Irwin Shaw - Nightwork

“Thank you,” I said.

“It is one of the few things our idiotic government cannot ruin,” Quadrocelli said. “My wine. I have a printing business in Milan. You have no idea of how difficult they make it just to keep the head above water. Taxes, strikes, red tape … Bombings.” His face grew sober. “Doice Italia. I have to have an armed guard at my plant in Milan twenty-four hours a day. I print, at cost, some harmless tracts for some Socialist friends of mine and I am constantly being threatened. Do not believe it, Mr. Grimes, when you are told Mussolini is dead. My father had to flee to England in 1928 – there was one consolation, of course – I learned your beautiful language – and I would not be surprised if one day I will have to flee, too. From the right, from the left, from above, from below.” He made an impatient gesture, as though he was annoyed at himself for this show of pessimism. “Ah, you must be careful not to take everything I say too seriously. I swing from extreme to extreme. My family came from the South. In our family, we all cried and laughed on the same day.” He laughed gaily, fond of his family’s range of emotions. “You are here to talk about wine, not our insane politics. The eternal grape. Not even the politicians and the bully boys can keep grapes from growing. And the yeasts never go on strike. You and Miles have picked the one business that might be considered a reasonable risk in all of Italy. When Miles spoke to me on the phone, he talked of a death.”

I began to see that I would have to be on the alert for sudden switches of subjects in Mr Quadrocelli’s conversation. “A friend of ours,” I said. “I hope it was not too painful.” “I don’t believe it was,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, “we are all mortal.” He hugged himself, as if to reassure himself that his body was still there. “Let us talk of more cheerful things. Have you ever been in Italy before?”

“No.” I didn’t think I had to count the trip to Florence hunting for Miles Fabian.

“I will be your guide. It is a wonderful country, full of surprises. Some of them even happy ones.” He laughed. He was not shy at laughing at his own jokes. I had begun to like the man already, his vitality and bouncing health and cynical honesty. “We are no longer great, but we are the inheritors of greatness. We are poor caretakers, but everything is all there, even if it is crumbling a little. I will take you to my home near Firenze. You will see the vineyards with your own eyes. You will drink your wine in the place where it is grown. I have some bottles in my cellar that will make the tears come to your eyes. That I promise you. Do you like the opera?” “I’ve never been.”

“I will take you to La Scala, in Milan. You will be introduced to rapture. Do you plan to stay long in Italy?” “That depends somewhat on Miles.” “Do not be in a hurry to leave, I beg of you. I do not want our relationship to be merely a business one,” he said earnestly. “I know it sounds foolish, but it will be bad for the wine. Are you a good sailor?”

“I’ve only been in small boats on a lake back home.”

“I have a twenty-five-foot little power cruiser in the harbor. We will visit Genuttri.” He gestured toward the island, which now looked like a small, wispy cloud on the horizon. “It is still wild and unspoiled. That is a great deal to say about a place in these naughty days. It is too bad it is too cold to swim. The water is like sapphires. We will take a picnic and get sunburned. You will want to live the rest of your life here. Where is your home in America?”

I hesitated. “In Vermont. But I move around a lot.”

“Vermont.” He shivered. “I never can understand why people who do not have to do it live in ice and snow. Like Miles, with his crazy skiing. I have told him that there is a house just next to mine that is for sale. A beautiful house and I could get it at a price. And with his Italian … He could live like a king. At his age there is a good chance he could live his life out before everything went down in ruins. He seems to have come into some money…” Quadrocelli looked at me shrewdly, his eyes narrowing. “Am I right or wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “As I told you I only met him recently.”

“Ah, good,” he said, “you are a discreet gentleman. If Miles wishes to tell me, he can tell me himself. Is that it?”

“More or less.”

“If I may ask, Mr Grimes … Ah I ” He made an impatient gesture. “What is your first name?”

“Douglas.”

“And I am Giuliano. So that is settled. If I may ask, Douglas, what is your business?”

I hesitated again. “Mostly investments,” I said.

“I will not pry.” Quadrocelli put his hands out in front of him in a braking motion, as though physically stopping himself from going too far. “You are a friend of Miles and that is enough for me. Or any man.” He stood up. “And now it is time for lunch. Pasta and fresh fish. Simple fare. I have never had a stomachache since the day I married my wife. I am overweight, my doctor says, but I tell him I do not plan to be a movie star.” He laughed again.

I got up and he linked my arm in his as we started toward the door of the hotel. But before we reached it, the door opened and out into the bright Italian sunshine stepped Evelyn Coates.

“Lorimer called me,” she said. “He told me you might be here. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“You’re not intruding,” I said.

It might have been the springtime Mediterranean weather or the fact that she was on a holiday or merely being away from Washington, but whatever the reason, Evelyn was a changed woman. The harshness and abrasive authority that had offended me in my first introduction to her were no longer in evidence. She was gentler, careful not to wound, relaxed. When we made love, I no longer had the feeling that she was on a desperate search for something she would never find. Even on the last Sunday night in Washington, with all the tenderness, I realized now, there had been the same underlying tension. We spent hours alone together, basking in the sun, holding hands, talking desultorily, laughing easily, childishly, at little things, like our attempts to talk Italian to a waiter or posing for each other in extreme positions in snapshots that we took with a camera that Evelyn had brought along with her.

When she arrived, Mr Quadrocelli had left us tactfully alone, saying, “You must have many things you wish to talk about with your beautiful American friend. We can have lunch tomorrow, instead of today. My wife will understand. And my three daughters.” He laughed, his rumbling, robust laugh. “I do not pity you anymore, Douglas.” He winked as he said it. “Not at all.”

Then he had called during the afternoon, full of apologies, to say that he had received a telephone call, that he had to fly to Milan that evening, there had been sabotage at the plant. “Imagine,” he said, “even on Saturday.” But he would return as soon as possible, he said. I was to give his salutations to the beautiful American. His call had come after lunch, when Evelyn and I were in bed together, in the warm, pretty room overlooking the sea, all our hungers for the moment sated. Although I was sorry Quadrocelli’s plant had been sabotaged, I was not sorry that I wouldn’t have to spend time with him, nice as he was, time that I otherwise could devote, to Evelyn.

The hotel was practically empty in this off-season, and it was like having a luxurious country house, equipped with a friendly and highly efficient staff, all to ourselves. The large terrace that came with our room was shielded from observation, and we lay naked side by side for hours in the warm sunshine, tanning ourselves. It seemed to me that Evelyn’s body had grown softer and rounder. In Washington it had been hard and taut, trained for competition, the body of a woman who religiously went through strenuous calisthenics and expensive massages daily to keep in shape. We talked of many things, but never about Washington or her work there. I didn’t ask her how long she could stay with me and she didn’t mention when she would have to leave. I did not report my conversation with Lorimer at the Tre Scalini.