The Importance of Being Seven (33 page)

‘This penknife,’ said Andy proudly, ‘is specially set up for catching mushrooms.’

‘I don’t think you catch mushrooms,’ said Bertie. ‘You find them.’

‘That’s true,’ said Andy. ‘Same difference, though. You see this bit here? That’s the brush for brushing the dirt off the mushroom once you’ve caught … found it. And this blade here is for cutting the mushroom in half. See?’

Bertie took the proffered penknife and examined it. ‘It’s made in Italy,’ he said, pointing to the inscription. ‘See? It says
Italia
.’

Andy nodded. ‘You speak Italian?’ he asked.

‘A bit,’ said Bertie.

‘You must be jolly clever, Bertie,’ said Andy. ‘I only speak English.’

Bertie acknowledged the compliment. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Italian is very easy. I could teach you, if you like.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Andy. ‘I could learn Italian and we could make a fort.’

He extracted another penknife from the drawer beside his bed. ‘And this one here is a really good Swiss Army penknife,’ he said. ‘The Swiss Army is famous for only fighting with penknives. They don’t use guns, you know.’

‘I’ve heard that,’ said Bertie.

‘And here’s another Swiss Army penknife,’ Andy continued. ‘It’s a
bit smaller, but it’s still really useful. This blade here is for cutting bits of wood. And you see here? That’s a set of scissors.’ He paused. ‘Would you like it, Bertie? You can have it, if you like. I’ve got that bigger one – you can have this one.’

Bertie’s heart gave a leap. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I want you to have it. You’re my friend, you see. So I want you to have it.’

Bertie took the knife from Andy. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re my best friend now, you know. My very best friend.’

Andy nodded. ‘Same here.’

They shook hands. It was a solemn gesture, cementing the new friendship, and it seemed to Bertie then that his entire life had changed. He slipped the penknife into his pocket, relishing the smooth feel of its casing and its solid, reassuring weight. He was about to say something more, to thank Andy again for the gift, when they heard Andy’s mother calling from down below.

‘That’s my mum,’ said Andy. ‘She’s calling us.’

They went downstairs. The farmer’s wife had laid two cups on the kitchen table, alongside a plate of scones. Two glasses stood beside the cups and at their side was a large bottle of orange-coloured liquid.

‘Oh, good,’ said Andy. ‘Irn-Bru, Bertie.’

Bertie was puzzled. ‘Iron what?’

Andy looked at him in astonishment. ‘Don’t you know what Irn-Bru is?’

Bertie shook his head. ‘We don’t have things like that,’ he said.

‘Irn-Bru is really good for you,’ said Andy, reaching for the bottle. ‘I’ll pour you a glass. You’ll see.’

Bertie looked at his father. Stuart smiled. ‘Try it, Bertie. I think you’ll like it.’

Andy poured a glass of the fizzy orange liquid and passed it to Bertie. ‘It’s made of girders, Bertie. It makes you really strong.’

Bertie took a sip, swallowing tentatively and then gulping the drink down. He had never tasted anything like this before, and he loved it. Andy filled his glass again. ‘You can burp if you like, Bertie. You’re allowed to burp when you drink Irn-Bru.’

Bertie burped.

‘That’s good,’ said Andy, finishing his glass, and then burping too.

A few minutes later, Andy’s father came in. He shook hands with Stuart and listened to the account of their walk through the haar. ‘I’ll run you back in the Land Rover,’ he said. ‘After our tea.’

Andy looked at his father. ‘Couldn’t Bertie stay the night?’ he asked. ‘He could go home tomorrow.’

‘It’s up to Bertie’s dad,’ said the farmer. ‘It’s all right with us.’

Bertie looked anxiously at Stuart, willing him to agree.

‘Well,’ said Stuart. ‘I don’t see why not.’

They all drove in the Land Rover to take Stuart back to the car park at Flotterstone. Then they returned to the farm and the two boys were given a large meal of sandwiches, spaghetti bolognese, custard, ice cream and Irn-Bru. The meal was eaten in quiet contentment; Bertie sat and looked at his new friend, who smiled back at him. Then they were given half an hour of play before bedtime.

‘Do you have psychotherapy?’ Bertie asked Andy.

Andy shook his head. ‘We mostly have cattle,’ he said.

Bertie nodded. ‘Yoga? Do you have to do yoga?’

Andy thought for a moment. ‘I like strawberry-flavoured best.’

When the time came for bed, Bertie was lent a spare pair of his friend’s pyjamas and given the top bunk of Andy’s bunk bed. With the light switched off, the two boys continued to talk in the dark. There was so much to say: Andy told Bertie about a ghost who lived in the steading and had been a pirate before he was shot by a cannonball. Bertie told Andy about the fish that he had almost caught that afternoon, and how it was great and silver and powerful. Andy then told Bertie about how his brother had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. Bertie told Andy about the time he had seen a car reverse into a lamppost.

Bertie’s happiness was complete. He had been vouchsafed a glimpse of what life might be; a life of freedom, of adventure, of penknives, of Irn-Bru. It all seemed too good to be true, and in his heart he knew that it was not true. The next day he would return to Scotland Street and the spell would be broken. There would be more psychotherapy, more yoga, more Italian
conversazione
with his mother.

He closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep. And dreamed that he was walking along a path in the Pentlands, with a friend beside him, a warm presence; and that warm presence was a boy called Andy. And Andy reached out and gave him a penknife, and he thanked him, and they both started to run – it was so easy, so easy, as it is easy to run in a dream – and before them was a glen with waterfalls and caves, and a loch, blue and silver, on which a pirate ship was under sail. And there was sunlight, and glasses of Irn-Bru in which that sunlight was caught, liquid, golden, forgiving.

While Domenica joined the queue for admission to the Uffizi Gallery, Angus accompanied Antonia in the search for a suitable café in which to have a cup of coffee and, if possible, a light breakfast. They had not eaten before they left the villa, and both now felt growing pangs of hunger.

‘I know it’s not what one normally has for breakfast,’ said Angus, ‘but I could do with a slice of pizza. Thin. Very tomatoey. And perhaps just a hint of anchovy on the top. That, and lashings of coffee.’

‘Entirely understandable,’ said Antonia. ‘What is being on holiday but allowing yourself to do that which you do not do at home? I shall join you in a pizza. Oh my, this place is so beautiful. Look at that. Just look at it. An entirely ordinary street, but so beautiful. So very beautiful.’

Angus glanced at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Italy is like that. The most humble corners are … how shall we put it? Rich in aesthetic possibilities.’

‘And the men and women!’ Antonia continued. ‘Look at them. So handsome. We are surrounded by people who could have walked out of a Renaissance painting, don’t you think? Botticelli could have placed them in one of his paintings – he really could.’

Angus looked again at Antonia. It was understandable to be struck
by the glories of Italy – animate and inanimate – but she was rather labouring the point, he felt. But that was what Italy did, he thought; and that was why people had come to Italy for hundreds of years – since the invention of the notion of the journey of the spirit – they had come here for precisely this. Antonia was merely articulating what people must feel.

They did not have far to walk before they found a small café that looked suitable. It was in a largely residential side street, tucked between a carpenter’s studio in the window of which a couple of freshly made, ornate coffins were stacked, and a laundry. A rather dirty plate-glass window revealed an interior shelved high on either side, the shelves stacked with biscuits, bottles of wine and olive oil, packets of coloured pasta. At the far end was a counter behind which a high pizza oven could be seen.

They went in and joined the small knot of people at the counter. The proprietor, wearing a dirty vest and a white chef’s cap, was engaged in loud conversation with some of his customers as he manipulated a large flat tray out of the oven. On this was a massive square of sizzling pizza, a square yard or more in extent, which he then proceeded to cut into manageable squares with a set of gardening shears. These squares were tipped onto pieces of grease-proof paper and handed out to the customers, including Angus and Antonia, together with a small glass of raw, red wine.

‘Perfect,’ said Angus, as he started upon the pizza.

‘Oh, I could die and go to heaven,’ said Antonia. ‘And look, he’s making coffee. We can have coffee after we have had this wine. Oh, this is so perfect, Angus. I could faint with excitement, I really could.’

Angus frowned. ‘Not really, I hope.’

Antonia sighed. ‘I’m overcome, Angus. I’m quite overcome.’

He tried to sound matter-of-fact. Really, Antonia was gushing rather a lot. ‘It is fun, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I think Domenica should come here when we get back to the queue.’

They finished the pizza and wine and signalled to the man in the vest for coffee.

‘I have never seen the Uffizi,’ said Antonia as they waited. ‘You know, I have been dreaming about it. Last night, for instance, I
found myself there. It was a great revelation, and I am convinced that when I go in today I shall feel as if I have already visited it.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. And do you know, I am sure that I shall cry. I have been reading a book called
Pictures and Tears
. It’s all about how people can burst into tears when they are confronted with great art. They cry. Have you ever cried on seeing a painting, Angus?’

Angus shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve been stirred, of course, but I don’t think I’ve cried.’

‘That is because we live in a time when artists have eschewed tears. Art today is a matter of intellect. Artists want us to engage intellectually with what they have to say. They do not want us to feel a sudden surge of emotion. How different it was …’ Antonia looked about her, and gestured in such a way as to embrace not only the café but all Florence. ‘How different it was in Renaissance times. The artists who walked on these very pavements wanted us to be uplifted, to experience intense emotion in our encounter with beauty. That’s what they wanted. Lippi, Ghirlandaio, Botticelli – they wanted us to cry, Angus.’

Angus shifted from foot to foot. He wished that Domenica had been there; she would have been able to deal with this sort of thing from her neighbour. Was Antonia turning peculiar? Was this a normal reaction to Italy – to go on and on about beauty and art and crying? Was she drunk? Some people had very little tolerance for alcohol, and it was possible that even this small glass could have had this effect on Antonia. He looked at his watch.

‘We mustn’t keep Domenica waiting,’ he said. ‘They could be opening the doors shortly.’

Antonia gasped. ‘Opening the doors?’

‘Yes. The Uffizi should open soon.’

She closed her eyes. ‘And we shall be inside too. Just think.’

Angus sighed. ‘Really, Antonia,’ he said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘You’re making a bit of a meal of it. It’s just a gallery. A very important one, of course, but just a gallery. You wouldn’t go on like this if you were paying a visit to the National Gallery on the Mound, would you? I’m sure you wouldn’t.’

Her reaction to this mild rebuke took him completely by surprise. ‘Oh, Angus,’ she shrieked. ‘Don’t you realise? Don’t you understand what is about to happen? We are about to come face to face with the
fons et origo
of Beauty itself, laid out before us, and you talk as if it were an entirely quotidian outing to … to Bathgate!’

Angus looked about him. ‘Please, Antonia, please don’t shout. People are looking at us.’

‘As well they might,’ Antonia retorted loudly. ‘They are looking and thinking: what a complete philistine that man is! What an insensitive brute! That’s what they’re thinking, Angus Lordie!’

‘Listen,’ whispered Angus as he drew Domenica aside. ‘Antonia is behaving very, very strangely.’

It was as much information as he could give without alerting their companion to the fact that she was being discussed. Domenica, though, was quick to sense that something was wrong, and nodded to Angus to confirm that she understood.

‘I don’t think I’ll go off for coffee,’ she announced. ‘I believe that the doors will be thrown open very shortly and this queue will begin to move.’

‘The doors will be opened,’ muttered Antonia. ‘Opened to beauty.’

Domenica and Angus exchanged glances.

‘Now we must agree what we are to do once we get in,’ said Domenica in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I suggest that we split up and agree to meet somewhere in, say, three hours’ time. That will give us each an opportunity to linger in front of our favourite works of art without holding others up.’

Angus looked nervously at Antonia. ‘A good idea. Is that all right with you, Antonia?’

Antonia smiled. ‘It is indeed. I shall …’ She paused. ‘I shall make
my way to the
Birth of Venus
and absorb that. Then I shall … Oh, there is so much that I plan to do.’

The queue started to move. Under cover of the excited chatter that accompanied that, Angus was able to whisper again to Domenica. ‘She’s clearly heading for some sort of crisis. She really is. Her eyes – take a look at her eyes. Her pupils are dilated. Do you think she’s taking something?’

Domenica cast a glance at Antonia, who was standing a short distance behind them, studying a guidebook that she had extracted from the pocket of her coat.

‘She could be. It would explain this rather manic muttering about beauty. We shall just have to watch her. I propose to follow her at a discreet distance once we’re in and see what she gets up to.’

‘I’ll do the same,’ said Angus. ‘I don’t want you to follow her by yourself.’ He paused. ‘Do you think she’s dangerous?’

Domenica raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve always taken the view that she constitutes a danger to men, but no, I don’t think that she’s likely to be violent. Still, you never know. Do you have a whistle on you?’

Angus did not.

‘A whistle can be useful in an emergency,’ said Domenica. ‘But so few people seem to carry one these days.’

They reached the admission booth and Domenica purchased
tickets. Antonia stood behind Angus; he noticed that her knuckles were white from the clenching and unclenching of her fists.

They went in. ‘Now,’ said Domenica, ‘we shall all meet here in exactly three hours. Then we shall go for a late lunch over which we shall be able to discuss the treats that we’re about to see.’

‘Good,’ said Angus. ‘Quattrocento here I come!’

‘
Che bellezza!
’ muttered Antonia, wandering off towards the first of the galleries. ‘Oh,
che bellezza!
’

Domenica and Angus held back under the pretence of consulting a guidebook. Then, after a minute or two, Domenica indicated that they should discreetly make their way towards the gallery to which Antonia had been heading.

It was Angus who heard the commotion first. Grabbing Domenica by the arm, he gestured towards the source of the noise, just inside the gallery.

‘Quick,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

The two ran in the direction of the shouting that was now plainly emanating from within. When they reached the doorway to the gallery, their worst fears were confirmed. There was Ant onia, prone on the floor, shouting and writhing, while about her stood a circle of concerned security guards. Another man in uniform was running from the opposite end of the gallery, accompanied by several young women.

Angus strode forwards, followed by Domenica.

‘Please stand back,’ said one of the security men in Italian. ‘There is nothing to see.’

Angus spoke quickly. ‘We are the friends of this unfortunate lady,’ he said.

The security men let them approach. One of them was crouching down beside Antonia, trying to reassure her.

‘Antonia,’ said Angus. ‘Antonia, what’s wrong?’

‘
Che bellezza
,’ muttered Antonia, looking at Angus without any real sign of recognition. ‘
Che bellezza insopportabile!
’

The man who had come from the other end of the gallery now spoke into a hand-held radio before turning to address Angus. ‘This lady is not at all well,’ he said in perfect English. ‘I regret that she may be suffering from Stendhal Syndrome. It is quite common,
and so I have ordered a stretcher. We shall take her to the psychiatric clinic at Santa Maria Nuova. They are very experienced.’

Angus turned to Domenica. ‘Stendhal Syndrome,’ he said. ‘We should have seen it coming. My goodness, we were blind.’

Domenica looked puzzled. ‘Stendhal Syndrome?’

‘It’s a form of hysterical reaction that afflicts some people when they come face to face with great art,’ said Angus. ‘Stendhal suffered from it when he came to Italy. It’s rather like Jerusalem Syndrome, which affects people who go there and get carried away by religious ecstasy.’

The stretcher-bearers now arrived, and quickly rolled Antonia onto their stretcher. Then they carried her away at a fast trot.

‘There will be an ambulance at the side door,’ said the official. ‘I do regret this somewhat inauspicious start to your visit to the Uffizi. Please accept our sympathy. I assume that you will wish to call at the
ospedale psichiatrico
where your poor friend is being taken.’

He gave them the address, which Angus wrote down on the back of his guide to the Uffizi.

‘Most unfortunate,’ said Angus, as they made their way out of the gallery. ‘I wish I’d put two and two together earlier.’

‘You mustn’t reproach yourself,’ said Domenica. ‘How were you to know? One doesn’t expect an Edinburgh person to behave in quite so Mediterranean a fashion.’

Angus shook his head. ‘You’ve got it quite wrong, Domenica. The whole point about Stendhal Syndrome is that it affects people from the north. We are the ones who come here and are overcome by the beauty. No Italian would think twice about it.’

‘Well, it’s still very regrettable,’ said Domenica. ‘Poor Antonia. It can hardly be very pleasant to go on holiday and be put away in a psychiatric hospital – even if one deserves it, and even if it’s the best place for one to be.’ She paused. ‘Should we go and buy her some fruit? Or is it tactless to give fruit in such circumstances?’

‘I’m sure that it would be appreciated,’ said Angus. And then he said, ‘I wonder how long she’ll be in.’

‘Several weeks, I should imagine,’ said Domenica. ‘Which leaves just you and me at the villa, Angus.’