‘Don’t ask me again – I might change my mind. But I could do with a spell without Bennett’s snoring, anyway. And I don’t mind the cold.’
He would think, later, of the horrible irony of Morris saying this. It would have been the cold that killed him first.
He had thought Morris was little more than a big-hearted joker at first: a man who was always being ribbed by the other men for something – his nose, his constant talk about his new wife, Flora, or his seasickness (he suffered dreadfully, almost constantly). But then Hal learned, from another rating, that Morris wrote stories of his own, and asked to read one. It had made the hairs stand up on his arms. It had made him envious. He had always wanted to be able to write like that, with that concision, and had never managed it. Every time he tried it had come out like a spoof. But Morris’ style was absolutely his own. Here was this rare talent, hidden inside this clumsy vessel. He had books, too: a veritable lending library. Some of the men thought him a bit soft, at first, because of it. But when the long, uneventful days came and sunk them in boredom, they began to ask, somewhat sheepishly, what Morris might recommend.
Back at home, Morris was a postman. You saw all sorts, he said, on the round. In London in particular: where there was such a density of life, in which rich and poor, old and young lived so near to one another. By the end of the day he would have ten, twenty stories clamouring to be told – it was a question of which one you chose. He would scribble the ideas down and then, later, he would work over them on his solitary day off. It would be more difficult when Flora had the baby, certainly. But that was life for you, getting in the way, wonderful chaos.
Hal had been humbled by it.
*
It is still early, the light through the porthole thin and grey. He washes, dresses. Up on deck he finds Roberto, smoking morosely at the bow.
‘Very bad weather,’ he says, as soon as he sees Hal – as though he has been waiting for hours to impart this news.
The sea is still as glass. ‘It looks all right now,’ Hal says.
‘Ah, not now. Coming. I have lived in Liguria for my whole life: I know when a storm is on its way. The Contessa, she do not believe me – but I know.’
At this hour, Portovenere appears painted in watercolour. It seems deserted, too, save for one waterfront café where a man is putting out chairs. Suddenly hungry, Hal ambles over and takes a seat. The man spots him, smiles. ‘Ah,’ he says, in almost faultless English, when he sees Hal. ‘You are from the big yacht, yes? Signor Gaspari’s boat?’
Hal nods – lacking the energy to correct him.
‘She is a beauty,’ the man says, reverentially. ‘And he is a great man, Gaspari.’
‘Yes. He makes wonderful films.’
The man nods, vigorously. ‘I thought he died, during the war. Many people thought it.’
‘Why?’
‘He …’ the man makes a flitting motion with his hand, ‘… disappeared. Before the war, he used to come here in the summers, with a friend. They kept to themselves, you know, but everyone knew who he was. But then they stopped coming.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s not so strange. People don’t live in the same way in wartime.’
The man shakes his head, adamant, ‘No, it was more than that. No one heard anything of him for a long time. His name vanished, completely. Nothing in the papers, when before there had been so much. And then he appeared again, a few years ago, and made that beautiful film. It made me weep.’ He remembers himself. ‘Vuole qualcosa da mangiare? You want something?’
Hal orders an espresso and some pastries to go with it. When the man comes back with his breakfast, he asks, ‘Does anyone know what happened to him, Signor Gaspari?’
The man shrugs. ‘No. It happened, you know, in the days of Mussolini. Capisci?’