Juggling the Stars (19 page)

Added to which, the experience with Massimina had been very promising. He could do their funny business as well as the best of them it seemed. He felt rather protective towards her. Happier in her company. It was almost as if one experience had cancelled out the other. He had slept all night with her, her warm smell and heavy breasts not unlike Mother's those times. Really, he felt quite tempted to tell her everything. Maybe she would play along perfectly happily.

“Panino,
 Morri?' They had stopped at Fano and Massimina wanted him to pick up a sandwich from the man pushing his trolley up the platform. She refused to pay a small surcharge to travel in relative style on the rapido and then wanted him to waste money hanging out of the window to buy dry sandwiches from some gippo on the platform.

“No,' Morris was firm.

Wait for her to go to the lavatory and then he'd ask to borrow the paper off the lady beside him and flick through what was important as quickly as possible. Massimina had to go to the lavatory quite often, he'd noticed, which was rather convenient. Ply her with drinks should be his policy.

‘Cara,
 the sandwiches these people sell are terrible, but I'll get you a can of coke if you want. You can't go wrong with a can.'

‘No thanks,' she said and sat back and smiled sweetly.

Morris had to wait untill beyond Senigallia before nature finally called.

HORROR IN RIMINI HOTEL MYSTERY MURDER, the headline ran, though they'd relegated the thing to page four oddly. Morris felt the adrenalin stir in his veins.

'Terrible,' the lady who had been so kind as to lend the paper remarked. She was a frail decaying creature wrapped in a shawl despite the stale heat of the compartment. Morris smiled sadly, raising half a blond eyebrow.

Funny they didn't mention the pillow. But then Morris had never really trusted the papers for detail.
ADULTERY CLUE
- there was a subheading.

‘Morri.'

Barely two minutes and she was back already. She couldn't have …

‘It's Ancona. We've got to get off,' They were rolling into a station and he hadn't even noticed. 'It was occupied,' she whispered as they heaved down the two suitcases.

‘Veramente orrendo,'
Morris commented handing back the paper to the old woman (he felt more than ever the actor today) and when she asked if he would be so kind he got her bag down and gave her a hand onto the platform. The thing about old people was they were so formal so polite. You felt perfectly safe with them.

The original idea had been quite simply to cross the peninsula from east to west putting as much distance as possible between himself and Rimini before he posted the ransom letter. Seeing as neither of them had ever seen Rome before, Morris had suggested this elopement of theirs was an opportunity absolutely not to be missed; heaven only knew when they would find time to visit Rome after they were married with setting up home and everything. So they had taken the earliest train from Rimini and were to change at Ancona with a half-hour wait before the espresso to Rome came in. Massimina dashed off directly to the ladies' while Morris lugged their two suitcases to a bench and sat down to think. He disliked travel of this kind, the dust and dirt of railway compartments the grime you discovered on the backs of your arms that had got there you knew not how, under your fingernails behind the elbow; and then the long waits for unaccountably delayed trains, the pushing and shoving. If one had to travel it should be in style Morris thought with a little leg room the possibility of buying a cool drink any time you wanted. After the purgatory of this awful business, when he could start really livings. he must try doing some travelling that way.

Funny, it was somehow impossible to remember how life had felt before all this began.

Morris the murderer.

The four shaded platforms of Ancona's station milled with holidaymakers straining to catch the delays announced over the p.a., while the sun lay bright and white like four hot pokers on the gleaming lines between. A freight train clattered by and the inevitable workmen way up the line leaned on their spades to watch it pass. Morris tried to look at his situation logically. He tried to analyse each step he must make, one by one. But his mind rebelled. It was perilous but he seemed to be losing the desire to really think the thing out, to take it from now, the eye of the storm, right through every possible permutation to the moment when he, Morris Duckworth no less, would be perfectly free to live a life of ease with his ugly name, in an apartment in Rome perhaps, or Naples., or Verona again. (Why should he move if he came out of it right?)

Morris was perfectly happy reviewing the details of the life afterwards - he wanted to write a book, that was definite, and perhaps if he invested the money carefully he might even patronize one or two other intelligent young men from poor backgrounds who thought like himself - it wasn't impossible. (The Duckworth Scholarship, a year in Italy for budding young writers - that would be an amusing way to meet new people.) Morris enjoyed these thoughts like a cool soothing cream - but his restless mind refused to settle on the next few days and weeks ahead during which his future ease must be earned. (The careers of how many would-be Duckworth scholars hung on his every move.)

He bent down, unzipped a bag and drew out the dictaphone.

‘Dear Dad, it might be worthwhile to compare our two respective futures. Yours stretches away on metalled rails, in an eternity of work, telly, beer and darts. Death will be an accident for you, a sudden hiccup, a derailment not a destination. My future on the contrary, is in the making every moment, as is my character; life for me is a maze where every choice is critical and hence formative (this was very good!). The contrast reflects our different positions vis à vis freedom and courage, I may come to grief but …'

‘Documenti, per favore.'
Morris's head jerked up like a jack-in-the-box. A tall carabiniere was standing over the only other occupant of the bench, a hippy looking girl. The policeman was heavily built with a pantomime Calabrian moustache, a white shirt soaked in sweat. Three or four other uniformed officers were moving up the platform behind, demanding documents at random (and just when he had really been in form).

Morris turned instinctively to his left, but saw that the platform simply petered away into a maze of rails after another fifty metres or so. Anyway, it would be crazy to get up and go at a moment like this. He slipped the dictaphone back in the bag, opened a side pocket and rummaged for his passport. If somebody had seen him in the hotel lobby and given a description? Or when he was dropping the bag in the river perhaps, if somebody had seen him then? Or even simply eating with Giacomo and Sandra the night before (they had found the restaurant receipt in his pocket, gone over there to interview the waiters, it was obvious). If they had got an identikit of him already and were doing the most sensible thing, combing all trains and train connections out of the city? Why on earth had he travelled by train? It was asking for it. And if they recognized him now? What to do? He would give himself up immediately. There was no point in struggling like an idiot and having himself shot at. Morris could already feel the hard metal of the handcuffs closing on his wrists, could hear himself speaking in court: They were no better than me. Your Honour. Signor Pellegrini made a number of lewd proposals to my
fidanzata
which, ‘But his
fidanzata
was Massimina for God's sake!'

The policeman was turning over and over the small plastic card the girl had given him. He looked her up and down and asked her to show him the underside of her arms. She did so and he grunted, not finding what he was after.

'Mio passaporto,,
 Morris said with his frankest blond smile and strongest English accent. The carabiniere's southern face relaxed into an expression of generous servility and at the sight of the very respectable, short-haired, clear-eyed and patently undrugged Morris, he pushed the blue passport away.

‘Niente bisogno, grazie.'

Morris made a cool show of examining his watch for a moment, fiddled in the pocket of his shorts for money, stood up and hurried directly to the ladies' room which was back towards the main station. He must stop her as she came out of the loo, stop her coming up the platform and being …

But he was too late. Massimina met him halfway.

‘Morri, they're looking for drug addicts! They …'

‘Did they ask you for documents? Do you have any with you?'

‘I showed my ID card. They're looking at everybody's arms to see if …'

Morris put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a resounding kiss on one soft cheek. He felt quite as if she'd done something extraordinarily clever of her own accord: showed her identity card to a carabiniere and not even been recognized! The police in Ancona clearly were not on the lookout for a kidnap victim from Verona. Not wandering free down the platform. It was obvious really, but Morris couldn't help feeling how marvellous it was. A little miracle.

'The train's in on platform four. Go and save us a couple of seats while I just dash and make a phone call. ‘ It was so useful having an accomplice. If ever he was arrested he'd swear she'd been in on it all the way and bring her down with him. There were ways of proving one had made love these days. That should stick it up her signora mamma's arse with her oh so nice educated daughter stuff.

‘But …'

I've just thought of a friend's house we might be able to stay at. I want to phone before we get to Rome. Save us some money maybe.'

Morris found the station S.I.P. by the ticket office. He closed himself in a booth, fished for his address book and dialled directly. It was all instinct now. The thing was to do everything on the upstroke. As it came. That was living.

‘Signora Trevisan?'

‘Si, chi parla?'

‘Sono io, Signora
, Morris.'

'Ah, dove sei?
She seemed neither irritated nor pleased, but more resigned.

‘In An - Bari,' Morris remembered. ‘Look, I just wanted to know if you've had any more news about Massimina, I mean from her …' He let his voice trail off, as if overawed.

‘No,' Signora Trevisan said. She was having to try hard to stop herself from crying, Morris thought, and he felt inclined to be kind to her. God knows if she hadn't been rude to him in the first place he would never have been anything other than kind and polite to her and most probably none of this would ever have happened. He could have married Massimina and had done. Brought a bit of style into the family. New blood. Good gene mix.

'Is there any hope it might not be a kidnap then, I mean …'

'The police say this is quite usual.' She was curt-now.

‘If I came back to Verona, is there anything I could do? Because I really would like …'

Signora Trevisan didn't think so really. The police were following up every line they could and her brother and Bobo had both come to live with them for the duration, for moral support and advice.

‘I see.'

‘But if you want some news you can always phone,' she added, rather grudgingly Morris felt.

‘Grazie infinite,'
he said warmly and after asking after the rest of the family hung up with a smile.

Then phoned Gregorio. If the worst came to the worst and one had to run, where better than a golden beach in Sardinia?

The phone rang for some minutes and was finally answered by another boy who was not Gregorio. After a moment or two Gregorio came on the line, giggly and clearly drunk. Morris was annoyed (the famous
figli di papà
, drunk at noon on their sun-drenched veranda) and explained his situation quickly and tersely, not at all begging. He was in Bari but had decided not to go to Turkey for reasons too complicated to go into. Would it be possible for him to stay in Sardinia for a while as offered? He'd be there in a week's time.

‘But I won't be here,' Gregorio said.

His father had to have a gallstone operation July 1st, and Mother had insisted he be back in Verona to visit and so on and keep her company, because she was always nervous in the house on her own and especially after that break-in when they took the bronze. It was understandable really.

But damn annoying, Morris thought.

‘Oh, okay.'