Through Fiorello we met the young man who was to prove a great benefactor in the years to come. Bazzanno’s cousin, he lived and worked primarily in Milan but travelled frequently to all parts of Italy and many European cities. He was as handsome and as well-formed as his cousin was misshapen. Fond of severe tailored suits, he liked to show, as we used to say, a lot of cuff. His shirts were always apparently brand new and his silk ties impeccably knotted. His manicured hands were heavy with gold and his white teeth were also occasionally punctuated with gold. His name was Annibale Santucci. This flamboyant dandy was three or four years older than me. He had what in Kiev we called a ‘Black Sea taste’ for white suits, black and white shoes and lavender ties; though he could also dress more conventionally when the mood or the occasion demanded. Walking past the fountain in the Piazza di Santa Maria one misty morning we first saw him: or rather we saw his car. It roared into the square, a huge blue and red Lancia booming and yelling, filling the whole quarter with shocking echoes. Fiorello was with us. He turned to snarl at the car until with a cry of glee he recognised the driver.
‘Balo! Balo!’ he shouted, and was rewarded with a dove-grey salute before the car changed gear and went bellowing down an alley scarcely wide enough to accommodate it. Fiorello capered with pleasure, twirling his stick and throwing up his hat, but Laura did not seem so delighted. Esmé was merely puzzled. She returned immediately to telling Laura about a dress one of her friends had been given soon after she went to work for Mrs Unal. I had tried to check her, but it was useless. She was oblivious; so I shrugged and let things take their course. It was not particularly important what Laura Fischetti believed about us. We arrived at the Café Montenero and took our usual places. The little old man, who was the only waiter , emerged to wipe an already clean table for us and bring coffee and rolls. Fiorello was babbling on about his cousin. ‘He’ll have presents. He always has presents. You must meet him, Max. He loves the English. He did a lot of business with them during the war. And the Russians, too.’ (He had made up his own version of our origins, which he retailed to everyone, and it suited me to humour him in this.) ‘I wonder where he was off to.’ His face dropped, then brightened swiftly. ‘He’s bound to look us up before he leaves Rome. He’s an utter bastard. A complete crook. A monster. Laura disapproves of him. He is the epitome of the capitalist disease, she thinks. But she can’t resist him either, can you, Laura?’
Laura shrugged. ‘He’s got a coarse sort of charm, if that’s what you’re saying.’ She smiled then, mocking herself. At that moment the whole square seemed to vibrate and the howling, the vital whine, the blustering, joyful roar approached from somewhere within the maze, as if a pack of drunken baboons had invaded a Trappist retreat. The red and blue Lancia sprang clear of an alley, skidded in a turn which threatened to bring the rear of the monster crashing into our little enclosure, and stopped. Out of the huge front seat rose Santucci, peeling off his kids and his calf-hides, smoothing back his hair and replacing his helmet with a grey fedora. He pulled his camel-hair overcoat over his shoulders. He dragged his wide brim down over one eye. He touched his lips with a silver cigarette holder, kissed the silver head of his perfect stick and sprang like a demigod to the pavement. He was splendidly unashamedly, vulgarly romantic; enjoying his own antics as much as he knew we must enjoy them. He was the perfect foil to the equally grandiose but tiny Bazzanno who, with monkey-like agility, leapt to balance on the rail, then bounded to the street to embrace his cousin. Almost six feet tall, Annibale Santucci possessed the rather crude good looks of a music-hall juvenile. He would have been a perfect film star. He shook hands with me, kissed the tips of Esmé’s fingers, made a number of general compliments which came automatically to his tongue and immediately ordered us wine and more food against our insistence that we had already eaten enough and it was too early for alcohol.
‘Never say “too early”,’ he cautioned dramatically. ‘For you will quickly find it has become “too late” if you do.’ This, too, had the sound of an aphorism he had frequently found convenient, likely to impress the cautious. Indeed, it impressed Esmé. She laughed loudly and received, for a moment, his lordly attention. Then he drew up a chair and proceeded to tell us about Naples. He had had business on Ischia, the island beyond Capri in the Bay, where his mother and father now lived. There had been a boatmen’s strike and it had cost him a fortune to find some means of reaching Ischia: ‘A sailing boat. A prototype for the Ark!’ Then coming back he had been unable to get benzine for his car because of the strike at filling stations. He laughed. ‘This is the prelude to a true anarchism, when every individual is forced to fend for himself. We’ll have our own petrol pumps, our individual water supply, our own cow, repair shop. Unless we check this trend, we shall soon know utter boredom, with time only to maintain ourselves and our machines. Fiorello! Laura!’ An elaborate flourish and he produced from the inner pocket of the camel-hair coat two black velvet cases, handing one to each. Within were matching diamond-studded wrist watches, a man’s and a woman’s. ‘My friend from Marseilles was grateful. He said to give these to my mother and father!’
‘You are a dutiful son,’ said Laura sardonically, putting the watch upon her muscular wrist and admiring it.
‘What use would they have for these? To tick away their autumn hours? Pointless!’ He turned, all contriteness, to us. ‘Please, please forgive my rudeness!’
Esmé and I would have forgiven him anything. His smile was calculated to disarm, and did not fail him. Fiorello told him we were planning to head for Paris but were a little short of money for the ticket. Did his cousin know of any engineering work available?