The Italian Romance (23 page)

Lilian unwrapped the brown-paper parcel. She had pulled at the string's bow and, unusual for her, it fell cleanly apart. The paper was folded into triangles at each side. She was excited.

The parcel had been on her desk when she came in, her name written in pencil on the front, as if it were an envelope. The linotype machine was chattering in the room behind; Arthur was sitting at it, reading off copy paper as his fingers flew.

Her fingers delicately lifted the two folds apart. An exercise book. He had written his name on the cover. Her fingers drifted to it, tracing the roundness of the vowels, the depth of the consonants. She already loved the sound of it, how her mouth moved around with it; she longed to say his name out loud to someone, to him best of all, to hear his reality issue from her own self.

She took hold of the cardboard cover and with utmost tenderness opened it up. What struck her first was the handwriting itself, so different from her own. Perfect, almost. Slanted to the right. It was so measured that she didn't immediately notice he'd written in both languages. He'd begun in Italian. The second paragraph,
half a page, was in English. She held up the leaf between her palms and looked over to the next page, ran her eye down it, and the one facing. Why had he done that?

She got up quietly and looked in at Arthur. His back was to her as he sat typing. She closed the door, carefully. She returned to her desk and pulled at the brown paper, folded the sheet over, folded it again, opened her drawer and tucked it inside. She stood staring down at the clear flow of the handwriting as she wound the string around her webbed fingers. She dropped that in to the drawer, too, and closed it.

Lilian put one knee on her chair, and sat herself down on it.

‘He dropped it in just after I got here. I saw him sitting in Malone's truck earlier, waiting.'

Lilian put her arms over the open book, hiding it. Arthur had given her a shock. She'd jumped. She turned her head to where he was standing in the doorway.

‘Want a cup of tea?' he said, limping across the room to the press. He bent down and opened the cupboard door.

‘Please,' she replied.

‘What, did he send you a story or something?' He reached in to the shelf for the cups, the precious sugar.

‘His time in the desert,' she said.

‘That'll be interesting. From the other side. Don't know if it's a good time for it, that's the only thing.'

‘No, it's not for the paper. He's a writer in Italy. A kind of journalist, I think.'

‘I see.' Arthur slammed the cupboard door. ‘You've got a lot in common.'

‘Well, except for continents and things like that.'

‘Minor point,' Arthur said. He caught her eye, and she looked down. ‘Is he married, Lil?'

‘Yes. Unhappily.'

‘Uh-huh.' He shook the kettle. Water rattled around in it.

‘It might be true,' she said.

‘Often is.' He struck a match, lit up the gas on the ring.

‘But it's irrelevant to me,' she said. ‘Because I'm not.'

‘Ah.' He leaned at his waist to view the flame. He blew and the
licks jumped from jet to jet, till the circle was alive with it. ‘Is it any good?'

‘Yeah. Sad.' She uncovered the pages, sat back in her chair. ‘It's different from how we write, you know.'

‘No, I don't know.'

‘Well, there's more words or something. I don't know, it's just different. Like we say, here's a table.' She knocked her knuckles against the wood. ‘And they might say how the table reminds them of something else. You know, like that.'

‘Uh-huh. Will I just give you one sugar? We're running low.'

‘Yeah, I'm getting used to it now.'

‘You get used to everything,' Arthur said.

She closed the cover of the book. ‘Arthur?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Do you think the war is changing everything?'

‘I suppose it is. It's a funny old world.'

‘That's what Dad says. It's a funny old world.'

‘Hard to know what else to say.' He folded his arms, leaned against the cupboard. They listened to the faint whisper from the water as it began to heat.

‘It must be terrible if you've done something really bad,' Lilian said.

After a long while, Arthur said, ‘Oh, he said he'd be in tomorrow. Probably wants to pick up his book.'

She knew that her lips were smiling, though she was trying to appear indifferent. She rasped her nails back and forwards on the cardboard cover, and they listened to that for a while, too.

‘That's too much,' Jack said. ‘Believe me, you won't be able to carry it all.'

Sonia felt foolish. He looked at her face, so like a scolded child's. He touched her dark hair. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I'm very sorry.'

‘Of course you're right. We are not going on a holiday.' She shook her head as she gazed down at the luggage. ‘No. Just the small bag. And a few things must come out of Gianni's.'

They were alone in the front hallway. Her son's laughter drifted up to them from the kitchen. ‘He doesn't understand,' she said.

‘It's an adventure for him. Why not?'

She nodded, but she looked down at the luggage again.

Jack didn't know what to do; perhaps he could carry an extra bag, strap it to his back. She said, not looking at him, ‘Will we come home again?'

He reached quickly for her hand. ‘Well, of course. They know
they're finished. We'll just keep out of their way for a little while longer.'

She took a gasp of air. Jack almost couldn't bear it.

‘I'll hurry the boy,' he said, and she let her fingers trail along his wrist and his hand until he'd gone from her.

She crouched, opened the straps of the knapsack. She took out a brown school shoe she'd pushed down the side; there was a pair of woollen socks curled in it. She heard, behind her, Alphonso's limping approach.

‘Ready?' he said.

‘Yes.' She tugged at a shirt. ‘What if he gets wet?'

He stood over her as she created a little pile of Gianni's things. He knew all of it, even the underwear that Berta had pegged on the washing line week in, week out.

Her chin rested on her knees as she poked the straps back into their buckles. ‘Alphonso!' she suddenly cried.

‘Now,' he said. ‘Now.' He stroked her hair.

She closed her eyes. ‘Please be careful,' she said. ‘You know what I mean.'

‘I know,' he said.

His hand dropped from her and he walked to the front door, still closed against the grey day. He stood with his back to her, motionless. Sonia stared up at him, mesmerised by the line of the old jacket he'd worn every winter of her life, the tug of the brown worsted across his broad shoulders.

It was Gianni who got them out in the end. He ran up the hallway struggling his arms into his coat, and he swung the knapsack up by its leather straps and fought his way into that, too. ‘Let's go,' he said. His face was flushed.

Berta and Jack came slowly up from the kitchen. Without a word, Jack heaved his own knapsack awkwardly onto his shoulders. It was top-heavy with the weight of two rolled blankets. Alphonso limped back down to him, put his hands on the sack to balance it. Jack said absently, ‘Thanks.'

‘Ha la carta?' Alphonso said.

Jack slid his hand inside his jacket and produced the pencil-drawn map. ‘Yes,' he said.

The boy opened the door and a cold breeze blew in. Jack and Alphonso, stilled, looked towards it. Berta put her hands over her mouth. Sonia leaned down and picked up her small suitcase.

The day was clouded, trees stiff with frost from the bad night. Gianni stepped out into it. His knees were bare; woollen socks came up to the tops of his calves. He sang out, ‘Come on,' and he humped down the wide stone steps, bouncing onto each one. Alphonso's cheeks paled against the bone. He went slowly to Sonia, put his hand on her back and they walked through the doorway together.

Jack turned to Berta. She held her sleeve to her face. She shook her head when he took hold of her arm. She waved him away. He understood. It would not do for the boy to see distress.

Berta was dry-eyed when she joined the group on the grass. She said to Gianni, ‘Help your mother. And make sure you eat.'

He was hopping from foot to foot. He said, ‘When Fredo comes, tell him where I am.'

‘Gianni,' Sonia said. ‘No one is to know where we're going, not our neighbours, not anyone.'

‘But that doesn't mean Fredo! He won't tell anyone. Remember the secret we kept about the German?'

‘Say goodbye to Berta,' she said.

‘Will you give a few scraps to my dog? Otherwise he won't come back.' He wrinkled his brow as he'd always done when he wanted to get around the old woman – it was a game they played.

Berta said, ‘If I have scraps, I'll feed him. He's not our dog, anyway.'

‘But he's half my dog! Mama says he loves me!'

‘All right, all right,' Berta said. ‘I'll feed him for you.'

‘Thanks, Berta,' the boy said. He flung himself at the old woman, who staggered back under his weight. She patted the
knapsack and before she could hold him for another few moments, he pulled away. Her arms were still held out to him as he hugged her husband. He clapped Alphonso on the back and was suddenly gone from him, too.

Berta's eyes welled again and her hand searched in her apron pocket. As she pulled out a rag and blew into it, Sonia came to her. They looked at each other. Berta's hands slid slowly and hard down Sonia's arms.

Alphonso's bad leg seemed to give out; it shook under him. Sonia walked to him across the winter grass. He grabbed her shoulders, kissed her cheeks. She felt the roughness of his jaw, smelled the garlic on his breath. She could not speak. She touched his chest as he kissed the top of her head.

Jack picked up her bag. He did not go near them. Some private thing in him told him to walk away.

He heard her footfall on the dirt pathway and he slowed down. Her hand crept into his, pulled her small suitcase from his grip. Gianni had already crossed the road and walked into the forest. As he trod on the dark brown earth, littered with dead leaves and sweet-smelling needles of pine, he tucked his thumbs under the straps at his shoulders.

‘I just thought I'd check to see how you're both getting on,' she says to me.

I had picked up the phone with dread. I didn't want to speak to my agent in London, and I intend to avoid Dora for another day or two till the bruises fade. Least of all did I desire a repeat performance of yesterday's strained conversation with the bushman, still holed up in Dublin, my rather chilly response to his sheepish enquiries. But it was Francesca. My eyebrows rose in surprise. I know they did because I caught sight of myself in the bevel-edged mirror Jane had moved from the dark inner hallway to here. Jane didn't say anything; just did it, right in front of my eyes.

I say, ‘Oh, how lovely to hear your voice.' I wonder if she realises how unlike me such effusion is. How could she? Of course, it's not effusion, is it? It's called honesty, Lilian. ‘Well, we're surviving. Jane has made some friends. She's out at the moment.'

‘That was quick.' Francesca, I suspect, is trying. That is a step forward.

‘Oh, yes. I'll tell you the rest of the story when I see you,' I say. Did she hear that? ‘They're a group of young do-gooders, you know, they go around helping people.'

Francesca snorts a laugh. ‘Lilian! What a way to describe them.'

‘Oh, well, you know what I mean.'

‘I was like that when I was her age,' she says.

My heart stops and waits. ‘Were you?' I say. My tongue dances against my teeth. I don't know how to ask the questions. I want to see her when she was young, that's the problem. Can't, of course.

‘Out to save the world,' she says.

‘I suppose we all were,' I say.

She is silent. What is she thinking?

And then we both talk at once. ‘Jim rang from Dublin last night,' I say. She is saying, ‘I'm coming down to Rome for the weekend.'

‘To Rome? Oh, good. You must ... you must meet Jane.'

‘Yes,' she says. ‘I'll call around, perhaps.'

‘Yes, call around. I mean, if you like we could put Jane on the couch. The spare room is here.'

‘No, I've booked into the same hotel. I'm meeting someone there on Saturday morning.'

‘Oh? For your study?' I say. I am fishing, and I don't care what I catch. Anything will do.

‘Yes, he's a painter I admire very much. He was the one, really, who started me on this. He put the question into my head.'

I pick up the cradle of the telephone, walk backwards, sit on the arm of the couch. Jane has rearranged that, too. ‘So he's very important to you,' I say. I am tiptoeing. I'm on eggshells.

‘Just an extraordinary coincidence that he's in Rome. He doesn't see many people. He lives in a wild sort of place in Spain. I'd e-mailed him, you see, and lo and behold.'

‘What an extraordinary coincidence,' I parrot.

‘Yes. So I'd love to discuss my ideas with him. Not that he'll say much along those lines, from what I gather. But that's my job, to try and sense it out myself.'

She is excited, my Francesca. This is her work, her passion. I am almost holding it.

‘How extraordinary life is,' I say.

‘Yes. Well, I just wanted to see how you were both getting along. I'll drop by on the weekend, shall I?'

‘Oh, yes, please. That would be just great.' Have I made her welcome enough? Is there perhaps another word or two I could say?

‘See you then.' And she's gone.

I look at the telephone, the two, round, pock-marked ends of it, the smooth waist that my hand grips. No point in holding it all night. She's not going to suddenly burst into speech again.