Kal (6 page)

‘Caterina,' he said and he sat beside her on the edge of the bed. ‘Caterina, please.' He pushed her hair gently away from her face. ‘I will not have you do something you do not wish. We can stop this.'

She looked back at him for what seemed a very long time and the uncertainty left her eyes. ‘No stop,' she said. She took his hand in hers and softly kissed his palm. ‘
Fai l'amore con me
,' she whispered. ‘
Fai l'amore con me, Paolo
.'

 

I
T WAS A
week before anyone knew of the affair between Caterina and Paul. Feigning illness, Paul did not join his friends on the slopes and, each morning, in between her duties, Caterina slipped into his room. Although she dared stay no longer than half an hour, and although their meetings were furtive and hurried, the two fell very much in love.

Geoffrey was suspicious but Paul refused any comment and, surprisingly, it was Caterina who first confided of their love. She simply had to tell someone. Someone who would understand. The priest had not. She had made her trip to Steinach and the village church on Sunday and the priest had been quick to tell her she would be damned forever if she did not cease her abhorrent carnal activities immediately. ‘Govern your lust, my child,' he had said. ‘It is the devil coming to you in this man.'

Caterina suffered guilt and confusion. She knew she was committing a sin but how could Paolo be the devil? The love he felt for her was as deep and pure as the love she felt for him, she knew it was.

The only person to whom she could turn was Mary. For a week now she had carefully avoided Teresa and
the other girls from Santa Lena. But Mary would understand. Mary was not only worldly but she, too, was in love.

Mary was indeed worldly. ‘Oh, Catie,' she said. ‘Oh Catie, do you think this is wise?' Caterina loved the way Mary called her Catie; it made her sound like a
strani
. A foreigner. Mysterious. Aloof and reserved like the English women who stayed at the chalet.

‘Wise? But I love him, Mary, just as you love Geoffrey.'

Catie was so young, Mary thought. Not only in years. Emotionally the girl was very immature. Mary remembered when she too had believed the sincerity of a man's love. It was only four years ago, although now it seemed like a lifetime away. She had been twenty-two when she had become engaged to the German ski instructor she'd met during a holiday in northern Scotland. She had surrendered her virginity to her fiancé and accompanied him to Austria, severing all ties with her family and friends who strongly disapproved.

The ski instructor left her six months later. He had probably never intended to marry her, she realised. Unable to face her family, Mary had remained in Europe. She had hardened since then, but she was not bitter. Mary enjoyed her life. She also enjoyed men and there had been a number of affairs. But she had no illusions—they were holiday romances, just like her present relationship with Geoffrey. She avoided at all costs the major pitfall of pregnancy—the German had taught her that much.

‘You must be careful, Catie,' she warned. She knew it would be useless to warn the girl of imminent heartbreak—Caterina was too convinced of Paul's undying affection.

‘He is going to remain with me when his friends return to America,' Caterina said. ‘He is going to remain
with me and he is going to meet my family and then …'

Although Mary was silent, Caterina was aware of her disbelief so she said nothing more of Paul's plans. ‘When you return to your farm,' he had said, ‘I will come with you. I will ask your Papa if I may marry you and he will say yes and then we will go to America. On a big, big ship.
Una grande nave
. A ship as big as the chalet.' In the fragmented Italian she had taught him and in the simple English he knew she would understand, he always spoke to her as if she were a child. ‘And we will be happy, Caterina. We will be happy forever.'

‘You must be very careful, Catie,' Mary repeated.

Caterina pretended to listen as Mary told her how to avoid pregnancy. Her lover must withdraw at the peak of his passion, Mary said; she must insist upon it. But Caterina was fully aware of the risk she was taking. As she feigned interest in Mary's well-meaning but unattractively clinical advice she knew that, even now, she could well be with child. But pregnancy held no fear for her. Caterina was infected with a sort of madness. She felt gloriously liberated. She exulted in their love-making, her body freed of all inhibition. But her freedom went far beyond sexual liberation. So all-consuming was her love that she was prepared to abandon even Church and family. She was convinced that God saw their love for what it was. Pure and unadulterated. Of course God understood. God was love, was he not? And if her family were to disapprove as the priest did—and she was sure they would—then she would live without their blessing, just as she would live without the Church's blessing, until she was married. When she and Paul were wed they would be accepted back into the fold and, until then, she would pray to God and God alone. And if it were God's will she become with child then she and Paul would simply marry sooner.

Paul was overwhelmed by Caterina's love and the
intensity of his own feelings. When he finally admitted his love to his friends and told them of his plans, they were horrified. ‘It's insane,' Geoffrey insisted. ‘Good God, man, surely you must see that it's insane. Your family will never accept her.'

But Paul refused to listen and his friends could only pray that, in the several remaining weeks of their stay at the chalet, he would either tire of Caterina or at least recognise that theirs was a holiday liaison and nothing more.

Two days before the Americans were due to leave, however, the lovers were as inseparable as ever and Paul was still adamant about his plans. There was little Geoffrey could do but agree to send a telegraphic cable to Paul's family before boarding the ship at Bremerhaven.

‘Here is the message,' Paul said, giving him a slip of paper. ‘I shall stay at the chalet for six weeks until Caterina's contract has expired. Then I shall meet her family and, hopefully with their blessing, we shall leave for the States.'

‘And if they do not wish to give their blessing?' Geoffrey asked.

‘It will be unfortunate,' Paul agreed. ‘But Caterina is prepared for that.'

Later that evening, Caterina sat with the Americans in the music lounge and drank champagne with them. She was off-duty and the chalet staff and workers were allowed to fraternise if the guests requested it. She was careful not to appear too intimate with Paul but she was aware that the looks they shared were eminently readable and that several of the staff were casting glances in their direction. If their affair were discovered it would mean scandal and instant dismissal but, in her giddy state, that too meant little to Caterina.

‘To a certain couple I know,' Geoffrey whispered as he filled Caterina's glass for the second time. ‘May they
be very happy together.' He clinked his glass against hers and smiled.

‘Thank you,' Caterina smiled back. She liked Geoffrey. He was such a good friend to Paul. ‘To America,' she whispered as she sipped her champagne.

Geoffrey watched her over the rim of his glass. She was a beautiful girl. She deserved a beautiful life. He felt sorry for her.

They sang along to the piano and drank more champagne. Catarina was not used to alcohol and after three glasses, she felt very light-headed. She noticed the brief look between Paul and Geoffrey and was not surprised when, a moment later, Paul whispered to her, ‘Come to the room in five minutes.'

A little while later, as she tapped their signal gently on the door, she felt no shame. It was not degrading to think that the Americans knew what she was doing as they sang along to the piano in the music lounge. Caterina knew no shame and felt no degradation.

After they had made love she lay close to Paul in the narrow bed as he stroked her hair. ‘One night more your friends go,' she whispered. He nodded and she lifted herself up onto one elbow. ‘You are no …' She fumbled for the word. ‘No regret?'

‘No,' he smiled, ‘no regret.'

‘Sure?'

‘Sure.'

 

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT
Paul had agreed to join his friends for a final night of carousing in Steinach. ‘You have to help us with our hangovers,' Geoffrey insisted. ‘It's the done thing to sleep it off the next day on the train to Bremerhaven.'

And carouse they did. They ate sausages with mustard and sauerkraut and drank beer in a little tavern overlooking the cobbled square. Then they bought a
bottle of schnapps and swigged lustily from it as they wandered through the still, cold, gaslit laneways of the old town. They'd finished the bottle by the time they arrived at the big hotel with its whitewashed face and huge pine door and wooden shuttered windows looking out over the streets.

In the bar, they skolled glass after glass of schnapps as Geoffrey and Barry and Chris kept toasting Paul. Then they entered into a beer-drinking competition with several of the villagers, singing along with their newfound friends and drinking more and more schnapps until Paul's legs felt like jelly and the room was spinning away from him. They must go back to the chalet, he told himself. He pawed Geoffrey's sleeve and tried to say something but his tongue felt several times its normal size. He had never been so drunk. How had this happened? How come the others seemed to be in control? Then Barry fell over and everyone laughed and Paul stopped feeling self-conscious. Everyone was drunk, everyone was having a good time, and he accepted the glass Geoffrey handed him. ‘Skoll,' he said and he drained the glass to a rousing cheer and held it out to be refilled.

Geoffrey watched him carefully. Paul had never been able to handle alcohol. He didn't even like the taste of it. Back home he only ever got drunk when it was a mandatory exercise, like after exams to prove he was one of the boys. Paul was a brilliant student with a successful career ahead of him, provided he did not do something stupid, like saddle himself with a peasant wife before he was twenty-two.

Geoffrey pulled his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. Nearly time to leave for Innsbruck and the connecting train to Bremerhaven. Paul's bags were packed and in the back of the waiting trap. He would wake up the following day and they would be halfway to
Bremerhaven and Geoffrey would convince him it was all for the best. That was why he hadn't sent the telegraph.

Geoffrey had had nothing heavy to drink himself. Nothing but beer. The ‘schnapps' he had skolled had been tap water with which he had filled the empty bottle he had swigged from as they wandered the streets.

Geoffrey looked at Barry and Chris. They too were drunk, but he had not plied them with as much liquor as he had Paul and in any event they could handle it better. For secrecy's sake Geoffrey had not told them of his plan but, if they wished to become so inebriated that they missed their connecting train, he did not much care. Barry and Chris were not his responsibility. Paul was.

‘Time to go home,' he announced loudly, rising to his feet. ‘Sir,' he waved to the innkeeper behind the bar, ‘two bottles if you please. One for the road and one for a nightcap at the chalet, yes?' He looked at Paul who nodded and mumbled incoherently. He's close to passing out, Geoffrey thought as he hoisted him onto his feet and started dragging him towards the door.

 

‘A
LETTER FOR
you, Caterina.'

It was early morning. Caterina had finished her kitchen duties and was in her crisp chambermaid's uniform ready to start on the rooms when the woman at the reception desk called to her.

‘
Grazie
,' she said and took the envelope.

A letter? For her? But she could not read. Who would write her a letter? Her name was on the front. She could read her name, and there it was:
Caterina Panuzzi
. She opened the envelope. Even more bewildering. It was in English.

‘Mary. Will you read me this letter?'

Mary was polishing the glasses and setting up the
lounge bar for the busy day ahead. She took the single piece of notepaper Caterina held out to her.

‘“Caterina my darling”,' she read before glancing down to the name at the bottom of the page. ‘It is from Paul,' she said.

Caterina looked puzzled but not troubled and Mary's sense of unease turned to dread as her eyes skimmed the page.

‘Come, Caterina, sit down.' It was early and the bar was as yet deserted. She led Caterina to one of the large armchairs by the open fire and, seating herself opposite, she slowly began to translate.

‘“Caterina, my darling, I am sorry I did not say goodbye to you. It was wrong of me I know, but I could not face you. I am a …”' As Mary struggled to find the word for coward, she glanced at Caterina. The girl still looked puzzled, as if she could not absorb what was being said to her.

‘“Io sono un …”'
Mary concentrated on the translation, trying not to think of Caterina's pain. What was the Italian word for coward? There was not one, she was sure.
‘“Io sono … pauroso”,'
she said. ‘Afraid', that would have to do. ‘“My dear it is better this way”,' she continued. ‘“You would be unhappy in America, away from your friends and your family. You are beautiful and you deserve to be happy. I love you and I am sorry. Paul”.'

Mary held the piece of notepaper out to Caterina. The girl took it from her and looked at the name on the bottom of the page. ‘Paolo?' she whispered. She had never seen his name in writing.

‘Paul,' Mary answered. ‘He has signed it Paul.'

Caterina's mind was numb. Why had he not signed it Paolo? She rose from the armchair, the letter clutched to her breast.

‘Caterina …' Mary rose to comfort her but Caterina shrugged off the embrace.