked across the room to join them. ‘I’ll get him under control in a moment.’
The man in the suit turned to Angus and smiled. ‘Your dog is interested in that red pack,’ he said, in well-enunciated English. ‘Is it your own luggage?’
‘No,’ said Angus.
The man looked interested. ‘He has smelled something, would you not say?’
‘Yes, I would say that,’ said Angus.
The man in the suit now said something in rapid Italian to the Carabinieri sergeant, who nodded and then stepped forward to retrieve the red backpack. As he did this, Angus, who happened to be looking in the right direction, saw a young man watching from a corner of the hall. It was clear from his expression that he was thoroughly dismayed and, as the officer retrieved the pack, he began to move towards the door.
‘Excuse me,’ said Angus, tugging the sleeve of the man in the suit. ‘That young man over there …’
The man looked round, saw what was happening, and gave a sharp instruction to the Carabinieri officer. The officer, dropping the backpack, reacted quickly. Drawing a pistol from the white leather pouch attached to his gleaming Sam Browne belt, he shouted out at the young man, who froze where he was.
Domenica and Antonia watched it all unfurl. The young man, seeing the approach of the Carabinieri officer, dived for the door, but was not quick enough, and the door was locked anyway. There was further shouting and a certain amount of confusion among the passengers, who saw the gun being drawn
and immediately assumed that a terrorist had chosen this moment to detonate the bomb that would immediately add them all to the morbid statistics of the unending and seemingly unendable conflict. But there was no explosion, and no shot either. The young man simply folded up, and was quickly dragged away by several other Carabinieri officers, who had suddenly materialised in the baggage hall.
Over the confusing hour that followed, Angus and his companions were given an insight into the extraordinarily quick and efficient operations of the Italian security forces. They were all led into a room at the back. ‘You are only witnesses,’ explained the man in the suit. ‘You are not suspects. Please do not think that we suspect you of anything …’ He paused, and looked at each of them in turn. ‘That is, unless you have anything to hide.’
‘We have nothing at all to hide,’ said Angus, who had emerged as spokesman for all three of them. ‘We are simply here on holiday.’
‘Of course,’ said the man. ‘And we have much to thank you for.’ He signalled to a colleague, who left the room briefly and returned with a large white package.
‘You can guess what this is,’ said the man.
Angus raised an eyebrow. ‘Drugs? Cocaine?’
‘Exactly,’ said the man. ‘It was in that backpack. Not very expertly concealed, but had it not been for your dog, well, I doubt if we would have found it.’ He looked down at Cyril, who was sitting at Angus’s feet. ‘Such a dog is truly remarkable. Do you know that in Italy we have special orders for people who do good service to the state?’
‘One can become a cavaliere,’ ventured Angus. ‘Or is it a commendatore?’ He knew that his friend Richard Demarco had been awarded something of that sort for services to art.
‘There are various grades of the order,’ explained the man in the grey suit. ‘To become a Cavaliere di Gran Croce decorato di Grande Cordone is a very great achievement. Below that, there are five lesser grades of the order, culminating in the simple cavaliere ordine, of whom we have many thousands. That is not to say that it is any disgrace in being a cavaliere fifth class. For many of us, that would be an achievement indeed.’