Hal wanders down to the pathway that leads between the rocks on the rough side and sees that he is not alone: evidently Aubrey Boyd has decided it will be the perfect place for windswept photographs of Giulietta and Earl Morgan. Giulietta wears a long white dress that is already flecked with seaspray and her hair sticks wetly to her forehead. She shows surprising fortitude, Hal thinks, in the face of adversity. He would have expected her to complain – quite rightly – at the dangerous slickness of the rock beneath their feet, at the chill breeze wicking in across the sea, but she remains resolutely silent.
A crowd has gathered to watch, ranged along the lip of stone above them. It could easily be the entire population of Portovenere, judging by the number. They are a strangely silent audience, more like observers at a wake than fans. Gradually, as the wind picks up – and perhaps understanding that the spectacle is not going to change in any dramatic way – they drift away. When a few fat drops of rain begin to fall, Aubrey finally calls a halt. The few remaining onlookers cluster in, presenting photographs and autograph books for a soggy signature.
That evening, an awning is pulled out over the dining area to protect them from the rain, and with the candles lit along the table the space becomes a luminous cocoon. After supper, the Contessa has Roberto set up a gramophone on the deck. It is a huge old machine, rather than one of the smaller modern ones, with a great brass funnel. The needle is lifted on the first record: ‘Perduto Amore (In cerca di te)’. It sends a shock through Hal. The first time he heard it was when it had first come out, in 1945. He had danced to it with Suze in the Hammersmith Palais – the band there had covered it, to certain mutterings about bad taste, because it was in the language of the so-recent enemy. The words had stayed with him: the singer searching the city for their lost lover:
Ogni viso guardo, non sei tu
Ogni voce ascolto, non sei tu.
Every face I see, it isn’t you
Every voice I hear, it isn’t you.
And then it comes to him that he has heard it somewhere else. He turns to Gaspari:
‘This was the soundtrack, for Elegy.’
Gaspari nods.
‘No,’ the Contessa says, striding over to Roberto. ‘This is too melancholy. Play us …’ she claps her hands, ‘some rock and roll.’ Her pronunciation turns it into a single Italianate word: ‘rockarolle’. Hal is impressed. Roberto finds an Italian cover of ‘Rock the Joint’: rather off-key, but with the same infectious rhythm. For a few moments, no one moves. Then Giulietta springs up, takes the hand of one of the watching deckhands, who seems almost ready to combust with joy at his good fortune. The two of them begin to spin and kick: she dragging him impatiently around after her.
‘Come come,’ the Contessa says, rather like an overzealous sports mistress, Hal thinks, hurrying them all to their feet. All except for Truss, who politely declines with a wave of one hand, and Earl Morgan who, at this point in the evening, cannot be expected to stand up. She takes Hal as her partner and he dances with her conservatively for a moment, until she tells him not to treat her like an antique. Over her shoulder he can see Aubrey doing an awkward little improvisation on his own, and Gaspari dancing with Stella, Nina scurrying about their feet. For the first time, Stella seems to be enjoying herself – and he feels an unexpected regret that he isn’t the one to make her smile.
The next record is played: a thirties waltz, with a slower tempo. As they dance nearer to Gaspari and Stella the Contessa says, ‘Let’s swap. I wish to dance with my old friend.’
Hal sees Stella’s face, and there is a moment when he thinks she is about to excuse herself. But the opportunity to do so seems to slide past, to the point where it would look odd for her to walk away. He finds, as he did on the rooftop in Rome, that her hand is surprisingly warm in his. Perhaps it is that impression of serene coolness she projects: one might also expect her touch to be cold. He rests his hand so lightly on her waist that he is hardly touching it, but he can feel warmth there, too, beneath his palm.
She does not look at him, as they begin to move, but at some point beyond his shoulder. He has never been a particularly adept dancer. Suze used to chide him for his lack of rhythm. But for a few minutes his clumsiness appears to desert him. He moves – they move – with something approaching grace.
Suddenly the melody stutters, and loops round on itself. Roberto, manning the machine, curses, and stops the thing, lifts it off to inspect the surface. Stella seizes her opportunity. ‘I think that’s enough for me,’ she says, with a polite nod, extracting herself. He watches her go.
‘Mrs Truss is an excellent dancer, no?’
Hal turns to find Gaspari a couple of feet away.
‘Oh. Yes, she is.’
‘Though,’ Gaspari says thoughtfully, ‘I think she danced best with you.’
Hal looks at him sharply, wondering what, exactly, he means by this. But the man’s expression is inscrutable.
Back in his cabin he is certain that he can still feel it, the warmth of her waist beneath his palm. He catches himself. What a pathetic figure he is in this moment: a single man thinking of another’s wife. He closes his eyes, wills sleep. But he finds that an image is imprinted there, the same one that drove him from the film screening like someone pursued by a demon.
10