The Invitation: Escape with this epic, page-turning summer holiday read. Lucy Foley
of the seats on the foredeck.
Hal glances at Stella. She stands a little distance from the group, and her gaze is turned from them. If they are all upon the stage, he thinks, she is the one waiting in the wings, hidden in its dark recesses. He remembers again how she had been in Rome. Quiet, but self-possessed. Her quietness has a different quality now; she is subdued. He looks away. He watches, instead, as Earl Morgan staggers over to the other chair and sits down. The actor turns toward the sea, until perhaps he thinks no one can see him. Then his smile – his whole face, in fact, appears to collapse in on itself. It is a horrible sight, as though the man is coming apart at the seams. Presently, loud snores are heard from his direction, and the hand that had been holding his drink slackens, allowing the empty glass to roll gently back towards them, the slice of lemon flopping onto the deck like a tiny, dead fish.
Portovenere
The water in the Gulf of the Poets is calm, protected from the violence of the sea without by a long sea barrier at the mouth. In the distance the shadows of vast ships cluster about La Spezia harbour, vessels of heavy industry and war.
‘Not worth a visit, in my opinion,’ Aubrey Boyd pronounces, looking back at it, ‘unless you have a fetish for the industrial.’
‘I was there yesterday,’ Hal says. ‘Briefly.’
‘Oh, gracious.’ Aubrey lifts his eyebrows. ‘You are intrepid.’
All come up on deck for a better sighting of the town, even those who have seen it before.
‘It is my favourite,’ Signor Gaspari says, quietly. ‘The Victorians flocked to the Cinque Terre, but Portovenere was the one they forgot.’ He looks at Hal, and gives his downturned smile. ‘I hope people continue to forget.’
Hal can make out a vivid strip of houses, each painted a different colour: ochre, sepia, rust red, dusky pink and, occasionally, a slice of blue: the colours of earth and sky. They are like the bright spines of so many books crammed together onto a bookshelf; a quiet spectacle. Aubrey Boyd gives a soft cry of delight, and reaches for his camera.
Above the town is the great grey mass of an old castle: ruined and yet from this distance retaining something of majesty. For Genoese ships, Gaspari explains, it would have been a welcome sight: the first glimpse of home. On the other side is an uninhabited island, a steep green nub of land emerging from the water like the backbone of some sleeping sea creature.
As they motor towards the harbour a boat arrives with men clamouring to give their assistance. Roberto, the Contessa’s skipper, solemnly tells their would-be guides that his men have everything under control. Reluctantly they manoeuvre further away. But when they catch sight of Giulietta in her black sundress there are whoops and cheers, ardent declarations. And suddenly two cameras appear with huge mounted flashbulbs. Giulietta tosses her head and turns away – but this has the effect, Hal notices, of displaying her profile to its best advantage.
Aubrey turns to Hal. ‘Prepare yourself for a great deal more of this. They are like cockroaches, these men – they follow some scent only discernible to them. And nowhere breeds them in greater numbers than Italy.’
‘Before supper,’ the Contessa announces to the party, once they have moored, ‘we will have a screening of the film. The audience at Cannes are getting a preview, but those on this boat will be the first to experience Signor Gaspari’s creation.’ She turns to the director, who inclines his head modestly.
As they are taken across on the tender, Hal turns to Gaspari. ‘So no one has seen it yet, apart from you? Even the actors?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. It keeps it purer, this way.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Free from ego, from meddling. Though there was some pressure, this time, to share the rushes.’ And Hal is certain that his gaze moves momentarily toward Truss.
They are led through the marina to the ruins of the old Genoese fort. Flaming torches illuminate the arches and pilasters in all their ravaged grandeur. From within, the place no longer looks formidable, Hal thinks, but vulnerable: spreadeagled before the wind and rain that have for centuries been feasting upon it, picking the old bones clean. As they make their way up he glimpses a forlorn window in a fragment of wall, offering an unnecessary aperture onto the sea beyond. They are ushered into the still-intact part of the castle, where a projector and chairs have been set up. They wait as a young man threads the machine with nervous hands and Hal, watching him, wonders if it is the first time he has ever done it. But after a couple of false starts, the wall opposite flickers into life, where a piece of canvas has been stretched across it.
The first shot fills the screen and suddenly Hal understands the significance of where they are sitting. The view is from the battlements of the same fort, but by some artistry of set design the arches appear intact, restored to their former glory.
Earl Morgan appears on the screen, looking out to sea, costumed in a sixteenth-century naval commander’s outfit. Hal wonders how much make-up it took to hide the decay of the man. He looks implausibly youthful and heroic. Cut to a view of him at the helm of a great galleon, then a battle scene with an Ottoman ship, which almost makes Hal smile, because it is so artful, so synchronized: rather like a ballroom dance. Even when men fall dying to the boards. Was there once a time when war would have looked like that? Unlikely. But the alternative would make unpalatable viewing.
The battle won, the galleon is making for home. Another shot of Morgan, picturesquely windblown, looking out to sea. The next shot is of the water. And there is a person in the water, flailing. Drowning. It has an unprecedented effect on Hal. Instantly, he feels as though he has been drenched in cold water. He stares at the image, trying to make sense of it. It is almost exactly as he has dreamed it, as though it has spilled onto the screen from his own mind. He stands. All he can think is that he has to get outside. He pushes past the knees that block his route. He isn’t sure whether he manages to apologize aloud, or whether the words form only inside his head. He lunges through the open doorway. In the courtyard he breathes great lungfuls of the cooling air, and feels the tightness in his chest begin to dissipate.
For days and even weeks afterwards, though he knew it was impossible, he kept thinking he glimpsed something in the water. It was always, of course, a trick of light and shadow – and of his own imagination. But to lose someone that way – there was a lack of certainty about it.
‘Are you all right, Mr Jacobs?’
Hal looks up and sees Signor Gaspari. All he can feel now is humiliation. The horror is passed, though he can still feel his heartbeat through his whole body. The speed with which it took hold of him, the power of it, was astounding.
‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘I drank too much last night. I thought I’d step outside for a moment to get some air.’ It is unprofessional, but it is better than admitting anything of the truth.
‘Ah,’ Gaspari smiles his sad smile. ‘I’m pleased to hear it wasn’t my film that was so objectionable.’
‘No. I’m so sorry. It must have looked very rude.’
As he stands his legs feel insubstantial, as though he is not quite in contact with the earth. It will pass, he thinks, with an effort of will. The important thing is to get back inside, and pretend none of it ever happened.
*
He is able to catch up quickly enough. He can only have been outside for a matter of minutes, though he felt that he re-entered the room a different man.
The figure in the water turns out to be a woman, who the captain has rescued and brought aboard the ship. She is played by Giulietta Castiglione: black-eyed, wild-haired, relentlessly seductive. Against his better judgement, the captain begins to fall for her. The atmosphere on board the galleon is powerfully evoked: the claustrophobic, gossipy watchfulness of the men. Hal recognizes it. It was exactly the same on board Lionheart. As Perkins, one of the other ratings, had put it, ‘You can’t break wind in this place without the news finding its way onto every deck.’