‘Ah. Also a thing of a beauty. If you like, we shall go there now.’
The second church is a smaller, sparser place than the first, but its magnificence derives from its position, extending into the sea on a finger of rock. On one side is the Atlantic proper, the water seething and foaming; on the other is the calm of the harbour. Gaspari leads Hal up onto the portion of ramparts above the church, where the views along the coast in either direction are unrivalled. With this new perspective afforded to them the town itself looks small and vulnerable. The yacht is a child’s toy, dwarfed by the landscape that surrounds her.
The wind whines around them, and Nina barks and scurries after it, as though it is a thing that might be chased. Looking over the stone lip at the surf far below Hal is filled with a strange urge to jump, as though the water is pulling him towards it. He steps back, alarmed by the force of the impulse. He sees that Gaspari too is standing right at the edge of the parapet, facing the breeze with his eyes closed against it. Hal feels now that he is witnessing some intensely private moment. He turns away.
As they make their way back down to the quayside, Gaspari says, ‘What did you make of the film? Forgive me, but you are one of the first to see it, and I think you are a man of taste.’
‘It’s a masterpiece.’
‘Oh,’ Gaspari looks at the ground, as though he doesn’t quite know how to respond to this. ‘Thank you.’
‘How did you come up with the narrative for the film? I heard you wrote the screenplay – it sounds as though only the bare bones are known of the real story.’
‘Ah, no. There is a little more to it than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
Gaspari lowers his voice, as though concerned they might be overheard. ‘There is a journal. Written by the Contessa’s ancestor.’
Hal’s interest is immediately piqued. ‘A captain’s log?’
‘A little … more personal than a log. Like a diary. I do not think that it was intended for other eyes.’
‘Why didn’t the Contessa mention it last night?’
‘I think, perhaps, because the film doesn’t exactly stick to the facts. I used my artistic licence.’
‘In what sense?’
‘The film ends happily. The journal ends … well, not so happily.’
‘Where is it?’ And then, seeing Gaspari’s face, ‘You have it with you? On board the yacht?’
Gaspari looks uneasy. ‘I do not think it would be a good idea for me to share it with you. The Contessa wouldn’t like it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you are a journalist.’
‘Well,’ Hal says, ‘it would make a nice angle to the piece …’
‘That is the problem, I think. The Contessa would rather that people believe in the happier version of the tale. If they knew it was not so, it might change how they see the film in some way.’
‘All right. Then how about if I promise not to breathe or write a word of it to anyone else?’
‘You want to read it for your own interest only?’
Hal nods. ‘Absolutely.’
Gaspari’s mouth quirks. ‘You are like me. Once a thing is in your mind you will not let it rest. You want to understand things more deeply, more so than is perhaps good for you. I am starting to see that I should not have mentioned it.’
‘But you will let me see it?’
Gaspari gives an almost imperceptible nod.
As they climb up from the tender, Truss and Stella are there on deck, both reading. His hand is on her knee. She is soignée in pastel yellow, legs crossed neatly at the ankle: the picture of self-possession. Except that her knuckles show white through the skin, as though the magazine she is reading is the only thing keeping her tethered in place. As Hal passes, though he takes care not to look directly at her, he sees her face turn up toward him then quickly away.
Later in the day the weather shifts. On the side of the promontory protected by the tight mouth of the harbour, the water is still calm. But on the other the sea is wild and dark, capped with foam like the froth on a madman’s lips. Not yet a storm though, Hal thinks. Roberto will be disappointed.