45 A Time of Innocence
They became lovers in the old-fashioned sense, and made love in the old- fashioned sense. Their idea of making love was to kiss in the dark under the olive tree after curfew, or sit on a rock watching for dolphins through his binoculars.
He loved her too much to jeopardise her happiness, and she in turn had too much sense to throw her caution to the winds. She had seen again and again the misery of girls with an unreckoned child, and again and again she had seen the septicaemia, the protracted poisoned deaths of girls who underwent the lethal curettage of crochet hooks and wires. She attended them with her father, and later attended them with priests, and she knew that the captain understood that they did not lie together, not because it was undesired, but because in fact there was no choice.
They made the most of stolen time, and it became easier when Gunter Weber organised a motorcycle for Corelli, `borrowed' from the Wehrmacht in return for Parma ham, Chianti, and mozzarella cheese. It had been officially written off in a spurious accident, and Weber had simply had it repaired and delivered to his friend.
The first that Pelagia knew of it was when, outside the yard, there came the sound of a popping exhaust, an engine throbbing, a backfire, and a silence. Psipsina came running in and hid under the table. Pelagia went outside and found Corelli, complete with flying hat and goggles, his face dark with dirt, coughing up dust on the seat of a black machine. He saw her coming and raised his goggles. She laughed at him because he had two pale rings about his eyes, set in a grey and grimy face, and his lips looked unnaturally pink, as though he had been applying a cosmetic. He grinned, believing that she was merely glad to see him, and said, 'Vuole fare un giro?'
She crossed her arms and shook her head, `I've never been on one. In fact I've never been in a car either, and I'm not starting now.'
`I've never been on one either,' he said, 'but it's very easy. And isn't she a beautiful machine?'
`It's only got two wheels, it's bound to fall over. It's obvious. You've got to be mad to go around on that.'
He looked up at her, 'I agree that it ought to fall over, but it doesn't. It just doesn't go in a straight line all the time. But I'm getting the hang of it. And just listen to this.'
He clambered off, jumped on the kick-start, revved the engine, and then fiddled with the advance-retard until it was ticking over happily. 'Just listen,' he cried, 'it's metronomic. And you could play a tune to it. That tempo, it's perfect, not a beat missed, not a hesitation. It's a musical machine, bubble, bubble bubble, and the exhaust, it sings. Look, it's a BMW vertical single-cylinder shaft drive. No chain to break or fall off, and it pulls up these mountains as though they don't exist. Come for a ride. It's the best feeling there is. Wind in your hair.'
'Muck all over your face,' said Pelagia sceptically. 'You look like a monkey. Anyway, somebody might see us.'
The captain considered this problem, 'OK, tomorrow I'll bring you a helmet and goggles and a big leather coat, and then you won't be recognised. Is that a deal?'
'No.'
But the next day they met around the bend of the road, and Pelagia hurriedly put on her disguise. The captain found it almost impossible to control the machine with the extra weight, and to begin with they wove about and went into the stony grass verges. They fell off twice, without injury, and then they established that she should try not to move about when she was seated behind him. She clung to his waist, white-knuckled with terror, her face buried between his shoulder-blades, the machine thundering in her groin with a sensation that was at once deeply pleasant and thoroughly disturbing. After they had arrived at Fiskardo she had clambered off, shaking, and realised that she couldn't wait to get back on. He was right, it was glorious to ride a motorcycle. The captain was exhilarated.
They went to places where Pelagia could not have been known, and to places that were deserted. She would thread her arm through his and walk beside him, leaning her weight upon his shoulder, always laughing. With him she would always remember that she laughed. Sometimes they took a bottle of Robola, and that would make her laugh much more, though it left the coming home a hazardous adventure; he did not drive very straight even when sober, and more than once they took an unintended fork for lack of time for slowing down to turn. That was how they discovered the ruined shepherd's hut.
It was so old that the floor had sunk into the earth, and there was nothing in there but a rusty pan and two green bottles. The laths had cracked and slipped, and the tiles bowed dangerously. It smelt of moss and honeysuckle and old men's clothes, and the light fragmented between the stones in places where the mortar had long since disappeared. They referred to it as 'Casa Nostra', and sometimes swept its floor with sheaves of twigs, happy to share it with a small colony of discreet bats and three families of swallows. In this secret house they would spread a rug and lie embracing, kissing and talking, and now and then he would play his mandolin.
He played her sentimental songs from forgotten times, usually in a melodramatic and ironic style; he was conscious that his voice was not a strong one, and he wanted merely to make her laugh: 'Alma del core, spirito dell'alma, Sempre constante, t'adorero. Saro contento nel mio tormento, Se quel bel labro baciar potro . . .'
When she was feeling frivolous and light with wine he would sing: 'Danza, danza, fanciulla, al mio cantar; Danza, danza, fanciulla gentile, al mio cantar. Gira legera, sotile al suono, al suono del'onde del mar And indeed in the distance came the sound of the sea, and Pelagia waltzed satirically about the hue, pirouetting and giggling, throwing pouts at him to burlesque the military whores she had seen so often, making faces and blowing kisses at the men as they rattled by in their truck.
Sometimes Corelli became depressed and sentimental, reflecting upon the eternal impossibility of their devotion, and his light tenor voice would take on a tragic mien that brought tears to his own eyes, if not to Pelagia's. It would be a time to make lament, and he would sing `Donna non vidi mai. . .' not because it was sad, which it was not, but because it was sung andante lento and had plenty of scope for maximum expression con anima in that refrain of 'Manon Lescaut me chiamo'.
All their lovers' talk began with the phrase `After the war'.
After the war, when we are married, shall we live in Italy? There are nice places. My father thinks I wouldn't like it, but I would. As long as I'm with you. After
the war, if we have a girl, can we call her Lemoni? After the war, if we have a son, we've got to call him Iannis. After the war, I'll speak to the children in Greek, and you can speak to them in Italian, and that way they'll grow bilingual. After the war I'm going to write a concerto, and I'll dedicate it to you. After the war I'm going to train to be a doctor, and I don't care if they don't let women in, I'm still going to do it. After the war I'll get a job in a convent, like Vivaldi, teaching music, and all the little girls will fall in love with me, and you'll be jealous. After the war, let's go to America, I've got relatives in Chicago. After the war we won't bring up our children with any religion, they can make their own minds up when they're older. After the war, we'll get our own motorbike, and we'll go all over Europe, and you can give concerts in hotels, and that's how we'll live, and I'll start writing poems. After the war I'll get a mandola so that I can play viola music. After the war I'll love you, after the war I'll love you, I'll love you forever, after the war.