In Love and War (2 page)

The mountains fall as they’d risen, and soon give onto rolling farmland, lakes like spilt mercury, red-roofed towns. ‘Your new
home,’ the pilot shouts. Esmond sees the aeroplane’s shadow, which really is like a dragon, harrying the path of a river. He lights a cigarette and presses his cheek against the glass.

‘Could I have one?’ the pilot calls back, not turning this time. ‘Please?’

Esmond looks at the pack in his hand and thinks about throwing it, then pulls himself up, off-kilter until he’s in the seat behind the cockpit. He leans over and places a cigarette between the pilot’s lips.

‘Why do you come to Italy? You are a politician, yes?’

‘Not precisely,’ Esmond says, lighting a fag for himself. ‘My father’s Lionel Lowndes, of the British Union.’

‘With Mosley. I read the
English Mail
. For your language, you understand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So you’re a Fascist, like your new hosts.’

‘I suppose so. I’m setting up a wireless station for the British Union, a commercial enterprise.’ The last direct from the mouth of Mosley, who’d kneaded Esmond’s shoulder each time he’d said it.

‘Bravo,’ the pilot says.

‘It’s the first time for me. Away like this.’

‘In Florence, you are lucky. A city of artists, politicians and Englishmen. You are all three, I think.’

‘Perhaps.’

Esmond picks up
The Wireless Operator’s Handbook
and begins to read about sine waves and resonators, capacitors and inductors. He is half-nodding in the warm cabin when the pilot’s voice comes, as if through the doors of a dream. ‘Storm over Florence,’ he says, showing Esmond his frown. ‘Hard landing.’

Esmond shrugs, having given himself up to fate. The dark
clouds paint the whole depth of the sky ahead. Forks of lightning jag downwards, burning themselves out on his eyes. They steer into the clouds and it is as if night has fallen. Rain thrashes the windows, obscuring even the wings, and the aeroplane bobs and yaws, plywood shuddering in the wind, engines muffled. The pilot sends them first one way, then another, trying to cut a path through the storm. Esmond puts his hands behind his head, leans back in his seat and, surprising himself even as it happens, he falls asleep.

He dreams of a Juliet balcony, looking over terracotta roofs towards a dome. His enemy is beside him, torturer’s hands folded over the rail. Esmond takes a handful of the coarse black twill of his enemy’s shirt, pulls him over the balcony and into the air. In a slow moment, he lets go of the shirt and sees his father and Mosley swinging him between them as a child, his father’s good arm full of strength, Mosley’s fingers dry and certain.
Here we go, bend a bow, shoot a pigeon and off we go!
They lift him squealing, stomachless into the sunshine. Again he feels he is rising, still rising, into the pale evening. Then he begins to fall, and he hears his enemy’s screams, and sees the ground rushing up to meet them. He scents death, impossible in dreams, and opens his eyes, very wide.

‘Difficult!’ The pilot shouts, stubbing his cigarette on the inside of the window.

They are coming in fast over the runway, yawing horribly, and the screaming is the baying of the wind. A distant green light through the swirling rain, then they drop, bounce once on the ground, are airborne again and careening through the night. The wheels hit the tarmac once more, a blast of rubber, and Esmond’s box of books launches into the air and bursts against the cabin roof. He is beaned by a copy of Hamsun’s
Hunger
. The back wheel falls to earth with a clunk and Esmond lands hard in
his seat, Kipling and Henry James in theirs. The plane comes to a skidding halt, the pilot’s shoulders heaving. Esmond sits there for a while, breathing the fusty air of the cabin, the sharp tang of fuel.

‘Florence?’ he says.

The pilot nods. ‘
Firenze
.’

Esmond wakes to the sound of a bell. He pokes one leg out of bed, then another, hops across tiles to find his dressing-gown and opens the shutters. Watery sunlight falls down on the via Tornabuoni below. There is a church opposite. Old ladies move nimbly up the steps and lean through heavy doors. Cars weave between pony traps, mules, bicycles on the cobbles. A black cat laces along the pavement, licks a patch of fur clean, rubs herself against the wall.

Esmond puts on his watch. It is almost eight.
Dear Philip,
he’d written on a sheet of letter paper before bed. He pulls out the chair, sits at his desk, writes
I miss you
and hears a light knock at the door.

Harold Goad, the Director of the British Institute, stands in the hallway in brisk tweed, the sound of crockery and the smell of coffee behind him. ‘I thought you might need these.’ He lifts an armful of books to his chest. ‘Something to read when you’re woken by the bells of San Gaetano. Ugliest church in Florence, I’m afraid.’ They exchange their first smile. ‘I’m an early riser,’ Goad adds. ‘I like to walk in the city while it’s still quiet. But I’ve waited for breakfast.’

Esmond takes the books. There is a Baedeker, a thick Italianto-English dictionary, a thicker
Decameron
, a Modern Library copy of
A Room With a View
and one of Goad’s own,
The Making of the Corporate State
. ‘That’s awfully kind of you,’ he says. ‘I love Forster. And I’ll look forward to reading this.’ He holds up Goad’s book. ‘My father says you’re the one true Fascist intellectual.’

‘Decent of him.’ Goad’s cheeks flush a little. ‘Splendid fellow, Sir Lionel. Now – hum – we eat breakfast in the kitchen. Nothing too grand, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll be along shortly.’

At his desk, Esmond thinks how the Forster, particularly, would bother his parents. The day of his ignominious return from university he’d found gaps like missing teeth in his bookshelves.
Nightwood
was gone and
Ulysses
and all his Forster, and he’d looked down to see his mother feeding book after book into the flames of a bonfire in the field below. She liked her novels like her evenings – light and mannered and smelling faintly of horses; his were fishy and, like Cambridge, to be struck from record.

He dresses, reaching past the stiff twill of the uniform he’d slipped out of the night before, arriving at the Institute late, in the rain, and following Goad up the stairs to the apartment on the third floor. Now he steps out into the corridor, breathing the rich, gloomy air. He closes the door, straightens his tie, and makes for the kitchen.

Goad is sitting at a white formica table with a pile of newspapers in front of him:
La Nazione, The Times, The Italian Mail.
‘Have a seat, have a seat,’ he says.
‘Gesuina, vi presento Esmond Lowndes
. Esmond, this is Gesuina.’

A lean woman in her fifties turns to Esmond with a quick curtsey.

‘Molto piacere, Signor Lowndes.’

‘How d’you do.’ Then, ‘
Lei ringrazio,
’ as she places a coffee cup in front of him.

‘And that’s one thing you should know,’ Goad raises his finger. ‘Mussolini has banned the use of
lei
as the formal pronoun. Considers it unmanly. You must use
voi
, d’you see?’

Esmond nods and pours himself coffee.

‘You can be arrested for using
lei
.’

Gesuina brings toast and jam. Goad reads, occasionally stopping to snip out an article, inspect it, and place it in an envelope. He tuts, stirring his coffee.

‘It’s a bad business in Spain, I’m afraid,’ he says, folding
The Times.
‘The Falangists have taken an awful beating. Italians dead on both sides. Mussolini shouldn’t have begun so soon after Abyssinia, not with the sanctions.’

Esmond shakes his head. ‘I’ve been reading up on persistent oscillators and free radiators.’

‘Of course, the wireless. We should have a chat. I could have arranged it myself, of course, but the technology terrifies me rather. Electricity is for the young. Why don’t we meet in my study in – hum – half an hour? I need some time after breakfast to allow my digestion to activate. I’m afraid I’m not terribly well. I imagine your father might have told you.’

Goad stands, bows at Gesuina and leaves. After a few minutes of failing to make sense of the front page of
La Nazione
, Esmond gets up from the table and places his plate and coffee cup in the sink, where Gesuina tuts away his attempts to wash them. He walks past his room, past the door Goad had identified as his, and to large, grey-stone stairs.

The apartment is three sides of the top floor of the Institute, the fourth a columned loggia where sheets hang and clothes horses perch on stone benches, draped with shirts and assorted underwear. Esmond notices with interest three small, white brassieres. He makes his way down the steps to the library.

Armchairs are scattered between tables of journals and
ashtrays. Bookshelves line every wall save a large tarnished mirror over the fireplace. Dust and memory in the air. He crosses to the window and looks downwards. The ground floor of the palazzo is given over to offices, including the Florentine branch of Thomas Cook where, Goad had explained, the expats pick up letters, make telephone calls and arrange for goods to come or go home. Already there is a queue out of the door and into the courtyard. An old fellow with a military moustache glances up, raises his hat with one hand and gives Esmond the thumbs-up with the other. He smiles and returns it. Goad had warned him that new taxes for foreigners, anti-English sentiment in Florence and the weakening pound have meant a steady stream of departures. ‘You have arrived’, he’d said, ‘just as everyone is leaving.’

Goad’s desk seems to have been chosen for its vastness. His present task, gluing cuttings into a scrapbook by the light of a brass desk lamp, is taking place in a small province of it. He looks slighter than the bust of Shelley behind him.

‘If I don’t do it first thing, it never gets done,’ he says. ‘With you in a moment.’

Esmond sits in the armchair by the fireplace and examines the bookshelves. Poetry, mostly Italian: d’Annunzio, Foscolo, Ungaretti, Quasimodo. Essays on Shakespeare. An entire shelf of Norman Douglas. He’d read Philip’s copy of
South Wind
on the grass by the Cam at Newnham. He spots T. E. Hulme’s
Speculations
and thinks of his own attempt at a novel, the fifty-five pages he’d scratched out in his study at Emmanuel, smouldering with the rest on the lawn at home. Even with the embarrassment of his expulsion, those pages had felt like the future. Philip had
called it
modern
and
thrilling
. Hulme had been his father’s friend at university, his comrade in the war. Now he, and the book, were lost.

‘Now then – hum.’ Goad is opening drawers and clicking his tongue. ‘Here we are.’ He holds up a single sheet of writing-paper. ‘A letter from
Il Duce
– his blessing to your project. He was much taken with the idea, suggests we name it Radio Firenze – what d’you think?’

Esmond smiles uncertainly.

‘They’ve been doing everything they can to expunge the English language from the Italian consciousness, renaming the Bristol, the Old England Shop, Eden Park Villas, but Mussolini is shrewd enough to realise it’s still the language of business. A Fascist wireless programme! Showing that even the English are coming round to his way of seeing the world is – hum – two birds, one brick. Jolly good idea of Sir Oswald’s, I must say.’

Esmond stands to take the letter.
BenitoMussolini
is written without spaces, the final ‘i’s staring above a sulking ‘n’. The text – from what he can make out – is plain as a doctor’s note, but he can imagine the power of that signature. He folds the letter and holds it.

‘This is super,’ he says.

‘He’s an interesting man. A brute, yes, but a poet, too. Everyone knows about his railways – although, in fact, those achievements have been overstated in the British newspapers. It’s more that – hum – he has recast the Italian narrative. He has taken the history of the nation, which, remember, is barely seventy-five years old, and made it a myth, the myth of the
Patria
. Ancient Rome, the Renaissance, the Risorgimento––’

Esmond notices that Goad’s hands, when they meet the light, are lurid red with a white scurf of skin flaking at the knuckles, which he pauses to scratch.

‘Nervous eczema, I’m afraid. Too much work. I keep trying to resign, but they simply won’t let me. I feel as if I’m single-handedly putting right the – hum – psychological atmosphere between the British and the Italians. Lord Lloyd has granted a very generous sum to expand the Institute’s operations across Italy, but I’m afraid it’s unlikely my health will be up to it.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘Can’t be helped. I only hope I last long enough to see an end to this silly bitterness.’ Goad’s eyes smile behind his spectacles. ‘Of course, you’ll want to get out and explore these many-memoried streets and galleries and churches, as my friend described Florence.’

‘You knew Henry James?’

‘Oh yes. And Lawrence, of course. Huxley stayed in your room, you know.’

Esmond looks around for the right words. ‘And I see you’re an admirer of Norman Douglas.’

Goad’s face clouds a little.

‘Hum. Douglas. I’m sure you’ll come across him while you’re here. Gerald – my son – enjoys his work. I am not convinced. His novels feel to me like essays padded with sub-Wildean quips and louche philosophy. I buy his books in hope that – hum – bankruptcy doesn’t join the many other scandals his lifestyle calls down upon him. He sells them himself, quite shamelessly, you know. Every musical recital or lecture at the Institute, he’ll be here, cadging his latest like a tinker. Frightfully expensive and badly printed, but what can one do?’

‘I’d love to meet him.’

‘That could be arranged.’ Goad taps his fingers on the desk. ‘Now, what else? You’re to see the Podestà, the mayor, at his office at nine-fifteen tomorrow morning. He’ll introduce you to the wireless expert, Mario Carità. He’s a rogue, but he knows his
transmission coil from his–– well. Runs an electrical shop just behind Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. Strictly between us, I think the Podestà is hoping that this project will limit some of Carità’s – hum – enthusiasms. He’s in charge of the MVSN, the voluntary police force, and has been rather too rigorous in addressing anti-Fascist feeling.’

‘I see.’

‘Your father has established an account for you at the Monte dei Paschi bank. Ten thousand lire to get Radio Firenze started and an allowance of fifty a week. Should be more than enough.’ He takes an envelope from a drawer and passes it across the desk. ‘Here’s a couple of weeks in advance and a chequebook to draw against the bank. Now––’ Goad rubs his hands again, making a small haze of skin in the light of the lamp. ‘There’s the matter of the broadcasts themselves. Sir Oswald has kindly sent out a selection of his speeches recorded onto disc. I think initially it would suffice for me to give a brief introduction to each in Italian, and perhaps a short commentary at the end. And once the station is up and running, when there’s an audience, we can see about advertisers, sponsorship, making the thing pay for itself.’

‘Fine. Thank you.’

‘Not at all. I’m thoroughly excited. Haven’t felt this bucked since my fourth edition. And of course when your own Italian is
abbastanza fluido
– it’s a very easy language, you know – you’ll be able to take over the broadcasts yourself. You should start thinking about which subjects you’d like to discuss.’

‘Shall I be having lessons?’

‘Let’s see how you get on with Carità. There’s nothing like learning a language from a native, so to speak. I’ve never had a lesson in my life, French, German or Italian. If Carità is worth his salt, he’ll teach you as you go.’

Esmond half-stands but Goad speaks again, staring down at his hands.

‘Since my wife died, I haven’t ventured out all that much. When Gerald’s here he has his own friends, his own – hum – bustle.’

‘Does he get out here often?’

‘Not half as much as I’d like, I’m afraid. He’s studying for the Bar and rather floats around London. His mother’s death touched him very sorely. On the right track now, I think. Imagine he’ll be back at some point over the summer, but his movements are – hum – irregular.’

Goad crosses his study and opens the door.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t arranged an office, a studio. I’ve been so terribly busy with the start of term. Anyway, there’s no rush. Make the most of this time, get to know the place. Use your Baedeker discreetly. What else? Steer clear of the Blackshirt
squadristi
and for goodness’ sake salute back if they salute you – arm straight up, Roman style, not like the British Union. And enjoy yourself. It’s delightful to have another young person in the building.’