Wu Ming - 54

‘A frenzy! What do you think, Pierre?’

‘Fantastic. It’s like a mambo, but more complicated. And very hard to dance to.’

‘To get back to those holes: they didn’t have it in for the Italians as such, Pierre. Sure, many innocent people ended up in those holes, but many of them were fascists, collaborationists, informers, people who had enabled the Germans to capture and torture the partisans, carry out massacres, burn whole villages. After 8 September the whole region was effectively annexed to the Third Reich. They were no longer content with taking the k ’s and the j ’s out of people’s Slavonic surnames, or rapping children over the knuckles. An indescribable repression was unleashed. No one who has collaborated in an act of slaughter can expect the victims’ relations to show mercy when they manage to get their hands on you. Even around your way, in Imola, the people responsible for the Pozzo Becca massacre were lynched by the crowd.’

‘Yes, I know. My brother was out in the streets that day.’

Fanti took a sip of Lung Ching Dragon’s Well, a sweet liquorice aftertaste. For a while they talked about Tito, Djilas, Trieste, the Communist Party line on Yugoslavia, then Fanti looked at the pigeon and lost himself in fantasies about the journeys it had taken and those still to be travelled, accompanied by reminiscences of his life with his wife, the years spent in England. His mind landed across the Channel, while his eardrums languished in the Caribbean.

Pierre could not shake off his torpor, and went on drinking his tea, beating out Stan Kenton’s rhythm on his left thigh until the music stopped.

Fanti came to, muttered a phrase of apology, got to his feet and changed the record. Bud Powell’s elegant ‘Sure Thing’ accompanied him as he took off his dressing gown and put on his jacket.

‘Come on, let’s go up to the pigeon loft. I’ll show you how the amazing pigeon post works.’

And so it was that Josip III, scion of a family of intrepid flyers, grandson of a heroic courier in the partisan war, set off on his return journey to Dubrovnik.

Chapter 6

Palm Springs, California, 7 May

Cary told her everything, including the bit about the swapped coats. Retrospective worry for Betsy. Whole-grain rice and macrobiotic food, welcome home. Darling, you risked being injured, you risked death. But I’m alive, and I’m fine. If I’d known. What would you have done? I wouldn’t have advised you to. It’s all over, Betsy, and I’m fine. I called Hitch. I’m going to do the film. I feel strange, darling. I know, I know, I would feel like that too if I knew what sort of close shave you’d had. I don’t know how. But if you’d been involved in a railway accident, or, what do I know, a shipwreck. Don’t say it even as a joke. It’s bad luck. To change the subject: what did Mr Bondurant get up to while I was away? Betsy tells Cary about the photograph sent to the newspapers. A blunder. Mr Raymond thought it might reinforce the credibility. But the regimental tie? Mr Bondurant bought it, poor thing. He was so fond of it. He felt dreadful when he found out you were cross about it. I’ll send him a telegram full of apologies and thanks. Will you really? Of course? You know, he’s a good person, he’s simple and he’s honest. He’ll have gone back to his own life now. He was Cary Grant, and he can’t tell anyone anything about it. But just think, he’ll have material for his imitations, genuine material, not like those people who imitate you and say ‘Judy, Judy, Judy. ’ in that hateful tone. You’ve never even said that line. Not in any film or any radio show.

Let them do it. I’m Cary Grant, they aren’t.

Dear Mr Bondurant, Please accept my apologies (I have been a little harsh on you). I should like to thank you for your work. You have all my

gratitude and esteem, and I have no doubt that people higher

up than I am will demonstrate their appreciation.

The two suits made to measure by Quintino have been left

in my house. They are all yours, a gift from the Commonwealth.

I shall have Mr Raymond send them to you.

Hoping to be able to meet you again,

au revoir.

Cary Grant

They are enjoying the sunset by the pool, Cary and his old friend.

James David Graham Niven. Nicely trimmed moustache, the aplomb of the declining empire, years spent in His Majesty’s infantry. The epitome of the British actor. His success. His curse. Stereotyped roles. A charming, distinguished accent. He works by accepting the parts turned down by Cary because they were too damned English .

What has Cary got that David might envy? He’s English, American and a citizen of the world. David can’t do that: he appears and you hear bagpipes, echoes of novels by Kipling, the ‘white man’s burden’, the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Life and soul of the party. A wise and constantly surprising wit. Forever the Englishman .

What has David got that Cary envies: medals and honours. Everyone knows he fought. On his return to the States, Ike in person awarded him the Order of Merit, the highest honour for a citizen of a foreign country.

They offered me the part of Phileas Phogg in Around the World in Eighty Days . Another part as a perfect English gentleman. Did you accept? Of course I did. You accept too many parts. Listen to your critics. The kine are getting leaner, my friend. Soon I’ll be reduced to working in television. Cary thinks about his own trip around the world, or nearly. So what have you been up to over the last two months? I saw you in a paper and you looked curious, something wasn’t quite right. Cary invents a convenient version, I was busy, preparing to go back on to the screen, etcetera. I’m leaving for the Côte d’Azur. The plot of To Catch a Thief . Not a bad story. A bit light for Hitchcock. Sure. When we’re on the subject of stories, I read a ludicrous and revolting book written by somebody called Fleming. The protagonist is an MI6 agent called James Bond. Brief summary. Incoherent, indeed. They’ll never make a film out of that! Laughter.

It’s reality that’s incoherent, my friend. Joe McCarthy on TV every night, pointing the finger at this one and that one! I have a feeling he’s overdoing it, he seems to be getting further and further up the ladder, someone’s going to react. Someone must react. Have we reacted? We’re just actors. You remember Frances Farmer? I don’t just remember her: I read an article about her, not long ago. What? Moments of consternation. And what happened to her in the end? She went back to Seattle. She worked as an usher in a cinema, if I remember correctly. Strange, it was about her, but the only person who spoke was her mother. She’s about to get married. It must be a plot. Her mother has a guilty conscience. We all have guilty consciences. You know what they’ve done? Yes, there are rumours going about. Electroshock, ‘hydrotherapy’. They force you to sit in a vat of icy water. Naked. I heard that the nurses were prostituting her to soldiers on leave. Is that true? They say she’s been lobotomised. She didn’t seem lobotomised to me. Certainly, she looked like she’d been through it but. Years in a mental hospital. Like my mother. Sometimes this country frightens me: it creates beauty, it spreads ideals of freedom. and then it puts someone like McCarthy on the stage. Apparently Ike hates him. We have to put our hopes in him. I can tell you: I voted for him. What about you? I’m a British subject, you twit! Who’s McCarthy got it in for now? The army. Incredible. Remember the story about the Adam Hat Company? He attacked Drew Pearson’s radio programme, and hit hard at the sponsor, saying, ‘Anyone who buys these hats is giving a contribution to the cause of communism.’ The company withdrew its sponsorship. And what about the money he gets from private citizens? Some people send him five- or tendollar bills, but I’ve heard that others are sending five or ten thousand dollars. He’s said to reply to everyone in person, so I sent him a five-dollar bill, giving my cleaning woman’s name. He wrote back thanking me and asking for more money to help the ‘hard and costly struggle against communism’. Where is that money going to end up? Reliable sources tell me he spends it at the racetrack. The bastard! The charlatan! And how do you think he dresses? Sloppily. He looks as though he’s slept in those badly cut suits. He goes on TV with a gravy-stained tie, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.