The Grey Beginning, page 10
The question was, could I get away with it? I studied myself critically. If there was such a thing as the glow of approaching motherhood, I didn’t have it. My hair was a mess. When I met Bart it had been long, falling almost to my waist. He liked it that way; he’d twine it around his hands, spread it across his body…. The day after the accident I took a pair of scissors and whacked it off. It was growing out now, too short to be braided or coiled, too long to hold a curl. My face was fuller than it had been, thanks to Rosa—she was a first-class cook. The problem wasn’t my face or hair, it was my figure. Bart had been dead for three months. I couldn’t be less than three months pregnant. Within a few weeks I should be showing signs of something more substantial than extra calories and the flabbiness of a winter’s forced inactivity.
I had a month—six weeks at the outside. So, said my reflection apprehensively—you are going to stay? Saint Georgia on her white mouse, riding out to conquer the dragon and rescue a troubled child? Dr. Baldwin was right; what you need is intensive psychotherapy. Or a padded cell.
If the contessa found out I was not pregnant my departure from the Villa Morandini would be precipitate and unpleasant. I had told Pete; would he tell his grandmother? I doubted that he would tell anyone. He had already been warned off the subject. If he did tell her, then the masquerade was over. I would take my lumps and crawl away. I wouldn’t sink so low as to ask him to hold his tongue.
Che sera, sera. With a shrug almost as eloquent as Emilia’s, I turned from the mirror.
A remark Francesca made at breakfast confirmed my evil suspicions. We kept up the usual banal chitchat while Emilia served us. Not until we were finishing our coffee did Francesca say casually, “Pietro goes to the doctor today. Would you care to accompany us?” She added, with a faint but cynical smile, “I will arrange for you to speak with him alone.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to imitate the smile. “I would appreciate that.”
Deeper and deeper in, I thought. Everything I do gets me more involved; everything she does pushes me farther in. I was about to leave the room when she administered another shove. “I am going up now to hear Pietro’s lessons,” she said. “When he is well enough, he takes physical exercise at eleven. I believe you know where?”
I went looking for David—out and around, and up the back stairs, instead of trying to retrace the route Emilia had shown me. He was hard at work. I could hear his voice, raised in amiable soliloquy, before I opened the door. When he saw me he went right on quoting. It had to be a quote; normal people don’t talk that way. “‘Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth, Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green….’ I don’t know that it’s so wise, though. Why aren’t you gamboling on the green this fine morning?”
“I came to invite you to join me—us, rather. The football game is on. Eleven o’clock.”
“Oh, yeah? You’ve got yourself a man. I’m looking forward to meeting il conte.”
“He’s a sweet kid. Lonely. He lost both parents recently in a plane crash.”
“I know.”
“Yesterday you told me you’d never heard of him.”
“Good God, but you’re a suspicious wench. After I talked to you, I pumped Rosa for the story.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You should be. Anyone with a face like yours ought to be open, candid, and idiotically trusting. What made you so…” He broke off, his smile fading. “I apologize. Always putting my big foot into my bigger mouth.”
“It’s okay. What are those nasty things?”
The table was covered with scraps of fabric, dark brown and black, ranging from fragments a few inches across to larger pieces.
“Nasty? Nasty! Those, my ignorant innocent, are examples of Coptic and early Arabic embroidery. Not worth their weight in gold, but worth a tidy sum in silver. Part of the count’s Egyptian spoils. These bits and pieces weren’t popular when he was on tour; he appears to have appreciated the unusual.”
“They look awful.”
“To me they are as lovely as the sunrise over the Duomo.” He picked up one of the scraps. “The best thing about them is that the count had the good sense not to hand them over to the estate washerwoman. Wait till I get through with them.”
I sat down on my old seat. “What do you do with them?”
“Wash them, of course—but not with yellow soap and a scrub brush. I’ll have to go into town to pick up some chemicals and distilled water. Want to go with me?”
“What did you say?”
“Maybe you’re surfeited with the sights of Florence.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, but continued to admire the filthy cloth in his hand. “If you aren’t—well, I’m a good guide. I know a little bit about a lot of things.”
“I’d like that. But I can’t go today.”
“No sweat. I can wait till tomorrow.”
“Fine. Are you planning to walk?”
“Good Lord, no. As an added inducement, I am offering you a ride on my BMW bike—secondhand, but superb.”
I thought of the winding, bumpy road, and the carefree habits of Italian drivers. My phobia about driving was pretty well cured, but…I said firmly, “I have a rental car. I’ll even let you drive.”
“Okay. Whatever turns you on.”
“I’ll see you at eleven, then.” I gave him directions to the garden and added doubtfully, “You won’t get all wrapped up in your dirty collection and forget, will you?”
“Madam, you cut me to the quick. I’ll be there.”
In fact, he was there before me. I had gone to my room to compose a letter to my parents. On my next trip to Florence, I must retrieve the incoherent note I left with Angelo. I couldn’t remember exactly what I had written, but I could remember the state of mind I’d been in when I wrote it.
The letter took longer than I anticipated. There were so many things I couldn’t mention, such as my “condition,” and so many others that required careful handling, such as Pete’s illness. I had to make Francesca sound like a harmless, lonely old lady who had welcomed me with open arms and affectionate tears, and I had to convince the readers that I was well, happy, and in my right mind. It took three attempts to produce something that succeeded, if only partially, in these aims. I folded the delicate, gold-edged paper and put it in the delicate, gold-edged envelope with the Morandini crest. The stationery had appeared overnight in one of the drawers of the desk-secretary—another of those little amenities to which Francesca assumed I would quickly become accustomed.
When I reached the garden they were both there, sitting on the marble bench. Pete was swinging his legs and talking a blue streak. David leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, listening with intent interest, and nodding occasionally. When I opened the gate Pete jumped up. “Go out for a pass,” he yelled.
I had to run forward to catch it. “Not bad,” said David critically.
“She has the good hands,” Pete said. “Now throw to me, signora.”
“Wait a minute, we’ve got to go by the rules,” David said. “Boys against girls?” He grinned wickedly.
“You’re a crook,” I said.
Pete chuckled. “A crook, a crook. He is. How can there be two against one?”
David said, perfectly deadpan, “She throws the ball, and then runs down and catches it, while we try to tackle her.”
Pete broke up. He laughed so hard he had to sit down. David jabbed him in the ribs. “Don’t laugh. We might have conned her into it.”
After some more low-class clowning from David we decided Pete would play offense with both of us. He was the quarterback, of course. He was also a running back and all the front linesmen. Once when Pete faked and pulled in the ball to run, David tackled him with such gusto I yelped in protest, but Pete loved it. We didn’t stop until we were all red-faced and winded. The score was Pete 54 (two missed extra points), opponents 14.
David stayed on the ground after the final play, flat on his back, staring up at the sky. Pete sat on his stomach. “Are you o-kay? Did I hurt you?”
“I could breathe better if you’d get off my diaphragm,” David said, rolling the boy off him with a sudden heave. Pete sat cross-legged on the grass beside him. We discussed some of the finer points of the game, and David promised to give Pete some pointers on kicking. Pete nobly admitted that kicking was not one of his best skills. Finally David said, “I’d better get back to work. Thanks for the exercise, gang; that was a lot more fun than jogging.”
“We will do it tomorrow?” Pete asked hopefully.
“Sure. Same time, same place.”
He ambled off without a backward look. I said, “I guess I had better change for lunch. You too, sport.”
“Sport. I like that.” But he looked grave, and I knew he was thinking of his visit to the doctor. I had hoped he would mention it, but he didn’t; so I took a deep breath and prepared to tackle something a lot heavier than my erstwhile opponent.
“I have a favor to ask, Pete.”
“Of course, signora.” He looked so pleased at the idea of doing something for me, I hated to tell him what it was.
“Can I go with you to Florence this afternoon?”
His face shut up like a curtained window. “Did she say you should come?”
“Yes. You see…” I wanted to touch him, but he was so far away from me he might as well have been on another planet. “You see, after Bart died, I was sick. I was in a hospital for several months, and I had to see a doctor—a psychiatrist—every day. I haven’t been to my doctor since I left home, and I thought—if you don’t mind…”
“You were sick? Like—” One finger touched his head.
He hadn’t picked that up from Francesca. Probably the tuttofare, or Emilia, or the cook. “Right,” I said. “Sick in the head. People can get sick there, just as they can get sick in their stomachs or their legs.”
“But they get better,” Pete said slowly. He picked up a stick and began poking holes in the dirt.
“Oh, sure they do. It takes a while; sometimes it seems as if it takes a very long time. I’m better. But I thought since you were going to see your doctor, maybe I could see him too. Just to make sure—you know—”
He nodded. I was glad he knew. I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. But I had to give him some reason for seeing the doctor alone. I didn’t want him to think I was talking about him behind his back—ganging up on him with all the other adults. I knew only too well how that felt.
He went on poking holes—nice, neat holes that formed symmetrical patterns.
I said, “If you don’t want me to come, I won’t, Pete.”
“I want you to come.”
“Thank you.”
He went on, as if I had not spoken. “I want you to be better.”
My breath caught. It wasn’t easy to speak lightly, but I tried. “We had better get moving, then. All that exercise has made me hungry. I could eat a horse.”
“No, you could not! Could you?”
I held out my hand. “I’m so weak you’ll have to help me up.”
He did, with much grunting and puffing. It gave me an excuse to hold his hand as we walked to the gate. Francesca wasn’t the only one who was pushing me farther in. Already it gave me a pang to think of saying good-bye to Pete. And how ironic that the only person in the house to whom I had told the truth (if not the whole truth) was a ten-year-old boy.
III
It was too warm to wear my wool suit, so I put on a cotton blouse and skirt. Next to Francesca, cool and slim in pale-green linen, I looked like the tuttofare.
As we were finishing lunch, Emilia produced Pete, like a parcel to be taken to the post office. He didn’t look like the same child who had laughed and joked and rolled on the grass. Sullen resentment coated his features like a thin, congealed mask.
We went out to the car and Alberto leaped to open the door. His manner toward me was almost as obsequious as it was to Francesca. Her style of living did have an insidious appeal. It would be easy to fall into the habit of treating people like objects, especially when they were people you didn’t like. I noticed that Pete kept as far from Alberto as he could when he got into the car. It seemed more like distaste than fear, but it annoyed me, and prompted me to commit another impertinence. When we were ensconced, with Pete, stiff and silent as a doll, between me and Francesca, I said, “Does Alberto have sterling qualities I fail to observe, Francesca? I’m surprised you keep such an unattractive person on your staff.”
Pete gave me a startled look. Francesca smiled, as if she enjoyed sparring with me. Fine, I thought; I’ll give her plenty of opportunities.
“He does have admirable qualities you have not had occasion to observe, Kathleen. Loyalty, for one. Unquestioning obedience, for another. They are more important to me than a handsome face or fine manners. I don’t dine with him, after all.”
“He would die for the Morandinis?” I asked, investing the words with ironic quotation marks.
“Yes,” she said flatly.
“Isn’t that rather medieval?”
“Certainly. I understand he was somewhat rude to you when you first came to the gate. It won’t happen again. Naturally, if you have any complaints about him you will tell me.”
I wondered if there was anything Francesca didn’t know about. Well, yes—there were a few things. Pete was still staring at me with shocked admiration. I winked at him.
Francesca talked to me and occasionally addressed a remark to Pete. I talked to both of them. Pete sometimes spoke to me, but never said a word to Francesca. I could only dimly imagine what those drives must be like when the two of them were alone. Pete must dread the trip as much as he dreaded the doctor.
Dr. Manetti’s office was in a building that had once been a Renaissance palazzo, but the office itself was as modern as any I had seen. Like his colleagues the world over, the doctor appeared to be making a good living. The waiting room was furnished with lush plants and handsome pseudo- (or genuine; how would I know?) antiques. We were the only ones there, and when the door to the inner sanctum opened, it was the nurse, who told Pete to come in. Presumably the previous patient had been spirited out a back door. That’s how Dr. Baldwin had arranged it.
Pete went with a little squaring of his shoulders that I found infinitely touching. He did not look back.
We waited for the regulation fifty minutes. Francesca looked through the magazines on the table, commenting now and then on an article or a picture. Not until the “hour” was almost up did she say, “I will meet Pietro in the outer office. I have explained to Dr. Manetti why you are here. Take all the time you like, ask whatever you wish. He has been instructed to tell you anything you want to know.”
She had timed it perfectly. The last word was hardly out of her mouth when the nurse reappeared. “Signora?”
Francesca put her magazine down, smoothed her gloves, and went out.
I had assumed Dr. Manetti spoke English; there would not have been much point to my seeing him if he didn’t. His greeting was not only fluent, it was flawless, with scarcely a trace of an accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Morandini. May I express my condolences? I had not the pleasure of knowing your husband, but the contessa has often spoken of him.”
He was much younger than I had expected, and not at all like the conventional stereotype of a psychiatrist—unless it was the television-movie stereotype. He wore slacks and a white shirt open at the neck, with an emblem on the pocket. It fit his muscular body like a second skin. His face and throat and arms were a gorgeous golden bronze and his hair was only a few shades darker. He was almost as handsome as Bart.
He held a chair for me and then, instead of retreating behind the professional barrier of his desk, sat down on the couch, his pose deliberately casual. “It’s good of you to take an interest in the boy,” he said. “Do I understand that you have worked with emotionally disturbed children?”
I admitted the limitations of my experience and mentioned Francesca’s idée fixe about hereditary mental illness. Manetti laughed good-naturedly. “She is a remarkable woman. Very modern in many ways, and yet these old superstitions linger.”
By the end of the hour we were on first-name terms. He was very easy to talk to—subtly flattering in his keen attention, quick to agree with my statements—and then, discreetly, insinuating reservations, or “redefinitions,” as he called them. When I found myself moving toward the door I realized I had been given a standard fifty-minute hour. No doubt Francesca would have to pay for it. I can’t say that idea upset me very much.
He started to open the door, then paused and said in a sudden change from his professional smoothness, “I wonder…Would you perhaps…Would you do me the honor of dining with me one evening? I am very proud of my ‘home town,’ as you say in America, and I like to show it off to visitors.”
I was surprised, but not at all averse to the idea. I said I’d be delighted. He said I was very kind. I said not at all, he was kind to ask me. He said he would telephone. I decided not to mention the invitation to Francesca. He probably wouldn’t call anyway.
When we got down to the street the car was nowhere to be seen. Francesca looked vexed. “I told Alberto to be here at four.”
“He’s probably stuck in traffic,” I said. “There’s a café—why don’t we have some ice cream? I think we deserve it, don’t you, Pete—Pietro?”
Francesca’s expression was that of a woman who has been offered a dish of pickled mice, and it did not change after we took our places at one end of the rickety tables under the faded awning. I must admit I was pushing her deliberately, to see how far I could go, and I must also admit she tried to be a good sport. She even ordered coffee. She didn’t drink it, though.
Pete and I had the biggest sundaes on the menu. They weren’t called sundaes; I forget the names. We selected them from a card, complete with color photographs displayed next to the door of the café. The flavors were a little peculiar to American taste buds—a touch of black currant, a touch of coconut, and some kind of liqueur. I couldn’t finish mine, so Pete kindly offered to finish it for me. He also kindly allowed me to mop his chin with a napkin dipped in the glass of water I had requested. A shudder rippled through Francesca’s body, but she didn’t say anything.
