Alex Preston - In Love and War

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Goad says. ‘The coronation of George V took place in my first year as Director of the Institute. A gala dinner for eighty guests in the Palazzo Vecchio, bunting stretched across the via Tornabuoni, dancing and fireworks late into the night. Public occasions like this one are a rock in the fluid currents of history, that we may look back and see how far we’ve come. So few of us left in this most English of Italian cities. So many gone.’ He takes a sip of water. ‘For all its roughness, its — hum — youth, we have seen a brave new power driving the history of this country, and it won’t be long before England is the odd man out of Europe. Democracy is dying. Kemal, Horthy, Pisudki in Poland, Salazar in Portugal, Franco in Spain. Herr Hitler.

‘These rumours of war between Britain and Italy — put them from your minds.’ A hear, hear, from Alice Keppel. ‘When the statesmen of Europe fix the mess bequeathed them by the Treaty of Versailles, everything will go on as before. The British and Italians could never be any serious enemies. We are in the middle of a — hum — tiff, nothing more.’

He holds up a framed photograph of the new King, crosses the room, lifts down the picture of George V and smiles at the applause. He stretches up to hook George VI in its place. Esmond looks to see if Ada has arrived, but sees blackness on the street.

‘Most of you have met Esmond Lowndes,’ Goad continues, back at the step. ‘His wireless programme will be broadcast throughout Tuscany. Do go over and say hello. Esmond, stick up a hand. Yes. And if any of you have an idea for a transmission, something we might send out for the instruction of our listeners, don’t — hum — keep it a secret.’

Through the crowd Esmond can see bodies in the street, black-shirted figures outside the doorway.

‘It only remains for me to ask you to charge your glasses and raise them to our new King.’

Alice Keppel lets out a high scream. Two men are inside, stockings pulled over their faces. Douglas and Orioli squeeze past Esmond and head down the corridor to the inner courtyard. Esmond feels Fiamma tense beside him. More black figures enter, six in all, faces smudged like ghosts. One shoves at Reggie Temple, who lands in a heap, breathing heavily. Father Bailey steps forward and the Blackshirt nearest him pulls out a revolver.

The room takes a breath. Two men rush to the table and tip it over. The musical shattering of glasses. A bottle fizzes to Gesuina’s feet and Esmond reaches down to right it. Fiamma, a slash of wine across her blouse, looks towards Esmond. He feels breathless, a shameful excitement in his chest, and meets her dark eyes.

One Blackshirt stands in the door, another in the passageway. The smallest, whom Esmond recognises with swift certainty as Carità, crosses to the photograph of the King, pulls a dagger from his belt. Alice Keppel lets out a whimper. Taking the picture with one hand, he breaks the glass with the hilt of the dagger. He draws the blade carefully across the photograph, opening up long white scars in the King’s uneasy face, and lets it fall. Goad has stepped from the platform towards the Blackshirt.

‘Look here,’ he says. ‘ Sapete qui sono io? ’

One pulls out a package in brown paper. He hands it to the small man, who slips the blade under the paper and holds up another photograph. In a plain wooden frame, it is a portrait of Victor Emmanuel III, with his absurdly curling moustache and slow-witted eyes.

‘You in Italy,’ the small man says, his voice muffled by the stocking. ‘You have Italian King now.’ He places Victor Emmanuel on the hook and squares it on the wall. ‘Always here. We will come back to check.’

Goad steps towards him, smiling hesitantly.

‘I quite understand, although I’m not sure that we needed the point made quite so dramatically. What would you say to having portraits of both kings together, or perhaps—’

The small man raises his dagger. Esmond feels a lurch. He leaps forward over the upended table, his feet crunching on the glass. The man brings the dagger down hard, landing two sharp blows on Goad’s head, hilt-first. Goad doesn’t pass out, but lowers himself carefully to the ground, a plume of blood darkening his hair. The small man brings his dagger up again as Esmond reaches him, seizing his arm from behind. The man wheels around. His hand is hot and damp.

‘Carità,’ Esmond says.

A pause, and the man takes the opportunity to drive a knee into Esmond’s groin. A sour pain spreads through his body to his throat. He lets go of Carità’s arm and bends double, tears springing to his eyes. He thinks he might vomit. A soft hand on his back and he turns to see Fiamma standing beside him.

‘ Basta così!’ she shouts, jutting her chin towards the little man. He regards her for a moment and then lets the dagger fall to his side.

‘ Allora, andiamo, ’ Carità says. Then, bending over Goad. ‘You think your friends protect you? You tell anyone in Rome and we start to kill English people. Your time has run out. Me ne frego!’ The last is shouted and repeated by the others as they file out. They listen to the Blackshirts singing as they make their way down the via Tornabuoni.

Fiamma is still next to him, her hand on his back. Gesuina is crouched over Goad, speaking softly. Someone has balled a jacket beneath the older man’s head. His cheeks are grey, his eyes closed. Gesuina holds a cloth to the wound. Bailey goes to stand above him.

‘We need an ambulance. Can someone call the Golden Cross?’

‘I’ll go,’ says Fiamma, ‘the telephone is in the library.’

Esmond stands, wincing. He sees Douglas and Orioli appear from the corridor.

‘Everything all right?’ Douglas asks, and looks at Goad.

The Reggies take Douglas and Orioli outside. Father Bailey and Colonel Keppel turn to Esmond.‘How d’you feel?’ the priest asks.

‘I should have thumped them, I really should,’ says Keppel, jabbing in the air.

‘Esmond did more than enough. You’d have ended up like Goad.’

‘I’d like to have seen them try.’ The Colonel pinches his moustache and lets out a gravelled whinny.

‘I’m fine,’ says Esmond. ‘How’s Harold?’

‘He’ll live, lucky fellow. Here they are.’

Two men in blue uniforms come through the door, golden crosses embroidered on their backs. They lift Goad’s arms to their shoulders and carry him to the door.

‘I’ll go along,’ says Bailey. ‘Perhaps, Esmond, you could wire Gerald in the morning. Tell him his father’s had a spot of trouble. He’ll want to know. Gesuina will give you his details.’

He and Fiamma are in the kitchen drinking tea. She has changed into green silk pyjamas and looks, Esmond thinks, like a princess from the Arabian Nights . They’d cleared up the entrance hall together, sweeping glass and mopping the sticky floor. It had grown dark and they worked in the light between standard lamps, under the dull gaze of Victor Emmanuel. Now San Gaetano chimes ten o’clock. The pain in his groin has finally lifted. Fiamma fishes a slice of lemon out of her tea with a spoon, sucks it, drops it back into her cup.

‘Where have they taken him, do you think?’

‘Santa Maria Nuova. It’s not far.’ She blows on her tea. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Rum,’ says Esmond. ‘Worried about Harold.’

‘Me too. He looked so unwell on the floor. Bastardi .’ She places her cup in the sink with a crash. ‘You were a good man tonight,’ she says, stepping towards him and walking her fingers across his head. ‘You were brave. Now I must go to bed.’ Esmond’s scalp tingles as he finishes his tea and makes his way along the corridor to his room.