Last Train from Liguria (2010) (2 page)

I was twenty-four years of age; a fool, a thief, a drunk - a hen-headed fucker in fact, just as the oulfella had often said. ‘A hen-headed fucker, who ought to have been smothered at birth.’ Now he could add murderer to my title. I caught my reflection in the train window, my mouth biting down on my knuckles, my eyes distorted. I felt as deranged as I looked. Anyone outside who happened to look up at the passing train would be bound to notice. I straightened myself up.

After Holyhead - what? Where could I go? I had lived in England for five long years of schooling and although I knew the place, and had learned to adapt to its manners, I had also learned to hate and distrust it. Besides I would be lifted there as easily as here. I needed somewhere further afield. Then Barzonni came into my mind. Because he was the only person I knew well who was living abroad, but also because he was the only one I could force into helping me. My old music master. I knew he had left Dublin in disgrace and gone back to Italy to start over again. I couldn’t say exactly where, but surely any half-decent opera house would point me in the right direction? If I could persuade him (and with what I knew, what choice would he have?) to set me up with a reference, an introduction or two; some sort of a position. I had always wanted to see Italy anyway. And so somewhere between Ballsbridge and Booterstown, the first step of my future was decided. Italy.

As the train pushed past the end of the station wall a poster caught my eye. Edward VII puffing on a cigar. King Edward cigars. I tossed it around. Edward King. I had my new name. It was a start.

I was tired then, so tired. And my senses, which for the past few minutes or so had been almost too sharp to bear, were fast becoming indistinguishable, softening and tumbling into each other. So, although my eyes were open, I could see nothing. Nothing at all. But I could hear and feel the colour of blood.

June

IT ONLY OCCURS TO her, the dilemma of her name, as the ship pulls out of Genoa harbour and the Italian voices on deck strike up their commentary of praise. The
bella
city behind them, the
bella vista
of the sea, the
bellezza
of Sicily waiting for them at the end of this long journey. That
bella
little girl in her
bella
little frock. Everything so.

Bella
. She hears it over and over, flitting in and out of every sentence, so that for a few bewildering seconds it seems as if she is the topic of all conversations. But they seem to admire everything, the Italians. Then they admire each other. She likes that about them, their childlike ability to be constantly enchanted. Unlike the English, who so often need to be persuaded.

Bella closes her eyes. She hears the drum of footbeats along the upper decks, the yelping carousel of gulls, the many exuberant voices. Here and there she tries to untangle a conversation; since crossing the border at Ventimiglia yesterday, it’s become an increasing anxiety. Childhood kitchen conversations with her father’s ancient Italian godmother; faded textbooks from second-hand barrows along the Embankment; grammar classes in the Scuola di Sorrento on the Brompton Road; even recent nights spent in the translation of long dreary passages at the dining-room table - nothing, but
nothing
, could have prepared her for this extravaganza.

The thoughts of Sicily! Of not being understood, not even being able to understand; the child in her care; the rest of the household; and as for the notorious dialect? It could mean having to make a constant nuisance of herself with Signora Lami, asking her to translate this and that. And the Signora’s letter had hardly given the impression of an approachable woman, never mind one who would be amused by a resume that would turn out to be at best an exaggeration, at worst a bare-faced lie. (‘I am pleased to say I speak Italian fluently and have difficulty with neither the written nor the spoken word.’) What had she been thinking of, to claim such a thing? She would blame the dialect, that’s what she’d do. Just until her ear accustomed itself to its new environment. She could say -
Mi dispiace, ma il… il dialecto…
No
- il dialetto
…

Behind her an old man begins to speak; a rusted voice, a slow delivery, and she is cheered to find she can follow his story with relative ease. He is telling a fellow passenger about the wedding he has just attended. His nephew’s wedding, on the far side of Liguria, in a small hilltown called Dolceacqua - perhaps he knows it?

No, the companion does not, but has heard it is a beautiful place.
Certo e bello
. Most beautiful, just as the wedding was, the food, the weather, the olives, the church. And as for the wine of that region! Oh and the flowers. Everything. Everything. Except for, and unfortunately, the bride. When he says this there is a pause - a sigh from the speaker, a soft tut of condolence from his companion. Yet he will not say the bride is ugly, Bella notes, simply that she is not beautiful.
Non e bella
. But she has such a good heart, the old man emotionally concludes. So full of kindness. It is from here her real beauty shines, the heart. They will be happy, he is certain of it.

Of course they will, his companion agrees. Why wouldn’t they be? Young, in love, living in Dolceacqua, most beautiful.

And she likes that too, the way they recognize it’s not the bride’s fault if she is no beauty, the way they imply she must nonetheless be loved, and made happy.

The faces on the dockside recede and crumble. The farewell handkerchiefs relent, and the brass band that an hour ago had caterwauled the passengers aboard plays fewer, weaker notes now. She is happy for a moment. That moment falls from her, is swished away to be replaced by another - this time one of dread. Far too conspicuous, she is, far too alone, here amongst these chattering strangers. And she must be careful of her back, already straining from days spent on rock-hard train seats, nights on inadequate mattresses.

The crowd thickens. Further up the deck there is an unexpected push and she turns slightly to see a fat boy barging through. His head, a curly black marker of his progress, pops up now and then, his voice a constant high-pitched chant: ‘
Voglio vedere!
‘ I want to see, I want to see.

People step back for him, pat his head, pluck his cheek, help him bully his way forward. This fat boy is now in charge of the crowd. When he shoves, it buckles. When he pulls at a coat or paws at a backside, there is indulgent laughter. Eventually she sees he has arrived at the railing just a few feet from her. He begins to scream angrily at the sea and appears to be hurling imaginary stones overboard as though he wants to somehow injure it. But in no time at all he becomes bored by all this. Then he starts roaring for his mother, ‘
Mamma! Mamma!
‘ and an affectionate ‘
Ahhhh
…’ breaks out around him. Bella can’t get over what a brat he is - God, say the Lami boy won’t be like this.

’
Permesso! Permesso!
‘ The boy bounces himself off the railing and presses back into the crowd. This sudden movement causes the old man behind her to be pushed forward. She tenses her back. A snarl of pain runs down her spine and into her hip. ‘
Scusi
,’ the man says; his voice, warm as an egg, sits for a moment in her ear.

She decides to go back to her cabin, turns from the railing and finds that after a few unsuccessful attempts the only way through is to raise her voice until, like the fat boy, she is shouting, ‘
Permesso! Permesso!
’

At last the old man and his companion hear her; they stand aside, create a sort of guard of honour consisting of old-fashioned walking canes and shoes so polished they look like glaced cakes. They guide her through. She doesn’t have to look at their faces to know they are studying hers. She passes, listens for a comment, a sigh or tut. But there is nothing.

*

The stink of the cabin! It haws its breath around her as soon as she steps through the door. Bella stays for a moment and considers the neighbouring cabins, doors pinned back by baggage or dressing stools to suck in whatever ocean air might happen to stray this way. But to leave the door open would be to invite full view of herself; nightgown on the bed, web of dead hair caught in the bristles of her hairbrush. Her mother’s old alligator travel bag. It would also mean having to smile and respond to the greetings of every passer-by who, she had been startled to note, seemed to think nothing of stopping and staring right into an open cabin with a hearty ‘
Buon giorno!
‘ She closes the door, then locks it. And sorry, now, that she exchanged Signora Lami’s first-class ticket for a refund and a cabin such as this, with its grimy basin and cracked water jug. That monk-shaped stain along one wall. Shabby bed sheet and greasy head print on the pillow - pomade, she supposes.

Bella feels a little shaky, perhaps from hunger, but she is far too nervy now to go in search of anything to eat (at least in first class she could have rung for service). Perhaps it’s pain? She rubs her lower back, considers taking one of the sachets her father has prescribed. But she knows the shape of pain, its sneaky ways, and knows that it is nothing now to what it might yet become before this journey’s over. Hours to go. The rest of this sea voyage for a start; a stop-off at Naples to drop or pick up more passengers; then on to Sicily and the city of Palermo; a further two, maybe three hours cross-country before she would reach the Lami villa. She could be left in agony for days. She counts the sachets, only six.

Now at the travel bag, from an inner pocket she pulls out a pouch, which in turn gives way to another pouch - a long sausage shape wrapped in lace and secured at both ends by a twist. In her mind she calls this her money-tuck. Bella opens and spreads its skin of lace, exposing a stuffing made up of notes folded into each other, or notes grasped tightly around coins. Her fingers tip over the colours and faces of different denominations before taking her purse out of her pocket to remove the amount saved, so far, today. This she adds to and moulds into the pile. Rolling the sausage back into shape, re-twisting the ends, she bats the money-tuck between her palms for a moment before returning it to the pouch, within the pouch, and finally into the inner pocket of the travel bag. From the opposite side of the bag she pulls out a flask of water along with two biscotti and an apple saved over from breakfast. Then lays them on the cabin table beside an American magazine someone has left behind on the train, containing an article by G.B. Shaw and an expose on the private life of Clark Gable - a hole gaping in the page where a fan has cut out his face. Steadier now, Bella picks up the portfolio of travel documents, flicking through until she finds her birth certificate inserted between the many pages of Signora Lami’s directions. Anabelle Mary Stuart - shortened to Bella since childhood.

Into a basin half filled with water go a splash of cologne, two slow drops of lavender essence. Jacket and blouse removed, wrists cooling in water, she turns her head in the mirror and examines her face. Profile, quarter profile, front. Anabelle Mary Stuart. Mary Stuart maybe? Or does that seem to have a bit too much to say for itself? Anna then. Anna Stuart. Or what about Anne? Drop the ‘e’, even better the ‘n’.

An - an indefinite article.

*

Signora Lami’s directions had been nothing if not explicit.

They were delivered to Bella over a month ago in an elaborately bound parcel that turned out to be no less than a hatbox. It had puzzled her then, as she cut through the wrapping, noting the covering letter on Savoy Hotel stationery together with the index of instructions, train timetables, travel itinerary and a bunch of numbered envelopes; besides, if the Signora was staying at the Savoy, why go to this trouble, why not simply arrange an interview to give the instructions in person? It wasn’t as if the Savoy was a million miles from Chelsea. And it would have broken the ice; after all, they would be living under the same roof in less than a month, and surely the Signora must have some curiosity about her son’s future governess. Or nanny, or teacher, or companion or whoever it was she was soon expected to be?

The delivery boy, done up like a doll in Savoy livery, had shuffled on the doorstep while he waited for her to sign the receipt. Sniffing about inside his head, no doubt, for something to say that would take them both up to, and safely past, the moment that would decide his tip. Bella had been expecting the weather, the traffic, a newspaper scandal half-read or overheard. In the end he surprised her by blurting out, ‘She made that many mistakes!’

‘Who did?’

”Er…” He nodded at the parcel in Bella’s hands. ‘Wastepaper basket full up to…” The boy lifted his hand to his forehead as if he were the basket in question. ‘Twice she sends for me to get more paper, I-mean-to-say-stationery. Twice. But when I come back like she says in an hour, all’s right and ready to go.’

‘Oh well, perhaps her English is not quite?’

‘A fusspot is all.’

Bella groped through the coins in her purse. ‘How long has Signora Lami been at the Savoy?’

‘Fortnight, miss.’

‘That long?’

‘Leaves tomorrow, she does, miss.’

‘Tomorrow - are you sure?’

‘Oh yes, miss. For Sicily.’

She could see the boy liked the word Sicily, turning it over in his mouth, playing it between his small grey teeth.

‘Where did you say?’

‘Siss-a-lee.’

‘I should send a reply.’

‘No! She don’t want none. Look it says so. There.’ He pointed to the top of the receipt. ‘Ree-ply. Not. Ree-quired.’

She had stood at the door for a moment, watching the doll-boy walk down to the gate where his little leg cocked over his bicycle. Within a few seconds he was at the end of the road, the bicycle plunging out onto the main road alongside a double-decker bus. She should have made more use of him. Another sixpence might have bought her a few extra brushstrokes. A shilling, a portrait, fully framed. How old was the Signora, for example? How fluent was her English? Was she calm, nervous, pretty, plain? Had there been a child with her? A husband? Did she have any callers? Had she dined in or out? And was it a suite or a bedroom where she had brimmed up the basket with her many mistakes?

Later, in her bedroom, Bella had spread the documents across the bed. First glance and she could already tell they would tolerate no deviation, and as for any untoward acts of initiative - well, she could put such nonsense straight out of her head. These weren’t directions, these were
orders
and were even laid out on paper that looked like legal parchment. She read them again: ‘Sit away from the window in this train. Stay in your cabin on that ship. Drink nothing that hasn’t come from the hand of a waiter. Lock your door after dinner. In the street in Genoa neither look at nor speak to anyone - not even a priest.’

Really! It was as if she were a child or an imbecile. Nothing was permitted without the say-so of Signora Lami, from where, when and what she should eat, to the amount each porter should be tipped (a lesser amount the further she got from England, as it so happened). In fact, the only thing the Signora had omitted was a lavatory timetable.

Bella had picked up the bunch of envelopes. Each one numbered, dated and labelled with a more concise version of the instructions on the parchment. Inside was an appropriate amount of money to cover every situation from overnight hotels to taxicab fares. One envelope was stamped with the Thomas Cook logo. Bella had slit it open and looked inside. First-class tickets all the way. Father had certainly been right on that score - Bella was not expected to produce so much as a farthing from her own pocket.