The Lovers by Morris West

Author:Morris West
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2017-07-31T04:00:00+00:00

By the time Molloy had made his farewells and Cavanagh had taken his place as host at the Pipistrello, the first dishes had been served and the guests were waiting on the main course, a paillard of veal, which the padrone had assured them was the best quality meat to be found in the province. The musician, a good guitarist with an agreeable tenor, was working his way through a bracket of traditional Neapolitan songs which the Countess and Galeazzi were harmonising with him. Giulia and her father were engaged in a low-voiced dialogue which they broke off the moment Cavanagh took his seat at the table.

The waiter poured wine and mineral water for him. The padrone recommended the veal with operatic eloquence. The musician asked whether he had any requests. Cavanagh answered that he would rather leave the choice to the ladies. He loved the music but was quickly lost in Neapolitan dialect.

Giulia offered to make the choice and to interpret the words in Italian, provided Cavanagh would attempt a full reprise of the number with her. Agreed? Most certainly agreed! The song of her choice was ‘Passione’, which, Galeazzi told him, had been written in 1935, the last of the golden years in Neapolitan music. Galeazzi, it seemed, was a minor expert in the folk music of the siren lands. The guitarist played Giulia into the opening stanza:

‘Cchiù luntana me staie, cchiù vicina te sento . . . The further you are from me the closer I feel you.’

The deceptively simple words seemed almost to betray the singer into the haunting passion of the chorus:

‘Te voglio, te penzo, te chiammo . . . I want you, I think of you, I call you, I see you, I feel you, I dream you . . .’

That much at least he knew he could memorise. The words were alien but their meaning and their passion were his own. Were they Giulia’s too? They had to be – else why had she chosen this plangent little lyric, why had she waved everyone into the last chorus, her family, the other diners in the room? Why, when the song was ended did they all applaud so spontaneously, and afterwards turn the private supper into a riot of music and Latin sentiment?

It was long after midnight when they walked back along the dock, arm in arm, a quintet of happy travellers. Giulia, high on liquor and mischief, challenged Cavanagh:

‘Now see if you can remember the song.’

Cavanagh stopped, gathered the group around him and intoned softly: ‘Cchiù luntana me staie, cchiù vicina te sento . . .’ His Neapolitan sounded rather more like Tuscan, but the notes were true and the rhythm authentic and their a capella rendition of the chorus swept softly along the seafront with the night breeze.

‘There now!’ Cavanagh, was riding a high wave of elation. ‘It strums on the heartstrings, doesn’t it! We should form a singing group and take ourselves on the road!’

‘We could call ourselves “The Lovers”,’ said

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