The Enlightenment of Nina Findlay (3 page)

It was bewildering to be bounced from the dream, one that felt nothing like a dream but like life lived over again, and into this alternative and dream-like reality: the white room, the blue chair, and the stranger. He was about her own age, this stranger, mid-forties at a guess, with shoulder-length black hair, some of it twisted almost into ringlets, and, when he looked towards the wall, tapping the pen against his upper lip, the kind of face that seems immediately trustworthy, though not handsome as such: his nose had broken once, his chin was small, and his eyebrows were outlandish. His wide mouth pressed wider into concentration as he returned to writing on a piece of paper at the top of others in a file, one that he’d balanced against the thigh of his raised leg, its ankle resting over his knee. On the sturdy side of averagely built, he was wearing a faded red collarless shirt, frayed
jeans, and black cotton shoes that were rope-soled and flattened at the back.

He’d introduced himself as Dr. Christos — his English had North American inflections — and she’d asked him how long he thought she’d be in hospital.

“Depends,” he said. “Once you’re whizzing about confidently and we’re happy with the general state of your health, you can go home.”

“Right.” Her spirits dipped at the prospect of returning to face the music, the explanations.

“How’s the head today?”

“I’m still a bit nauseous, still tired, but it’s better than it was.” She sank deeper into the pillow and closed her eyes.

“Then you should sleep. Your biggest fan is coming to see you later: the island priest. Brace yourself. There’s been a lot of church-going and candle-lighting. You know they’ve put up a shrine at the scene of the drama?” He showed her a picture on his phone, of a stone niche about eighteen inches high, inscribed inside with the date of the accident and fitted with a painted plaster crucifix. “This has been a big event for the island,” he added. He’d gone to get coffee. “It’s no trouble,” he said; “I have a machine in my office. They’re painting my office, but I prefer to sit with patients during the day, anyway. If I’m at my desk inevitably the phone rings or I’m interrupted. I look less available here.” The coffee was dense and oily and she’d made an appreciative noise. “You like it?” He looked pleased, settling himself again in the blue chair, apparently leaving the conversation at that.

After a short while Nina said, “It looks as if you have a lot of — what are they, patient notes?”

“Those, and pretty much all the paper that passes through the hospital. We’re having a financial crisis here; you’ve
probably heard. We no longer have a manager, so all of this joy has devolved to me.”

“You speak very good English.”

The compliment might have been patronizing but he didn’t seem to mind. “Thank you; in fact, most of my life has been spent in the States. I left here as a student and haven’t been back very long.”

“Whereabouts in America?”

“Boston to start, and then a hospital in Baltimore. Two years in London — London in England, not London, Ohio — and then Boston again, before coming home to … somewhere I have to call home, even though it doesn’t always feel like it.” He looked out of the window, thoughtfully. “And, well, the truth is I never meant to return, other than for family events. Other than for necessary visits.” He stared at her, an intensity about him, something fearlessly direct, so that she found it hard to look back. “I should have stayed in the U.S. I came back because my father died and my mother was ill and the years have gone by. I keep saying to people that I’ve only been back a while, but the truth is, it’s been years. My mother died two years ago, and I still seem to be here.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “People get old. People die. Not a lot can be done about it. Your notes tell me you’re from Edinburgh. I haven’t been but hear it’s beautiful. You don’t sound very Scottish.”

“My father was — is — but my mother wasn’t. She was Norwegian. My accent is kind of nowhere.”

“And you have an Italian name.”

She lifted her wrist with its hospital tag. “I noticed that I’m Nina Romano here.”

“It was the name in your passport.”

“I’m Nina Findlay, but my husband’s name is Romano.”

“I don’t think I’ve met any Norwegians. We get a lot of Dutch and Germans who bring their tents and trailers and even their own bread and like to walk around naked.” He checked his phone for messages while speaking. “You may get visits from one or two locals. Just to warn you. I should also warn you that they’re preoccupied about how lucky it was, the accident.”

“Lucky how?”

Now their eyes met. “They had a narrow escape.”

This was undoubtedly true. It was lucky, at the very least, that there was a broad ledge of flat rock jutting out beneath the road, right at that spot. It was lucky that the minibus landed there, when it disappeared over the edge of the cliff. The gradient of the hillside had been fortunate, too, supporting the vehicle’s slow rolling. The bus had tipped to the right, flipping over in a graceful full circle before coming to rest once more on its wheels, bouncing to a halt a mere seven feet from the precipice. When the realization dawned that they were saved, Andros put his head onto the steering wheel and was sick, aware that the women in the back were screaming.

A church service of thanksgiving was held, its invitation ringing out from the chapel at the top of the hill, a white-painted blue-domed building with a panoramic outlook, sitting on the island’s highest point as if announcing its ocean governance, while at the same time conceding its powerlessness, marking its losses with bell-ringing. Dr. Christos took a note from Nina, one he translated as he was reading it out. He returned with pictures on his camera, and pointed out the faces of the bus passengers.

“So they’re okay, they’re really all okay?”

“Scratches only and bruises. They were brought here to be checked over; nobody had to go across the water. Four stitches was the most, and nowhere near an eye.” He went to the window, where he moved the vertical blind aside and opened the French doors, revealing a world outside that was vividly colored: a stripe of sea, a wider stripe of sky, the creams and grays of the garden, their cacti and agave and tropicals offset by flowering herbs. The hot air that drifted in smelled firstly of rosemary and thyme, and then of warmed lavender. He raised the blind from the smaller, second window, pointing out its mosquito net.

“I have to go, but before I do, I meant it about avoiding my office. I tend to circulate around the patients and spend time working in their company, especially the ones who don’t get visitors. Whole families come through here for some of them, with bags of food and bigger televisions, but there are other people who don’t have anyone. I assume you won’t be visited, unless your husband’s on the way.”

“My soon to be ex-husband. I disgraced myself and moved out.”

“Disgrace. Now there’s a word.”

“He sent a text today, wanting to escort me home when I’m ready to go, but I told him not to. We parted on bad terms.”

“Evidently he’s forgiven you, if he wants to come and fetch you. What was it, this disgrace?”

“He will never forgive me. He’s not the forgiving kind. No, that’s wrong. He is the forgiving kind. He’s just not the forgetting kind. And we’ve agreed that it’s over.” Dr. Christos waited. “I was an idiot. In short. For a long time quite stupid, and then for a brief time completely unhinged.”

“Really? That’s a story I’d like to hear. We’re going through a tedious patch here; dull diseases and endless bureaucracy.
Usually the patients don’t have anything interesting to tell. Or they’ve broken their necks diving off the rocks, and aren’t up to much. Or they have Alzheimer’s and accuse me of being the cousin who ruined their dry-cleaning business. Sometimes I’m even driven to working in my office.” He gathered up his things. “I have to go. But I’ll be back, that is, if you don’t mind my spending some time here.”

CHAPTER TWO

On the flight to Greece Nina found herself sitting beside an insurance broker, a man dressed in a suit and tie in unsummery shades of brown. Before they strapped themselves in he gave everyone within reaching distance his business card, piles of more than one, asking people to pass them on, and made an announcement to the wider vicinity. “Anybody want to talk about Life? Instant quotes and cover given!”

Nina inserted hers into her book. “Alternatively it makes a good bookmark,” her neighbor said, introducing himself as Keith. He took two pills with a whisky miniature, applied a bean-bag neck rest, and fell deeply asleep with his mouth open.

Nina’s book remained unread on her lap. Over and over she ran through the conversation she’d had with Paolo at the airport. She’d had to text Luca afterwards to warn him that Paolo knew, and what it was that Paolo knew, because how could Paolo not steam round there and bang on the door? She couldn’t help visualizing it, the standoff on the doorstep and what might be said in her absence. But perhaps nothing very much would be said. Perhaps the men would each decide never to mention it again. It was as likely an outcome as any other.

Just told Paolo about us, the basic fact, in rush at departures, and am now on plane. Also, important detail. I said it was April and after I moved out. Nothing said about February, nor about our conversations. Please stick to story for my sake. For both our sakes. Sorry
.

Why had she written “for both our sakes”? She shouldn’t have written that. He might interpret it as some kind of a hinted threat. She’d expected him to respond straightaway — Luca’s phone was always kept in view — and that they’d talk more, but his reply hadn’t arrived until the following day. The island signal was dodgy, but even so. Even so. Sixteen hours later. It took him sixteen hours, and even then it was just an
OK
without even a full stop to follow it.

OK

The journey to Greece had suffered a dispiriting start. The taxi driver arrived ten minutes early and became irritable about Nina keeping him waiting, when the fact was that he was early. He hadn’t helped with her suitcase, even though she struggled with it; nor had he thanked her when she gave him a generous and undeserved tip. Once she was inside the airport, the cashier at the coffee counter had reacted badly to a £20 note (“Seriously?” he’d said, holding it as if it were poisonous), the man at security had spoken sharply when it took time to find the plastic bag of toiletries for the scanner, and the staff at the gate had made a fuss about a sandwich, like it was an undeclared second piece of luggage.

In the middle of the flight they’d hit an alarming pod of turbulence, in which the plane sank abruptly, causing gasps and shouts of fright, before bouncing along the floor of nothingness and rising steadily again. The captain made one of his smooth, chocolaty announcements, reassuring everyone that all was well and that this kind of thing was just a fact of life and perfectly safe,
although perhaps unpleasant. He didn’t say anything about being flirted with by extinction, but everyone else knew that’s what had happened, right there in the middle of the drinks service. When the flight hit a second bout of what he referred to as
lumps and bumps
, one that threw the plane for several minutes from side to side, a deeper silence descended while people made bargains to enjoy life more, to go freelance and buy boats. The air in the cabin became dense with resolve, while Keith slept peacefully on.

“No one ever survives a plunge into the ocean in a jet plane,” Luca had said the year before at a family party, interrupting his wife’s account of an onboard spat. He’d been chided for reading during the safety demonstration. “It’s a total joke,” he’d said to the crew member, “all this rigmarole about life jackets under your seat.”

“Brother, your optimism is one of the best things about you,” Paolo told him. Nina laughed because that was Nina’s role. She had been the glue that bound them. Her interceding had always been crucial, reminding each of them that they loved one another.

“It’s absolutely safe, flying, as long as nothing goes wrong, and then you’re well and truly fucked,” Luca said.

He and his wife had flown to Italy on business more often than Nina and Paolo, though that had been a social trip, to go to the party that marked the end of the wine harvest in Francesca’s parents’ home village. While he was gone Luca e-mailed Nina every day, morning and night. Additionally there were frequent text messages.
Think I just ate horse, but have had better. Think it was the saddle. Missing you
.