Vagas touched me on the arm.
“I want you to meet the signora Bernabo, Mr. Marlow.” He turned to the fat, shrill-voiced woman by his side. “ Le voglio presentare il signor Marlow, Signora.”
“ Fortunatissimo, Signora.”
“ Fortunatissimo, Signore.”
“ E Commendatore Bernabo.” He indicated a moustachioed gentleman wearing the insignia of the Ordine della Corona d’Italia.
“ Fortunatissimo, Commendatore ”
There was a great deal of hand shaking. The ballet was discussed. Signora Bernabo breathed heavily in the background.
“I only come here,” she announced after a while, “to see the gowns.”
The Commendatore laughed heartily and twirled his moustaches. To my surprise, Vagas laughed too. Later, however, as we were returning to the box, I was given an explanation for this.
“That woman,” he said viciously, “is an imbecile, a cretin. Bernabo himself, however, is in the purchasing section of the Ordnance Department, and an important man. I wouldn’t have bored you with them, but I thought you might find him useful. I mentioned your business to him. You need have no qualms about pursuing the acquaintance. He will not rebuff you. It might be worth your while to cultivate him. A little dinner would be sufficient to begin with. The rest will follow naturally.”
I did not need to ask what “the rest” consisted of. My experience at Genoa had taught me something.
“It’s very good of you, General.”
“Not at all.” He paused for a split second and glanced at me. “There are probably all sorts of ways in which I can help you, Mr. Marlow.”
I thanked him again. We had reached the box.
“Milan,” he said as we went in, “is a city in which it is wise to have good friends. By the way, I suggest that we leave after the next ballet. The last on the programme to-night is a local product, and will, I fear, be quite dreadful.”
“Then I should prefer to leave.”
“I anticipated that you might. I have ordered supper for ten o’clock.”
It was actually after ten o’clock when eventually we left La Scala for the Corso di Porta Nuova.
It was a small house; but the interior was fantastically grandiose. It was decorated in a sort of baroque-Gothic manner with huge swagged hangings of dark red velvet, heavy Cinquecento furniture and painted walls. The lighting was by candelabra. Except for a faint smell of incense in the air, the effect was fantastically like that of a piece of ballet decor. A pale, dainty-footed young manservant in blood-red satin knee-breeches helped the illusion considerably.
He tripped forward, took our coats and was gliding away into the shadow of the stairs when Madame Vagas called after him.
“Ricciardo.”
He stopped with evident reluctance. “Signora?”
“You have been burning incense again.”
He pouted. “Only a little, Signora.”
Her voice suddenly became shrill. “You are not to burn it, you understand? You are not to burn it.”
Ricciardo’s lip trembled. He was, it was clear, about to burst into tears.
“My dear Elsa,” murmured the General repressively, “we have a guest.” He raised his voice. “Ricciardo, come here.”
The youth advanced a few steps. “ Si, Eccellenza.”
“Go and put some colour on your cheeks and then serve supper. And remember that there must be no flowers on the table.”
“ Si, Eccellenza.” He flashed a smile at us, bowed low and retreated.
The General turned to me. “I insist on the servants looking decorative.” He fluttered a hand towards the walls. “Do you like it, Mr. Marlow? The Loves of Mejnoun and Leilah. I had it copied from some tapestries.”
“Yes, signor Marlow,” echoed Madame Vagas with a thin, malicious smile; “do you like it?”
“It is charming.”
“Charming!” She repeated the word with polite derision. “You may be right.”
There was no doubt that I had said the wrong thing. I was feeling distinctly embarrassed.
“My wife,” said Vagas, “detests the place.”
“My husband, signor Marlow, has a weakness for the macabre.”
It was said most amiably. Both of them were smiling at me; but the atmosphere was suddenly deadly with hatred. More than ever I wished that I had not come. There was, I knew, something inexpressibly ugly about the two Vagas. They were both grotesque, as grotesque as their house and as their manservant.
Vagas took my arm.
“Come, my friend; supper is waiting.”
It was served in an alcove leading off the main room. The glass was exquisite, the china was beautiful, the dishes were perfectly presented. The General and I drank Tokay. Madame Vagas sipped a glass of Evian water. To my relief, for I had nothing to say, the General monopolised the conversation with a monologue on the subject of the ballet.
“I feel sure,” said Madame Vagas after a while, “that signor Marlow is not so interested in the ballet.”
The General raised his eyebrows. “My dear Elsa, I was forgetting. I am so sorry, Mr. Marlow.”
I mumbled my protest.
“You must forgive me, Mr. Marlow,” he went on; “the ballet interests me enormously. It is, I believe, the final expression of a disintegrating society. The idea of the dance, you know, and the preparation for death have been inseparable since the human animal first crept through the prim?val forest. Ballet is merely a new rationalisation of society’s instinctive movement towards self-destruction. A dance of death for the Gadarene swine. It has always been so. Catherine de’ Medici’s musician, Baltazarini, invented the ballet as we know it. It has remained the prophet of destruction. In the years before nineteen-fourteen it drew larger audiences than ever before. In the early nineteen-twenties, when Diaghilev was doing his best work, it became a more esoteric pleasure. Now it is popular again. If I never read a newspaper, Mr. Marlow, one evening at the ballet would tell me that once again society is preparing for death.”
Madame Vagas rose. “I think that, if signor Marlow will excuse me, I shall go to bed.”
His lips twisted. “You know, my dear Elsa, that you never sleep.”
“I am afraid,” I said quickly, “that I have stayed too long.”
“Not at all, Signore. It is very early. My husband will tell you that I invariably retire early.”
“Good night and thank you, Madame.”
“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Signore. Good night.”
She held out her hand.
Uncertain whether I was supposed to shake or kiss it, I compromised by touching it and bowing.
The next moment I felt a small piece of paper being pressed firmly into the palm of my hand. My fingers closed on it. She withdrew her hand and went without looking at me again.
The General sighed.
“I must apologise, Mr. Marlow. My wife is a little unwell at the moment. A nervous complaint. Any talk of death depresses her.”
I transferred the piece of paper to my waistcoat pocket.
“I am sorry to hear that.”
Ricciardo hovered in the background.
“You may leave the coffee and brandy in the next room, Ricciardo. Then go to bed.”
“ Si, Eccellenza.”
We moved into the adjoining room. A wood fire burning in the grate sent long shadows leaping over the dark hangings. One of the candles was guttering in its wax. I wanted badly to leave. I was tired. The General and his house were getting on my nerves. I was acutely conscious of the piece of paper in my pocket. It was possible that the General had seen me take it. In that case…
“Brandy, Mr. Marlow?”
“Thank you.”
It was obviously a note of some sort. What on earth…
“A cigarette, Mr. Marlow?”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll find that chair comfortable.”
“Thank you.”
He sat down facing me so that his face was in the shadow while mine was lit by the fire. It was an old trick, but it did not help me to feel any more at my ease.