Two Lives Part 22

It was impossible not to have confidence in Dr Innocenti. All his predictions came naturally about, as if he and nature shared some knowledge. There was compa.s.sion in the cut of his features, and even in the way he moved, yet it never hindered him. Pity can be an enemy, I know that well.

His presence in my house that night was a marvel. It affected Otmar and the General: without speaking a word, as though anxious only to be co-operative, they went to their rooms and closed their doors. I alone bade the doctor good-night and watched the little red tail-light of his car creeping away into the darkness, still glowing long after the sound of the engine had died.

'Very presentable, the doctor,' Quinty remarked in the hall, even in these wretched circ.u.mstances attempting to be jokey or whatever it was he would have called it.

'Yes, very.'

'A different kettle of fish from a certain medical party who had better stay nameless, eh?'

He referred to the doctor who'd been a regular in the Cafe Rose, a man whose weight was said to be twenty-four stone, whose stomach hung hugely out above the band of his trousers, whose chest was like a woman's. Great sandalled feet shuffled and thumped; like florid blubber, thick lips were loosely open; eyes, piglike, peered. 'We could make a go of it,' was the suggestion he once made to me, and I have no doubt that Quinty knew about this. I have no doubt that the offer was later guffawed over at the card-table.

'I'll say good-night so,' Quinty went on. 'I think it'll be best for all of us when Uncle comes.'

'Good-night, Quinty.'

I could not sleep. I could not even close my eyes. I tried not to recall the sound of those screams, that stark, high-pitched shrieking that had chilled me to my very bones. Instead I made myself think about the obese doctor whom Quinty had so conveniently dredged up. You'd never have guessed he was a medical man, more like someone who drilled holes in the street. Yet when an elderly farmer sustained a heart attack in an upstairs room at the cafe he appeared to know what to do, and there was talk of cures among the natives.

In my continued determination not to dwell on the more immediate past I again saw vividly, as I had on my early-morning walk, the hand of Otmar's girlfriend reaching for the herbs in the supermarket; I saw the General and his well-loved wife. 'I'll get Sergeant Beeds on to you,' Mrs Trice shouted the day she came back early from the laundry. 'Lay another finger on her and you'll find yourself in handcuffs.' The man I'd once taken to be my father bl.u.s.tered and then pleaded, a kind of gibberish coming out of him.

All through that night my mind filled with memories and dreams, a jumble that went on and on, imaginings and reality. 'Please,' Madeleine begged, and Otmar moved his belongings into her flat. When she was out at work he drank a great deal of coffee, and smoked, and typed the articles he submitted to newspapers. Madeleine cooked him moussaka and chicken stew, and once they went to Belgium because he'd heard of an incident which he was convinced would make a newspaper story: how a young man had ingeniously taken the place of a Belgian couple's son after a period of army service.

'So's you can't see up her skirts,' a boy who had something wrong with him said, but no one believed that that was why Miss Alzapiedi wore long dresses. Miss Alzapiedi didn't even know about people looking up skirts. 'If you close your eyes you can feel feel the love of Jesus,' Miss Alzapiedi said. 'Promise me now. Wherever you are, in all your lives, find time to feel the love of Jesus.' n.o.body liked the boy who had something wrong with him. When he grinned inanely you had to avert your gaze. The girls pulled his hair whenever he made his rude noise, if Miss Alzapiedi wasn't looking. the love of Jesus,' Miss Alzapiedi said. 'Promise me now. Wherever you are, in all your lives, find time to feel the love of Jesus.' n.o.body liked the boy who had something wrong with him. When he grinned inanely you had to avert your gaze. The girls pulled his hair whenever he made his rude noise, if Miss Alzapiedi wasn't looking.

'Ah, how d'you do?' the General greeted his would-be son-in-law beneath the tree I'd heard about. The drinks were on a white table among the deck-chairs, Martini already mixed, with ice and lemon, in a tall gla.s.s jug. 'So very pleased,' his wife said, and he watched the face of his daughter's fiance, the features crinkling in a polite acknowledgement, the lips half open. The intimacy of kissing, he thought, damp and sensual. His stomach heaved; he turned away. 'So very very pleased,' he heard again. pleased,' he heard again.

The aviator who wrote messages in the sky wanted to marry me before the obese doctor did. He had retired from the skywriting business when I knew him, but often he spoke of it in the Cafe Rose, repeating the message he had a thousand times looped and dotted high above Africa: Drink Bailey's Beer Drink Bailey's Beer. A condition of the inner ear had dictated his retirement, but one day he risked his life and flew again. 'Look, missy!' Poor Boy Abraham cried excitedly, pulling me out of the cafe on to the dirt expanse where the trucks parked. 'Look! Look!' And there, in the sky, like shaving foam, was my name and an intended compliment. A tiny aircraft, soundless from where we stood, formed the last few letters and then smeared a zigzag flourish. 'Oh, that is beautiful! beautiful!' Poor Boy Abraham cried as we watched. 'Oh, my my, it's beautiful!' Fortunately Poor Boy Abraham could not read.

'He forgot to lock the windows,' Aimee repeated firmly at the railway station. The Italian woman was angry and almost stamped her foot; the man was smaller than she was, with oiled black hair brushed straight back. 'More likely he left something turned on,' Aimee's brother suggested. 'Maybe the stove.' Aimee disagreed, but then the train came in and they had to find their way to Carrozza 219. When the train moved again Aimee gazed out at the fields of sunflowers, at the green vine shoots in orderly rows and the hot little railway stations. She stared at the pale sky, all the blue bleached out of it. Some of the fields were being sprayed with water that gushed from a jet going round and round. In the far distance there were hills with clumps of trees on them. 'Cypresses,' her father said as the bell of the restaurant attendant tinkled and the businessmen and the fashion woman rose. The woman would have turned off the stove herself, Aimee whispered, and her brother turned grumpily away from her. 'Stop that silly arguing,' their mother reprimanded.

'No, of course I don't mind,' Madeleine said when Otmar asked if his friends might come to the flat when she was out. His friends were intense young men, students or unemployed, one of them a girl whom Madeleine was jealous of. When Otmar and Madeleine were in Italy two of them came up while they were sitting in the sun outside a cafe. They gave Otmar the name of a cheap restaurant, but afterwards he lost the piece of paper he'd written it down on. 'Look, there're your friends,' Madeleine said a few days later, pointing to where they sat at a cafe table with two other men, but Otmar didn't want to join them, although they could have given him the name of the restaurant again.

'Rum and c.o.ke,' Ernie Chubbs ordered in the Al Fresco Club, and the Eastern girl brought it quickly, flashy with him as she always was with the customers. They didn't put any rum in mine although Ernie paid for it. They never did in the Al Fresco, saying a girl could end up anywhere if she didn't stay sober. 'Now then, my pretty maid,' Ernie Chubbs said in our corner. I couldn't see his face, I didn't know what it looked like because it was shadowy where we sat and I'd only caught a glimpse of it on the street. 'Often come here, darling?' he chattily questioned me.

Best White t.i.ts in Africa! the writing said in the sky, but in my dream it was different. the writing said in the sky, but in my dream it was different. Angela Fresu, aged three Angela Fresu, aged three, it said, as it does in marble at Bologna.

When I awoke next there was a dusky light in the room. I reached out for a cigarette and lit it, and closed my eyes. 'I shall love you,' Jason says in For Ever More For Ever More, 'till the scent has gone from the flowers and the salt from the seas.' But Jason and Maggie are different from the people I'd kept company with in the night. You can play around with Jason and Maggie, you can change what you wish to change, you can make them do what they're told.

I must digress here. To compose a romance it is necessary to have a set of circ.u.mstances and within those circ.u.mstances a cast of people. As the main protagonists of a cast, you have, for instance, Jason and Maggie and Maggie's self-centred sister, and Jason's well-to-do Uncle Cedric. The circ.u.mstances are that Jason and Maggie want to start a riding stables, but they have very little money. Maggie's sister wants Jason for herself, and Jason's Uncle Cedric will allow the pair a handsome income if Jason agrees to go into the family business, manufacturing girder-rivets. You must also supply places of interest in this instance the old mill that would make an ideal stables, the little hills over which horses can be exercised, and far away darkly unprepossessing the family foundry. You need dramatic incident: the discovery of the machinations of Maggie's sister, the angry family quarrel when Jason refuses to toe his Uncle Cedric's line. None of it's any good if the people aren't real to you as you compose.

In the early morning after that unsettled night it seemed to me that the only story I was being offered was the story of the summer that was slipping by. The circ.u.mstances were those that followed a tragedy, the people were those who had crowded my night, the places you can guess. Ceaseless Tears Ceaseless Tears was a working t.i.tle only, and that morning I abandoned it. All I had dreamed was the chaos from which order was to be drawn, one way or another. Everything in storytelling, romantic or otherwise, is. .h.i.t and miss, and the fact that reality was involved didn't appear to make much difference. was a working t.i.tle only, and that morning I abandoned it. All I had dreamed was the chaos from which order was to be drawn, one way or another. Everything in storytelling, romantic or otherwise, is. .h.i.t and miss, and the fact that reality was involved didn't appear to make much difference.

I prayed, and then I finished my cigarette and soon afterwards rose. I walked about my house in the cool of the morning, relishing its tranquillity and the almost eerie feeling that possessed me: inspiration, or whatever you care to call it, had never before struck me in so strange a manner. I poured myself some tonic water and added just a trace of the other to pep it up. It seemed like obtuseness that I hadn't realized the girl in the white dress was Aimee.

7.

Aimee was calm when she awoke, but during the days that followed there were further setbacks, though thankfully none was as alarming as the first one. Her uncle's departure from America was again delayed to allow her further time to make a recovery. But even so Dr Innocenti was optimistic.

We ourselves the General, Otmar and I were naturally apprehensive and each day that ended without incident seemed like a victory of a kind. And for me there was another small source of pleasure, a bolt from the blue as agreeable as any I have experienced. As I recall it now I am reminded, by way of introduction, that overheard conversations do not always throw up welcome truths. 'Pa.s.s on, my dear, for you'll hear no good,' Lady Daysmith advises in Precious September Precious September, but of course it is not always so. Pausing by the door of the salotto salotto one evening, I overheard Otmar and the General tentatively conversing. one evening, I overheard Otmar and the General tentatively conversing.

'Yes, she has mentioned that,' the old man was saying, and this was when I paused, for I sensed it was I who was referred to, and who can resist a moment's listening in such circ.u.mstances?

'I would take the chance,' Otmar said, 'to pay my debt to her.'

His wife had been quite expert, the old man said next, especially where the cultivation of fritillaries was concerned. Otmar didn't understand the term; an explanation followed, the plant described. The name came from the Latin: fritillus fritillus meant a dice-box. 'She was always interested in a horticultural derivation. She read Dr Linnaeus.' meant a dice-box. 'She was always interested in a horticultural derivation. She read Dr Linnaeus.'

Otmar professing ignorance again, there came an explanation. I heard that this Linnaeus, a Swedish person apparently Linne as he'd been born had sorted out a whole array of flowers and plants, giving them names or finding Latin roots for existing names, orderliness and Latin being his forte.

'She wants a garden,' Otmar said, not interrupting but by the sound of it repeating what he had said already, in an effort to bring the conversation down to earth.

'Then we must make her one.'

How could they make me a garden? One was too old, the other had but a single arm left! Yet how sweet it was to hear them! As I stood there I felt a throb of warmth within my body, as though a man had said when I was still a girl: 'I love you...'

'He's not the sort of person,' the old man was observing when next I paid attention. 'He's not the sort to be a help or even be much interested.'

I guessed they spoke of Quinty, and certainly what was deduced was true.

'A machine is there?' Otmar asked then. 'An implement to break the earth?'

'There's a thing in England called a Merry Tiller. A motorized plough.'

I imagine Otmar nodded. The General said: 'Heaven knows what grows best in such dry conditions. Precious little, probably. We'd have to read all that up.'

'I do not know seeds.'

Fuchsias grew in the garden of his parents, Otmar went on. He was not good about the names of plants, but he remembered fuchsias in pots double headed, scarlet and cream. The geranium family should do well, the General said, and brooms. To my delight he mentioned azaleas. Shade would be important, and would somehow have to be supplied. The azaleas would have to be grown in urns, and moved inside in winter.

'With one arm,' Otmar reminded him, 'I could not dig.' 'It is remarkable what can be done, you know. Once you settle to it.'

I moved away because I heard them get to their feet. A few minutes later I saw them at the back of my house, gesturing to one another beside the ruined out-buildings. Their voices drifted to where I watched from; the old man pointed. Here there'd be a flight of steps, leading to a lower level, here four flowerbeds formally in a semi-circle, here a marble figure perhaps. A few days later, when they revealed their secret to me, they showed me the plans they had drawn on several sheets of paper in the meantime. The General promised a herb bed, with thyme and basil and tarragon and rosemary. There would be solitary yew trees or local pines, whichever were advised. They'd try for box hedges and cotoneaster and oleander. There'd be a smoke tree and a handkerchief tree, and roses and peach trees, whatever they could induce to thrive.

'When I'm grown up I'd like to tell stories too.'

Aimee had Flight to Enchantment Flight to Enchantment in her hand. She had asked me and I had related its contents, while effortlessly she listened. in her hand. She had asked me and I had related its contents, while effortlessly she listened.

'I like being here in the hills,' she said.

8.

On 14 July Thomas Riversmith arrived. Telephoning a few evenings before, he insisted that he did not wish to be met; that he wished to cause the minimum of inconvenience. So he took a taxi from Pisa, which is an extremely long journey, and then there was difficulty finding my house. From an upstairs window I watched him paying his driver in one-hundred-thousand-lire notes. He had black Mandarina Duck bags. I went downstairs, to welcome him in the inner hall.

He was a tall, thickset man, rather heavy about the face, not at all like the young woman on the train. His eyes, between beetle-black brows, were opaque green or blue, it wasn't apparent which; his crinkly hair was greyish. Mr Riversmith was indeed as serious and as solemn as he had seemed on the telephone: the surprise was that, in his way, he was a handsome man. He wore a dark suit, which had become creased on his air flight and creased again due to his sitting in a hired car for so long. His wife would have bought him the Mandarina luggage; it didn't match the rest of him in any way whatsoever.

'I'm Mrs Delahunty.'

He nodded, not saying who he was because no doubt he a.s.sumed that no one else was expected just then. He stood there, not seeming interested in anything, waiting for me to say something else. It was a little after six in the evening; the c.o.c.ktail hour, as the Americans call it. A certain weariness about his features intimated that Mr Riversmith could do with a drink.

'Drink?' he repeated when I suggested this. He shook his head. He had better wash, he said. He had a way of looking at you intently when he spoke, while giving the impression that he didn't see you. Beneath the scrutiny I felt foolish, the way you do with some people.

'Quinty'll take you up, Mr Riversmith.'

'After that I should see my niece.'

'Of course. Simply when you're ready, Mr Riversmith, please join us in the salotto salotto.'

He followed Quinty upstairs. I made my way to my private room. Earlier in the day an acc.u.mulation of fan mail had come, forwarded from the publisher's offices in London. After that brief encounter with Mr Riversmith I found it something of an antidote. People endeavour to explain how much a story means to them, or how they identify. I quite felt I was Rosalind. Years ago, of course. I'm in my eighties now I quite felt I was Rosalind. Years ago, of course. I'm in my eighties now. Occasionally a small gift is enclosed, a papier mache puzzle from j.a.pan, a pressed flower, inexpensive jewellery. Was Lucinda Was Lucinda really really furious or just pretending? Will Mark forgive her, utterly and completely? Oh, I do so hope he can! furious or just pretending? Will Mark forgive her, utterly and completely? Oh, I do so hope he can! Little adhesive labels come, for autographs. Little adhesive labels come, for autographs. I have all your stories, but dare not trust them to the post. Return postage enclosed I have all your stories, but dare not trust them to the post. Return postage enclosed. I do my best to reply, aptly, but sometimes become exhausted, faced with so much. What a lovely birthday party Ms Penny Court had! It reminded me so much of my own when I was twenty-one and Dad made a key out of plaster of Paris and silver paint! I'm forty now, with kiddies of my own and Alec (husband) is no longer here so I do my best on my own. I always think of her as Ms Penny Court, I don't know why. I envy her her independence. Dad and I were close, that's why he made the key for my twenty-first, you remember things like that. I'm fond of the kiddies of course, it goes without saying, and they wouldn't be here if I hadn't married Alec. He went off two years ago, a woman security officer What a lovely birthday party Ms Penny Court had! It reminded me so much of my own when I was twenty-one and Dad made a key out of plaster of Paris and silver paint! I'm forty now, with kiddies of my own and Alec (husband) is no longer here so I do my best on my own. I always think of her as Ms Penny Court, I don't know why. I envy her her independence. Dad and I were close, that's why he made the key for my twenty-first, you remember things like that. I'm fond of the kiddies of course, it goes without saying, and they wouldn't be here if I hadn't married Alec. He went off two years ago, a woman security officer. Often the letters go on for many pages, the ink changing colour more than once, the writing-paper acquiring stains. When gifts of food are sent I am naturally touched, but I throw the food away, having been warned that this is advisable.

Dear Ron, I wrote on the evening of Thomas Riversmith's arrival, addressing my correspondent so familiarly because I'd been supplied with that name only. Thank you for your nice letter. I am glad you enjoyed 'More than the Brave.' It is interesting what you say about Annabella and Roger being acquainted in a previous life. I quite accept this may be so, and I am interested in what you tell me about your pets. I do not believe your wife would be in the least aggrieved to know you find Fred a comfort. In fact, I'm sure she's delighted Thank you for your nice letter. I am glad you enjoyed 'More than the Brave.' It is interesting what you say about Annabella and Roger being acquainted in a previous life. I quite accept this may be so, and I am interested in what you tell me about your pets. I do not believe your wife would be in the least aggrieved to know you find Fred a comfort. In fact, I'm sure she's delighted. I added another sentence about the ferret, Fred, then placed the letter in an envelope and sealed it. I never supply strangers with my address, having been warned that this is inadvisable also. And some correspondents I really do have to ignore. Correspondence with the disturbed is not a good idea.

Mr Riversmith was standing in silence in the salotto salotto when I entered. when I entered.

'Would I mix you a drink, sir?' Quinty offered.

'A drink?'

'Would you care for a refreshment after your journey, sir?'

Mr Riversmith requested an Old Fashioned, then noticed my presence and addressed me. He remarked that his niece was pretty.

'Yes, indeed.' But I added that Aimee was still mentally fragile. I said that Dr Innocenti would visit us in the morning. He would explain about that.

'I greatly appreciate what Dr Innocenti has done for my niece.' Mr Riversmith paused. 'And I appreciate your looking after her in her convalescence, Mrs Delahunty.'

I explained about the tourists who stayed in my house when the hotels were full. It was no trouble was how I put it; we were used to visitors.

'You'll let me have an account?' Mr Riversmith went on, as if anxious to deal with all the formalities at once. 'I would wish to have that in order before we leave.'

I said that was Quinty's department, and Quinty nodded as he handed Mr Riversmith his gla.s.s. 'G and t would it be tonight?' he murmured. He rolls that 'g and t' off his tongue in a twinkling manner, appearing to take pleasure in the sound, heaven knows why.

'Thank you, Quinty,' I said, and as I spoke the General entered the room.

I introduced the two men, revealing in lowered tones that the General had been only a couple of seats away from Aimee on the train. I mentioned Otmar in case Mr Riversmith had forgotten what I'd said on the telephone. Lowering my voice further, I mentioned the old man's daughter and son-in-law, and Madeleine. In the circ.u.mstances I considered that necessary.

'You've come for the child,' the General said.

'Yes, I have.'

There was a silence. Quinty poured the General some whisky, and noted the drinks in the little red notebook he keeps by the tray of bottles. The old man nodded, acknowledging what had been said. In order to ease a certain stickiness that had developed I asked a question to which I knew the answer. 'You do not know Aimee well?' I remarked to Mr Riversmith.

'I met my niece for the first time in my life half an hour ago.'

'What?' The General frowned. 'What?' he said again.

'I never knew either of my sister's children.' He appeared not to wish to say anything more, to leave the matter there. But then, unexpectedly, he added what I knew also: that there'd been a family quarrel.

'So the child's a stranger to you?' the General persisted. 'And you to her?'

'That is so.'

His wife would have accompanied him, Mr Riversmith continued, apropos of another question the General asked, but unfortunately it had been impossible for her to get away. He referred to his wife as Francine, a name new to me. In answer to a question of my own he supplied the information that his wife was in the academic world also.

'We should be calling you professor,' I put in. 'We weren't entirely certain.'

He replied that he didn't much use the t.i.tle. Academic distinctions were unimportant, he said. The General asked him what his line of scholarship was, and Mr Riversmith replied his tone unchanged that the bark-ant was his subject. He spoke of this insect as if it were a creature as familiar to us as the horse or the dog.

The General shook his head. He did not know the bark-ant, he confessed. Mr Riversmith made a very slight, scarcely perceptible shrugging motion. The interdependency of bark-ant colonies in acacia trees, he stated, revealed behaviour that was similar to human beings'. It was an esoteric area of research where the layman was concerned, he admitted in the end, and changed the subject.

'My niece will not forget the time she's spent here.'

'No, she'll hardly do that,' the General agreed.

Otmar came in, his hand grasping one of Aimee's. I introduced him to Mr Riversmith, and I thought for a moment that he might click his heels, for Otmar's manner can be formal on occasion. But he only bowed. Quinty, still hovering near the drinks' tray, poured Aimee a Coca-Cola and Otmar a Stella Artois. He made the entries in the notebook and then sloped away.

'Those are interesting pictures you drew,' Aimee's uncle said.

'Which pictures?'

'The ones on your walls.'

'I didn't draw them.'

'I drew the pictures,' Otmar said.

'Otmar drew them,' Aimee said.

For the first time Mr Riversmith was taken aback. I knew that Dr Innocenti would already have spoken to him on the telephone about the pictures. I watched him wondering if he'd misunderstood what he'd been told. He opened his mouth to speak, but Aimee interrupted.

'When are you taking me away?'

'We'll see what Dr Innocenti says when he comes tomorrow.'

'I'm better.'

'Of course you are.'