Beach Music (6 page)

We returned that evening after making love in our hotel room. Afterward, we had held each other tightly, still surprised and shy by how high we could turn up the flame of that tender need we showed for each other’s bodies. At certain times in our lives, we crackled in the sheer electricity of our desire to be wonderful in bed. In strange cities, alone, we whispered things we would not tell another soul on earth. We set down feasts for each other and treated our love with tongues of fire. Our bodies were fields of wonder to us.

The waiter, Fernando, but nicknamed Freddie, served us dinner that night. He was heavy-set and deep-voiced and in perfect command of his quadrant of the restaurant. He led us to the small table outside looking out toward the Pantheon, and recommended a bottle of Barolo and a risotto for the pasta course. When he brought the risotto, he produced an elegant, razor-sharp instrument and shaved thin slices of white truffle onto the steaming hot risotto. The marriage of rice and truffle exploded in silent concordat and I shall never forget lifting the bowl to my nose and thanking God for bringing both Freddie and truffles into our life the same night.

The dinner was long and we took our time. We talked about the past and the many things that had gone wrong between us. But quickly we turned to the future and began to talk about children and what we would name them and where we would settle down and how we would raise these ethereal and beautiful McCall children who, though unborn, were already greatly beloved.

Shyla flirted with Freddie every time he came to the table and Freddie responded with a touch of both restraint and Mediterranean charm. He recommended the fresh scampi, grilled briefly, then anointed with olive oil and lemon juice. The olive oil was a deep green and looked as though it had come from a vineyard of emeralds. The scampi tasted sweet like a lobster fed only on honey and it cut into the deep undertone of flavor deposited on the taste buds by the truffles. Shyla poured some olive oil on her fingers and licked it off. Then she poured some on my fingers and sucked the oil off them one at a time as Freddie watched with envy and approval. He
honored her performance with an arugula salad, then pulled out a pocketknife, opened it, and began to undress a blood-red orange from Sicily in a patient, sacramental ceremony. The orange peel curled off the deep ruby of the fruit in a long, circular ribbon. I waited for Freddie to misjudge, but he continued to circumnavigate the orange until other patrons began to applaud. When the peel, as long as a garter snake, fell to the floor, Freddie picked it up and presented it to Shyla, who inhaled the sharp smell as Freddie divided the orange and set it before her in an immaculate arrangement, pretty as a rose. He brought glasses impressed with the image of the Pantheon and poured us both a glass of grappa.

A full moon hung over the city, and a Gypsy girl selling long-stemmed flowers moved nimbly through the diners. Three men from Abruzzi sang Neapolitan love songs, then passed the hat for tips, and a fire-eater swallowed his flaming sword and a man with a ukulele sang “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “Love Me Tender.”

“This is just like a Fellini movie, Jack,” Shyla said. “Let’s never leave this spot.”

Crowds of Italian teenagers, insouciant and callow, moved through the streets into the Piazza della Rotonda in ceaseless migrations. Gypsy women appeared in brilliant, gaudy clothing, raucous as parrots, and began working the loungers at the café as waiters tried to intercept them. Carriages drawn by retired racehorses put out into the streets and rolled through the crowds bearing German and Japanese tourists, who were filming everything and seeing nothing.

At the end of the evening, Freddie brought two cups of espresso to the table and asked us always to remember Da Fortunato and the headwaiter, Freddie, who’d been privileged to serve us on a Roman night that he called
“fantastica.”
Shyla kissed Freddie in a spontaneous gesture that seemed just right.

As I was studying the bill, Shyla pressed my hand and told me to look up.

What I saw was Freddie leading Federico Fellini and two of the most stunning women I had ever seen to the table next to us. Freddie winked and said, “Always at Da Fortunato.” Then Freddie, who
understood the power of gesture, bought a rose from a Gypsy girl and presented it to Shyla along with a wineglass from Da Fortunato.

After Shyla died, I found that glass and that dead rose and the orange peel carefully wrapped and preserved in her safety deposit box. They reminded me that there are nights on earth when a couple can have everything break perfectly for them, nights when the moon is full and Gypsies appear with flowers, and truffles call out to strangers on the street and Fellini takes the next table and Freddie peels a blood-red orange as an act of homage, and on that night in Rome we were in love as no one on earth has any right to hope to be, we conceived our child, Leah, in a union of ineffable and damaged love and a great soaring cry of yes for our future.

Two and a half years later, Shyla went up on the bridge.

On this evening, many years later, Freddie embraced me when I walked into the restaurant and kissed me on both cheeks, European-style.

“Dov’ è
Leah?” Freddie asked.

“She’s at home with Maria.”

“A beautiful signorina is waiting at your table.”

Martha stood up as I approached her. She extended her hand and I accepted it reluctantly. She did not try to kiss me, nor would I have let her.

“It’s nice of you to come, Jack,” Martha Fox said.

“It certainly is, Martha.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“If I hadn’t, you’d have ambushed Leah one day when she was out walking in the piazza.”

“You’re right. That’s exactly what I would’ve done. What a beautiful young girl she’s turned into.”

“I don’t want to be your friend, Martha,” I said. “What in the fuck are you doing here, and why are you trying to reenter my life? I’ve made it abundantly clear that I didn’t want to see you or any of your family again.”

“Are you ever going to come back to the South? Are you ever going to show Leah where she really comes from?”

“That’s none of your business,” I answered.

“I was once your sister-in-law. I admit I never knew you well, but I liked you, Jack. Almost all of us did.”

“It seems to me that the last time I saw you, Martha, you were testifying in a court of law that I was unfit to raise Leah.”

Martha lowered her eyes and studied the menu for a brief moment. I motioned for Freddie to bring us a bottle of wine, and he arrived a moment later and opened a chilled bottle of Gavi dei Gavi.

“That was a terrible mistake,” she said emotionally. “My parents were distraught when Shyla killed herself. Surely you can understand that and have some compassion for them. Leah was their only link with Shyla and the past.”

“I’d have had more compassion for them if they’d shown the slightest bit toward me.”

“I think my whole family had a breakdown after Shyla’s death, Jack,” Martha said. “Everybody blamed you for what happened. Myself included. We thought if you’d been a good enough husband, my sister would never have gone off the bridge. No one blames you for anything now … except, of course, my father.”

“Give me some good news,” I said. “Tell me that son of a bitch is dead.”

“I love my father very much and I resent you talking about him that way.”

“Tough shit.”

“My father’s a very unhappy man,” Martha said, leaning across the table toward me. “But he’s got good reasons for his unhappiness and you know that as well as anyone.”

“Just for the record. I hate your dutiful daughter routine and you don’t have to act like a public relations firm for your parents. Now let’s order.”

When Freddie came over, he studied Martha’s face.

“Sorella di
Shyla?” Freddie asked me.

“Martha, meet Freddie. He had a crush on your sister.”

“Ah, Martha. Your sister was such a beauty. Such sunshine. You look so much like her,” Freddie said, bowing deeply.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Freddie. You’re very famous in South Carolina.”

“We have some nice fat mussels, Jack. Fresh anchovies, very
nice.
Calamari fritti
. What would Martha like? Maybe
pasta all’amatriciana?”

“I’d love to start with the pasta, Freddie,” Martha said.

“Anything for the sister of Shyla. Welcome to the trattoria. Come back a thousand times. Mussels for you, Signor Jack. Trust Freddie.”

Freddie moved back toward the kitchen checking every table as he passed, and I smiled at his proficiency. Freddie was like a staff sergeant in the army; others enjoy greater status, but without him the whole operation would come to a grinding halt.

I turned and looked at Martha, seeing those soft luminous features she shared with her sister. She had the same doe-eyed self-conscious beauty that in Shyla was edgy and explosive. In Martha, it held its breath, tiptoed into view, took one by surprise whenever she released that tightly coiled spring that controlled the nerve centers of her own quiet uncertainty. Even makeup could not hide the trapped, distracted girl masquerading with pearls and a black dress as a woman of the world.

“My father still blames you for Shyla’s death,” Martha said. “It’s only fair that you know that.”

“You know, Martha,” I said wearily, “I always thought I’d make a great son-in-law. Fishing trips. Card games. That kind of shit. And I get stuck with that dreary, juiceless, raggedy-assed father of yours. I could never figure him out. But you know all this. You grew up in that hothouse of pain.”

“Why do you hate me for loving my father?” she asked.

“Because of your pathetic lack of honesty. The awful and dangerous pretense of loyalty. He’s been poison for you just like he was poison for Shyla and your mother. The women in his life cluster around him, protect him, find virtue in his bitterness. You don’t love him. You pity him. The way I do. Yet I’ve rarely met a grander shit on earth.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“I pity the dreadful son of a bitch.”

“He doesn’t need your pity.”

“Then he’s welcome to my hatred.”

Freddie arrived with Martha’s pasta and my mussels and his
arrival was both propitious and welcome. Her dish was sharp, spicy, and even had the forbidden pleasure of containing the flesh of hogs. Though a committed Jew, Martha found no reason to follow the dietary laws handed down in Leviticus. For most of her adult life she had fought border skirmishes with her parents over the pig and the oyster. Judaism was precious to her, but she could not pretend to be observant of its many dietary laws.

“May I try one of your mussels?” she asked.

“Pure
trayf
,” I said, passing her one.

“But delicious,” she said as she ate it.

“What’re you doing here, Martha?” I asked. “You haven’t quite answered that very basic question.”

“I want to understand why my sister leapt to her death. I want someone to explain to me why her life had become so desperate when she seemed to have so much going for her. Nothing about it makes sense. My parents won’t talk about it.”

“I can understand that. I haven’t told Leah that her mother committed suicide. I just never could quite get my mouth right to tell her about the bridge. It’s been hard enough to tell her that her mama’s dead.”

“Does she know that I’m alive? That she has an aunt and two grandparents who love her?”

“A vague idea,” I said. “But I’m encouraging pure amnesia. Please don’t look pious. Last time I saw the people you just mentioned was in a South Carolina court of law. If memory serves, each one of you testified I was incompetent to raise my only child. I’ve raised a beautiful kid. A magical one. I did it without the help of any of you.”

“You think it’s right that you punish us the rest of our lives by refusing to let us see Leah?” she asked.

“Yes, I think it’s right. I think it’s justice. Do you remember the generous amount of visitation I’d have been allowed had your parents won their lawsuit?”

“They asked the court that you not be allowed any visitation,” Martha said, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. “They know how wrong they were. They would like another chance.”

At that moment Freddie arrived at the table with two grilled sea
bream. He prepared the fish for presentation at the table side, removing the head of both fish with a flick of the knife. Then he skinned the bream and lifted the backbone from each one of them as though lifting a violin out of its case. Preparing Martha’s first, he placed the white translucent fillet across her plate and moistened it with green olive oil and half a lemon. He performed the same ablutions for mine.

“You will cry,” Freddie said, “it is so good.”

“Did I order fish?” Martha asked when Freddie left the table.

“You looked like a fish kind of person. He has great intuition and he always likes to surprise me.”

As she ate, Martha frequently stared past me and when she talked, she was agitated and kept brushing an imaginary lock of hair from her eyes. Hers was a guileless face, registering every emotion, and I could read it like a page of newsprint. Something was not right with Martha that had nothing to do with the complex emotions aroused by our awkward reunion. The lines in her forehead warned me of trouble on my flanks. Since leaving the South, I had learned the intricacies and tricks of a life on the run and I knew well how to read the secret language of ambush.

“Excuse me for a second,” I said, rising and walking to the men’s room. I called home and talked to Maria and made her check on Leah. Maria returned to report that Leah was sleeping like an angel, and I breathed easier.

When I came out of the men’s room, Freddie motioned for me to come into the kitchen. Among the jostling disciplined movement of cooks and waiters, Freddie whispered: “There’s a man eating outside who asks many questions about you, Jack. He asks Emilio if you are bad to Leah. Emilio no like.”

“Tell Emilio thanks, Freddie,” I said as I moved out of the kitchen and passed down the entranceway of the trattoria, to where Signor Fortunato himself greeted his guests.