They set sail. It is a mere few kilometres across the Gulf of the Poets to Portovenere, their first stop, but the commotion with which their departure occurs would be better suited to a ship taking off on a great voyage. The Contessa’s household staff come to see them off: some standing on the jetty, others amidst the terraces. The house soars behind, nestled in its dark bank of trees. But gradually it, too, is diminished – becomes a cottage, a child’s doll’s house.
Then there is only the water and the wind. The guests look at one another, unsure of what to do, whether to speak, like actors who have suddenly forgotten their lines. All except for Truss, who is reading the papers in one of the seats on the foredeck.
Hal glances at Stella. She stands a little distance from the group, and her gaze is turned from them. If they are all upon the stage, he thinks, she is the one waiting in the wings, hidden in its dark recesses. He remembers again how she had been in Rome. Quiet, but self-possessed. Her quietness has a different quality now; she is subdued. He looks away. He watches, instead, as Earl Morgan staggers over to the other chair and sits down. The actor turns toward the sea, until perhaps he thinks no one can see him. Then his smile – his whole face, in fact, appears to collapse in on itself. It is a horrible sight, as though the man is coming apart at the seams. Presently, loud snores are heard from his direction, and the hand that had been holding his drink slackens, allowing the empty glass to roll gently back towards them, the slice of lemon flopping onto the deck like a tiny, dead fish.
Portovenere
The water in the Gulf of the Poets is calm, protected from the violence of the sea without by a long sea barrier at the mouth. In the distance the shadows of vast ships cluster about La Spezia harbour, vessels of heavy industry and war.
‘Not worth a visit, in my opinion,’ Aubrey Boyd pronounces, looking back at it, ‘unless you have a fetish for the industrial.’
‘I was there yesterday,’ Hal says. ‘Briefly.’
‘Oh, gracious.’ Aubrey lifts his eyebrows. ‘You are intrepid.’
All come up on deck for a better sighting of the town, even those who have seen it before.
‘It is my favourite,’ Signor Gaspari says, quietly. ‘The Victorians flocked to the Cinque Terre, but Portovenere was the one they forgot.’ He looks at Hal, and gives his downturned smile. ‘I hope people continue to forget.’
Hal can make out a vivid strip of houses, each painted a different colour: ochre, sepia, rust red, dusky pink and, occasionally, a slice of blue: the colours of earth and sky. They are like the bright spines of so many books crammed together onto a bookshelf; a quiet spectacle. Aubrey Boyd gives a soft cry of delight, and reaches for his camera.
Above the town is the great grey mass of an old castle: ruined and yet from this distance retaining something of majesty. For Genoese ships, Gaspari explains, it would have been a welcome sight: the first glimpse of home. On the other side is an uninhabited island, a steep green nub of land emerging from the water like the backbone of some sleeping sea creature.
As they motor towards the harbour a boat arrives with men clamouring to give their assistance. Roberto, the Contessa’s skipper, solemnly tells their would-be guides that his men have everything under control. Reluctantly they manoeuvre further away. But when they catch sight of Giulietta in her black sundress there are whoops and cheers, ardent declarations. And suddenly two cameras appear with huge mounted flashbulbs. Giulietta tosses her head and turns away – but this has the effect, Hal notices, of displaying her profile to its best advantage.
Aubrey turns to Hal. ‘Prepare yourself for a great deal more of this. They are like cockroaches, these men – they follow some scent only discernible to them. And nowhere breeds them in greater numbers than Italy.’
‘Before supper,’ the Contessa announces to the party, once they have moored, ‘we will have a screening of the film. The audience at Cannes are getting a preview, but those on this boat will be the first to experience Signor Gaspari’s creation.’ She turns to the director, who inclines his head modestly.
As they are taken across on the tender, Hal turns to Gaspari. ‘So no one has seen it yet, apart from you? Even the actors?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. It keeps it purer, this way.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Free from ego, from meddling. Though there was some pressure, this time, to share the rushes.’ And Hal is certain that his gaze moves momentarily toward Truss.