Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

Dickie agreed with enthusiasm. ‘I think we’ve earned it,’ he said. ‘Think of it, but for us that poor chap would be floating about the lagoons till Doomsday and none of his dusky offspring know what had happened to him.’

‘Do you think they will now?’ asked Philip.

‘You mean . . .? Oh, I think anyone who really knew him could tell.’

They were sitting at a table under the trees. The air was fresh and pleasant; the absence of mosquitoes almost miraculous. Dickie’s spirits began to rise.

‘I say,’ he said. ‘It’s damned dull waiting. He’s twenty minutes late. Where’s that boy?’

When a second round had been served, Dickie motioned the page to stay. Philip looked at him in surprise.

‘Listen,’ said Dickie, in a thick, excited undertone. ‘Wouldn’t it be a lark if we sent this lad down to the gondola and told him to ask the chap that’s resting inside to come and dine with us?’

‘A charming idea, Dickie, but I doubt whether they understand practical jokes in this country.’

‘Nonsense, Phil, that’s a joke that anyone could understand. Now, put on your thinking-cap and find the appropriate words. I’m no good; you must do it.’

Philip smiled.

‘We don’t want to be four at dinner, do we? I’m sure the Count wouldn’t like having to sit down with a—a drowned rat.’

‘That’s absurd; he may be a man of excellent family; it’s generally the rich who commit suicide.’

‘We don’t know that he did.’

‘No, but all that’s beside the point. Now just tell this boy to run down to the jetty, or whatever it is called, give our message and bring us back the answer. It won’t take him ten minutes. I’ll give him five lire to soothe his shattered nerves.’

Philip appeared to be considering it. ‘Dick, I really don’t think—a foreign country and all, you know. . . .’

The boy looked interrogatively from one to the other.

‘It’s a good idea,’ repeated Philip, ‘and I don’t want to be a spoilsport. But really, Dickie, I should give it up. The boy would be very scared, perhaps tell his parents, and then we might be mobbed and thrown into the Canal. It’s the kind of thing that gives us a bad name abroad,’ he concluded, somewhat pompously.

Dickie rose unsteadily to his feet.

‘Bad name be hanged!’ he said. ‘What does it matter what we do in this tuppenny ha’penny hole? If you won’t tell the boy I’ll arrange it with the concierge. He understands English.’

‘All right,’ agreed Philip, for Dickie was already lurching away, the light of battle in his eye. ‘I don’t expect it’d do any harm, really. Senta piccolo !’ He began to explain the errand.

‘Don’t forget,’ admonished Dickie, ‘we expect the gentleman subito . He needn’t bother to dress or wash or brush up or anything.’

Philip smiled in spite of himself.

‘ Dica al signore ,’ he said, ‘ di non vestirsi nero .’

‘ Not “smoking”?’ said the boy, pertly, delighted to display his English.

‘No, not “smoking”.’

The boy was off like a streak.

It must be boring waiting for a bomb to go off; it is almost equally tedious waiting for a practical joke to take effect. Dickie and Philip found the minutes drag interminably and they could think of nothing to say. ‘He must be there now,’ said Dickie, at last, taking out watch.

‘What’s the time?’

‘Half-past eight. He’s been gone seven minutes.’

‘How dark it is,’ said Philip. ‘Partly the trees, I suppose. But it wouldn’t be dark in England now.’

‘I’ve told you, much better stick to the Old Country. More daylight, fewer corpses, guests turn up to dinner at the proper time. . . .

‘Giacomelli’s certainly very late. Over half an hour.’

‘I wonder if he ever got your message.’

‘Oh yes, he answered it.’

‘You never told me. How long ago was that?’

‘Last Wednesday. I wanted to give him plenty of time.’

‘Did he write?’

‘No, he telephoned. I couldn’t understand very well. The servant said the Count was away but he would be delighted to dine with us. He was sorry he couldn’t write, but he had been called away on business.’

‘The sugar factory, perhaps?’

‘Very likely.’

‘It’s bloody quiet, as the navvy said,’ remarked Dickie.

‘Yes, they are all dining in that glass place. You can see it through leaves.’

‘I suppose they’ll know to bring him here.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Silence fell, broken a moment later by Philip’s exclamation, ‘Ah, here’s the boy!’

With no little excitement they watched his small figure approaching over the wilderness of small grey pebbles which serve the Venetians in lieu of gravel. They noticed at once that his bearing was erect and important; if he had had a shock he bore no traces of it. He stopped by them, smiling and breathing hard.

‘ Ho fatto un corso ,’ he said, swelling with pride.

‘What’s that?’

‘He says he ran.’

‘I expect he did.’

The friends exchanged amused glances.

‘I must say he’s got a good pluck,’ remarked Dickie, ruefully admiring. Their joke had fallen flat. ‘But I expect these Italian kids see corpses every day. Anyhow, ask him what the gentleman said.’

‘Che cosa ha detto il signore ?’ asked Philip.

Still panting, the boy replied:

‘ Accetta con molto piacere . Fra pochi minuti sarà qui .’

Philip stared at the page in amazement.

Si, si, signore ,’ repeated the boy. ‘ Cosi ha detto, “vengo con molto piacere ” ’.

‘What does he say?’ asked Dickie irritably.

‘He says that the gentleman accepts our invitation with great pleasure and will be here in a few minutes.’

‘Of course,’ said Dickie, when the boy had gone off with his mancia , whistling, ‘he’s having us on. But he’s a tough youngster. Can’t be more than twelve years old.’

Philip was looking all round him, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

‘I don’t believe he invented that.’

‘But if he didn’t?’

Philip did not answer.

‘How like a cemetery the place looks,’ he said, suddenly, ‘with all the cypresses and this horrible monumental mason’s road-repairing stuff all round.’

‘The scene would look better for a few fairy-lights,’ rejoined Dickie. ‘But your morbid fancies don’t help us to solve the problem of our friend in the boat. Are we being made fools of by this whippersnapper, or are we not?’

‘Time will show,’ said Philip. ‘He said a few minutes.’

They both sat listening.

‘This waiting gives me the jim-jams,’ said Dickie at last. ‘Let’s call the little rascal back and make him tell us what really did happen.’

‘No, no, Dickie, that would be too mortifying. Let’s try to think it out; let’s proceed from the known to the unknown, as they do in detective stories. The boy goes off. He arrives at the landing stage. He finds some ghoulish loafers hanging about. . . .’

‘He might not,’ said Dickie. ‘There were only two or three corpse-gazers when we left.’

‘Anyhow, he finds the rampino who swore to mount guard.’

‘He might have slipped in for a drink,’ said Dickie. ‘You gave him the wherewithal, and he has to live like others.’

‘Well, in that case, the boy would see—what?’

‘Just that bit of tarpaulin stuff, humped up in the middle.’

‘What would he do, then? Put yourself in his place, Dickie.’

Dickie grimaced slightly.

‘I suppose he’d think the man was resting under the water-proof and he’d say, “Hullo, there!” in that ear-splitting voice Italians have, fit to wake. . . .’