The launch had already taken O’Gilroy back to the Lido (after an early dinner, Corinna hoped) so there were only three of them, d’Annunzio in full white tie and tails, to eat in the ‘small’ dining room. They dined by candlelight and Corinna reflected how quickly a display of electric lighting had become vulgar ostentation; even at her age, she could recall dining tables lit like a photographer’s studio. They were served sea bass and duck, and d’Annunzio dug in heartily but drank only water.
Corinna waited for the conversation to come round to tomorrow’s ‘demonstration’, then realised Signora Falcone was preventing that. It wasn’t difficult, since d’Annunzio had two stage productions due to open in December – Parisina at La Scala and Le Chevrefeuille in Paris – and was very willing to expand on his problems and hint at the triumphs to come. This went on until they were back in the central hall sipping coffee.
“But perhaps,” he added with a smile, “history will say they are not the most important work of d’Annunzio in this year.”
Signora Falcone gave him a warning frown but Corinna had her opening. “Ah yes, tomorrow’s proclamation to Trieste,” she said with feigned innocence.
D’Annunzio shot a startled look at Signora Falcone, who offered only a well-drilled smile. “What can you mean, my dear?”
“The leaflets Signor d’Annunzio’s written. The ones to start the shipyard strike.”
There was an offer of escape there, but also a trap, and in her haste to patch things over, Signora Falcone took the one without noticing the other. “Ah, you’ve been told about that. Our European politics must seem frightfully complicated and devious to you, but it’s all part of the game. Over the centuries, nations have come to expect interference in each other’s affairs . . .”
D’Annunzio was trying to suppress bewilderment. Perhaps he hadn’t been told he was only starting a strike.
“Mind you,” Corinna said when the Signora had finished, “though my Italian isn’t all that good, it does come across rather strong for a strike call.” And she unfolded a leaflet from her purse.
Manners forgotten, d’Annunzio leapt up to snatch it away. “You have stolen this!” he shouted. “You have robbed my bedroom!”
“Dear me, a woman in your bedroom? We can’t have that, can we? I’d like to hear Signora Falcone read it. I never heard you on the stage, and I’m sure I missed a treat.”
It was a tense moment. But Corinna would learn nothing more, and d’Annunzio was never loath to hear his own words spoken aloud. He took a sudden decision and thrust the leaflet at Signora Falcone.
She took it reluctantly, scanned it quickly since she wouldn’t just be reading but translating, then stood up. She began stiffly, perhaps trying to play it down, but then the power of the words took over, and she relaxed, gestured, declaimed. And she was good.
“From Gabriele d’Annunzio: To my brothers of Trieste, most Italian of cities, Courage! Courage and constancy! There is no enemy which cannot be destroyed by our courage!, no lie which cannot be deflated by your constancy! The end of your martyrdom is at hand! The dawn of your joy is imminent! The lions of St Mark will roar again at the sacred entry. The Carso will be ours by force of arms. I tell you, I swear to you, my Brothers, our victory is certain! The flag of Italy will be planted on your Great Arsenal. From the heights of heaven, on the wings of Italy, I throw you this pledge, this message from my heart . . . ”
D’Annunzio leant forward, listening intently, nodding, mouthing with the words. And when she had finished, smiling proudly. “Bravo! Bravo! How I wish those words should not be thrown from a machine, but spoken by you from a great stage!”
Corinna said: “But like I say, no mention of a strike. To a simple American like me, it sounds like a call to arms. Declaration of war, even.”
D’Annunzio frowned. “What is this strike?”
Back in her seat, Signora Falcone said calmly: “I do hope, my dear, that until the demonstration is concluded, you’ll go on regarding yourself as our guest?”
Keep me shut up here? Corinna boiled. But I asked for it: they were never going to cry: “Alack! – all is revealed! We must flee.” They’d invested far too much in this plot to let her louse it up that easily.
She began to feel frightened. And because of that, she hit back instead of stopping to think. “Okay, if that’s what the British Secret Service wants you to do, who am I-”
And that really tore it. D’Annunzio’s demand of: “Secret service? What is this secret service?” collided with Signora Falcone’s yell of: “You stupid Yankee bitch!” There was a moment of loud confusion, then Signora Falcone won.
She stood up again. “Gabri, be quiet. This silly child is just trying to cause trouble, saying anything to get you angry. Don’t let her. Giancarlo will explain everything when he gets here.”
D’Annunzio gave Corinna a sullen glare. She said brightly: “But I know, don’t I? D’you think the British Secret Service knows less?”
D’Annunzio’s look swivelled to Signora Falcone, who said icily: “If you can’t remember your manners as a guest, Mrs Finn-”
“You’ll lock me in my room? I’m just making conversation, as a good guest should. About how the British Secret Service helped you get that airplane, lent you the pilot, approved the idea of recruiting d’Annunzio as a secret agent-”
“It’s lies! She’s making it up!”
Well, yes, she was, of course. But d’Annunzio had already detonated. “I do not work for the English! You have sold yourself come una puttana to the Secret Service, but I, d’Annunzio, mi rifiuto! I tear up my tracts! Non parto piu!”
There were shadows behind the pillars beneath the gallery, the major-domo and Matteo, drawn by the shouting. Perfect poise recovered, Signora Falcone turned to them: “Per favore accompagna il Signor d’Annunzio nella sua stanza e chiudilo dentro.”
D’Annunzio stared at her. But whatever their past had been, it was long dead now. She was in total, icy command, ordering him locked away like a soldier with dirty boots. He had sense enough not to challenge her on her own stage, and let himself be escorted up the stairs and presumably to his room.
Signora Falcone remembered the threat to the leaflets and called after them: “E porta giu un pacco di volanti.” She turned back to Corinna. “I know Gabri: he will feel differently in the morning, with Giancarlo to reassure him.” She sat down again. “Or if he does not, it is his words, not some figure in mask and goggles throwing them out, which matters. As long as he is not free to spoil the event, all will be well.”
Could a woman use a man so coldly unless there were some great hatred, and consequently love, in their past? Corinna shivered.
“And that also applies to yourself,” Signora Falcone smiled. “Now, I think we need some fresh coffee.”
31
Novak came with Ranklin in the carriage, first to the hotel, where he threw his baggage together and picked up a cablegram from ‘Finn’, then to the Meridionale station. He didn’t bother to read the cablegram: he didn’t want to remind Novak of the Sherring connection.
“Do you know Venice?” he asked as they rolled along the lamplit waterfront.
“Do you not?”
“I haven’t been there for years and I certainly don’t recall any aerodrome.”
“Ah, yes. They have made one at the north end of the Lido, on the old San Niccolo fort drill ground.”
Ranklin paused to visualise this and the problem of getting there. He would need to find a steam-launch still in business in the early hours. But some were sure to meet any arriving train.
Novak said: “You will go first to the aeroplane, then?”