Nicola, on the other hand, was critical all the time.
As they got back to Bologna, in the van, he had wanted to have his say.
‘Benassi hasn’t taken this business about Yugoslavia at all well.’
‘What’s Benassi got to do with it?’
‘If Benassi gives me a message to pass on, the message comes from the Party. And they didn’t much like you going there.’
‘I went to find my dad. If he’d gone to Sweden, I’d have gone there too. Would Sweden have been better?’
‘You’re not nearly as smart as you think, you know. Everyone knows you’ve been acting pretty strangely.’
‘There was no other way. And if they’ve got something to say to me, why don’t they say it to my face, rather than getting Benassi to do it?’
‘You’re a real idiot. You should be grateful that they say something, that things don’t turn nasty for you. If you went to the Section a bit more often and went dancing a bit less, the cogs in your brain would start turning better, and you might even even learn something. But oh no, young sir has to go and take private English lessons, from Professor Fanti.’
‘You’re right, I should have studied Russian, so that when the Red Army shows up I could work as an interpreter.’
‘Oh, wind me up all you like, go on. But in the meantime, given how much of a prick you want to make of yourself, just be careful you don’t go too far. And that guy Fanti isn’t even a comrade. He must be a liberal, or something like that.’
‘Could be. And I’m a communist. So? Tell Benassi to mind his own business, tell him I’ve never seen him getting whacked by the riot squad, and last time I took three blows to the head. At times like that, for some reason, I’m a great guy again.’
The conversation had been left hanging like that. Nicola had just shaken his head and gone on driving. *
They chained their bikes to the streetlights, straightened their clothes
and went in.
‘They don’t have places like this in Yugoslavia, eh, Pierre?’
‘Dunno. I certainly didn’t see them.’
‘Go on, go on,’ Gigi teased him as he handed in his coat. Then, in a low voice, ‘Did you see the tits on that cloakroom girl?’
Pierre lagged behind to buy cigarettes from the cigarette girl, and Brando took advantage of the fact to stay on his own with him. ‘Hear about Angela?’
‘No, how could I have done?’
‘Well, if nobody’s told you, I will. While you were away her brother had a fit. He went clean right round the bend, punched out a nurse and I believe he hurt himself as well. Nasty business.’
Pierre wanted to leave immediately; what the hell was he doing there? He was going dancing, and maybe Angela needed to talk, to let her feelings out. Remorse gripped his heart, but Sticleina was already taking him by an arm and dragging him towards the tables.
They sat down with a carafe of wine, Pierre staring at his shoes, the others glancing around in search of pasturage.
Ferruccio had been ill. Shit. And what about Angela?
‘Right, then! We didn’t come here to say the rosary! Gigi and I are going to dance. What about you?’
Pierre waved distractedly and lit a cigarette.
The two of them slipped on to the dance floor, calling, ‘Tossers!’
‘You already know what I think about you and Angela,’ Brando began. ‘Christ almighty, find yourself a girlfriend, look how many girls there are!’
But Pierre’s mind was elsewhere. His aunt’s words were whirling around in his head: ‘It’s as though you were here just by chance. As though you were weighing yourself up.’ He couldn’t stop his thoughts racing, the music of the band slipped under them and carried them away.
‘Don’t turn round right now, bello, but the Redhead’s looking at you.’
‘Who?’
Brando shook his head. ‘What do you mean who, Gilda the Redhead! Gilda Stanzani, don’t you know her? She puts out, everyone knows that. She looks like Rita Hayworth, and her name’s Gilda. A friend of mine had her in a car. At least that’s what he says. Anyway, she isn’t a virgin. She’s looking at you, I promise she is. What more do you want?’
Pierre looked up.
In the middle of a cluster of girls, a striking young woman was smiling at him.
‘Buxom,’ Pierre commented without thinking.
‘Buxom? What on earth sort of a thing is that to say? One fantastic pair of tits! Really fantastic!’
‘She isn’t looking at me.’
‘Oh, no: it’s the third time she’s turned around! Go over there right now and ask her to dance.’
‘Don’t feel like it.’
Brando rubbed his eyes: ‘Excuse me? Would you repeat that for me please? I’ve just heard the Filuzzi King saying he doesn’t feel like dancing?’ He kicked him under the table. ‘You’re going over there right now and if she says yes, I’m going for one of her friends. And if you don’t. ’
Pierre heaved a big sigh. He looked at his good suit, his gleaming shoes. He thought of his fine appearance, the fact that he was twentytwo. Redheads have hazel or green eyes. He bet on bright hazel. He stood up, got a slap of encouragement on the back from Brando and went on the attack, one hand in his pocket, his loose-limbed walk.
As he approached, he noticed something special about her. It wasn’t her tits. It was the brazen way she stood there, watching him do his Cary Grant number. As though she were playing with him, after provoking him just so that she could enjoy the scene.
He had to make an effort to maintain his front.
He smiled. ‘Good evening, may I ask you why you’ve been looking at me and laughing for the last half-hour?’
‘Because you’re gorgeous.’
She said it quite naturally, and Pierre frowned, as though he had been given a piece of bad news. He didn’t know what to add; his instincts told him to go and sit down, perhaps after mumbling, ‘Thanks for the information.’
He concentrated, called on St Cary for help and said, ‘You too. Shall we dance?’
She nodded without saying another word, and they found themselves on the dance floor, pressed against each other because of the crowd.
Light hazel. Pierre felt her breasts pressing against him, and struggled to coordinate his movements and keep his cool.
She was a good dancer. And if he was holding her too tightly, she wasn’t complaining.
‘You’re Robespierre Capponi, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, and you’re Gilda Stanzani.’
‘They say you’re the best dancer in Bologna.’
‘That’s what they say. And what about you, do you often go dancing?’
‘Every now and again. You work at the Bar Aurora, in San Donato, isn’t that right?’
‘What are you, a secret agent, knowing all these things?’
She laughed, white teeth. Pierre felt a winge in his stomach.
‘We haven’t seen you dancing for a while.’
‘I’ve been away, in Yugoslavia. Finding my father.’
They stopped to applaud the orchestra.
‘I’m thirsty.’
‘So am I, let’s go to the bar.’
They managed to slip their way among the people crowding against the bar and ordered their drinks.
‘So what’s Yugoslavia like?’
‘It’s like Italy. They even speak Italian.’
‘And why did you come back?’
Pierre gave an embarrassed smile. ‘What would I have done there?’
Gilda the Redhead glanced around. ‘You like it so much here?’
‘Why, do you want to leave?’
‘I should find a rich man to take me round the world. I’d like that. There are so many places to see. Instead I’m tearing tickets at the racecourse. And my wages aren’t going to get me very far.’