The Italian Romance, page 25
Jack said, ‘What a fool.’
She shook her head, as if she expected such a response. ‘He thought he did, I suppose, at first. I ... I just couldn’t let him know how much I...’
‘You blame yourself, for his lack?’
‘Oh, Jack, you don’t know me, either.’
The muscles in Jack’s face tensed, as if she’d struck him with her open palm. His head went back. He could feel the cold of the wall.
She said, talking not to him, ‘I think I’m a cold person. He began to turn away from me. Nothing I could do would stop it. I didn’t know the words, I didn’t know how to touch him.’
Jack put his hand on her face again, and turned her, almost roughly, to look up at him. ‘The first moment I saw you, I knew you. It was not my sadness I saw on your face. None of that psychology. You are like a crystal-clear stream to me. I know you. I see your heart.’
Her voice was locked in her. She whispered, ‘How can you?’
‘I don’t know how. I just do, that’s all. And I love what I see.’
She fought her face free from his grip, and hid herself against him. She said, ‘Do you know how much your words hurt me?’
‘How can I hurt you?’
‘Don’t you know?’ Sonia forced words, pulled them out of herself. ‘Only God loves like that. That’s what we want, always, no matter what else we do, how else we fill up our time, we wait for that. And only God can say it.’
He folded his arm about her head and held her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wanted you. Not God, or anybody else.’ He kissed her hair. ‘Just you.’
‘What a time you pick,’ Sonia said. She looked up at him and laughed.
‘A confluence of events,’ he said. He smiled into her large, dark eyes. ‘I’m as happy at this moment as any man who ever lived.’
She raised her hand, and with the caution of someone learning to walk again, brought it to his jaw. She felt the unshaven skin. The bristles prickled under her fingers. She said, ‘I’ve never felt this before,’ as if she amazed herself.
‘No?’ he said. His breath slowed and deepened. It fell in with the rhythm of the boy’s snoring, with the movement of air in the trees outside the little window.
‘I was a leaf,’ she said, ‘an autumn leaf, curled up on one end where it’s dry and brown. Now I’m smoothed out. Green again, like I was in the beginning.’
I’m sure I can hear a man’s voice in the apartment. What the hell time is it? I feel for my bedside clock. I have to hold it at an exact arm’s length to see the damn thing. After nine. My God, I haven’t slept late for I don’t know how long. Of course, I haven’t slept at all since my little friend arrived.
There he is again. Who on earth has she got out there? It’s not her father, is it? I didn’t think he was arriving today.
I should at least brush my hair, put it into some kind of shape. I look like I’m a hundred and three. I pin it up at the back and shrug my old kimono on.
They must be out on the terrace. The apartment rooms have a lovely feeling of emptiness about them. Funny how emptiness only seems lovely when the sun is shining. Then they’re not empty at all, but filled up with light.
She’s closed over the door. A mark of consideration for me, perhaps. If so, she goes up in my estimation.
‘Good morning,’ I say. I see her pale hair, alive with light. The first wooden strut of the sun-shelter, crawled over with vine, is blocking my view of the table.
She turns. Her face does not show an easy conscience. And then, out from the shade of the shelter, leans another face. Who the hell is this?
Not Jim. Not the serious young punk I found her with in the square. This guy’s thirty if he’s a day.
‘Oh, hi,’ she says.
‘Yeah, hi,’ I say. I step over the lintel and out on to the concrete floor of my roof garden. The morning light is blinding. Some fool is bleating his horn eight storeys below.
I walk up to our poor old metal table, which is greatly in need of a paint job. The complete stranger is tempted by a thin tendril of vine hanging down through the lattice, and it seems to be necessary that he hit at it every few seconds as I stare at him. It swings like a child in a park whom some maniac uncle is gleefully pushing higher and higher into the air.
I gather he’s traced my line of vision, for his swinging hand slowly swans down to the table. Since clearly he was speaking English to my delinquent friend, I say, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’
The metal feet of the chair scrape my nerves as he tries to stand up. ‘Do you want me to go?’ he says in an Irish accent. He looks at me, looks at her, and me again. He hasn’t shaved. Hasn’t washed either, if I’m a judge.
‘You can tell me who you are first,’ I say.
‘Oh, this is my friend,’ Jane says to me, and with an almost endearing innocence she says to him, ‘What’s your name?’
He’s standing. His face comes close to a contortion as she throws him this line. He smiles at me, defeated. ‘Paddy,’ he says.
Somehow I doubt it. ‘Is that so?’ I say.
As he stifles a laugh, he looks away, across to the climb of squared, solid buildings up the Janiculum. This man does not meet eyes. ‘John,’ he says.
Jane says, ‘I thought it was some kind of funny name. Fergie or something.’
He shakes his head just once. He’s not looking at either of us. ‘No, that’s my brother’s name. Fergus. I’m John.’
I sense truth. I’m hardly worth impressing. So I say, ‘How about some coffee? Nice morning.’
‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ the child says.
I ease myself into a chair. ‘I was hoping you’d make it, Jane,’ I say.
‘Oh.’ She grips the seat on both sides. Her feet are apparently about to lift off the ground. She looks puzzled. ‘You mean in that silver thing?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘It’s not very big,’ she says.
‘No, but the cups are aren’t very big, either.’
‘Oh, yeah. You just fill it up with coffee from the fridge, right, and screw it back on again?’
‘Yes, and you put some water in it, too,’ I suggest.
‘Oh, yeah. Well, I’ll sing out if I get stuck,’ she says. She stands up. Her striped pyjama legs come to mid-calf. Her little short-sleeve top barely covers her midriff. Paddy Power’s eyes drift across to her.
I say, ‘Just sing out.’
She closes the glass door as she goes into the apartment. It’s quiet again, except for a dove who just now began to bill under the eaves. It makes him jump. I watch him. He won’t look at me.
‘So, you’re a friend of Jane’s,’ I say.
‘That’s right.’
‘And what, you were just passing, were you?’
He finally glances towards me. I now look away, over the tops of houses.
‘Not exactly,’ he says. He leans on the table. ‘Lot of action out there last night.’
‘In what sense?’
‘Police. You know, sometimes they leave you alone. Sometimes there’s something going on, or else nothing’s going on and they get bored, maybe.’
And now the electric bulb lights up over my head. ‘So you slept up here.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘In the storage room across the hall.’
‘It’s comfortable, you know. There’s a sofa in there.’
‘Yes, I know. I used to own it. Probably still do, I suppose. So tell me, John ... it is John?’
He nods.
‘Do you often sleep in that room?’ I am getting to the heart of the mystery. Who’d have thought it was so banal?
‘No, I don’t,’ he says and, in answer to my raised brows, ‘Really. I only used it a couple of times. Last time it was pissing rain.’
‘Oh.’ I am almost disappointed. Either he’s lying, or he’s not our invisible man after all.
‘It used to be some other guy’s skip. He lived here for years.’
‘He lived here for years?’ I say. So there is a parallel universe.
‘Rodolfo. Didn’t you know him?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I knew someone used to sleep in there if it was cold, or if it was raining hard.’ And, according to the laws of this new universe, I am a little ashamed. ‘I never saw him. You knew him, did you?’
‘Well, in a way. Didn’t say much. Quiet type of a fella. There were a lot of stories about him.’
‘Like what?’ I don’t know what it is about this young man. I feel as if we’re old friends, enjoying a civilised coffee together in an uncompromising, not to say neutral, coffee house.
‘Like he was orphaned during the war. They even say he killed a Nazi.’
‘Here in Rome?’ My heart has gone heavy, and I am very still. The sun is catching my eyes side on. He is in shadow. The trail of tender vine twists in a breeze. It tickles his forehead, and he swipes at it in the same manner we used to wave at flies all my young days.
‘I think so,’ he says. ‘He always lived in Rome as long as anyone knew him.’
‘And his name was Rodolfo?’
‘No, I don’t think so. It’s an opera or something. Some kind of a mad artist. He loved this girl, and she died, or he died or something.’
‘In real life, or in the opera?’ I say.
‘No, in the opera. He died, too – Rodolfo – a couple of months ago.’
‘Where did he die?’ I ask. I suppose my face shows my concern, though he, naturally enough, misinterprets it.
He laughs. ‘Not here. You don’t have a dead body lying on your sofa. He was knifed one night. I believe he was taken to hospital. He died there.’
‘Which hospital was that?’
‘Oh, Jesus, I don’t know, love. I only heard about it, you know. You interested?’
‘Oh, well,’ I say. ‘Since he lived here. I might as well be interested.’
‘You could ask some of this crowd Jane knows.’
‘The homeless crowd?’ I say.
‘Sure. They might know.’
‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘Do you want to put some flowers on his grave?’
I look at him. The Irish are a cynical race. ‘Instead of knowing him when he was alive,’ I say.
He shrugs.
‘Are people like you around so people like me can become saints?’ I say. ‘Or not, as the case may be.’
‘Everyone has a purpose in life, so they say.’ He laughs. The chair’s feet grate as he leans back again. ‘I think I like you.’
‘I don’t know if the feeling’s mutual,’ I say. ‘That girl in there is sixteen, by the way.’
‘No problemo,’ he says. He actually does look at me now. ‘You won’t see me for dust after this. Don’t worry your head about me. I’d watch that Roberto guy, though.’
‘Roberto? That’s the one I met her with the other night?’
‘Student type. Busy saving the universe at the minute. But not too busy to do her, if you’ll excuse the expression.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘So you actually do know Jane?’ I am more than a bit suspicious again. ‘Then it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? You just happen to pop up here.’
‘Don’t you believe in coincidence?’ he says.
I open my palms, look him in the eye.
‘Well, it’s true. I couldn’t believe it myself. I met her twice on the streets. She came around with a few of them. The soup run, they call it at home.’
‘I see.’ It just might be the truth. I study this young man. He’s not bad-looking, not overly battered, either. Reeks a bit. I say, ‘Why aren’t you at home?’
‘Who, me?’
I turn my face towards the window. ‘Anybody else here?’
‘Ah, well. Not very good at staying put.’
‘In a bit of trouble?’
‘Not too much. Nothing I can’t handle.’ He actually jerks out his chin, the child.
‘Any family?’
‘Yes.’ He leans back even further. ‘I have a son. He’s eight. Nine. Yeah, nine.’
‘Miss him?’
He tries to laugh. ‘His mother doesn’t want me to see him.’
‘Ah,’ I say.
He looks at me now from under his lashes, which are long, black. ‘Ach, I’m no good to him anyway. Drink too much.’
‘Would she take you back if you stopped?’
‘Don’t know. I did try. Just can’t seem to ... stay put.’ He’s been balancing on the two back legs of the chair. He thumps down flat. ‘So,’ he says. ‘Do you have any words of advice for me?’
‘Ha!’ I say.
‘What’s that mean?’
‘I tell you what, Paddy John, if I think of any, I’ll let you know.’
He’s smiling. We both hear the dull knock. Jane is kicking her foot against the glass door, a tray in her hands. It looks suspiciously too heavy for her. John’s chair scrapes again, and he’s over to the door. He opens it, and out she bounces.
‘Gees,’ she says. ‘That’s a weird coffee thing. I thought I’d blown it up by mistake.’
John eases the tray from her, the pot, the carton of splashed milk, three white coffee cups eggshelled into one another, and an unopened packet of biscuits. He says, ‘Sit down, girl.’
‘Yes,’ I say, patting the vacant chair beside me. ‘Sit down here and let us enjoy the morning.’
They’ve made me happy, these two lost things, one innocent, one guilty, and here we all are, just one big, happy family.
New South Wales, 1945
The windshield glared light, and though she knew he was sitting there in the front seat next to his father, Lilian couldn’t see him, not really. If he was looking out at her, now that the car had turned into their side path, braked, engine purred down to a stop, he would see her on the front porch, hand up to protect her eyes, her father’s arm around her shoulder. And he’d see her mother slowly go down the two red stone steps, out on to the sharp-cut grass, alive with the sunlight, walk towards the black Ford, and he’d lean his head to peer out through the driver’s window, past the bulk of his own father, as Viv leaned down to peer in at him.
‘Oh, darling,’ Lilian heard her mother say. ‘Welcome, welcome home.’
His door opened. She heard the stiffness of the hinges give. And he began to appear, the top of his head, his shoulder, and he stood, his bare forearm on the hot roof. He was looking beyond Viv, the grassy lawn, to the porch where she still did not move. Her father’s hand rubbed at her arm. Her arms were crossed, one hand tucked at her waist, the other firmly cupping an elbow. Her father said quietly, mistaking everything, ‘Come on, love.’
She moved. Down the steps. He came slowly to the front of the car. Her mother walked around to meet him, and he bent as she hugged him. Lilian could hear their murmur, and she saw the driver’s door open very slowly, too, and Vince Malone’s big boots, one at a time, his dark brown hand on the window frame.
Bernie left her mother, whose hand fell away from his arm, and he walked towards her. He was so thin; the bones of his face pushed against his skin. His eyes were dark, sunken dark pools. And his skin was yellowed, sick. He did not look alive, not as the others there in the front garden were alive.
Her face, which had been set, jaw stiff, began to melt with her terrible surprise.
She felt herself alone, waiting for him. Her father had gone. She stood where she was, and Bernie came closer.
His hands took hold of her arms; his fingers pushed into her skin. Lilian’s head jolted back with the force of it. She could almost see his breath escaping from between his dry, sunburnt lips. His nostrils flared and collapsed, flared again, and she noticed all of these things. They were uncomfortable, both of them. She didn’t touch him.
His eyes glanced sideways and she felt the shadow of her father. Her mother came up behind his left shoulder. Vince walked across the grass, his hand outstretched to Mick. And then, as the men’s hands clapped and met and they said, G’day, mate, G’day, mate, and as Viv grabbed at Bernie’s elbow and he looked around at his mother-in-law as if he’d just been awakened, and Viv said, ‘Come on, darling, come inside. I’ve got a lovely spread for you. Come on, Lil, bring him in,’ Bernie’s hands released her. He caught her eye only for the briefest of moments so that she didn’t know what it was that was new in him, only that it was something irrevocable. And maybe he did or maybe he did not sense the irrevocability in her own eyes.
They all moved again, as if everything was the same, spoke words into the summer afternoon silence, trod on the porch tiles, banged the screen door behind them.
The plate of scones and the dish of thick cream and Viv’s own strawberry jam were laid out on a white muslin cloth in the kitchen. Bernie was seated on a hard-backed chair, Vince beside him. Their legs seemed too big. Vince had his son’s slouch hat resting on one thigh. The thumb and two fingers of his left hand creased the rim of the crown. Every few minutes he picked it up and turned it around, and creased the other side.
Viv made Bernie stand up again, drag his chair further in to the table. He sat down on the edge of it. She stood over him, spread jam and heaped cream on to a half scone. He bit into it. The white cream caught in the dried cracks at the joins of his lips.
‘Pour the tea, Lil, will you?’ Viv said, and she smiled at Bernie as if he were the perfect stranger and Lil the girl for whom wordless apologies were called for.
The tea was dark honey brown. The two older men reached their cups in under the pot in her hands and lifted them away. They spoke too loudly. Viv laughed, mopped at her eyes with her hot arm. Bernie munched on the other half of his scone. His sunken eyes glanced once or twice at the men; the crow’s feet deepened as he showed his interest. The hinges of his jaw worked up and down.
