The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (8 page)

The letter from Bruno reached Frith Street one evening in March. It arrived unnoticed, while Valentino was lounging at the kitchen table after supper, talking about politics.

“I don't know what the fuss is about. Austria has always been part of Germany: it says so in
L'Italia Nostra
. Besides, the Austrians cheered Hitler's armies, they waved Nazi flags, they threw flowers. They would hardly have done that if they did not wish to become a part of the Third Reich.”

Five days before, Adolf Hitler's soldiers had marched as conquerors through the streets of Vienna. The British government had protested, but in the end had concluded that the coup—the
Anschluss,
or unification, the Germans called it—was inevitable, short of declaring war.

“I suppose we should be grateful that no blood was shed,” Antonio remarked. The news disturbed him. It was as though the weather had changed overnight; there was a heaviness in the air, presaging storms. In Piccadilly Circus some British Blackshirts had gathered to celebrate Hitler's success, raising their fists in the fascist salute.

“Don't be so lily-livered, Antonio. It is necessary, sooner or later, to shed blood. How will Italy regain its empire without it?” Valentino leaned back in his chair toward the scullery, where Filomena was washing up the supper things. “Be quiet in there, Filomena, will you? We men can't hear ourselves think.”

In answer Filomena banged two pan lids together like cymbals. Valentino stubbed out his cigarette and made to get up, ready to box his sister's ears.

“Let her be,” said Antonio. “She's nearly finished.”

“But it's not respectful. She'll disturb Papa, and he needs some rest. He's not well, you know, Antonio.”

Enrico had retired to bed, suffering from a chest cold. Every winter he caught some infection that refused to clear in the fog-drenched London air. Antonio would have to open the kiosk in the morning, although he was working late tonight, performing at La Rondine. The thought of rising at dawn made his flesh quake with exhaustion. He had not had an undisturbed night in the four months since his son was born. The baby had been christened Enrico: after his grandfather, according to the custom, but also in secret homage to Antonio's hero, the singer Enrico Caruso.

Valentino rose to his feet, pulling a comb from his trouser pocket. “Well, I will be on my way. No, I'm not going to the
fascio
tonight. I have other fish to fry.” He winked at his brother, who groaned.

“Oh, God, Valentino. Who is it this time?”

“You don't expect me to reveal the lady's name, do you? What do you take me for, a cad?” Valentino ran the comb through his hair, which was slicked with scented oil. “All I will say is that her husband works late at Bianchi's restaurant, sometimes until one, two o'clock in the morning. The poor girl gets lonely and longs for company. Oh, how she longs for company. I cannot describe it to you, Antonio.”

“I hope that you're being careful, that's all,” Antonio was saying, when he heard the flurry of footsteps in the corridor. It was Danila, who had come downstairs after settling the baby. In one hand she waved the envelope she had picked up from the mat.

“It's from Bruno! I recognize his handwriting. Filomena, there's a letter from Bruno.”

Filomena stepped from the scullery, wiping her hands on her apron. She took the letter from Danila and stared. The envelope looked as though it had passed through many damp, weary hands on its journey from Africa.

“Open it,” said Danila, so impatiently that Antonio thought she would snatch the letter from his sister.

“Perhaps Filomena would like to read it alone,” he said.

Danila stuck out her lower lip. “Pouf! Why should she? Bruno is not one for writing love letters. It will be full of his news, that's all. If she wants to read it by herself she can do it afterward.”

“Maybe he is breaking off our engagement,” said Filomena, still without opening the letter.

“I do not believe so for an instant. He is an honorable man, my cousin Bruno. You should not even think such a thought, Filomena. It is not worthy of you.”

“No, you should not,” said Valentino, who like Danila was craning over his sister's shoulder, eager to see the letter. “Who else would have you, eh? Come on now, Filomena. Open it.”

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper, covered in looped untidy handwriting.

“Well,” said Danila, “what does he say?”

In silence Filomena handed her the letter. Danila had been right: there were no endearments in it, nothing that made it personal. It did not matter if the whole family read it.

“He is coming home! Why didn't you say so at once? He has been injured, although the injury is not great, and he is coming home. That is wonderful news. Isn't it, Valentino?”

“Wonderful,” said Valentino, who was gazing at the sheet of paper with reverence: a letter from a fascist hero, sent from the furthest outpost of the new Roman empire.

Antonio looked at his sister. Her eyes met his for an instant, gravely.

“Aren't you happy, Filomena?” Danila said it warmly, but there was something needling in her voice all the same. “Bruno is coming home. You must be so glad.”

“Yes, of course I'm glad.” Filomena knotted the strings of her apron more tightly about her waist and took a papery brown onion from the basket. “And now I must make some soup for Papa, so that he has something nourishing for tomorrow, while I am at work.”

“You don't sound glad,” said Danila.

“Oh, there is no pleasing some people.” Valentino put Bruno's letter on the table and reached for his hat. “Take no notice, Danila, she's always been a sourpuss. Well, I'm off. I'll see you in the morning, Antonino.”

Danila was still staring at Filomena, a hurt expression on her face, when there was a chuntering wail from the room upstairs. The baby had woken. At once Danila forgot about Bruno's letter. The whole of her being was caught up in the baby, as though she were nourishing him with her soul as well as her flesh.

“I thought he was settled,” she said, scurrying upstairs once more. “He cannot need changing, he must be hungry.”

In the kitchen Filomena began to chop onions, the knife slamming against the board. Antonio heard her sniff.

“Don't cry,” he said, “it will be all right.”

“I am not crying. It's the onions.”

“I daresay you have forgotten what Bruno is like, it has been so long, he is so far away.”

“No,” said Filomena, “I remember him well enough.”

“You'll remember then that he is a decent fellow. You may not see eye to eye where politics are concerned, but he will be kind to you, you know that. Look at me, Mena. I am telling you the truth. You will learn to love him as a husband, I promise. And when we work so hard it is a relief, to have one thing in your life that is calm and settled.”

Filomena's mouth gave a twist that in a man Antonio would have called sardonic. “Yes, I am sure that you are right.”

She turned her back and began chopping again. Antonio felt annoyed. He had done his best for Filomena. What else could she expect? Most brothers would do what Valentino had done: tell her to stop being foolish and to count her blessings. Without speaking he went upstairs to fetch his accordion.

Danila was sitting on the bed, her blouse unbuttoned, the baby at her breast. His mouth was blind and greedy, like a newly hatched bird.

“So the child was hungry, then?” Antonio said, removing the cloth that covered his accordion, to protect it from the moist black grime of the city.

Danila frowned. “Your sister Filomena is a strange girl. Why isn't she overjoyed that Bruno is coming home? I do not think she loves him at all.”

“She is anxious. It is a long time since Bruno went to Abyssinia. And it will be a great change in her life—”

“You should be stricter with her, Antonino.” Lately Danila had become more assertive, especially where Filomena was concerned, as though motherhood had increased her authority. “Who does she think she is? I did not complain when our fathers agreed that we should marry.”

“That is different—” began Antonio. Then he stopped to think about what Danila had said.
I did not complain.
Why would she complain? She had loved him, she had wanted to marry him. Surely she had wanted to marry him?

“It is because she was brought up in London, in my opinion. I am sure that your mother did her best, but it is not the same, it is never the same. I do not think that Filomena truly understands how Italian women should behave.”

Danila cupped the baby's head in her hand. She did it confidently, as though she had been feeding infants all her life. Antonio watched her. Through the days of their courtship she had been shyly adoring, as if she could imagine no higher destiny than becoming his wife. He remembered her downcast eyes, her timid smiles. Had they been—not false, of course not false—but exaggerated, designed to flatter his vanity? Suddenly Antonio saw himself as perhaps Danila saw him, a forked hairy grasping creature, like a satyr.

“Danila,” he said, blurting out the words, “do you still love me?”

Danila's eyes widened in surprise. “Don't be foolish. Of course I love you, you are my husband. I left my home to come and live with you.” She clasped the child to her shoulder, while with her free hand she tried to button her blouse. “But we have a son now. It is a big responsibility, we cannot carry on exactly as we were. Pass me that towel, will you, Antonio?”

She was rubbing the baby's back now to wind him, her movements firm and deft. Her very competence seemed to Antonio to shut him out, just as he had been shut out when she was in labor. He laid the towel upon his wife's knee. Then he picked up his accordion and ran nimbly down the stairs.

La Rondine, the
restaurant where Antonio sang twice a week, was managed by a thick-necked bull of a man called Giuseppe, nicknamed Peppino, who came from Naples. He was a communist. He claimed to have fled Italy ten years before because of persecution by the
squadristi,
the fascist paramilitary gangs, although Antonio suspected that there was a more ignoble motive for his flight, a vendetta of some kind. Peppino was notorious for getting into fights. More than once Antonio had had to restrain him from throwing a punch, especially when the conversation turned to politics.

Tonight the restaurant was quiet. By ten o'clock only a pair of tables was occupied, one by a love-struck couple, the other by a group of Englishmen, scruffy but well-spoken, who were discussing the invasion of Austria in jagged excitable voices. Antonio knew that neither set of diners would welcome his warbling “Isle of Capri” in their ears.

“Perhaps I will go home,” he said to Peppino, who was standing at the bar beneath a luridly tinted photograph of the Blue Grotto. “I do not suppose there will be any more customers this evening.”

“Stay and have a drink.” Peppino spoke mournfully, expecting a refusal. He lived in a state of perpetual homesickness. Unlike the Trombettas, he could not return to Italy for a summer's visit, and since so many of his countrymen supported Mussolini he got no pleasure from consorting with them. Even the Italian social clubs, the waiters' cooperative, the Dante Alighieri society, were barred to him. They all held their meetings at the Casa d'Italia now, and he would not step across the threshold of that accursed building.

Peppino's marmoset eyes touched Antonio. Besides, he did not want to go home yet. He took the grappa that Peppino gave him and swallowed it.

Peppino looked surprised. “That is not like you, my friend. What has happened? Are you grieving or celebrating?”

“You are not a married man, are you, Peppino?”

“That is the problem, is it?” Peppino reached for the bottle once more. “In that case, drink long, drink deep.”

Antonio felt the grappa shimmer through his veins. Through its haze he remembered Danila on their wedding day, fragile and shining as a piece of Venetian glass. Then he thought of how she did not like to make love in the baby's presence, squirming in his arms, hushing him to silence. Was that how their life together would be from now on?