The Italian Romance, page 7
‘Wine?’
‘Why not?’ I say.
My pasta is in front of me, and we have yet to speak of her. My tension is returning. I dig at the meal with my fork. I feel like an adolescent. He’s involved in his fettucine like there’s no tomorrow.
To hell with this. ‘So Francesca is leaving for London,’ I say.
He nods, head down, mouth full. He grabs for his wine.
I say, ‘Do you think that was her original intention? Or what?’
‘Or what,’ he manages to say.
‘Right,’ I say. I dry the corner of my mouth with my napkin. ‘You know, I really don’t understand what I am supposed to do here. She turns up. I’m glad she turns up. And then God knows what happened, because I don’t.’
‘I don’t think she knows herself,’ he says. ‘I think it all went a little too quickly for her.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say. I am so afraid, he can’t imagine.
‘Well, she probably thought, at best, that she’d find out your address. See you in the street or something like that.’
Oh, God, I don’t want to hear this. But I plough on, a carrot volunteering for a rub on a grater. ‘You mean she didn’t actually want any contact. Not dinner, certainly.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Just wanted to take a look at the witch,’ I say.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he says. He glances at me over his wine glass.
I pick up mine and take a slug. ‘Sorry,’ I say. My eyes are filling with tears. Damn.
‘Maybe she just wants to understand,’ he says.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘There aren’t those kinds of answers,’ I say. ‘To anything.’
He shrugs his shoulders and looks away. He is beginning not to like me. That makes me feel very lonely. Foolish to pin your hopes on a stranger. I wind pasta on my fork and deliver it to my mouth. It might as well be a length of over-used string. I’m acutely aware that a tear might drop free from one eye. I couldn’t bear it.
He speaks again. ‘I thought, from our conversation earlier, that you were ... eager to reconcile things with her.’
I keep my head down as I try to swallow. How to look up when my nose is running? I pluck a tissue from the pocket of my trousers. I will just have to blow. ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Sure, I’d like to do what I can. Clearly,’ and I dab at the corners of my eyes as if dust particles have just winged into both of them, ‘clearly, she’s made this attempt for some reason.’
‘Yes, but for your own sake, Lilian, too.’
I don’t know what to say to that. I try to think of something. I look down at the tortoises. Blackie and his mistress are happy enough, floating in the water side by side. The mythical stone has lost its allure, temporarily I expect. I say, ‘I don’t have a sake, Jim.’
He is hesitant. ‘You mean you don’t care?’
‘No, I don’t mean that.’ I shake my head. There’s nothing else I can say. ‘But I will ring her. As you so rightly said, I have nothing to lose.’
‘What will you say to her?’
He really is in a bad way. ‘I’ll just try to smooth things over. I thought I might offer her our house in the country for a week, or a month or however long. She might as well have a holiday, or at least a quiet place to work while she’s here.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Good.’
I almost laugh. In fact, I do laugh. ‘You want to see her again, don’t you?’
He laughs at himself, too, but is shy about catching my eye.
‘Can’t you arrange to see her when you both get home?’ I do like him. I feel more than a little protective towards him.
‘Ah,’ he says. He still won’t look at me. ‘She’s not sure about that.’
‘Is there a family?’ I ask.
‘What do you mean? Her?’
I nod.
‘She’s told me a little,’ he says and he does look now. ‘But I’m ... I’m not sure what to...’
‘You don’t want to betray her confidences,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jim says. ‘That must sound very pompous to your ears. A bit cruel...’
I raise my hands in an Italian gesture that signals the acceptance of fate. ‘I’m sure you’re quite right to keep counsel.’
‘Would you like to ring her now?’ he says.
‘Now? Here? I don’t have my phone. I wouldn’t like to use theirs.’
‘No,’ he smiles at me. ‘But I have mine.’ He takes it out of his shirt pocket and leans across the table to place it by my wine glass.
I look down at it and then turn away. A young woman has stepped out on to the roof terrace below us. She is vulnerably unaware of her audience. She has a glass in her hand. With the other, she drags a sun-chair into the shade of a fruit tree and she flops down on it. I don’t think I can possibly pick up that phone and ring Francesca.
‘The number’s in it,’ he says. ‘Under F.’
‘That was quick,’ I say.
‘Yes. It’s my lifeline, that phone.’
‘What do you do if you lose it, or somebody steals it? All your numbers are gone.’
‘I have them all written down in my diary. All you have to do, Lilian, is pick it up, press a button, and it will be done.’
‘You sound like my mother.’
‘It will be easier than you think,’ he says.
‘Why don’t you do it?’
‘I already have,’ he says.
I put my fingers on the screen. ‘No wires,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it marvellous.’
‘No wires,’ he says and smiles at me.
‘Intergalactic.’
‘Bit different from your day, eh, Lil? You used pigeons, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, I had my own clutch. A dozen or so. I was an avid letter-writer.’
He laughs. We are all right again.
I say to him, ‘I haven’t lived all these years without thinking of her.’
‘I don’t suppose you have.’
I don’t know what he sees when he sees me. And he is looking intensely. I shake my head. ‘Some things can’t be fixed, Jim, you know. No happy endings.’
‘Maybe,’ he says.
And now I look at him. He is desperate for her, or for something. For a happy ending, maybe. God help him. He has been rubbed raw on a grater, too. I don’t need to know how or who. It doesn’t matter at my age.
‘Just tell me one thing,’ I say. ‘Are there possibilities, on both sides, for you and Francesca?’
He nods. ‘I think so.’
I lift my glass. ‘Then I wish you luck, Jim, I really do.’
He grips his own glass, but can’t seem to raise it. ‘Thank you,’ he says. His voice is thick. He stares at the tablecloth.
I take up his phone and hand it to him. ‘I’ll do it later. I need to compose myself,’ I say. That is honest, at least.
The first time I gave a public reading after my novice book was published, I felt just like this. I thought I was going to faint. My hands were shaking so much I could barely turn the pages. I can’t believe I’m lurking in the hallway of her hotel, too afraid to knock at her door, too aware of how I’ll feel later if I don’t. The number is etched out in brass. The staff obviously polish it with metal cleaner. Two eighteen, buffed with a soft cloth, just a little too much polish – the eight has some milky white build-up caked on its insides.
What will I do if she opens her door in half an hour, heavy suitcases gripped in her hands, keys in her teeth, and finds me standing here wild-eyed? I suppose I could pretend I’d just arrived. I wonder if she’d believe me.
The hallway is so silent that as the elevator door opens, I jump. I turn my head, almost involuntarily. A man of about forty emerges. He’s combing his hair. He freezes when he sees me. He slips the comb back into his pocket, embarrassed at being caught out in his vanity. This gives me the edge, but unless I take it he might slide into suspicion. He might think I’m a jewel thief. Or that I’m in my dotage and have lost my room. He’s watching me as he searches his pockets for his key. Heaven forbid he comes up here and volunteers to help. Then there’d be two of us if Francesca suddenly swung the door open. I have to knock. I raise my fist, give a cool, last look down the hallway. As I rap, he disappears inside. Now my heart is thumping. What will she say to me? More urgently, what will I say to her? Dear God, don’t let me open my mouth and the wrong words jump out.
And there she is. She is visibly shocked.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
She steps forward a little. For a tiny portion of a second I think she may want to kiss me. I am afraid I move towards her, trying to meet her halfway, so to speak. She casts a glance, not even quite at me, so beside the point am I, that allows me to see my mistake. I am chastened. She leans out to look down the hallway. ‘I thought you were the porter,’ she says.
‘No,’ I reply.
She simply has turned on her heel and walked over to the huge bed where the contents of her shoulder bag are strewn. She’s pulled up the green shantung coverlet. I usually strip the bed when I leave a hotel.
I’m still standing in the hallway. I don’t know what to do. I gaze at her as she picks up a silver pen, thumbs the nib down, tries the ink out on her hand, thumbs the nib up again, satisfied. I knock, really very foolishly, on the wide-open door. She stops, stares at me. I know she didn’t forget I was there. She says, ‘I have an awful lot to do.’
‘I won’t keep you,’ I say.
She picks up a sweater now, folds it not very well, and hugs it against her. ‘Do you have something to say?’ she says.
I upset her, it seems. How could I possibly do that to her? I am wringing my hands in anguish for it. We are worse than two creatures in a play.
‘May I just...?’ I say. I edge in.
She shrugs, puts the sweater back down on the bed.
I take a few steps further into the room. The carpet is a deep green. Soaks up the light. The curtains are heavy, too. She hasn’t pulled them completely open. A medium-sized suitcase is by my legs. She travels well. Perhaps she has travelled a lot. I have no idea.
I feel the need to sit down. I don’t suppose I had better do that. I prise my hands apart. I say, ‘I hear you’re going to London.’
‘Any minute, now.’
‘I see. Well, I hope I’m not driving you out.’ I didn’t think I was going to say it.
‘In what way?’ she says.
I haven’t a clue in what way. I search my mind for something. ‘Well, I mean, I hope I didn’t upset you the other night. If I did, I’m sorry.’
There is a beating of wings in the air. How else to describe it? She has listened, at least that.
I go on. ‘I was really very happy to have you there. It was ... very, very nice.’ I am going to cry again. Oh, Jesus. I don’t admire this part I’m in at all. But it looks like I have to play it out.
She picks up her make-up bag, peers in. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have left so abruptly.’
Alleluia. The angels sing. I know I have to be swift and simple. I say, ingratiatingly, ‘You didn’t look very well.’
‘It wasn’t that. You know what it was.’ She throws the make-up bag down. My God, she’s fairly frank, this daughter of mine.
I say, I hope not too quietly, ‘Yes.’
She shrugs again. She takes up the shoulder bag now, flips it open to re-pack. She’s about to fly.
‘I’d like to offer you my place in Tuscany, if you’d like. For a holiday. It’s in a lovely spot. When you get back from London.’
‘I don’t know that I’m coming back here.’
‘Yes, but if you do. If I’ve caused you to cut short your work here, please forgive me. You can use the Tuscany house as a base, if you like. Or just relax.’ Am I wearing her down? I am following every movement of her face. She doesn’t want to look at me. I understand that. I don’t know what I’d do if she looked at me the way I’m looking at her. I’m not good at this sort of thing. Not good at the emotional moment. ‘No strings attached,’ I say.
I actually see a smile on her lips. Brief, but there.
She continues to retrieve her things from the bed, one by one, drops them into the leather pouch. She doesn’t stop as she says, ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll see how things go in London. I’ll phone, or e-mail you if I decide to come back. Your address is on the card, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Yes, it is. All my numbers. Fair enough,’ I say. My mouth is dry. This is my exit. I must leave while things are looking up. ‘So,’ I say, ‘I’ll await word from you. I’ll have the place prepared.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ she says.
‘No trouble,’ I say. ‘No trouble. My neighbours caretake for me. And if you come, there it is. If not...’ I open my hands to the gods. ‘You’ll love it, though, Francesca, I’m sure you will.’ How I relish saying her name to her.
‘We’ll see,’ she says.
And that’s it. I pat my own shoulder bag. ‘Well,’ I say. ‘Hope to see you.’
She nods, still doesn’t look at me. I walk the distance to her door. I don’t want to go out into that cool hallway. ‘Have ... have a good trip,’ I say.
‘Thanks,’ she says.
I walk away. I might as well hurry. I stand at the elevator and press the lighted button. I am aching. The lift appears almost immediately. A young porter in uniform raises his head as the door slides open. He murmurs, ‘Buongiorno, Signora.’
‘’Giorno,’ I respond. He brushes by me and heads down the hallway to Francesca’s room.
Romanzo
A car’s engine choked the summer silences, bringing the boy out of his reverie. He narrowed his eyes to scan the landscape. The hedges were full and tangled green, and the corn swayed. The roadways were apparent only when a vehicle, a farmer’s cart piled high, or an army truck say, drew the eye.
The car’s purr grew stronger, as if a cat nuzzled on his shoulder, not loud, but absolute. And there it was, a shiny black top glinting in the sun, the windscreen a mirror of light as the car veered left, four open windows. It looked to him like an upside-down boat, or a submarine perhaps. He couldn’t see the wheels turning. There was a Fascist in the back. He could see the dark shirt the man was wearing. In the front seat, the driver’s arm was resting on the window; he was in a white shirt and over it a dark vest. And there were two others that Gianni couldn’t make out, on the other side of the car.
The boy was in a field of cabbage. His foot kept slipping from the grassy mound between two rows of vegetables. He held his arms out. In the bright glare of the sun a hawk circled downwards, its wingspan making a shadow over him. ‘Get lost,’ he shouted at it and his foot slipped again. He balanced himself and took off at a run, one foot perfectly in line with the other. It was then that he saw the head, its sandy hair, rising slowly above the hedge. It disappeared again. Gianni’s feet slipped into the drills on either side of him. He trod on an over-large, yellowed cabbage leaf that had flopped to the earth. He stood still. His toes curled and opened on the ribbed smoothness of the leaf. He breathed through his mouth. He could hear the breath in the canyons of his ears.
And for some reason, he sensed real danger for the first time in his life. He dropped to a crouch, stared at the spot above the hedge. Nothing moved. He scampered like a spider to his side of the hedge. He was as silent as he could be, and as alert as a young horse. He peered through the briar tangles and the mass of rain-parched leaves, thick as a prince’s forest. Where light peeped through diamond-sharp, his eye studied the field beyond.
A man’s voice, almost in his ear, spoke some American words. Gianni toppled back.
‘It’s only a kid,’ the man had said to the other, and he was about to look into the adjoining field. The other man put a restraining hand on his companion’s arm, and he sank to his haunches.
Gianni crawled up onto his hands and knees. He peered again through the tiny opening. He saw nothing but sun dropping in a haze on rows of lettuce. He suddenly shouted, his heart pumping hard, ‘Hey! Americani!’
The sandy one said, in a low voice, ‘He’s all right, Jack.’ The other, slightly older, dark, met his eyes. The sun had chiselled deep lines on Jack’s face, the corners of the eyes, the forehead. The two men looked for the answer in each other’s certainty. Finally, Jack tapped Sandy twice on the arm. Affirmative.
Sandy rose very slowly. He looked over the hedge. He could just see Gianni’s behind stuck up in the air. ‘Boy,’ he called. ‘Over here.’
Gianni sat back on his heels, gazed up to his right. The man was in the sun. He seemed to be very dark and very tall. Gianni held his hand up to shield his eyes. The man was beckoning him.
He jumped up. He knew he had to run in the other direction, the left, in order to get through into the next field. He pointed at the opening so the American would understand, and took off.
Sandy looked down at Jack. ‘He’s running away.’
‘I told you.’
‘Now what do we do?’
‘High tail it out of here,’ Jack said, ‘before he comes back with his father, the local Fascist mayor.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Sandy said.
‘And keep down this time,’ Jack said. He eased up to a crouch. His legs were aching. He rubbed at his knee. And then he heard the boy. The youngster was running up the verge of the field, waving his arms. Jack stood straight. ‘Here he comes, the little scamp,’ he said.
Sandy said, ‘Should we make a dash for it?’
‘No,’ Jack said. ‘He’s all right. He’s staying quiet.’
Gianni was flushed, eyes bright as lamps, when he reached them. His breath came in short gasps. Jack put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Take it easy, boy,’ he said. The child’s face was broad with a grin. He rubbed at a dangle of sweat on his nose with the back of his hand.
‘You are Americani?’ he said. He looked from one to the other. He guessed the dark one was the Capitano.
Sandy said, under his breath, ‘He thinks we’re Americans.’
‘Don’t disabuse him,’ said Jack, ‘if that’s what he wants.’
Jack put out his hand. ‘Sure,’ he said.
