Last Train from Liguria (2010) (23 page)

‘We’ll have to wait till the flesh rots,’ a woman with a bald head had finally declared, ‘or else we’ll have to knock the wall down.’

When Rosa heard this she had been so upset she screamed at them all to leave. She would do the
Vigilia della Morte
alone with her sons. At least they loved their father. Fat as he was. Better no prayers to accompany him to heaven than the prayers of stone-hearts and hypocrites. But the eldest son who worked for the ministry wouldn’t be home on leave until morning; the second son was away in the army; the middle boy in bed with a fever. That had left only two little boys for company. Bella had not been able to leave her.

The embalmers’ arrival had been perfectly timed, a few minutes after the doctor, and a few more before the priest. Two old nuns; one of them such a tiny creature that she had to climb onto a stool and kneel on the bed to reach the corpse, lifting the fleshy cowls of his chins to get at his neck with her sponge. The taller nun had set about replacing taper candles that were almost spent. Hot wax dripping on a heavily scarred hand that never seemed to flinch. She then went about the room turning pictures to the wall: Mussolini, Queen Margherita, others from the House of Savoy, and a few family portraits featuring Rosa’s husband in slimmer times.

By now the two boys had fallen fast asleep, the bigger one, about ten years old, seated on a stool by the end of the death bed, slumped over, face mashed into the counterpane. The smaller one sleeping soundly in the rocking embrace of his sobbing mother. It had given the impression of the
Pieta
- as if it had been the son, and not the father, who had just died. Bella had recognized the moment to leave.

On the way downstairs she saw the priest shuffling upwards, pausing outside the door of each apartment, raising a weak hand and a weary voice in benediction, then, as they squeezed past each other on the narrow stairwell, pausing to bless her.

Bella stayed at the hall door for a time, looking out. The air was heavy and dark. She dreaded the walk home; through the
carruggi
, those high-vaulted tunnels that ran like narrow indoor streets through the town and where, even in the broadest daylight, it was dark, and even in the rainless weeks of high summer there was a smell of must, death and dirty linen.

She was considering waiting for the priest to come back down the stairs, maybe offer to go with him as far as the road - an old man might be glad of the company at that time of night, someone to carry his bag, take his elbow across the uneven cobbles. Then a door slammed at the top of the house and she felt herself jump from the inside out. Looking up, there was the priest again, this time ploughing down all the flights of stairs, banging on doors, kicking some of them, shouting and snarling as he went on his way, telling the neighbours they would burn in hell for the lack of respect they had shown to Rosa’s dying husband, ordering them out of bed, up those stairs and onto their knees, to beg forgiveness from God and from Rosa. Bella slipped out the front door and into the short alleyway that led back to the piazza.

A wobble of light across the cobblestones. It ricocheted off the crumbling walls, tipped off a window, grazed on a rooftop then collapsed back to the ground. There were sounds too: metal, glass, the shift of a footstep. She decided to ignore the unreliable sway of light but to follow instead the sounds, which led her to the fountain and the milk boy already at work.

A torch in one hand, a huge enamel jug in the other, he was clumsily filling bottles, jars and billycans - whatever receptacles had been left out by local families to stay cool beneath the lip of the fountain. The boy, muttering a gleeful rosary, had obviously seen the priest in his vestments heading for Rosa’s.

’
Il Grossone - e morto?
‘ he whispered when he’d finished his decade.

’
Si
,’ she replied (refusing to call Rosa’s husband ‘the fat one’) ‘
E morto - Signor Fabbri
.’

’
Poverino
,’ the boy mumbled kindly, bringing his mouth down to kiss the front of his thumb, then licking it when a drop of milk fell over his hand.

She watched him work for a while under the erratic light of his torch, milk splashing whenever an attempt to hoist the torch under his arm caused the jug to tip over. It smelled sweet and grassy - she could taste it from its scent. There was an older, sour smell too, which she took to be from the milk boy’s clothes. She asked him if he would like her to hold the torch for him while he worked and he looked at the sky for a long few seconds as if deciding whether she could be trusted. Then he handed her the torch.

When the task was finished he whispered again, this time an offer to escort her back to the road, and she had been grateful that she hadn’t needed to ask. He took the torch back and stuck it into his belt. Then, taking her by the hand, started to lead her along.

Into the first of the
carruggi
- not a thread of light anywhere - he spoke to her again, this time without a whisper, his voice suddenly deep. It was late, he said, for an English signora to be walking out on her own. He would take care of her, she need not be afraid. He would go with her to her house, he would see nobody jumped on her, maybe tried to kiss or fondle her, as men often did. He would protect her, all the way. She realized then the hand she was holding was not the hand of a child.

They turned right, where the
carruggio
widened and lifted, and a single lighted lantern hanging from a bracket in the wall allowed her to make him out. Short in stature, not quite a man, but near enough to it, with his Adam’s apple eager and large, his skimpy facial hair, the pimples pushing to get out from under his skin. In any case, far too old to be walking around with at that hour of the night, holding hands.

She was trying to work out how she could free her hand without causing offence, when she saw something slumped in a doorway. The boy saw it too and, standing back from her, had held his hand out theatrically as if to tell her to wait until he had assessed the danger, then, laying the milk jug down, he pulled the torch like a gun from his belt and swung it to point at the slump. He clicked on the light and it bounced onto a man. A man in a heap; head down to his chest, coat hanging off him, hair flopped over his forehead.

’
E stato al bordello
.’ The boy was laughing and Bella pretended not to understand. Pulling her by the sleeve he took her a little way to the corner and pointed up another narrow alleyway. An open door and a light in the window broke into the darkness.

’
Lo conosco
,’ he declared.

‘You know him?’

’
Si e l’Inglese
.’

At first Bella felt she must have misunderstood; it seemed odd for an Englishman to be here, at this hour, in this state. English people only came up here in daylight, and as tourists. But then she realized that a brothel was a brothel to any man so inclined.

The boy wanted to leave him there. He kept saying, ‘
Andiamo, Signora
.’

She tried to explain. They couldn’t leave him here alone, like this. But the boy was adamant.’
E pericoloso.
’

‘Dangerous? Surely not that. Only drunk.
Non e pericoloso. Solo ubriaco
.’

She leaned into the drunken man. ‘Excuse me,’ she began, ‘I know it’s none of my business, but, you know, you really ought—’

The man groaned and his head rolled back slightly. Bella could hardly believe who she was looking at. ‘Maestro Edward?’ she said. ‘Oh God.’

The boy was looking slyly at her. She walked away and then came back. She walked away again. Then she told the boy to hold the torch over the man’s face.

She leaned in again. It was him. No doubt about it. Edward. Drunk. Edward known to this boy as the dangerous Englishman, a regular of the brothel, no less. She got such a fright, whatever bit of Italian she knew left her there and then. ‘We must move him,’ she said to the boy. ‘He can’t stay here.’

The milk boy shrugged.

‘Let me see. All right. Oh God, how do I say it? You must help me. Help. Me. Lift. Him.
Aiuto
.’

The boy just stared at her.

‘What the hell am I supposed to do now?’ she asked. She gathered herself and then softly began, ‘Edward. Edward? Can you hear me, Edward? It’s me. Miss Stuart. Now you’re going to have to try…’ She took him by the chin, her hand a little shocked by the feel of his beard filling up her palm. ‘Edward!’ Her voice louder, sharp. Then she started to shake him. ‘Edward! Wake up, for God’s sake. Will you wake now. Please!’

‘Ah go and fuck off,’ he snarled out of his stupor. Then he hit out at her.

The boy jumped back. ‘
Signora! La prego. Andiamo
,’ he said.

‘No! We are not leaving him.’ She approached him again. ‘Edward, it’s me. Look at me, Edward. You can’t stay here. You just can’t. Now, I’m going to help you get up.’

His arm flew up again, and this time caught her on the side of her face. It shocked more than hurt, ringing through her jaw. After a moment she tried again, this time giving herself enough distance to allow her to jump out of the way.

‘Edward,’ she began, ‘I’m warning you, if you dare hit me again.’

His eyes shot open and looked straight into hers without seeing who or what they were looking at.

‘Edward, it’s me. Don’t you know me?’ she asked him. ‘It’s me. Anabelle Stuart.’

‘Ah fuck off, leavemealone. Jaysus sake.’

Bella looked up. The boy had gone. Now what? She thought about running back for the priest, or going home for Elida or maybe calling on Cesare. But if Signora Lami ever found out about this, Edward would surely be dismissed and without a reference. Besides all that, there was Alec to consider. What would he do without his beloved Maestro?

Voices came then. The milk boy from the direction of the brothel, with a man and a woman behind him. The man big, burly, in bare feet and undervest, his head shaved to the skull, a tattoo of a swastika on his upper arm. A sailor. A German. The woman pulled a shawl over her shoulders and up onto her head. She looked nothing like the sort Bella would have expected to find in a brothel.

‘English?’ the German said to her.

‘Yes.’

‘Husband?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I mean, yes.’ She thought it would make the man more likely to help.

The German threw back his head and laughed.

’
Pazzo
,’ the milk boy said, tapping the side of his head to indicate madness.

The German crouched down to Edward. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Come. Is all over now, my friend. God pity you in the morning.’

Edward’s arm lashed out; the German caught it and hauled him up. Edward’s foot slipped as he came up and kicked the milk jug over.

’
Aiuta-mi
,’ the German said to the boy, who by now had a face as white as the pool of milk spilling from his jug.

The German dragged Edward forward. Edward flopped over like a puppet, and then reared up suddenly and aimed a punch at the man. The man caught his hand and slapped Edward right in the mouth.

‘No!’ Bella shouted, but the German just grinned at her.

In a moment Edward was settled between the German and the milk boy. His head inclined, a bauble of blood from his mouth to his beard, arms outstretched across each of the bearer’s shoulder.

‘We live on via Romano,’ Bella had said then.

‘Forget that, lady,’ the German replied.

‘Oh, but please, you must.’

‘Double the weight for a dead man. Triple for a drunk. It’s not possible.’ Then they dragged him back towards the brothel.

The woman didn’t seem to want Edward to return to the brothel but when she began to protest, the German snapped at her. Bella thought he said something like - ‘You took his money now take his troubles.’

The milk boy, who seemed like a child again beside the German, peeped out from under the arch of Edward’s arm and told her to wait for him, he would be back to bring her safely home. Bella said that she would.

As soon as they entered the bordello, she crept away. It was almost light by then and she could find her own way home.

*

Alec starts school in October and to Bella’s surprise settles in well, if a little warily. A fortnight later he comes down with a fever. Doctor Eaton, or
Dottor Inglese
as he is known to Rosa and Elida, says it’s nothing to worry about: he’s simply picked up a schoolboy virus - a common enough occurrence with a child who has just started school. His immune system would soon get used to the new environment. A few days in bed and he’d be fiddle-fit again.

But Alec deteriorates by the hour, his temperature soars and when Bella tries to give him a drink, he is unable to focus on the cup, his hand reaching to the right and left of it, as if the cup is dancing around. She calls for the doctor again. ‘I’m afraid it’s pneumonia,’ he says.

It is decided not to move him to the hospital. The nurses are run off their feet as it is, with an epidemic of gastroenteritis - the last thing Alec needs. The doctor will send a private nurse instead. Nurse Willis, a very capable Scottish lady who is known for her special way with children. He himself will call every few hours. In the meantime sponge baths, and fluids - as much as they can persuade him to take. The nurse will set up a steam tent. And is there a room in the house with a ceiling fan?