The Beast (19 page)

‘Yes,’ he said to the Lieutenant, pushing back his chair and staring at the young man as if afraid of being hit.

‘I recognized you from your picture on the cover of
Time
. And I saw you on the T.V. when I was in the States a few months ago.’

‘Oh,’ Benjamin said, pushing his chair back further, and wishing he hadn’t chosen a table at the edge of the bar, where a wrought iron fence with flower pots along its top made the idea of sudden flight impracticable.

‘I’ve read all your books and I really admire them.’

‘Thank you,’ Benjamin said, feeling, with shame, that his eyes were beginning to water.

‘Are you here on vacation? Or getting new material?’

Benjamin saw a possible safety raft; and he grabbed it.

‘I’m here on vacation,’ he said. ‘With my sister. My sister lives in Italy.’

‘Oh great. Well excuse me for bothering you. I guess it must be really embarrassing having strangers come up to you like this.’

‘No,’ Benjamin said weakly. ‘No, really—’ and he was about to go on. But with a sort of wave, and a smile, the Lieutenant had walked away from him, sat down at his own table again, and picked up his book.

Benjamin, sitting still, floundered around inside himself like a walrus out of its element for a while; then, telling himself that he must get a grip on himself, he lit a cigarette—and he didn’t often smoke—and puffed on it desperately, as though afraid that if he didn’t it would go out.

How stupid he was being, he told himself as he puffed. How stupid and idiotic and weak …

How stupid he had been, he told himself five minutes later as he clutched yet another glass of whisky. What on earth had he behaved like that for? Why hadn’t he simply answered the Lieutenant’s questions, dismissed him—and then resumed his contemplation of the pleasantness of life? Why hadn’t he? He should have done, and he would have done had he been back home. So why, here—

Well, he thought, one obviously had to get used to being mature. It wasn’t enough to tell oneself one was. At the beginning, at least, one had to remind oneself constantly; and couldn’t—as he, having drunk too much, had—just sit around with all one’s defences down. After a while those defences would be unnecessary of course. But until one was confident of one’s impregnability, one had to take care. And the fears, the doubts, the feeling that the American servicemen were alien creatures he couldn’t control, were too recently eradicated from his brain for the wounds they
had left to be completely healed. Clearly, if anyone touched them they would still ache …

And so reasoning he managed, little by little, to pull himself together again. He couldn’t quite manage to
recapture
the sense of all-pervading cheer he had had earlier—if nothing else, the depressant effect of too much whisky would have seen to that—but by the time another twenty minutes had passed he was feeling calm enough to gaze up towards the castle and wonder when it was built, and by whom, and for what purpose; and to consider, as he got up and left, saying as he passed the Lieutenant’s table, ‘Nice to have met you. Have a good evening.’

And he might have done, if he hadn’t, as he stood up to put the change the waiter had brought him in his trouser pocket, caught the Lieutenant staring at him. Staring at him as if he were some strange, prehistoric fish that had been hauled up from the depths. As if he were some alien, disturbing creature from another planet. As if he were, pale and overweight and with his bulging, watery eyes, somehow—evil.

Of course he was imagining things, he told himself, as he quickly looked away from the Lieutenant. Of course he was imagining things, he told himself as he left the bar with a bowed head, not even replying to the waiter who wished him a ‘buona sera’. And of course he was imagining things, he told himself as he saw, with relief, a taxi, hailed it and got in quickly; but nevertheless, whatever the Lieutenant had been thinking as he looked at him—he wished he hadn’t.

*

All next day, whenever he thought about that look—and he couldn’t, for some reason, get it out of his mind—he told himself that he was imagining things. And all the day
after. But he couldn’t convince himself until the evening of the day after that; when, as he was walking with Meg into Gaeta, a car with A.F.I. plates stopped on the road just ahead of them, and the same Lieutenant leaned out and offered them a ride; with the most relaxed, affable expression possible.

Benjamin was so relieved to see it—since it somehow precluded any possibility of the Lieutenant ever having looked at him with suspicion or distrust—that it never occurred to him to feel at all threatened or disturbed by the man’s having stopped, and made him wonder that he had been disturbed the other night. In fact he was positively glad at the offer of a ride. For one thing he didn’t like walking, and for another, he had to admit that he was really
quite
bored with Meg. Oh, how fast he had gotten used to the idea of maturity; and though he had thought he would have to keep his defences up for some time, it seemed that just two days were sufficient …

The trouble was, he told himself as he introduced Meg to the Lieutenant, and the Lieutenant introduced himself to both of them—his name was Bill—that since Meg had realized that all wasn’t well between them, not only had she sent Alberto away, though he had tried to persuade her not to, but she also felt obliged to spend more and more time with him. In fact yesterday she hadn’t left him at all. Which, while in other years might have pleased him (though it might not, even then; only since Meg had always felt that all was well with the two of them, she had never felt guilty about spending most of her time with her current boy-friend), now almost made him bad-tempered. And he guessed it was precisely because he had always had, up to now, only a sketch of Meg in his head. And a sketch couldn’t bear too much detail. Detail which Meg, with her
continual presence over the last two days, was forcing on him. He was happiest just spending a silent hour or two with her in the evening, watching or listening to her talk to someone else; or if they did talk together, simply having her make brief comments to him, or make fun of him. But for the last two days, alone with him, not only had she never been silent, but she had also been crushingly earnest. Talking to him about Art, and Life …

With any luck, he thought, as he got into the back seat of the car and told himself once more how glad he was it had stopped, the Lieutenant would want to have dinner with them; and as he was already eyeing Meg with
undisguised
admiration, for tonight, at least, that should let him off the hook.

So he thought, and so he believed when the Lieutenant invited them both to be his guests for dinner. But he was wrong. For while the man eyed Meg admiringly all evening, and occasionally paid her a heavy-handed compliment, he spent almost the entire evening talking to, and about, Benjamin. Talking, and asking searching questions, about Art, and Life …

And the worst thing was that Meg, who clearly liked him herself, seemed to like him just because he was taking such a fulsome, literary interest in her brother.

He thought he would go mad, as he sat at the table pontificating—being forced to pontificate—to a man who was probably the same age as him, if not older, who
probably
knew—for he had majored in English literature, he said—as much about art as he did, and almost certainly knew—for he had seen action, he said, and had travelled widely—far more about life. He thought he would go
completely
crazy; and how he longed for Alberto, or Heinz from last year, or Jean-Pierre from the year before, who
never really spoke to him; and only talked to Meg about people, and movies, and pop music and cars …

And next day, when Lieutenant Bill, who said he had a few days’ leave, turned up at the villa and continued his interrogation by the side of the swimming pool, Benjamin told himself he really couldn’t stand it.

He told himself; but he didn’t tell the Lieutenant, or Meg. He couldn’t, somehow. They wouldn’t have
understood
him; or they wouldn’t have believed him; or they would have thought—oh, the privilege!—that they were witnessing a display of artistic temperament. And they would have redoubled their assault.

Only since he didn’t tell them—though they should have seen of course; or Meg should, at least—the attack
continued
.

For four whole days.

Benjamin did manage to get the occasional moment to himself—he insisted the Lieutenant go into town with Meg in the evenings to have dinner or to have an ice cream, and twice persuaded them to go to the beach together and leave him by the swimming pool; ‘to compose,’ he said—but somehow even that was counter-productive. For when they returned they seemed to feel they had to make up for lost time; and instead of merely besieging him, they battered him …

But on the evening of the fourth day, after the Lieutenant had driven Meg back from the town, had come in ‘just to have a last beer’—and stayed an hour and a half looting and plundering what little he hadn’t already appropriated of Benjamin’s character—his visits came to an end. They came to an end on Benjamin’s explicit, and hysterical, and tearful, instructions. And not because he couldn’t, though he couldn’t, play the part the Lieutenant made him play
for another second. But because, after the man had finally driven off, Meg, sitting in a dark corner of the living room of the villa with the night breeze just touching her hair, told him that she loved Bill. And Bill loved her …

Benjamin didn’t mean to behave badly; but he couldn’t help it. In part, maybe, it was due to his having been bottled up for the last few days … He cried, he shouted. He threw himself, fat and shaking, on the floor in front of Meg and tried to take her hands, which she wouldn’t give him as she was holding them clenched against her mouth. He begged her, he pleaded with her, he accused her. He told her it was impossible; she didn’t know the man, and had hardly spoken to him. He told her it was obscene. He told her that she couldn’t. He implored her to deny it. He told her he would do anything,
anything
for her if she would say it wasn’t true. He soaked her feet with his tears; he pulled at the hem of her white cotton skirt and tore it. He yelled, he moaned; he tried to make his eyes pop right out of his head as he stared at her. And finally he told Meg that he forbade the Lieutenant ever to come near this house again. He never wanted to see him again. He refused to see him again. He couldn’t see him again. Oh please Meg, he blubbered. Please baby. Please, Meg, please. Please please please …

And as he lay sobbing ‘please,’ Meg, who had been gazing at him the whole time with eyes round with terror, and whispering, behind her clenched hands, ‘Oh I’m sorry Benjie, I can’t help it, I’m sorry,’ got to her feet and, giving him one last look of fear and pity—mainly pity—walked as if in her sleep from the room.

Benjamin stayed there, alone and suddenly cold, on the floor. It was impossible. Impossible. And it was all his own fault. Bored with Meg, and exasperated by the Lieutenant,
he had flung them together. And now—but how
could
she? With such a man? She couldn’t. She
couldn’t
. And he had thought that he had grown up, and that the servicemen in Gaeta presented no threat, and the war criminal in the castle was harmless because locked up. He had indeed—though not in the way he’d been imagining—let his defences down. And now, because of it, Meg had fallen in love …

But she would destroy herself. And not only herself, but him too, and the love he had always had for her. She would destroy the past. She would destroy—everything.

He tried to argue with himself; be rational. He told himself that if, as he had perceived over the last few days, Meg was just an ordinary girl, then there was nothing surprising about her falling in love with such an ordinary, and probably fairly decent man as the Lieutenant. In fact, if anything came of it, they would probably be quite happy together; he was the sort of person who would provide Meg with the security she had never had in her life; never had, that is, apart from that provided by her brother’s love. He told himself that it was almost inevitable that Meg would sooner or later fall in love with someone like the Lieutenant. After all she did come, however much she liked to forget the fact, from a military family; and it was certainly inconceivable that she should ever fall in love with someone like Alberto, or Heinz, or Jean-Pierre. He told himself that he had seen the servicemen in Gaeta as a threat just because he had known, deep down, that sooner or later Meg would fall in love with one of them. He told himself, after he had been lying on the floor for more than an hour, that he had reacted in such a fashion because basically he was relieved that she had fallen in love—he had virtually willed her to, in order that he would no longer
feel responsible for her—and he felt disgustingly guilty about this relief; about the fact that before she, as it were, had renounced him, he had renounced
her.

He told himself all these things; yet none of them, though possibly, even certainly, true, did anything to
comfort
him, set his mind at rest, or reconcile him in any way to what Meg had said. Because, because—and he reached around in every tiny, unlit cranny of his being to find a reason that would do—because, he finally told himself, it had happened here. If it had been anywhere else—well, though he might have been upset, he would probably have been able to accept it. But here, where right from that first evening he had sensed he wasn’t in control, and was indeed controlled—it was wrong. And it was all very well for him to tell himself that it had been inevitable, that Meg would have chosen a man like the Lieutenant sooner or later anyway, that he had subconsciously willed the man on her, and that he was even basically relieved; but all these
arguments
were conditioned by his being here, were products of his being here. He had only come to feel them
here.
And would he still feel them when he left here? No, he told himself. No, of course he wouldn’t. Away from here, away from the evil that dominated this place, he would only see the fact that his beloved Meg, his creation and his inspiration, had fallen in love with a man who would limit her, who would stunt her growth, who would cut him off from her forever, and who would condemn her forever to—the ordinary. And though he had come to believe recently that Meg was ordinary, there again, that was a notion that had only come to him here, in this place he hadn’t chosen and hadn’t created; and was therefore a notion that couldn’t be trusted. He imagined sitting in his dark and gloomy apartment in New York and trying to
work while picturing Meg with the Lieutenant. It was unthinkable. Meg had to flicker above him, glow and illuminate and fire him, like some statue of the Madonna in a shrine for the faithful. She had to float, to fly—to lead him on, to draw him up. He couldn’t, as he sat at his desk, see her discussing household matters, babies, Art and Life with a solemn young man from—wherever the Lieutenant was from. No. It
was
unthinkable. And irrational though it might be, childish though it might be, selfish, hysterical and unfair though it might be, he would prevent it if he could. He would preserve Meg. He had to. At least until she was away from here …