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Cary had to confess that he was fascinated by the absurdity of the situation. For a moment he thought that at any second David Niven might jump out of the next room to reveal the joke with one of his quips.
‘To avoid arousing suspicion,’ Raymond went on, ‘we thought we would employ a double, Mr Grant, who would, in your absence, allow some photographs of himself to be taken from a long way off, in the company of your wife, to keep the glossy magazines happy. To do this, we would take advantage of the fact that your withdrawal from the cinema and the Hollywood party scene gives us ample room for manoeuvre.’
‘A double?’
Raymond took a photograph from the briefcase and passed it to Cary, who looked at it for a few moments.
‘You can’t be serious! This person is supposed to stand in for me?’ Cary exploded into liberating laughter. ‘This balding, unshaven fop is supposed to look like me? Be me? Gentlemen, you must have had a few drinks too many!’
‘Obviously there will have to be some retouching –’
‘But he looks nothing like me!’
‘Make-up can work wonders, Mr Grant. An actor like yourself knows that.’
‘Wonders? They’d have to photograph him from the top of the Empire State Building to make people think that’s me!’
With a hint of self-importance, Sir Lewis reassured him. ‘This is our job, Mr Grant. When our agents informed us in 1943 that Hitler had a plan to assassinate Winston Churchill, we engaged a certain George Howard Foster, known in the world of impressionists as the Great Foster, to impersonate the Prime Minister at various public occasions. No one ever noticed the difference.’
‘So who’s this guy? Is he a comedian as well?’ asked Cary, still looking at the photograph.
‘No. He sells second-hand cars in Montreal. His name’s Jean-Jacques Bondurant. He sometimes impersonates you at parish festivals and in Christmas pantomimes.’
Cary laughed again.
‘And when is this “mission” supposed to be taking place?’
‘In the spring. We would fly you to London in a military plane, and from there on to Yugoslavia.’
There was a long pause. Sir Lewis appeared to be meditating on what to say. In the end he found the right words. ‘Mr Grant. The last message that Admiral Nelson delivered to the fleet before the battle of Trafalgar was: “England expects that every man will do his duty.”’ He sighed and added, ‘I would ask you to give our proposal serious consideration. It would be an inestimable service to the cause of the free world.’
Cary smiled and reflected that the tone of the phrase was too pompous. Rhetoric entirely in keeping with a grey officer of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
Chapter 15
Bologna, 31 January
Strips of daylight filtered faintly through the half-open shutters. Brando’s flat was on the first floor and the window, overlooking the footpath, was far from private. In any case, Angela would have been worried at the top of Bologna’s massive Torre degli Asinelli.
‘But if your husband asks you which scene you liked best in the film, what are you going to tell him?’
Pierre gathered up the clothes scattered on the floor, and turned around to hand her her blouse. Angela was slipping on her stockings. He went over to her and started kissing her on the neck and caressing her.
Angela put on her skirt and sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘I’ve never asked you why you and Nicola didn’t go to Yugoslavia too.’
Pierre didn’t like talking about it. But there was no point trying to hide things from Angela. ‘You know,’ he began, ‘my brother was already grown up, he had a job, he’d been in the Resistance in Italy, he’s not the kind of person who likes change. I was just thirteen. My aunt Iolanda had brought me up from the age of five, I was fine with her and I had started working in a factory as well. My father didn’t know whether I would be happy in Yugoslavia. With Aunt Iolanda they thought I would make my mind up when I was bigger, and that was ok too.’
Some women’s laughter reached them from the street. They had stopped just underneath the window. Angela suddenly froze and fell silent. The tenants of the building might grow suspicious if they heard unfamiliar voices in Brando’s flat. The women were almost shouting. They burst out laughing again, and then their voices moved away. Angela relaxed and repeated the question.
‘Why didn’t you go and find your father?’
‘Oh, you know!’ Pierre spread his arms out. ‘I’ve been setting money aside since I was little. But I wasn’t given a passport. And then there’s the fact that we haven’t heard from him for almost a year.’
Angela realised she had touched a raw nerve. ‘How do you mean?’
‘He used to write, we stayed in contact, often, but there was something else as well, that sense that you’ve still got at least one of your parents. He asked questions, he took an interest in us. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped.’
‘Do you think something terrible’s happened?’
‘Listen, if he was dead, surely he would have had a friend who would be willing to tell his sons, don’t you think? I don’t believe he’s dead, but I’m sure he’s having problems of some kind.’
All of a sudden the fridge started humming.
‘My husband and his friends say that Tito is a traitor.’
‘Of course they do, he’s the only communist who quit Stalin.’
‘Did your father ever meet him?’
‘You bet! He was made a hero of the people by Tito in person.’
The darkness erased the outlines of the room. In the light from a match, Pierre’s face lit up for a moment, then all that remained was the glow of his cigarette. Short days. Halfway through the afternoon the sun disappeared, the streetlights spread a yellowish light through the fog and bicycle dynamo-lights were switched on.
‘I’ve really got to go now.’
‘When will we see each other again?’
‘Don’t ask, Pierre. Odoacre may be going to Rome on Tuesday, I don’t know.’
‘Fine. If you can, send Teresa to tell me about it. We’ll have to be able to tell Brando so we can have his flat.’
They set off towards the door and Pierre helped her on with her coat. He kissed her and stroked her hair, and they exchanged a long kiss, almost like one in a film. Then Angela passed through the door and he heard her going down the few stairs to the door. Through the gap in the shutters he saw her passing quickly, her handbag clamped under her arm. He bade her a silent goodbye, turned the light on and tidied up the bed.
Before he left, he went into the bathroom and used Brando’s brilliantine to slick back his hair. He looked at himself in the mirror. What kind of situation had he got himself into! The young wife of the great and meritorious comrade Montroni.
It was less cold outside, and the snow was melting into dirty slush.
Chapter 16
Statement given on 1.2.1954 to Police Commissioner Pasquale Cinquegrana by Salvatore Pagano of unknown parents, held on a charge of stealing an expensive television set of American manufacture from the military base of the Allied forces in Agnano, Naples
Excuse me, but this time I really don’t understand. What’s all this about a slap? Yes, of course I know Don Luciano. Who doesn’t? I’ve already told you that Agnano is my second home, almost my first one, and Don Luciano goes there too, and everyone knows him, you can’t help it, go and talk to the jockeys, the bookies, the people in the bar, the waiters. They all know him. And you’re saying that someone’s supposed to have slapped him, on the day when I was there too, the 3rd of January, when I won those 5,000 lire with the bet on Monte Allegro. Are you absolutely sure? Look, apart from anything else, this business has nothing to do with that other stuff about the American television, nothing at all, and if I knew anything I’d be happy to tell you, but unfortunately I didn’t see anything of the kind, and I didn’t hear anyone talking about it either, and people would have been talking about something like that in Agnano, you can be sure of that. And who’s going to give Don Luciano a slap? Everyone loves him.
A slap? Listen to me, if someone slapped Don Luciano he certainly wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale, if you follow me. Do you not see that? Ok, look, I only know Don Luciano by sight, as you might say, and he’s a really great bloke, but there are some other people who criticise him and say that he does terrible things, just because he’s a foreigner, that is, he is Italian but he comes from New York, and it’s really easy to take against him. Then his friends, the ones who help him get by, they got annoyed, in fact they got really furious, because they love Don Luciano. And in the end, if anyone really did slap him, those guys don’t like it, and you know how these things go, in fact maybe they go and get him, the low-life, to tell him to stop doing it, to tell him that this thing has caused them a great deal of grief and maybe he gets on his high horse and who do you think you are, and who’s your mother, and who’s Don Luciano. Then off you go, maybe you come to blows rather than being able to talk about it calmly, and the man on his own takes more than he gives because there’s more of them. Afterwards, he doesn’t come and talk to you, number one because he started it, he gave the slap and provoked the people who came to talk to him. Secondly, because he’s now furious as well, and if he has friends he sends them to speak directly to Don Luciano’s friends, not to you, and they try to resolve the matter in a gentlemanly fashion.
I understand, yes. Don Luciano’s friends, as you put it, have already gone to the low-life who slapped him, but rather than talking, you say they were heavy-handed, a wrench, you say, crushed his head. And why are you coming to tell me all this, when I’m only here for the business about the American television?
Do I know Stefano Zollo? I told you, at the racecourse everybody knows everybody, the people who come here regular. But maybe ‘know’ is a bit strong, you know what somebody’s name is, and what somebody looks like, and when you meet them, well, what’s up, what’s wrong, take care, and off you go. Zollo, yes, I think I know him, big guy, but I’m not sure. And that is all I know, I assure you.
Cassazione? Ok, him too, another of those people you see in Agnano, he does odd jobs just the same as me. He had 5,000 lire in his pocket as well? Obviously he had placed a good bet too. No, that’s a lie. Don’t believe a word he says, let me warn you. Do you think this guy Stefano Zollo is going to go round handing out 5,000 lire to everyone because we’ve placed a bet for Don Luciano? He makes things up, he gets everything muddled, you see he won the money with a bet that wasn’t all that clean and he doesn’t want to tell you. Remember they call him that, Cassazione, because one day he says one thing and then the next day he says the opposite, he changes his mind, like the judge in the Court of Cassation, you see, when he says another judge made a mistake and they have to do the trial again. In the end he’s his own cassation, he does something then he undoes it, he says something and then he contradicts himself, he’s famous for that, ask around, you don’t need to pay him any attention, never, you’ll catch him again tomorrow and he’ll tell you he was given the 5,000 lire by Princess Soraya, that pretty lady, as a handout, and the next day he’ll tell you he prayed to St Gennaro and, lo and behold, there they were in his pocket, by a miracle.
No, I’ve never worked for Don Luciano, I swear, he’s far too important, he’d never trust someone like me to place his bets. And a gift of 5,000 lire? Don Luciano isn’t a millionaire! He’s lucky with the horses, but that’s all. Ok, he did bet on Monte Allegro that day, you’re very well informed. So you can see that he knows his horses well, too, maybe a friend who’s a jockey told him that Ninfa had had a bad case of colic. I couldn’t have been the only person who knew something like that, rumours go around, you know how it is.
But excuse me, didn’t you want to know about that television?
Chapter 17
Palm Springs, California, 1 February
The maid set the tray of Wedgwood cups and the teapot down on the little table, waited for a nod and withdrew in silence. The tea was the only ingredient of a traditional breakfast to have survived Betsy’s new alimentary convictions. Rather than bacon and eggs, orange juice, and toast with cherry jam, there were oat flakes, bran, soya bean sprouts, and a vegetable drink based on celery, carrot and banana. Quite honestly not even the tea was the same, because the old Earl Grey had made way for a greenish Chinese variety from Hong Kong. At first Cary had welcomed the novelty enthusiastically, as he always did, trying to find out everything he could on the subject. Subsequently his interest had abated, and the crisis peaked when the crazed blender, rather than producing a carrot juice for his friend David Niven as he intended it to do, sprayed the whole kitchen with orange pulp.
Betsy Drake glanced up from her morning paper and looked at her husband in his blue pyjamas and indigo silk dressing gown, shaking his head as he flicked through some typed pages.
‘Something wrong, darling?’
‘No, nothing. I get the feeling that even old Hitch isn’t feeling so great. This script isn’t one for him.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I can’t make a comeback with something like this. For pity’s sake, a captivating little story based on a novel by a certain David Dodge. A retired thief in a hotel has to demonstrate his own innocence by catching the man really responsible for a series of thefts. A beautiful girl tries to put him to the test with her jewels and falls in love with him. In the end he finds the guilty man and marries the girl. But I don’t know . . .’
The tea was too hot. The bean sprouts were tasteless, the bran was utterly unappealing, and just looking at the vegetable glop made his gorge rise. Cary got to his feet and started pacing back and forth. Even dressed like this, he could turn up at the newsagent’s without anyone passing remarks about his elegance. Betsy couldn’t remember ever having seen him coming out of his bedroom in anything less than a dressing gown.
‘I have a sense, my darling, that you don’t know what it is that you really need.’
Without stopping, he expressed a thought out loud. ‘I can’t make a comeback with this stuff, God damn it!’
‘But listen, starting over would do you good, I’m sure of it.’
‘Sure it would do me good. But what with? They’ve also suggested I take part in a film about Tito, the President of Yugoslavia. What do you think?’
Betsy opened her eyes wide and straightened her back, surprised. ‘Who on earth wants to make a film like that? Clifford?’
‘No, MI6.’
‘M what? What is it, a new studio?’
The sofa’s soft cushions attracted him. Cary sank into them, arms at his side and legs outstretched.
‘Military Intelligence.’ He said the words in a serious voice. ‘The British secret service. And the CIA and the NATO governments. Two Englishmen were here the day before yesterday, secret agents of Her Majesty, not the fascinating spies you might imagine, they were like a couple of bank officials. They want me to go and see Tito in Yugoslavia, to discuss a film about his life. They’ve also given me a lot of documentation about the man.’
Betsy sipped her carrot juice as though it were medicine, waiting for her husband to continue. Pressing his eyes with his fingers, trying to concentrate, Cary went on. ‘A film about Tito. In Yugoslavia. Something that will present him as a hero in the eyes of the West. Turn him into an acceptable ally. He expressly asked for them to give me a part, and he’s very keen to meet me. You see? And the film doesn’t even have funding, a screenplay, a director. Nothing at all.’
‘But they must at least have told you –’
‘Let me finish, this is the good bit. Before going to Yugoslavia I would have to stop over in London, so I’d be away for a few weeks. But they don’t want people to know what’s going on, so I’d have to travel incognito. And do you know what brilliant idea they’ve come up with to make sure that my cover isn’t blown? A double, a man they say looks like me, a French Canadian with a ludicrous name, who would come here to impersonate Cary Grant. Can you imagine?’
There was a good minute’s silence. Then the sound of newspaper being folded, and the wheeze of the armchair as it was freed of Betsy’s weight. Now it was her turn to pace.
‘I don’t understand, honey, spell it out for me. They want a stranger to come and live in our house?’
‘That’s what I thought too, Betsy. But they’re not as crazy as all that. This man, this individual they say looks like me, wouldn’t be here all the time. He would come every now and again, show his face, go out and buy some aftershave and come back home again, take you for a walk, make everyone think that Cary Grant never moved away from Palm Springs.’
Betsy handed her husband the glass of vegetable juice; she wouldn’t let him leave it there. There was something tempting about the secret service suggestion. Admittedly, it wasn’t the kind of comeback for Cary that she’d been hoping for, a film to restore his selfconfidence and his desire to work. Neither would it win him back his success and his audience. But there was something active about it, meeting new people, seeing new countries, getting away from home for a couple of months. A little holiday for her as well: Cary was becoming increasingly nervous and depressed, and it was Betsy who paid the price.
‘Obviously I told them you would never accept such a situation. “Your wife will understand, Mr Grant,” they kept saying, over and over. Ludicrous, I said, going out with a stranger, someone who’s supposed to look like me, while I’m far away, and not even for work, but on an utterly unbelievable special mission. Can you imagine?’
The maid leaned against the door and Betsy beckoned her in.
‘Just leave the bean sprouts, Jenny. At least eat some bean sprouts, darling.’
She waited until the maid had gone, and tried to resolve her last perplexities.
‘I still don’t understand why this thing has to stay such a secret. You’d only be a famous actor visiting a head of state.’