At a Time Like This (12 page)

‘Cinque . . . oh, sorry’ I said, in case she thought I was another objectionable tourist trying to score a point. I’d spent so long perfecting my spiel that just for an
instant, it had seemed a shame to waste it. ‘Five days,’ I said. ‘Initially’

She nodded. She tapped on her keyboard. ‘You wish extra insurance, or to add another driver?’

‘No,’ I said, all too used to the upselling that goes on on these occasions.

Just at that moment, my mobile beeped. I knew it had to be him. I made an apologetic gesture in Patrizia’s direction, but she was no longer paying me any attention. I searched the small
screen for the words I wanted to see. As usual, he did not disappoint. My response was brief, in the circumstances. He’s used to that, too.

Patrizia tore off the multiple copies and ringed the places I had to sign with a thick black pen. Her gestures seemed aggressive. ‘Here,’ she said, stabbing at the places for my
signature. ‘And also here.’ I took the pen she offered me and obeyed. Then she tore off the copy destined for the bottom of my handbag and smiled a brilliant, electric smile.
‘Welcome to Firenze,’ she said. ‘Your car is in Bay 24, block C. Please check with this list.’ And she handed me yet another sheet of paper. And this’ – she
jabbed with the black pen again – ‘this is the number you call if you have problem.’

A
problem
or
problems
,
I was tempted to say, but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled back, but in a more restrained manner. After all, I am Irish. I
didn’t have the big hair, the glittering rings and bracelets, the high-voltage appearance – even in uniform – to go with such a Mediterranean smile. But she had disarmed me with
her warmth. I felt swept up again into that maelstrom of affection and bafflement that has accompanied each of my visits to this extraordinary country.

To be fair, I think his text had something to do with it too: with that sense of welcome and homecoming that now submerged me.

‘Thank you,’ I said. I took the key and stuffed the paperwork into my handbag. ‘Grazie,’ I said, risking a farewell ‘thank you’.

‘A lei,’ she replied. ‘Buon viaggio.’

But I could see by her expression that she had already dismissed me, that she was girding herself to deal with the next, more problematic customer, who was already crowding me out of his way,
his voice loud with complaint. Just at that moment, I knew how Patrizia felt. I knew it, because I have known it so many times myself. I have battled that same sense of dismay that accompanies the
arrival of the client who refuses to be placated, whose satisfaction comes not from the item purchased, but rather from the transaction itself. And the more difficult that transaction, the more
demanding, the more petulant they are permitted to be, the better and happier they feel. Finally, they go home triumphant and we resign ourselves to feeling our energy sapped and our cells clogged
with resentment. We might have sold something and made a tidy profit, for sure, but it always feels as though we have been forced to buy into something that we didn’t want. Such are the
pitfalls of serving the public, the frustrations of relationships based on buying and selling.

So. Once I walked away clutching my car-key and my new sense of freedom, I felt filled with the recklessness that goes hand in hand with the casting off of polite responsibility.

I have to say that I struggled a little with my suitcase, my handbag and the various plastic bags from Dublin airport – filled with the Estée Lauder cleanser and moisturizer set
that I hadn’t been able to resist. And the bronzing powder. I had bought smoked salmon, too, and a couple of boxes of handmade chocolates on special offer. I no longer bring whiskey. Not
since I discovered that Irish whiskey is cheaper in Italy anyway.

I mastered the intricacies of Peretola’s car-hire system a couple of years back and I have never faltered since. Yesterday afternoon, once I sat behind the wheel of my Mercedes A140
– nothing wrong with a little luxury on such occasions, I’ve always felt – I was overcome with a rush of expectation and a sense of finality. The drive from Florence to Volterra
can be a challenging one, once I leave the motorway. But the car’s progress up the steep climb was effortless. There was a mass of chalky dust thrown up by the tyres, unleashing the
unmistakable smell of warmth, soon to be heat, and – I know it is a strange word to use – that scent
of foreignness
that makes me feel that I am truly here. Everything, even the
dryness, seems thrilling in a new way every time I come back. And each time, I wonder why it is I have stayed away for so long, how it is I have been
able
to stay away. Everything is
familiar but new. I love the way the olive trees glow silver in the sunshine, the way the vineyards stretch for miles, all the way to Volterra, it seems. The town rises in the distance, a sunny
promise of shady, narrow streets, of morning coffee in the piazza, of tiny shops made for rummaging.

Yesterday evening, as I drove up the narrow, tree-lined driveway, I felt the ridiculous prickle of tears as I turned the last corner. I saw the faint tracery of shadows on the
terracotta-coloured walls of the villa, the glint of sunshine on the unnaturally blue waters of the pool. It had seemed sensible, given the circumstances, to buy my own place here two years ago,
rather than renting. My visits had become more frequent, rather than less, despite the old wisdom of not mixing business with pleasure. The new and exciting turn my life had taken made me feel it
was time to set down new roots, to find new soil.

So. It was with no small sense of ceremony that I retrieved my key from the inside, zipped pocket of my handbag. Push, pull; pull, push: the opening of the heavy outside door acquired all the
resonance of decisions made and implemented.

Once inside, the dim and musty air filled the hallway with such familiarity that it almost took my breath away. It was the smell of home. Home. Such an evocative word, so loaded with hope and
expectation and belonging.

Well, here it is, for better or worse. And here am I.

The first thing I did when I got inside was to throw open all the windows. I love that routine of opening shutters, the way the metal bars whine just before the light floods in, reminding me to
oil them into silence. But I already know that I never shall. Their creaks and gibbers have always been reminders of the silences I have left behind. I welcome them. And so, last night, once again,
I decided that I’d leave them just as they are.

I remember the first day I saw this place, Paola’s smiling face as she heaved open the front door, her friendly ‘Buon giorno. Signora White?’ Only she pronounced it
‘Wyte’
with an emphasis on the ‘y’ and a complete inability to master its whispery ‘h’. Never mind, she and I have had some fun since, with my lack of
ability to count the syllables in some of the most extraordinarily lengthy Italian words that name the shortest of domestic objects.
Abbigliamento
for dress;
asciugamano
for towel.
Paola introduced me to my personal favourite that day, too, over coffee:
sorseggiare
– to sip.

It was she who showed me around the villa late that afternoon, doing her duty gravely, thoroughly. She couldn’t have known that I had already decided to buy, and her insistence on detail
made me impatient. Not her fault, but nevertheless. At the end of the visit, we had a macchiato together in the gleaming kitchen. The smell of coffee was heady, almost intoxicating. She had
prepared a plate of biscotti: thin slices of yellow brioche, some tiny, gleaming meringues, soft ovals of amaretti. A breath of warm wind made its way through the mosquito screen on the window. The
mountains were visible through the wide metal grille, retreating from the ranks of olive groves. I wanted to live in this villa so badly it was a physical craving, as insistent as thirst or lust.
We sat together at the small table, dipping the biscotti into the froth of our coffee and, woman to woman, with a bit of English here, a bit of Italian there, she told me that sometimes, there was
a smell of damp in the kitchen; that sometimes, the plumbing in the bathroom was less than perfect. But by then, I didn’t care. All it had taken for me to be sure was to take one step into
the cool, tiled interior of the hallway. Something had shifted inside me and I was at peace. At peace and at home.
A casa.

Paola had stood after a polite interval. She brought our cups to the clattery sink and rinsed them, with a thoroughness that spoke of something else. She had begun to look distracted, almost
embarrassed. The air in the kitchen had become uneasy. I understood at once. I spoke without even thinking.

‘Paola – le piace lavorare per me – qui – in casa?’ I didn’t care about whether my grammar was correct: all I wanted was to communicate that her job was still
there, with me, soon to be the new owner.

Her smile was huge. ‘Si, si, Signora Wyte, si, si!’

She said many other things too, but I heard only the occasional word like ‘gentile’ and ‘piacere’, but it didn’t matter. Paola came with the house.

Once all the windows were open after my arrival last night, I set to unpacking with gusto. Paola used to insist on doing it for me at first, couldn’t understand why I was so anxious to
undertake one of the tasks that she regarded as hers. But she gave up insisting, eventually. ‘Va bene, Signora, va bene,’ she’d say in a tone of great weariness, shaking her head
at the lunacies of foreigners.

But I enjoy unpacking. I enjoy the satisfaction afforded by all that hanging, folding, tidying; the making of home. Yesterday, in Paola’s disapproving absence, I had fun, seeking out those
places I had already prepared for toothbrush, makeup and perfume. Finally, I remembered to check the fridge and discovered that Paola, as good as her word, had stocked it just as I’d asked.
Despite the unlived-in air of the white-tiled kitchen, everything was spotless. I’ve always noticed how Europeans – I mean real Europeans, not those of us who ended up with that
designation by having our paltry little island towed by economic ropes towards the mainland – take their housekeeping really seriously. They understand scrubbing, scouring, dusting, polishing
in the way our grandmothers used to do. We’ve lost that art, our generation, among so many others. Not that I long for its return. Well, perhaps I do, but only if I can pay others in order to
indulge my appreciation of it. Nevertheless, I do notice that the Irish ‘it’ll do’ approach to domestic cleaning does not exist outside of our own cabbage patch. Paola is what my
mother might have called a ‘little treasure’. The ancient skills of laundering and mending and fiercely economical grocery shopping are among her many talents. Not to mention cooking.
The sort of cooking that takes hours in the kitchen, not the microwave moments that produce fodder little better than palatable. That’s what my cooking was reduced to over the years: an
indifferent response to the duty of filling plates for four, three times a day every day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I did the maths on that one during a particularly enraged period,
but I’ve forgotten the result.

Anyway, this fridge was stuffed with what will now become the comforts of home: bresaola, pasta all’ uovo, olives, rucola and a dizzying array of fruit. Standing in demure single file
along the shelves of the fridge door are six bottles of Verdicchio. I made a present of some to Claire, after my last trip, but I know she still prefers Prosecco. I have to say I was a little
disappointed the night we shared the bottle I’d brought back to her. I’d been filled with anticipation as she opened it, but it didn’t taste quite as it does here. Something
essential was missing.

‘That’s because it’s a local wine,’ was Claire’s opinion. ‘Best drunk in its own home, with heat and sun and proper food to show it off. Shouldn’t force
it to travel.’

I think she might be right. ‘A bit like you used to feel?’ I teased her. ‘When you didn’t want to leave home? And look at how you blossomed.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘But I had all the right conditions.’

Once I’d finished my settling-in process, I poured a glass of nicely chilled Verdicchio and took myself out on to the small balcony off the main living room, the one that looks out over
the southern part of Volterra. I sat, for perhaps two hours, or maybe three, looking around, listening to the stillness inside my own head. It felt good. I came in when I began to get drowsy and
lay down on the bed that Paola had made up exactly to my instructions. I slept.

It was Paola’s soft footstep outside the bedroom door that finally woke me this morning. Despite the leisurely bath, the travel weariness, the joy at being home, I still
couldn’t sleep last night. When I did drop off, I fell full-tilt into nightmare. It was a heart-pounding, body-sweating experience that stunned me into wakefulness and kept me on high alert
until the small hours. I lay there, trying to control the fear, trying to understand the significance of what had happened in that dark universe of bad dreams. I was desperate to recall all the
books I had once read about the interpretation of situations and symbols. I was determined to fight panic with philosophy. I was able to remember that appearing undressed in public in a dreamworld
indicates a crushing sense of vulnerability; that falling means uncertainty and fear about what lies ahead – all pretty obvious stuff, I should think. Nevertheless, nothing worked, nothing
calmed me. I am still no wiser this morning. Well, a little wiser, perhaps, about the dream’s meaning with reference to the past, but what it might mean for the future continues to elude
me.

I was in an aeroplane. So far so dull, you might say, given that that is how I’d spent most of the day. But, for some reason – one that was clear to me in the shadows of sleep,
although I now no longer remember – we had stopped in mid-air, mid-flight, and were hovering above the blue sea below. The Captain’s voice could be heard, tinnily, over the PA system. I
can even remember his name; an ordinary name like John O’Reilly, something Irish and reassuring like that. He was telling us, in that overly-soothing voice that most of us know heralds
disaster – particularly when you’re a couple of miles away from solid ground – that he was having difficulty getting the stairs to the aircraft, and he asked for our patience
while he and his crew resolved the problem.