Last Train from Liguria (2010) (16 page)

Amelia tells her about Signora Lami at the end of the hottest day so far that summer - the hottest since before
la grande guerra
, it said on the radio news. All morning Bella has been trailing the shade around the terrace, the afternoon lying on the sofa in the shuttered library listening to the wireless and dozing off. Later she sat in a bath of cold water and read magazines, only pulling herself together when she heard Harriet, Amelia’s twice-a-day beautician, arrive with her box of tricks.

By now the others have been gone almost a fortnight, while the Signora settles her husband’s affairs. At first Amelia had fumed at their prolonged absence, but lately she seems to have settled down. In any case, earlier that day, a telegram had arrived saying they would all, including Signora Lami, be back in Bordighera by the weekend.

‘Well, thank
Ch-rrist
for that!’ Amelia had said, right into Bella’s face. ‘Might at least save me from dying of boredom!’

The evening has taken the edge off the sun and the beaches and promenade are starting to fill up again. Children and dogs, old men and cyclists, recently arrived holidaymakers reeling about with shocked boiled-pink faces. The Italians, as always, taking it slowly, men strolling with their hands clasped behind their backs, women with arms folded; all tirelessly debating dinner possibilities: the how and what of each little morsel, the where - if it’s a question of choosing a restaurant.

At one end of the promenade the notes of a brass band bounce like audible midges. At the far end, from the Kursaal’s
the dansant
salon, comes the subdued whine of a string quartet. Young women, slightly tipsy, and therefore, Bella assumes, probably American, come out of Damilano’s wearing beach pyjamas and hats shaped like cones. Bella waits to see if Amelia will address them. But they are given no more than a cursory once-over and a disdainful blast of cigarette smoke as they pass by.

She is in a peculiar mood, one Bella hasn’t seen up till now. Amelia, whether buoyant or slightly angry, always tends to be at least energetic. But today she seems quiet. Bella puts it down to her arm, which has only that morning been released from its sling, and is sore and weakened, so that Amelia has to hold it up by the elbow as they walk along.

On the beach opposite the Hotel Parigi a sideshow has pulled in a large crowd. A man sits on a high chair, facing the promenade, the sea at his back. He has a ventriloquist’s dummy on his lap. As they near they see the dummy is supposed to be Adolf Hitler. Adolf Hitler as a baby with his little moustache and a rattle in his hand. He wears a nappy and a bonnet with a swastika on the front, which he keeps trying to pull off, and the man keeps trying to put back on. He is shouting and crying for his ‘
Mutti
‘ to change his dirty nappy, but she has, it seems, run off with a Jew. ‘
Ein Jude!!!
‘ the baby howls. ‘
Nein! Nein! Nein!
’

The man tells him yes and what’s more a musician.

’
Un musicista?
’

Yes, the ventriloquist says - with a very large trombone.

’
Un trombone grandissimo?
‘ The baby is inconsolable.

The beach is in uproar. Even from the sea, rowers in their boats have edged back in to listen. All around, the sound of laughing voices: French, American, Italian. Behind, Bella hears a cockney cry out, ‘Go on, Aydolf, show us wot you’ve got then.’

Only one group is quiet. Young Germans who had been lolling on their beach towels a little way from the sideshow. They begin, one by one, to pull themselves up, and, brushing the sand from their costumes, walk away from the beach and down along the promenade in high-headed silence.

Amelia watches them go. ‘Of course, she’s a Jewess, you know,’ she says, the
ess
hissing slightly on the end of the word.

‘Who is?’

‘Aunt Lami. Not that I give a hoot, I mean. Dad is a little different. He says it’s not that there’s anything
wrong
with them per se, it’s just there’s always trouble when they’re around.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

Amelia steps away from the spectators. ‘Shall we start back?’ she suggests. When Bella catches up with her she continues. ‘We get a lot of German businessmen staying at our hotels, you know. Dad hears things. Shall I tell you a little secret?’

‘If you want to.’

‘We went to Berlin, Grace and I, in May. Although we weren’t supposed to. But we were in Switzerland anyhow, so what the heck. While we were there we saw a lot of rather odd things. They have these rallies - oh, nothing like the pathetic little parades you might see here. These take place at night-time, people carrying candles, searchlights all over the sky. Thousands and thousands of people. It’s sort of Busby Berkeley, military style if you get my meaning. It can be quite affecting actually, like a religious fervour, almost. Maybe not religious but - I don’t know - triumphant, defiant; they’re like people who have won a war they didn’t even have to fight. We were there when they burned all those books - although we didn’t actually see that. Students burning books. I mean, you have to think about that. They even burnt Helen Keller’s books - you know? All you had to be was Jewish to get thrown in the fire. Or disagree. There’s been quite a few anti-Jewish measures there - did you know?’

‘No.’

‘You won’t say we were there - will you? I mean Dad would simply go crazy. Worse, he’d stop our allowance.’

‘I won’t, but—?’

‘To be honest, Miss Stuart, there was a man I was rather sweet on, who had stayed a few weeks in our hotel in New York. We’d had a thing. A German, in the automobile business. I followed him. Talked Grace into coming along. She’ll go nuts if she knows I’ve told you.’

‘Oh?’

‘It wasn’t a very good idea anyhow, I’m afraid.’ She gives a small hurt smile.

They come up alongside the pavilion. The instruments spark and spear against the last of the sun. The band is playing something Bella knows is by Puccini, although she can’t remember the name.

‘And by the by, she’s not Italian,’ Amelia says out of the side of her mouth.

‘Who’s not Italian - Aunt Lami? I mean, the Signora?’ Bella asks.

‘No. Not at all. She’s German. Both parents Jews, although her father was a Baron von something or other. She spent quite a bit of her childhood in Turin, where a lot of wealthy Jews live, you know. I believe she may have gone to school for a while in England. She’s in love with England anyhow, as I’m sure you’ve probably noticed. Thinks it gives her style, I suppose. A lot of Germans are enamoured by the English. Fellow Aryans. Of course, that may soon change. Do you know, Miss Stuart, I feel about ready for an aperitif now - what do you say?’ She moves off again and Bella follows.

‘Yes, there’s quite a bit of anti-Jewish feeling in Germany right now. I’m not sure I approve, to tell you the truth. Certainly not when it becomes legal. Goodness, Miss Stuart - your face! I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about here unless - you’re not one by any chance?’

‘What? No, I’m not Jewish.’

‘Well, that’s all right then. But of course, you’re not thinking of yourself, are you? That German man I fell for - know what he told me? He said the Italian Jew is almost impossible to pick out. That Mussolini has allowed them to melt into society. Unlike in Germany, where they stick out like sore thumbs. Here it’s a needle and haystack scenario. Even their names sound Italian. They way they look, and behave. Apart from Rome, where they live in a ghetto - but that’s just the poor ones, right? Otherwise they could be anyone, anywhere. Well, I mean, you didn’t figure on Aunt Lami? Now if this were Germany, you’d know she was a Jewess all right. If this were the United States, come to think of it. The Lamis couldn’t be in a safer place. Although - who knows what people will do when it comes to it? That aria the band is playing, by the way - isn’t that? - ah yes, ‘
O mio babbino caro
.’ My dear old dad, or something. God I can’t bear it. Bad enough when it’s played well!’

They come up to Bar Atu, and the waiter ushers them to what has become their usual table. Amelia lays her elbow down, takes another cigarette from her case and orders a bottle of Prosecco. ‘How old would you say I am, Miss Stuart?’

‘I don’t know. Twenty-six or…?’

‘Thirty-two actually. Grace is thirty-four.’

‘I would have thought you younger.’

‘How sweet.’

‘I’m thirty-two,’ Bella says, because she feels it is expected.

‘Yes, we guessed you were thereabouts. So now, three old spinsters. That’s what we are. Three old spinsters in Europe. Do you think you’ll ever get married?’

‘I don’t know. Well, no. I don’t suppose I will really.’

‘No. I don’t suppose I will either.’

The waiter arrives with the Prosecco, and they stay silent while he pulls it out of the ice bucket, then pops the cork. He looks at Amelia here and there as if expecting her usual flirty banter. But Amelia doesn’t look at him. She lifts her glass and takes a sip.

‘Grace may do - marry, I mean - she’s got the ability to make herself agreeable and that’s all most men want really. Aunt Lami of course will go again, I have no doubt. Do you think Edward is in love with her? I mean, I can’t guess why else he sticks around.’

‘I really wouldn’t know.’

‘Well, if you don’t then neither do I.’

They sit for a while in silence, watching the sea darken behind the passing crowd. Amelia finishes her glass, reaches out for the bottle then seems to change her mind. ‘Do you know, Miss Stuart - I don’t feel much like staying out tonight. I think I’ll come back now - if it’s all the same with you.’