I went for a short walk, smoked a couple of cigarettes, sat down and replied to both letters.
Three weeks later I caught the Folkestone boat-train.
To my intense relief there was nobody at the station to see me off. I had said good-bye to Claire the previous night. She was, she had said with somewhat emotional practicality, too busy at the hospital to spare time to come to the station. Later on she had wept and explained, unnecessarily, that it wasn’t that she couldn’t spare the time, but that she didn’t want to make a fool of herself and me on the platform. “After all,” we kept on assuring one another, “it’s only for a few months, a temporary job until things get better here.” By the time it was time for me to go back to the hotel into which I had moved, we had managed to evolve an atmosphere of bright camaraderie that spared both our feelings and our pocket handkerchiefs.
“Good-bye, Nicky, darling,” she had called after me as I had left, “don’t get into trouble.”
And I had laughed at the idea and called back that I wouldn’t.
I actually laughed.
3
It is on my second evening in Milan that General Vagas comes on the scene.
Looking back now, the whole story seems to begin with that meeting. What had happened to me apart from that seems of no significance. Yet if it is easy to be wise after an event it is easier still to let that wisdom colour an account of the event itself, to the confusion and irritation of the reader. It is as if he were listening to a joke being told in an unfamiliar foreign tongue. I must tell the story in a straightforward manner. General Vagas must, so to speak, take his place in the queue.
At eight o’clock that evening I sat down in my room at the Hotel Parigi to write to Claire. She has kept the letter and as it describes in a more or less condensed form what had happened to me since my arrival and the impressions I had formed of the Milan staff of the Spartacus Machine Tool Company, I have incorporated it. It was my original intention to omit the more intimate passages, but as Claire’s only comment on this suggestion was a blank “Why?”, I have left them in.
Hotel Parigi,
Milano,
Tuesday.
Dearest Claire,
Already, I am gripped by the most excruciating pangs of nostalgia. It is, I find, just four days since I saw you. It seems like four months. Trite, I know; but then the plain, ordinary, human emotions nearly always do seem trite when you put them down on paper. I don’t know whether or not triteness increases in direct proportion to the number and intensity of the plain, ordinary, human emotions experienced. It probably does. My present P.O.H.E.’s are (a) a profound sense of loneliness and (b) the growing conviction that I was a fool to leave you no matter what the circumstances. No doubt I shall feel a little better about item (a) in a day or two. As for item (b), I’ m not quite sure if a conviction, even a growing one, can possibly be described as an emotion. In any case, if I start talking about it now I shall end by running amok, and I don’t think that the management of the Parigi would care much for that.
I remember that at this point I stopped and read the paragraph through. What nonsense it sounded! a ghastly attempt to smile through imaginary tears. Claire would despise it. The smile was an arch grin. The tears were crocodiles’. And that bit about emotions and convictions. Piffle! I screwed it up and threw it in the wastepaper basket and then, when I had made one or two desultory attempts to start again, I retrieved it from the basket and copied it out on a fresh sheet of paper. Hang it all, it expressed what I felt. I went on.
You are probably wondering why on earth I am staying here and whether, for Pity’s sake, I propose to go on staying here. It is along story.
It wasn’t a long story. It was quite a short one. However…
I arrived yesterday afternoon at about four o’clock (3 p.m. to you in England, my love), and was met at the Centrale Station by Bellinetti, who was, you may remember, my predecessor’s assistant.
He is rather older than I had expected from the way Pelcher and Fitch talked about him. Picture a small, stocky Italian of about forty with incredibly wavy black hair, greying at the temples, and the sort of teeth that you see in dentifrice advertisements. He is a very natty dresser and wears a diamond (?) ring on the little finger of his left hand. I have a suspicion, however, that he doesn’t shave every day. A pity. He is an enthusiastic reader of the Popolo d’Italia, and has a passion for Myrna Loy (“ so calm, so cold, such secret fires ”), but I have not yet discovered whether he is married or not.
I considered this description of Bellinetti for a moment. It wasn’t quite right. It was accurate enough as far as it went, but there was more to the man than that. He wasn’t so theatrical. He had a way of leaning forward towards you and dropping his voice as though he were about to impart some highly confidential tit-bit. But the tit- bit never came. You received the impression that he would have liked to talk all the time of momentous and very secret affairs, but that he was haunted by the perpetual triviality of real life. His air of frustration was a little worrying until you became used to it. But I couldn’t put all that in a letter. I lit a cigarette and went on again.
As I told you, I wasn’t anticipating a great deal of active co-operation from Arturo Bellinetti. After all, he was expecting that Ferning’s death would mean that he got Ferning’s job. Fitch told me that in a weak moment and to encourage the man, Pelcher had hinted that he might possibly be appointed. It was scarcely to be expected that he would fall on the neck of the Sporco Inglese with cries of enthusiasm. But I must say that he has been extraordinarily helpful, and I shall tell Pelcher so.
As soon as we had got over the preliminary politenesses, we went to a caffe (two f’s and a grave accent here, please), where he introduced me to his pet tipple which is a cognac with a beer chaser. I wouldn’t like to try it with English bitter, but here it doesn’t seem too bad. At all events it took the edge off that interminable journey. The next thing was to make my living arrangements. Bellinetti suggested that I might like to take over Ferning’s old place which was in an apartment house near the Monte di Pieta. This seemed to me a good idea, and we piled my luggage into a taxi and drove there. Little did I know, as they say in books, what was in store for me.
Imagine the Ritz, the Carlton and Buckingham Palace rolled into one, a dash of rococo and a spicing of Lalique, and you will have some idea of what I found. Not a very large building, it is true, but decidedly luxurious. Manager in attendance, we went up to the second-floor front. This, said the Manager, had been signor Ferning’s apartment. A very liberal and sympathetic Signore had been the signor Ferning. His death was nothing short of a tragedy. But he would be delighted to serve the so sympathetic signor Marlow. The price of the apartment was only six hundred lire a week.
Well, darling, it was probably worth the money. In fact, I should say that it was cheap. But six hundred lire a week! Either the manager was trying it on (it is still a popular illusion here that all Americans and English are millionaires), or the late lamented and so sympathetic signor Ferning had made a better bargain with Spartacus than I had. The Manager was dumbfounded when I turned it down so promptly and, with a hearty misunderstanding of the situation, tried to show me something even more luxurious and expensive on the first floor. We retired in disorder. I shall have to get Fitch to tell me more about Ferning when he writes.
I did not tell Claire of the suspicion I had entertained that my assistant might have arranged to take a commission on the deal. The idea had crossed my mind as soon as the Manager mentioned the price; but as Bellinetti had not seemed at all put out when I had refused the offer and as, on reflection, I had not seen how even a generous commission could account altogether for such a price, I had quickly abandoned the notion.
By this time, the effects of the brandy and beer were beginning to wear off and I was feeling rather tired. Bellinetti, bounding with energy, was all for going on an intensive apartment hunt; but I decided that the best thing I could do was to put up at a hotel for a day or two and find a place at my leisure. Bellinetti knows the management here, so here I came.
It is not quite as expensive as the note-paper might lead you to think. It appears that the present vogue is for “ modernity ” a la Marinetti. The only really modern aspect of the Parigi is the hot-water system which gurgles a
