The first tents to be occupied were the bridge tents: the impatient players made straight for them, and within a minute or two the cards were being dealt. If some of the guests were too slow off the mark, and lost their places at the bridge-tables, they concealed their disappointment and joined the conversationalists. One or two paired off, and somewhat sheepishly and defiantly made for the tents of love: cries of encouragement followed after them. As far as Henry could make out, no man or woman chose to be self-proclaimed a misanthrope: the two lone tents remained unoccupied. But he had scarcely time to see, for it was like a game of musical chairs—one had to find one’s seat or be left standing, and the idea of standing was much less bearable to Henry even than the idea of talking. ‘Per far la conversazione!’ There was a vacancy: in he went and sank down in a chair. There were iced drinks in misted glasses on the table, and round it three people whom he knew quite welclass="underline" it might have been much worse.
He it was who drew together the tent-flaps and tied them with gay bows of scarlet ribbon: if the tents were not mosquito-proof, as he suspected, they looked as if they were, which was a great thing: he could relax, he needn’t flap and flip, and screw his face up, or make other uncivilized gestures of the mosquito-ridden. Outside, no doubt, the creatures hummed, they must, for at both ends of the sala the windows stood wide open, and with two glittering chandeliers to guide them they couldn’t miss their way. No, it wasn’t too bad. The muslin kept out some of the air, of course, but how clever of Loredana to have thought of it all! She had turned those twin plagues, the heat and the mosquitoes, neither of which was funny in itself, into a joke. She had converted them into a social asset, she had countered them with a creation that was beautiful and strange. The party would be long remembered.
Fuddled though he was, and ready to accept unreality, Henry began to wonder where, in what muslin arbours, Annette and Maureen had taken shelter. The first question was quickly answered. Faintly, from below, came the strains of a dance-band.
‘You didn’t know?’ said someone. ‘They’re coming in after dinner to dance, a whole crowd of them. It’s we old-stagers who are sitting up here.’ He was an Italian and vecchietti was the word he used: ‘a little old’, such a nice word, there was no equivalent for it in English, we were less considerate to old age. Henry didn’t mind being a vecchietto. So Annette was accounted for: she would be downstairs dancing with a Nino, or a Nini, a Gigio or a Gigi. She would be sure to be enjoying herself.
But Maureen? He looked about him. Even here where the light from the chandelier was fairly strong, you couldn’t very well see through the muslin; you could see the shadowy shapes of other tents, but you couldn’t tell who was inside them; in the case of those farther away, nearer the windows, you couldn’t tell if anyone was inside them. Maureen was so efficient, so practised socially; she would have found her niche—not with the bridge-players, for she wasn’t one, not—he smiled to himself—in one of the temples d’amour, for that didn’t interest her—she would be taking part in another conversation-piece, perhaps next door to his. While with the surface of his mind he gossiped with his fellow guests his inner ear was alert for the inflexions of Maureen’s voice; and so intent was he on listening that he didn’t see the figure that more than once passed by his curtain wall, stopping and peering in and circling round; and it was one of the others who first saw her and said, ‘Guardi, Enrico, isn’t that your wife who goes in search of you?’ At once Henry jumped up and excusing himself untied the ribbons and let himself out into the air.
‘What is it?’ he said, moving with her into a space between the tents that was out of earshot. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘Darling, I’ve got a splitting headache,’ she answered. ‘I really think I must go back. It came on suddenly—it’s the heat, I suppose. But I don’t want to spoil Annette’s fun, she’s having the time of her life, and I don’t want Loredana to know, she has so much on her hands already. So I’ll just slip out—she’ll never notice—and Luigi and Emilio can take me back to the hotel.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ Henry said.
‘No, darling, don’t do that. What I should like you to do, if you don’t mind, is to wait for Annette and bring her home. When you go you can explain to Loredana and make my apologies. I know it’s a frightful bore and you’re not feeling well either—but just this once! It really wouldn’t do to let Annette go back alone, we know she can be trusted but people would talk about it. I hate to ask you to, but it won’t be for long—what time is it?’
‘Just twelve,’ said Henry. ‘There’s the Marangona.’
They listened, and above the hubbub of voices and dance music they heard the solemn sound of the great bell tolling midnight.
‘I won’t tell Annette that I’m going,’ Maureen said, ‘and don’t you tell her either; it might spoil her fun. I’ll send the gondoliers straight back and tell them to wait for you. Now we mustn’t be seen talking together any more or it will look odd.’ Before Henry could speak she had turned away, and with slight inclinations of her head to left and right was making for the staircase.
Henry made a movement to follow her and then turned back. She knew her own mind, no one better. But what should he do? Irresolutely he looked towards the tent he had left—but was it the same tent? He couldn’t be sure, and anyhow another man had taken his place, leaving the flap open. Several of the tents had their flaps open, the occupants preferring air and light to freedom from mosquitoes. He picked his way among the tents. Which one should he invade? They all seemed full. Even the bowers of love, which were more opaque than the others, had darker shadows in them. He was shut out! For a moment he felt as a wandering Arab might, whose tribe had exiled him. But he mustn’t stand there moping: he would go down and watch the dancers.
Plenty of other guests were doing the same: on gilt chairs and settees they lined the walls; behind them the crimson brocade stretched upwards to the ceiling of painted beams; pictures and mirrors hung above them. His tired mind could not synthesize the scene. Better try to find Annette—ah, here she was, on the arm, or in the arms, of a young man. Her face was rapt and expressionless: she passed within a foot of Henry without seeing him. She was in another world, a world of youth into which he could not penetrate—a world which jealously guarded its own feelings, especially from lonely wallflower fathers. The music whined and groaned and thumped and stammered. Where was she now? There were other rooms, rooms for sitting out in, that led off the sala. He mustn’t seem curious about her, he mustn’t feel curious about her, she didn’t belong to him, she belonged to all those young men, the Nino’s, Nini’s, Gigio’s and Gigi’s, and the emotions they aroused in her: emotions which sometimes made her youthful face look stern.
Here she was again, on another arm, this time; and this time her face was not so much rapt as set, and in the lines of her body there was the tautness of strain, such as you see in a plant that is being forced to grow in a shape it doesn’t like. Was she a captive? He thought her eyes met his: he longed to say, ‘Oh, please come here and talk to me a moment!’ But he must not; if she had been in another continent she could not have been farther from him.