Read Online In Love and War by Alex Preston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alex Preston
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waiters are beginning to stack chairs, one of them performing a
pas de deux
with his broom, Fiamma reaches across to take Esmond’s hand on the silver-topped table.
‘When I was young,’ she says, ‘I was hungry. My father couldn’t get work – it was the first years of Mussolini’s reign and the papers suddenly refused to take articles from a Communist, even one who’d fought in the war, and who wrote so beautifully.’ She reaches up to draw her fingers down the sleek curve of her hair. ‘My early memories are of being cold and hungry, and of there never being any money, of having to go to our neighbours to beg food.’ They both lift their feet as the dancing waiter sweeps beneath their table. Fiamma lets out a little sigh. ‘We’d come to Florence for holidays, my mother and I, and there’d be food and soft sheets and my Fascist uncle, and I hated myself for loving it, for not staying in the apartment in Milan with my father. I still feel that, here, a little.’ She shrugs, swirls her glass and drinks it down.
When they get back to the apartment there is a moment of awkwardness at the door to her room. He leans to kiss her cheek, they move their heads the same way, then again, and their lips brush together. They draw apart, eyes wide. Fiamma smiles, and moves to place another swift kiss on his mouth. He is wordless, all lips, staring at the blank face of her door.
14
He wakes at dawn, the air in his bedroom close and stale. The rumble of a taxi below. A muttered conversation, banging doors, footsteps on the stairs, then silence. He dozes again and wakes with a start as his door bursts open. In the dim light he makes out a tall figure with thick chestnut hair. Fiamma stands behind him, her arm on the doorframe.
‘Well, turn the light on then. Let’s get a look at you.’ The voice is warmly amused.
Esmond sticks out a hand for the light and looks blinkingly towards the doorway. The young man is
sportif
in a white boating jacket and slacks, a loose tie. He smiles, and it is like a growl. Fiamma’s nightdress shows the darkness of her skin as she steals happily behind the stranger. Beautiful, Esmond thinks, sitting up.
‘May we come in?’ The young man crosses to the window and throws open the shutters. The world stirs shyly outside. He pulls out the chair, turns it towards the bed and sits. Fiamma perches on the desk behind him, looking first at Esmond, then at him. Esmond is aware that an incipient morning erection is prodding his sheets. He feels childish and Victorian in his nightshirt, his father’s, too large and threadbare at the armpits.
‘Listen,’ the boy says in a loud voice. ‘I want you to know how bloody good you’ve been. Standing to attention at the old man’s bedside, keeping the pip from his tooth and all that. I’ve spoken to Bailey and he says you’ve been a sainted hero. So thanks a million, pal.’
‘You’re Gerald.’ Esmond says, looking for a trace of Goad in the elegant, almost oriental eyes.
‘S’right,’ Gerald says. ‘Bloody good to be back here. And to seethis little one.’ He slaps a hand on Fiamma’s thigh and she smiles out a squeal. ‘Too early for breakfast? Procacci’ll open in twenty minutes. Milk rolls and jam. My treat.’
Gerald and Fiamma leave and Esmond sits muddled and sleepy, listening to their voices and laughter echoing through the corridor. He gets up and picks his clothes more carefully than he has all week – a pale lawn shirt and sponge-bag trousers.
He finds them in the courtyard. It is light now, a lemony brightness in the air. As they stroll out into the street, Gerald throws his arm around Esmond’s shoulders.
‘We’re going to have a high old time this summer. No idea what I’ll do when I get back to London, but I intend to be thoroughly debased before I go.’
They walk through the doors to Procacci, whose stooped, trembling owner is letting up the blinds. He nods them in, tucks a dishcloth into his belt and stands
pas de deux
with his broom, Fiamma reaches across to take Esmond’s hand on the silver-topped table.
‘When I was young,’ she says, ‘I was hungry. My father couldn’t get work – it was the first years of Mussolini’s reign and the papers suddenly refused to take articles from a Communist, even one who’d fought in the war, and who wrote so beautifully.’ She reaches up to draw her fingers down the sleek curve of her hair. ‘My early memories are of being cold and hungry, and of there never being any money, of having to go to our neighbours to beg food.’ They both lift their feet as the dancing waiter sweeps beneath their table. Fiamma lets out a little sigh. ‘We’d come to Florence for holidays, my mother and I, and there’d be food and soft sheets and my Fascist uncle, and I hated myself for loving it, for not staying in the apartment in Milan with my father. I still feel that, here, a little.’ She shrugs, swirls her glass and drinks it down.
When they get back to the apartment there is a moment of awkwardness at the door to her room. He leans to kiss her cheek, they move their heads the same way, then again, and their lips brush together. They draw apart, eyes wide. Fiamma smiles, and moves to place another swift kiss on his mouth. He is wordless, all lips, staring at the blank face of her door.
14
He wakes at dawn, the air in his bedroom close and stale. The rumble of a taxi below. A muttered conversation, banging doors, footsteps on the stairs, then silence. He dozes again and wakes with a start as his door bursts open. In the dim light he makes out a tall figure with thick chestnut hair. Fiamma stands behind him, her arm on the doorframe.
‘Well, turn the light on then. Let’s get a look at you.’ The voice is warmly amused.
Esmond sticks out a hand for the light and looks blinkingly towards the doorway. The young man is
sportif
in a white boating jacket and slacks, a loose tie. He smiles, and it is like a growl. Fiamma’s nightdress shows the darkness of her skin as she steals happily behind the stranger. Beautiful, Esmond thinks, sitting up.
‘May we come in?’ The young man crosses to the window and throws open the shutters. The world stirs shyly outside. He pulls out the chair, turns it towards the bed and sits. Fiamma perches on the desk behind him, looking first at Esmond, then at him. Esmond is aware that an incipient morning erection is prodding his sheets. He feels childish and Victorian in his nightshirt, his father’s, too large and threadbare at the armpits.
‘Listen,’ the boy says in a loud voice. ‘I want you to know how bloody good you’ve been. Standing to attention at the old man’s bedside, keeping the pip from his tooth and all that. I’ve spoken to Bailey and he says you’ve been a sainted hero. So thanks a million, pal.’
‘You’re Gerald.’ Esmond says, looking for a trace of Goad in the elegant, almost oriental eyes.
‘S’right,’ Gerald says. ‘Bloody good to be back here. And to seethis little one.’ He slaps a hand on Fiamma’s thigh and she smiles out a squeal. ‘Too early for breakfast? Procacci’ll open in twenty minutes. Milk rolls and jam. My treat.’
Gerald and Fiamma leave and Esmond sits muddled and sleepy, listening to their voices and laughter echoing through the corridor. He gets up and picks his clothes more carefully than he has all week – a pale lawn shirt and sponge-bag trousers.
He finds them in the courtyard. It is light now, a lemony brightness in the air. As they stroll out into the street, Gerald throws his arm around Esmond’s shoulders.
‘We’re going to have a high old time this summer. No idea what I’ll do when I get back to London, but I intend to be thoroughly debased before I go.’
They walk through the doors to Procacci, whose stooped, trembling owner is letting up the blinds. He nods them in, tucks a dishcloth into his belt and stands
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