The Invitation by Lucy Foley
The Invitation by Lucy Foley
The Invitation by Lucy Foley
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@lucyfoleytweets
@lucyfoleyauthor
www.harpercollins.co.uk
ISBN: 978-0-00-757539-8
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Essaouira feels like the end of the world. It takes several hours in a bus
or car from Marrakech, along a bone-jarring route that is more track
than road. Once here the sweep of the Atlantic confronts you, buffeted
by the omnipresent wind. Forbidding and grey as an old schoolmistress.
The town itself is governed by this sea: salt-sprayed and wind-
blown, a straggling stretch of white and blue. From the roof terrace
of my building you can see the wide boulevards that surround the
souks. Then the smaller, serpentine passages within them, hedged
on either side by riotous piles of wares. But the market here is a
much less fractious place than that of Marrakech, where the stall-
holders wheedle and heckle. Perhaps it is that the pace of life is
slower than it is there than it is, really, in any other place I have
visited in my life. There are a few other Western expats here, like
me. Most are exiles in some respect, though the causes are perhaps
too diverse for generalization: McCarthyism, bankruptcy, broken
marriages. The long shadow of the bomb.
face her worry for him, his fathers pointed questions about
when he is going to make something of himself.
OK then. Well, I thought you could go instead of me.
It could be interesting, Hal thinks. How would I get in?
Well, Fede says, patiently, you could pretend to be me.
I think we do not look all that different.
Hal chooses not to point out the obvious. Fede is half a
foot shorter, with a broken nose and brown eyes where Hals
are blue. The only similarity is their dark hair.
Now Fede is expounding his idea. And think of all those
rich women, looking for a little excitement. He winks.
Trust me, amico, its the best Christmas present I could
give you.
He fishes a card from his bag. Hal takes it, turns it over
in his hand, studies the embossed gold lettering. And he
thinks: Why not? What, after all, does he have to lose?
December
He walks all the way from his apartment. He likes walking:
there is always something new to see in this city. It seems to
shift and grow, revealing glimpses of other lives, other times.
There are layers of history here, times at which the barrier
between the present and past appears tissue-thin. He might
rip at it and reveal another age entirely: Roman, Medieval,
Renaissance. This reminder that the present and his place in
it are just as transient has a strong appeal. Beside so much
history, ones own past becomes rather insignificant.
Of course, there is a more recent time that must be banished
from conversation and thought. The war meant humiliation,
tragedy. It meant hardship and poverty too. People want
prosperity now, they want nice clothes, food on the table,
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about leaving the old behind. England had been too full of
ghosts. The man he had been before the war was one of
them; the spectre of his former happiness. And of all those
who hadnt come home his friend, Morris, among them.
Rome is full of ghosts, too centuries of them. There is
perhaps a stronger concentration of souls here than in any
other place in the world: it is not the Eternal City for
nothing. But the important thing is that they arent his
ghosts.
She nods, slowly. And he wonders if he has made the
exchange, given the thing demanded in return for entry. But
no, her questions havent ended yet.
And what do you do here?
Im a journalist. As soon as he says it he decides he should
have lied. People in her sort of position can be obsessive
about privacy. She doesnt seem disturbed by it, though.
Whats your name?
Hal Jacobs. I doubt that you will have
But she is squinting at him, as though trying to work
something out. Finally, she seems to have it. Reviews, she
says, triumphantly, reviews of films.
But no one read that column that was the problem, as
his editor at The Tiber had said.
Well, yes, I did write them. A couple of years ago now.
They were brilliant, she says. Molto molto acuto.
Thank you, he says, surprised.
There was one you wrote of Giacomo Gasparis film, La
Elegia. And I thought to myself, there are all these Italian
critics failing to see its purpose, asking why anyone would
want to look back to the war, that time of shame. And then
there was an Englishman you who understood it abso-
lutely. You wrote with such power.
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Hello.
He turns towards the voice. It is as though the darkness
itself has spoken. But when he looks closer he can make her
out the very pale blonde hair first, gleaming in what little
light there is, then the shimmering stuff of her dress. Now
he sees the fiery bud of a cigarette flare as she inhales. He
is struck by the strange notion that she was not there before,
that she has just alighted here like some magical winged
creature.
Sorry, she says, and leans forward so her face is caught
by the light spilling from the interior. His breath catches. He
had somehow known from the voice that she would be
beautiful, but had not been quite prepared for what has been
revealed. And something strange: he feels the fact of it go
through him like a sudden coldness.
She has sat back again now, and immediately he finds
himself hoping for another look at her face. There is an
intonation that he cant quite place. American, but something
else to it, too. Perhaps, he thinks, it is the accent of one who
has lived in this rarefied sphere for a lifetime.
Im Hal, he says, to fill the silence.
Hello, Hal, she says. A slender white arm appears then,
and he sees the wink of diamonds about the fine bones of
the wrist. Im Stella.
He takes her hand, and finds it surprisingly warm in his.
She stands then, and comes to stand beside him at the
rail. Now he can detect the scent of her: smoky, complex
a fragrance and something hers alone.
Look at it, she says. She is looking out at the city,
leaning forward hungrily. Dont you wish, she says, that
you could dive in and swim in it? She really looks as
though she might, he thinks plunge off the side and into
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Outside in the street her pale head and outfit glitter through
the darkness as though summoning all of the light to them.
She shields her face with one hand as the headlamps of a
passing car strafe across her. The driver, a man, cranes for
a view of her through the window. His look is greedy and
Hal feels something close to hatred for him, this complete
stranger.
She turns to him, awaiting his move. Suddenly he fears
that nothing he can come up with will be enough.
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The place is full, even at this hour. She steps before him into
the warmth of the place. As he follows he sees the glances
of the other customers: lecherous, envious, reverential. With
her outfit and her pale blonde hair she could be a movie star.
But not a Monroe. There is something less immediate, more
foreign about her appeal.
As soon as she has seated herself one of the waiters is
hovering, ready to take her order.
What are you having? she asks.
Oh, I thought Id have a beer. But please, have anything
youd like. If he has the cheap beer, he thinks, he can afford
to buy her a couple of the more expensive offerings. But, to
his surprise, she says: Ill have the same as you.
In the corner, a small jazz trio double bass, sax,
trumpet are playing a number so rough and fervent that
one can feel the vibrations of it in ones chest. He watches
her as she listens, her head on one side, her eyes half-
closed.
When the beers arrive, the sight of her sipping hers, sitting
in her finery, with that diamond bracelet about her wrist, is
so incongruous that it makes him smile. She looks at him,
venturing a smile of her own.
What is it?
You look as though you should be drinking champagne.
I hate it, she says. I never learned to like it. She takes
another sip. I like this, though.
Good. Its Italian. I always have it here. He doesnt say:
because it is the only one I can afford.
How long have you lived in Rome? For a while?
Yes, he says. For a few years.
And where were you before?
London.
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