The Apartment In Rome Part 13

It was when Leone's name began to pepper Felix's anecdotes and observations, when there was evidence of his visits a book on philosophy or a cake made by nuns that she found her jealousy inexplicably mounting. Once, her return home had interrupted the two of them in pa.s.sionate discourse that floundered at the sight of her into awkward silence. Leone had been wearing an open neck shirt she could see the throb of his throat; his hand had been resting on Felix's knee. He'd left soon afterwards sheepishly, in Gina's over-active imagination. Glancing into Felix's room she was sure she could see the sheets disarranged. She hadn't been able to keep her suspicions to herself.

'You're f.u.c.king him, aren't you?'

'For G.o.d's sake, Eugenie, he's a priest.'

Felix only used her full name when he was annoyed with her, but she didn't care. 'When did that ever stop them?'

'There are other kinds of relationship, you know. Besides, where am I going to find the energy?'

And that was the irony. Gina wouldn't have minded if Leone had been his s.e.xual partner, but she was supposed to be Felix's soulmate, his closest companion. No one else. 'You're not even a Catholic.'

'Is that what's bothering you? Don't worry, he's not trying to convert me. We do talk about spiritual things, it's true, in a way you couldn't with a lay person. But mostly we discuss what's going to happen to those boys; there's a constant stream and he can't see the end of it.'

'That doesn't explain why he's around so much, like he's got a hold over you, persuading you to give all your stuff away.'

'You've got completely the wrong end of the stick. Have you ever thought about why he's stuck in that parish? Why he runs all those activities the Vatican doesn't really approve of, however Christian they might be? Because they're never going to advance him anyway. He blotted his copybook years ago. Like me, he wants to make his peace with G.o.d.'

She hated it when he became sanctimonious. Her Felix, long-time mentor and confidante, was refreshingly sharp and sceptical. 'Well, I can tell he doesn't think much of me.'

'You are so paranoid.'

'He thinks I'm bad for you,' Gina complained.

'Does anyone really give a monkey's, at this point in time, about what's good for me?'

She had left it at that. She didn't want to row with him; she didn't want him to see the shallow resentful side of her (although he knew it well enough) and Leone had continued to visit. They'd both agreed he wouldn't fit in with the other wedding guests (or be interested in attending), yet now here he was, ringing the bell for the second time, knowing they had to be at home.

Gina crossed into the hallway and pressed the intercom. She left the front door to the apartment ajar and went over to the kitchen counter. She packed coffee grounds into the basket of an espresso pot and set it stuttering on the hob. Then she chopped peaches and bananas into the goblet of a liquidiser and added a stream of milk to the churning fruit. As the frullata foamed and settled, the visitor pushed the door shut behind him.

The Lion King was wearing a grey suit; he took off his hat, ran his hand over his balding scalp, polished his gla.s.ses. Apart from his clerical collar, his appearance was un.o.btrusive, discreet: a low-grade functionary, someone who had no wish to stand out. His skirts, as Felix called them, turned him into a different person altogether, a man of power and charisma, but they were inconvenient on a bicycle.

He held out a small parcel. 'Forgive me for disturbing you so early,' he said. 'I've brought some more CDs for Felix. There's a recent recording of Aida from La Scala and...' When Gina didn't take it from him, he put the packet down on top of the bookcase. 'How is he today?'

'Hard to tell, he's only just woken up. Not too bad, I think.'

'And how are you?'

'Me?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I'm on top of the world, aren't I? It's my wedding day. Or had you forgotten?'

'I hadn't forgotten.' He smiled, acknowledging their edgy relationship.

She couldn't resist baiting him. 'But you thought you'd make a last ditch appeal to my n.o.ble nature? Call a halt.'

'The Church regards marriage as a sacrament,' he said mildly.

Gina, suddenly aware the shirt she'd been sleeping in was ripped and stained, felt s.l.u.ttish and dirty. 'Here,' she said, pouring a coffee and handing it to him. 'Take this.'

He poised the cup on his palm. 'I don't condemn...' he began.

She was already backing into her bedroom. 'I need to get my dressing-gown. I won't be a minute.'

When she returned in a pink silk wrap, brushing her hair loose from the band that had held it, he was roaming the walls walls which had once displayed three pictures deep and a dozen across. The white s.p.a.ces left behind were framed in a darker, dingier shade of emulsion.

'See how many he's sold off already! It's not like I'm his only beneficiary.' She filled a second cup and clasped it with both hands, looking down into the black swirl of the coffee. She thought about spiking it with a dose of grappa to make caffe corretto, but it was a little too early, even for her. 'And that closet in the hallway that used to be full, you know, of Armani, Versace, whatever, is practically empty.'

Father Leone observed, 'He's a very generous person.'

'Exactly! You've done well out of him too.' Gina's reflection bounced back at her from the priest's lenses. She couldn't make out his expression. There was no sound or movement from Felix's room. 'I'm not holding a gun to his head, you know. As if I cared about any of this stuff!'

'You will acquire it, however,' he reminded her. 'Also the lease of the apartment.'

'Are you blackmailing me, Father?'

He spread his hands a common enough gesture, but unusually flamboyant for him.

Gina pressed the heel of her palm against her temple as if it were the only way to stop her head exploding. Then she said, 'He booked his plot last week, you know.'

He looked puzzled at the change of subject. 'I'm sorry?'

'The same day we went to choose my ring, which I paid for myself, by the way, with my own money. It's in the Protestant Cemetery, his plot I mean, along with Keats.' She sat on the worn velvet of the chaise longue, pulling up her legs so her chin was resting on her knees. 'Do you know what happened after his funeral?'

'Keats'?'

'Felix told me. Apparently he had to be buried before daybreak that was the law for non-Catholics. Outside the city walls too. And then by the time his friend, Severn, got back to the lodgings they'd shared, the police were there. The police and his landlady. D'you know what they were doing? They were destroying everything Keats had ever touched. Bed linen, cushions, every bit of furniture. They were even sc.r.a.ping down the walls and taking out the windows. Because they thought consumption was contagious. They thought you could catch it by sitting on the same chair, playing the same instrument, drinking from the same gla.s.s. Severn was so angry he took his stick and smashed all the crockery to smithereens to save them the trouble.'

She sprang to her feet again, driven by her own restlessness. Her wrap billowed open in the movement; she pulled the tails of its belt together and knotted them tighter. Her fingers curled around the small pot of nail varnish that she'd dropped into one of its patch pockets. In a fit of frustration she raised her arm and flung it across the room. She was aiming at a blank patch of wall rather than Leone, but she nearly hit him all the same; her aim was lousy. There was a small tinkling sound.

The brief moment of satisfaction left her. 'd.a.m.n!' She foresaw the ineradicable trail of deep magenta splashed onto wall and rug. Nail varnish what an idiotic choice. But the bottle hadn't broken. It had caught the edge of one of the remaining pictures, splintering the gla.s.s. As Gina watched, the rest of the gla.s.s shivered and fell out of the frame which slowly dropped off its hook and onto the trunk beneath.

In two strides, Father Leone was beside her, taking her hand between his. She held his gaze. 'It's possible, wouldn't you say, Father, for a bad person to do good things?'

'Who is this bad person?'

'Me. I'm talking about myself. I'm trying to explain that even if I'm the self-absorbed gold-digging all-round bad influence that you think I am, I can do the odd good deed without needing to be bullied or cajoled or made to feel guilty.'

'Gina...'

'I'm the opposite of you, that's all. As a good person, I mean, who did a bad thing.' She regretted the words as soon as she'd spoken them. It was an intrusion. She wasn't supposed to know about the priest's past; Felix shouldn't have told her.

A movement from the bedroom made them both turn. A shuffling in the doorway, a voice croaking: 'I was promised a frullata.'

His breakfast was still sitting in the liquidiser, a brown crust forming on its surface.

'We thought you'd gone back to sleep.'

He was leaning on a cane. His other arm was outstretched, the white suit flapping across it like a ghost. 'Something must have woken me. Morning, Father.'

'Good morning, Felix.'

'G.o.d, I'm sorry about this.' Gina waved at the shards of gla.s.s scattered on the floor. 'I'll sweep them up.'

'Oh,' he said, without much interest. 'The Twombly. You really should control your temper, darling. That could be your nest egg.'

'Yes, I know.' Carefully she rescued the precious drawing and stored it inside the trunk for safety.

Father Leone said, 'I came to bring you some music, Felix, and to give you my blessing. I have to leave now, but I wish you both well for today.' Turning to Gina, he said with a faint smile, 'It's not a question of good deeds or bad deeds. It's about forgiveness. Absolution. This is the problem for you non-Catholics. You have to learn to forgive yourselves.'

15.

Two Years Earlier: 2003

Large black ants were scurrying through the cracks in the paving. Lanterns swinging between the potted shrubs caught their movements as they transported tiny morsels of food with a rhythm and dedication that was awe-inspiring. Felix had been watching them for some time, surprised to see them so active at night. They put him in mind of the myeloma cells twitching and dividing inside his bone marrow. Treatable, but incurable, he'd been told. Like the ants. They could be kept at bay with powder or insecticide, but they'd always come back.

He was waiting for Gina. They'd planned to arrive together, but she was working late at the studio and had urged him to go on ahead. She had been wearing him down at first in regard to the flat, pointing out repeatedly that his second bedroom was unoccupied, that he was in need of TLC, that they could be good for each other. And then she'd insisted he set up this meeting with David Farnon. It was David who suggested they got together for a drink in the Club Salamander, which had sprung up in a converted warehouse in Ostiense.

Felix sat in the courtyard looking out for her; the ants at his feet, a canopy of starlight above his head, the ice melting in his drink. Below, in the belly of the club, the cellar vaults churned with music and sleek, barely dressed bodies. The upper levels the lounge, the c.o.c.ktail bar, the silvery circular tables in the courtyard accommodated those who couldn't keep up with the frenetic pace of the dance floor.

A few years ago he would have sweltered with the rest of them. Now he felt distaste for the salty slick of sweat collecting between shoulder blades, the reek of crotch and underarm. His energy, his appet.i.tes, were reduced. His love of collecting had been a driving force but there was no magic in it any more. He could no longer go to a new exhibition and pick out the most likely success story. He could no longer find those rare and precious items that multiplied in value simply by sitting on his chiffonier. He'd lost his touch.

When he'd first come out to Rome as a young man he'd been full of enthusiasm, undeterred by having to start from scratch. An interest in metaphysical poetry and beautiful boys, a doctorate in the work of John Donne were his credentials. He'd begun by teaching English privately, then in inst.i.tutions, until he finally acquired tenure at the university. Expatriate life agreed with him, enhanced his standing and gave allure to what could have seemed mere drudgery in England. And when both his parents had died, leaving him a small legacy, he'd been able to indulge his pa.s.sions, now evaporated.

A man dressed in a collarless shirt and combat trousers brushed against his table. Pausing to steady himself, he smiled and raised his brows in query. Felix shook his head and turned away. He moved his chair further back into the shadows. Behind him came the rustle of glossy green leaves, the scent of blossom lightly disturbed. He took his phone out of his pocket and cradled it in his palm warily as if it might erupt. Gadget-loving Italians had more mobiles per head than any other nation, but he struggled to master the functions; he found texting particularly difficult. He scrolled through his contacts and rang Gina. 'Are you still coming?'

'Of course I am! There was just this tiny delay...'

'So why didn't you call me?' He couldn't help sounding petulant.

'Because I thought you'd be downstairs where there's no signal and you probably wouldn't hear anything anyway.'

'Look, I'm not in a club mood. I'm thinking of leaving.'

'But I'm on my way. Isn't David with you?'

People were flowing in and out of the various doorways. Music accompanied them fitfully. 'He's prowling around somewhere.'

'Then do hang on for me. Please.'

She gave him no chance to argue. Felix stared at his silent phone. Really, he was a dinosaur. One might think that part of the charm of Rome was being surrounded by ruins and relics far more ancient than oneself, but the locals the real, living inhabitants embraced modernity. In the English department, they were addicted to their computers. They admired Felix's fine calligraphy but they laughed at his adherence to books and print.

He tried not to think about the department, about the office, the desk and chair that were no longer his. The chair had started it all suffering from lower back pain, he'd hoped to persuade Administration to provide one that was more ergonomic. Such a simple request, leading to blood tests and then diagnosis. His ability to teach wasn't impaired, but his need to take time off was deemed unfair on the students. Plenty of other aspects of university tuition were unfair on the students, who were fodder for an inst.i.tution obliged to maintain its intake at all costs: insufficient resources and reading materials; over-crowded lecture theatres; ingrained nepotism, but these were troublesome to address. Easing out a foreign employee in poor health, whose original mentor had retired, was altogether simpler. When September came he found his name omitted from the timetable and staff lists, his cla.s.ses taken over. The shape of his days once he might have enjoyed the freedom to do nothing imploded. In private he clung to the idea that one day he might go back. In public he didn't mention it.

Some twenty minutes later Gina materialised. 'Why, darling, you're all alone! What happened to David?'

'Pickling himself at the bar.'

'What? Is that a good idea?'

'Somewhat inevitable, as you're over an hour late. I would have thought, if you ask me for a favour, the least you could do is turn up on time.'

'Don't be so priggish. I've arrived, haven't I? And I could really do with a drink.'

'Right then. Let's move.' He rose slowly, coughing a little, feeling the ache in his bones. Gina reached out to pat his back, her hand suspended. He straightened up and she slipped her arm through his in a fluid movement as if that was what she had planned all along.

On a stool at the far corner of the bar sat a man with startling white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. From a distance he appeared youthful and languid; on closer view he was not as young as he looked. He was accompanied by a tall gla.s.s of bourbon on the rocks and a boy with a fuzz of hair as dark and velvety as moleskin. 'A recent acquisition,' murmured Felix. 'I'm not sure, to be honest, whether these are the best conditions for you to meet him.'

'Let's just see how it goes.'

David raised his gla.s.s as soon as he saw Felix approaching. 'I thought we'd laaaast you,' he proclaimed, the drink drawing out his vowels.

'I was waiting for my guest. And here she is.'

'Sooo, this is your new roommate?'

Felix winced a little. 'We've come to an arrangement,' he said. 'Of mutual convenience.'

'Absolutely,' agreed Gina.

David lifted her hand and affected to kiss it. 'Good evening, Empress.'

Felix noticed that she looked irritated. 'I think he means it as a compliment,' he said. 'Because the Empress Eugenie was famous for her dress sense; she was a fashion icon really.'

She withdrew her hand. 'Actually I hate the name Eugenie. Beaten only by Phoebe in the sick-making stakes. I think my mother was out for revenge. Please call me Gina.'

'Well then, Gina, what would you like to drink?'

'White wine, please.'

'Felix?'

'I'll have another whisky sour.'

David relayed the order to the bartender and squeezed his companion's slender thigh. He'd introduced him so perfunctorily neither Felix nor Gina caught his name. When the drinks were poured he didn't suggest moving to another table, so Gina perched on a stool and Felix leaned against the marble counter. He preferred to stand. Bra.s.s fans like propellers stirred the air above their heads; the walls were painted in the deep moody colours of Rothko abstracts: aubergine, mulberry and plum. Their reflections were distorted in the mirror behind the banks of bottles. The light was dim.