I understand, yes. Don Luciano’s friends, as you put it, have already gone to the low-life who slapped him, but rather than talking, you say they were heavy-handed, a wrench, you say, crushed his head. And why are you coming to tell me all this, when I’m only here for the business about the American television?
Do I know Stefano Zollo? I told you, at the racecourse everybody knows everybody, the people who come here regular. But maybe ‘know’ is a bit strong, you know what somebody’s name is, and what somebody looks like, and when you meet them, well, what’s up, what’s wrong, take care, and off you go. Zollo, yes, I think I know him, big guy, but I’m not sure. And that is all I know, I assure you.
Cassazione? Ok, him too, another of those people you see in Agnano, he does odd jobs just the same as me. He had 5,000 lire in his pocket as well? Obviously he had placed a good bet too. No, that’s a lie. Don’t believe a word he says, let me warn you. Do you think this guy Stefano Zollo is going to go round handing out 5,000 lire to everyone because we’ve placed a bet for Don Luciano? He makes things up, he gets everything muddled, you see he won the money with a bet that wasn’t all that clean and he doesn’t want to tell you. Remember they call him that, Cassazione, because one day he says one thing and then the next day he says the opposite, he changes his mind, like the judge in the Court of Cassation, you see, when he says another judge made a mistake and they have to do the trial again. In the end he’s his own cassation, he does something then he undoes it, he says something and then he contradicts himself, he’s famous for that, ask around, you don’t need to pay him any attention, never, you’ll catch him again tomorrow and he’ll tell you he was given the 5,000 lire by Princess Soraya, that pretty lady, as a handout, and the next day he’ll tell you he prayed to St Gennaro and, lo and behold, there they were in his pocket, by a miracle.
No, I’ve never worked for Don Luciano, I swear, he’s far too important, he’d never trust someone like me to place his bets. And a gift of 5,000 lire? Don Luciano isn’t a millionaire! He’s lucky with the horses, but that’s all. Ok, he did bet on Monte Allegro that day, you’re very well informed. So you can see that he knows his horses well, too, maybe a friend who’s a jockey told him that Ninfa had had a bad case of colic. I couldn’t have been the only person who knew something like that, rumours go around, you know how it is.
But excuse me, didn’t you want to know about that television?
Chapter 17
Palm Springs, California, 1 February
The maid set the tray of Wedgwood cups and the teapot down on the little table, waited for a nod and withdrew in silence. The tea was the only ingredient of a traditional breakfast to have survived Betsy’s new alimentary convictions. Rather than bacon and eggs, orange juice, and toast with cherry jam, there were oat flakes, bran, soya bean sprouts, and a vegetable drink based on celery, carrot and banana. Quite honestly not even the tea was the same, because the old Earl Grey had made way for a greenish Chinese variety from Hong Kong. At first Cary had welcomed the novelty enthusiastically, as he always did, trying to find out everything he could on the subject. Subsequently his interest had abated, and the crisis peaked when the crazed blender, rather than producing a carrot juice for his friend David Niven as he intended it to do, sprayed the whole kitchen with orange pulp.
Betsy Drake glanced up from her morning paper and looked at her husband in his blue pyjamas and indigo silk dressing gown, shaking his head as he flicked through some typed pages.
‘Something wrong, darling?’
‘No, nothing. I get the feeling that even old Hitch isn’t feeling so great. This script isn’t one for him.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I can’t make a comeback with something like this. For pity’s sake, a captivating little story based on a novel by a certain David Dodge. A retired thief in a hotel has to demonstrate his own innocence by catching the man really responsible for a series of thefts. A beautiful girl tries to put him to the test with her jewels and falls in love with him. In the end he finds the guilty man and marries the girl. But I don’t know. ’
The tea was too hot. The bean sprouts were tasteless, the bran was utterly unappealing, and just looking at the vegetable glop made his gorge rise. Cary got to his feet and started pacing back and forth. Even dressed like this, he could turn up at the newsagent’s without anyone passing remarks about his elegance. Betsy couldn’t remember ever having seen him coming out of his bedroom in anything less than a dressing gown.
‘I have a sense, my darling, that you don’t know what it is that you really need.’
Without stopping, he expressed a thought out loud. ‘I can’t make a comeback with this stuff, God damn it!’
‘But listen, starting over would do you good, I’m sure of it.’
‘Sure it would do me good. But what with? They’ve also suggested I take part in a film about Tito, the President of Yugoslavia. What do you think?’
Betsy opened her eyes wide and straightened her back, surprised. ‘Who on earth wants to make a film like that? Clifford?’
‘No, MI6.’
‘M what? What is it, a new studio?’
The sofa’s soft cushions attracted him. Cary sank into them, arms at his side and legs outstretched.
‘Military Intelligence.’ He said the words in a serious voice. ‘The British secret service. And the CIA and the NATO governments. Two Englishmen were here the day before yesterday, secret agents of Her Majesty, not the fascinating spies you might imagine, they were like a couple of bank officials. They want me to go and see Tito in Yugoslavia, to discuss a film about his life. They’ve also given me a lot of documentation about the man.’
Betsy sipped her carrot juice as though it were medicine, waiting for her husband to continue. Pressing his eyes with his fingers, trying to concentrate, Cary went on. ‘A film about Tito. In Yugoslavia. Something that will present him as a hero in the eyes of the West. Turn him into an acceptable ally. He expressly asked for them to give me a part, and he’s very keen to meet me. You see? And the film doesn’t even have funding, a screenplay, a director. Nothing at all.’
‘But they must at least have told you —’
‘Let me finish, this is the good bit. Before going to Yugoslavia I would have to stop over in London, so I’d be away for a few weeks. But they don’t want people to know what’s going on, so I’d have to travel incognito. And do you know what brilliant idea they’ve come up with to make sure that my cover isn’t blown? A double, a man they say looks like me, a French Canadian with a ludicrous name, who would come here to impersonate Cary Grant. Can you imagine?’
There was a good minute’s silence. Then the sound of newspaper being folded, and the wheeze of the armchair as it was freed of Betsy’s weight. Now it was her turn to pace.
‘I don’t understand, honey, spell it out for me. They want a stranger to come and live in our house?’
‘That’s what I thought too, Betsy. But they’re not as crazy as all that. This man, this individual they say looks like me, wouldn’t be here all the time. He would come every now and again, show his face, go out and buy some aftershave and come back home again, take you for a walk, make everyone think that Cary Grant never moved away from Palm Springs.’