‘They must find it first.’ He gestured at me. ‘And time is running out.’
I nodded vaguely. A moment before, exhaustion had washed over me like a wave. The wine and fatigue had made me bleary.
‘I think the major needs to rest,’ the contessa said.
‘My dear fellow, of course you must,’ the count said. ‘I’m sorry you are in a cellar but we all are until we are sure the Allied bombardment has ended. When it is over, you will, of course, have a room upstairs.’
Over the next two days I continued to feel that I had gone through the looking glass. I could see from the windows of the villa that the Allied bombardment had done severe damage to the town. Buildings were reduced to rubble, the Etruscan arch had collapsed, streets were blocked by fallen masonry. But the weather had cleared, the sun shone brightly and the shelling had stopped. The townspeople, who had been hiding in the catacombs for the duration of the attack, had returned to take up their lives as best they could. I scarcely saw a German soldier, and never in the villa, which was guarded by Italian militiamen.
I found myself a participant in a bizarre house party, hosted by the count and contessa. As prisoners of war, Knowles and I were restricted on our honour to the villa, but were free to go wherever we wanted within it. I wanted to talk to Knowles about things from before the war but I never found him on his own. On the third morning I did find the count, morosely gazing out of a window overlooking the church, a jug of wine before him. It was ten a.m.
He invited me to join him and I didn’t refuse. What the hell — it was wartime. You grabbed at life wherever you could find it.
‘You will protect me from the partisans when the Germans leave.’ The count said it as a statement as he handed me a beaker of red wine.
‘I will be here to see there is justice done, yes.’
The count looked anxiously at me. He had been a good-looking man but in his middle years he had thickened, become jowly. His eyes were red-rimmed, broken veins clustered on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
‘Justice,’ he sneered. ‘Those communist bastards just want to share in what others have worked for years to build up. Nobody in this town supports them. And anyone will tell you I haven’t done anything wrong. The Germans have treated us decently. More than decently.’
Franca, the contessa, entered the room. She glanced at the flask of wine but didn’t acknowledge it.
‘Captain Tempest. You look much better this morning.’ She sat on the sofa. ‘Doesn’t he look better, Alfonso?’
The count’s eyes flickered between his wife and me.
‘He does indeed, my dear.’
I recognized jealousy in his look. The contessa was a shapely woman and her black woollen dress emphasized her breasts and hips. She had dark, melancholy eyes and thick black hair. Her lips were full, her complexion olive. I could smell her perfume but I could also feel her sexual heat, as, I imagine, did any man who came across her.
The count indicated a tapestry behind him. It showed ships at sea, merchants standing in harbour.
‘My ancestor Guiseppe — the one wearing the hat — was a great adventurer. A man of vision. But there was none to follow him, He marks our family’s greatest expansion. After him, we contracted, slowly at first, then at a greater pace. During the Risorgimento we alone in Chiusi sided with the Pope. We lost much of our fortune and earned the enmity of others. Thereafter, for a hundred years, we converted investments into cash.
‘I tried to expand. With the fascist revolution, anything seemed possible for a man of vigour and courage.’ The count scowled. ‘But then the war came. And suddenly honest labour had no reward.’ He looked at me, measuring me.
‘In the last century my grandfather and my father both made a little money selling antiquities they uncovered on our land. You may know we live in an area rich in Etruscan remains. I did a little of it myself before the war, selling to private collectors what I was able to discover in the tunnels that run beneath this villa. For pocket money, really.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘You will protect us from the partisans when they come down from the mountains.’
FORTY-ONE
The Allies bypassed Chiusi, whilst keeping it hemmed in, so the bombardment stopped. Our unreal existence continued. Mostly the count loitered, seething with unfocused jealousy. Listening in doorways, whispering in quiet corners with his fascist cronies.
I’d been moved to a bedroom on the first floor. One afternoon I lay on the bed wondering if I was behaving improperly in the villa. Was I collaborating in some way? I couldn’t see how. Although I might find the activities of the Italian fascists towards internal opposition before and during the war distasteful, I had been clearly instructed to safeguard the count against any post-war settling of scores.
I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until the music woke me. I opened my eyes and thought for a moment I was out in the country. Stars in a turquoise sky shone above my head on the bed’s painted canopy. After splashing my face at the sink, I went out into the corridor to locate the others. I took a wrong turn and found myself in an unfamiliar part of the house. I could not hear the music here and I was about to retrace my steps when a sliver of light shot out from beneath a door a few yards to my left.
I made my way cautiously to the door. I knew what I’d find even before I pushed it open. The soft candlelight. The black woollen dress discarded on the floor beside the man’s dark trousers and jacket. The contessa, coiled on the bed with Knowles, asleep in his arms.
As I turned away from the tableau, I saw Knowles smile. He opened his eyes and looked at me, still smiling. I pulled the door closed.
The next day I found Knowles in the library. He was examining some ancient book. He looked up.
‘I didn’t know you were such an academic,’ I said, sitting down opposite him.
‘Why would you?’
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Knowles put the book down.
‘Should I?’
‘I briefly ran the north-west branch of the BUF in 1935.’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘That’s ringing a bell. A Blackburn lad?’
‘Born but not bred.’
‘A bobby in Brighton?’
‘I am that man.’
‘Well, well. Yes, I do vaguely remember. Last time I saw you was when we gave you the north-west job.’
‘Last time I saw you was in a members’ billiards club in Wardour Street. Meeting the manager — an Italian gangster who was later hanged for murdering a Jewish one.’
He looked sharply at me.
‘I vaguely recall that club. We were trying to get the kike gangsters out of London — the small Jews. It was a Sabini brothers club. Those gangsters and the BUF had the same goals in that instance.’
‘The manager had the same name as one of the Brighton Trunk Murderers. Tony Mancini.’
Knowles frowned.
‘And was it him?’
‘No — seemed Mancini the Brighton man had stolen his name. You know the cases?’
‘Doesn’t everyone of our generation?’
I sat down opposite him.
‘Tell me about you and the contessa.’
‘It means nothing.’
