The Italian Romance (20 page)

‘Sonia, what are we going to do?' Her mother was almost inaudible. Her throat had closed up.

‘Tell me what he said. Who was it? Signore Bertolucci?' The telephone smelled stale and she pulled back from it; no one bothered to wipe telephones clean these days. The thought was absurd. The world was not sweet-smelling, and people did not have room in their heads for the small anxieties of the old order. The staleness made her slightly sick, all the same.

‘No, Sonia. Not Bertolucci. Roberto Tucci. The Fascist.'

‘Ssh, Mama.'

‘Ach, if they are listening, who cares?' Her throat miraculously opened. ‘If you are listening out there, where is my husband, uh? He met Benito Mussolini five times! Five times, and kissed his cheek. And if Mussolini hears of this, he will have your heads! Do you hear me? I am writing to him at Saló now, this evening. So!'

‘Mama, tell me again what he said, exactly. When did he ring?'

‘Ten minutes ago! He said he had this information. I had been
to see him only yesterday. And last week I went, too. I am glad that Mussolini is restored. Do you hear me? We are happy. We don't want the Americans. My husband loves Mussolini. You have made a mistake. Ask Signore Tucci. He will tell you.'

Sonia put her elbow on the desk. She held her hand to her forehead. ‘And, Mama, what did he say, exactly?'

‘That he had reliable information. He was bitterly upset, I can tell you. He had made too much of a nuisance of himself or something.'

‘Signore Tucci?'

‘No, no, your father. He had refused to leave the German headquarters. He had been in day after day, week after week, and then he wouldn't go home. He said he was staying put, right there in the lobby, until they allowed him to see Jacob.'

‘And they arrested him?'

‘He made too much of a nuisance of himself. Of course! He thinks he can do anything if he hammers hard enough. Does he think he's bigger than the Nazis? And the Fascists, all put together? Yes, they arrested him.'

‘What is the charge?'

‘I don't know. Do they need charges anymore in this world? They are taking him somewhere.'

Sonia picked up a pencil. She scribbled on the red leather inset of the desk. ‘What do you mean? To a prison?' She began to make indents. She pushed harder.

‘Roberto said they need factory workers. Factory workers! I said, but they have made a mistake, Roberto, you know they have made a mistake. Primo is not good with his hands. I used to ask him to help with my necklace. When we were young, you know. His fingers, they are too big. Too clumsy. He couldn't do it. Never. I gave up on him. I pull it around, you know, to the front and try to do it that way.'

‘Where is the factory?'

‘He wasn't sure. Germany, maybe.'

Sonia bit on the pencil.

‘Sonia.' Her mother cried the name, as if she were crying over a dead daughter.

‘Perhaps I can try. I'll ring them. What is the number?'

‘No! No, Sonia, do you hear me? Do not ring. No, you must not.' Her mother's voice had become quiet and strong.

‘But, with Francesco. My husband is an Italian Army officer. I am a Christian wife.' Sonia felt like a child, pleading.

‘No. Do you hear me? Absolutely not. Do you hear me, Sonia?'

‘Yes, all right. I won't.'

‘Think of your son. Bear him in mind in whatever you do from now on.'

‘But you have been to see Signore Tucci.'

‘Only him. No Germans. And anyway, it is my responsibility, this. I sent your father up again, when he came home the first time. I made him go back to Milan. I said, don't you come home without my son.' Her words tore at her, and tore at Sonia as she heard them.

‘Oh, no.'

‘Oh, yes. Your mama is a very brave woman. Very brave.'

‘Don't say that. You weren't to know.'

‘I don't excuse myself, Sonia. Not any more.'

Sonia held the mouthpiece in the palm of her hand. This was a stranger to her, this woman. At the end of the play, the actress comes out from behind the curtain and bows, herself now, just herself. Substances seemed to break, glass, mirrors, stone walls. And there she was, her mother, this woman, whom maybe her husband knew in some moments of their intimacy. Sonia felt a stab of terrible aloneness. She was one more human being, that's all. No daughter, no wife. Only a woman who had to save her son.

‘How is Natalia?'

‘She pretends, for the children. It is making her ill, waiting for Jacob to come home every day. What can I do?'

‘Nothing,' Sonia said. ‘Do you think you should all pack up and come here? It might be safer.'

‘Maybe. I don't want to leave in case...'

‘They come back.'

‘They might. We cannot give up.'

‘Yes, but it might not be till after the war,' Sonia said.

‘I know, I know. Is Gianni well?'

‘Very well. He is enjoying his freedom. No school.'

‘Ah! Like Alon. Let him enjoy it. Time enough when all this is over. And you, Sonia. Any word from Francesco?'

‘No,' she said. ‘No word. It is hard for him.'

‘Mmm.'

‘Mama, please, don't start about it.'

‘He didn't have to go off to the war.'

‘Stop. I don't want to hear this.'

‘He walked out on you, Sonia. He should be there to protect you and Gianni. He's a selfish, selfish ... he doesn't even believe in it. You remember what he said to your father years ago. He said he wouldn't give Mussolini the steam off his piss.'

‘Mama!'

‘He did. Primo told me. So why rush off to play soldiers, uh! Leaving you behind. He knows he's your only protection. A Christian husband. Now look what has happened. The Nazis are here.'

‘Mama, I don't think anyone can be safe anymore. We have to protect ourselves.'

Her mother was silent. She said then, ‘I want to protect you. And Gianni.'

‘I know,' Sonia said.

She heard her mother sigh. She hoped a sigh was all it was. ‘Sonia, I had better go now. I'll ring you tomorrow,' her mother said.

‘All right, Mama. We'll pray for them. The Almighty will hear us, keep them safe.'

‘Yes. Of course He will ... Goodnight, my darling.'

Sonia waited till she heard the connection break, and then the empty, endlessly sad burr of the closed line.

Jack stood up from the armchair by the fire and walked over to her. As she replaced the telephone into the cradle, he put his hand over hers.

She said quietly, ‘What is happening?'

He tensed his hand, and squeezed.

It's time to behave like a woman in control of herself. They went to the supermarket earlier in Jim's car. I directed them to a rather stranded one off the main road, haunted at night by two mad dogs on a security man's lead. Oddly enough, it appears to have been perfectly placed to satisfy the pockets of its owners in Rome, or whoever it is who really owns things these days.

As soon as I heard them drive off, pick up gear as the wheels hit the stony avenue, I flung back the sheet and pushed my feet into slippers. I found myself peeping around the corner of the staircase, just to ensure they weren't rushing back through the door having forgotten a bag, or a list. I hobbled to the phone. It is my house, after all. I can make a call without asking permission.

Vanna was bossy, which was to be expected, since it seems to give her something to do. Occupational therapy, bossing everybody else's life around. I played my part, wheedled my way round her protestations until she capitulated. She'll arrive in time to get me to the four o'clock to Rome.

I am horribly bruised. I took a good look before lowering myself into the bath. Quite a sight. Thankfully, the mirror steamed up before I got out.

I told Jim my plans when they arrived back. He went straight downstairs again, presumably to tell Francesca. Heaven knows what her reaction will be. Here's your hat, what's your hurry.

He's wandered off now; I saw him trotting up the hill. Don't know what for. Maybe he's being diplomatic. I gird my loins to face my daughter.

She is still putting things away from three cardboard boxes on the kitchen table. She slams the cupboard door, not thinking, and turns. She flinches. She is not expecting to see me standing in the doorway.

‘Oh,' she says. ‘Didn't hear you.'

‘Sorry.'

She takes packets of pasta out from a box, both hands clawed around them. I say, ‘You found the shop okay?'

She looks down at the packets and says, ‘Yes.'

I am making her self-conscious. She moves stiffly to the pantry store. I don't feel all that relaxed either. I decide to make myself useful, pick out a bag of loose carrots from the box, open the fridge door, lean down to pull out the drawer, and she immediately bumps into its protruding edge. ‘Sorry,' I say. ‘Sorry. Are you all right?'

She says nothing as she limps away. I tumble the carrots in. They sound very loud as they land. ‘Maybe I should get out of your way,' I say.

‘Why don't you sit down,' she says. She looks over her shoulder. ‘Leave the drawer out.' She has a plastic bag full of apples, knotted at the top.

I skirt around the sides of the kitchen, to avoid causing any more damage and pull a chair away from the table, over to the alcove where the fire used to be. The back door is open, letting in a hot breeze. I am surprised when I hear her voice. ‘You're going back to Rome, I hear.'

‘I might as well.' I have to force myself out of cliché. I almost stammer as I say, ‘I ... I just don't want to intrude on your time
here. I offered you a peaceful rest. You know, not a position in a nursing home.'

She snorts a laugh.

It's the first time she's done that with me. My spirits creep out and begin to rise. I take the chance and I say, ‘I probably wanted a chance to see some more of you. I didn't throw myself down the steps deliberately or anything. I'm not completely crazy. But, you know, nevertheless I've never fallen down those steps or any other steps in my life.'

‘And so?' she says. She is caught in mid-action, frozen as she dangles a bunch of grapes from one hand, a bag of plums from the other. She is actually looking at me.

‘Well,' I fold my arms in front of me, ‘I suppose some little gremlin might have got into my works. Fall down those steps and you can stay for a few days with Francesca.' There seems to be a threat of tears nagging at my ducts. I look at the stone floor and widen my eyes to stop them.

‘That's very honest of you,' she says. She thaws out now, and walks to the bench where I usually put my fruit in a heavy ceramic bowl there. She's obviously spotted it, too. ‘To tell you the truth,' she says, her back to me, ‘I've seen so little of you the last couple of days, I presumed you didn't want to have much to do with me. Clearly, you get on very well with Jim.'

‘For goodness' sake! I practically threw him out on his ear!'

‘Sure,' she says to the grapes as she, too carefully, settles them in the bowl. ‘But you need to have some kind of relationship with somebody to get so angry.'

‘Well, I don't know if that's true. Did he tell you why I was angry?'

‘No.' She turns to face me. She rests against the bench.

‘Because of you. I was afraid for you. I thought he'd lied, and there was a wife at home, and you'd be ... well, some men do that.'

A small smile is on her lips. Her gaze slips away from me.

‘Also,' I say. ‘I blamed myself for matchmaking you.'

‘You what?' She's laughing. ‘You didn't matchmake Jim and me.'

‘Yes, I did. In my own head I did, anyway. I told him the truth about it, so I might as well tell you. I thought if I got in good with him, and he with you, I'd have a direct line.'

‘To me?'

‘Of course! Who else?' I look at her face. She is astonished.

‘God!' she says, almost to herself. She's shy now. She goes back to the grocery box. Her brown, freckled hand, so like mine, settles like a butterfly along its side. She peers into it. ‘We're not actually together, or anything,' she says. ‘Jim.'

‘Oh,' I say.

I start to say, ‘But I thought you liked him.' She talks over me. She is saying, ‘Not in any serious way.'

People are different nowadays. It's better, I suppose, to have a little edge of perhaps or perhaps not about it all. We tended to rush in headlong. I feel foolishly naïve.

‘I see,' I say. I scrape my shoe at a dark, sticky mess on a tile, caramelised onion or something.

‘Well. I don't want you to feel you have to leave. I mean...' Her neck is flushing, the poor child. She is trying to say something. I just don't know what, quite. ‘I mean, it's your place, after all.'

‘It's probably better for me to go back,' I say.

‘Right.' She's found a carton of muesli to carry to the pantry.

I am all at sea here. Was that the wrong thing to have said, time to go back? God Almighty, I'm exhausted.

‘Well, are you packed up and ready?' she says, her face in the cupboard.

‘Just about.'

‘What time's she coming?'

‘Oh, yes, well I'd better ... get myself...' I stand up.

‘You wouldn't want to miss the train.' There is clearly something of immense interest in that cupboard. She is still in it.

‘No, I wouldn't.'

I have just been dismissed. Well, well.

‘Are you all right, love?' Arthur said. He was a man who rarely struck a minor chord, even more rarely asked a serious question. Lilian didn't know why that was so, although she was clearly and foolishly aware that Mr Scanlan did know why. The hidden life of men.

And so she furrowed her brow, and her eye muscles worried like a scolded dog's, and poor Arthur, upon whose countenance this painfully questioning gaze fell, was inclined to stick his hat on his head and attend immediately to his duties in the bar across the road. Lilian saw his panic, and read it as genuine concern. She looked down at her notebook, which lay open on a busy, scribbled page and said, ‘Yeah.'

Arthur had been unbuttoning his ink-stained overall. His finger nagged at the third button. He was unsure of the etiquette in such a scene. Was he to throw his overall at the hat stand and say, ‘That's good, love', and leave her to it? In his moment of hesitation, the girl spoke some more.

‘I don't know what to do,' she said. She rubbed her fingers across the page as if she were trying to erase something. He watched it slide back and forwards. And he had absolutely no
idea if her problem was in the notebook or had a more universal character.

His unoccupied hand scratched at his scalp. There were only a few remaining strands of hair hovering over the dome of his head, though he had the grey outline of a monk's tonsure at the back. He said the only thing he could say. ‘Why don't we go across the road?'

She gazed at him. He thought she looked about seven years old. ‘I'll take you into the ladies' lounge,' he said. ‘Buy you a shandy.'

‘I don't like it,' she said.

‘Well, a lemonade then.'

And she nodded like a child who was overtired from a storm of tears. He nearly put his arm around her.

Arthur sat in the leather booth with his hands on his knees, his back straight. Lilian, on the adjoining bench, kept her handbag on her lap. They were silenced with mutual embarrassment. When Gracie Moran lifted the counter flap and walked into the tiny, otherwise empty lounge, Arthur was visibly grateful. ‘Oh, Gracie,' he said as he leaned against the padded backrest. ‘Here you are.'

‘What are you doin' out here, Art?' Gracie said. She looked at the girl but not with surprise, for surprise wasn't part of the job. ‘Mrs Malone,' she said.

Lilian smiled and murmured a few words which were meant to be, ‘How do you do, Mrs Moran?'

‘Oh, well, we had a hard day today, didn't we, Lil?' he said. ‘Give us a schooner will you, love, and a glass of shandy for Lil here.'

‘Rightio,' Gracie said and she was gone, the counter bounced down, before Art could stand and shout into the deserted passage to the bar, ‘No shandy, love. Gracie?' He limped back to the booth and sat down. ‘Sorry, love. Went right out of my mind.'

‘Don't worry, Arthur. I'll try it. I only had it once. Maybe I'll like it this time.'

‘Yeah, well, don't drink it if you don't like the taste of it.'

She watched the counter. He flexed his fingers on his knees. Gracie appeared, a tin tray balanced on her taut hand as she lifted the flap. ‘Here you go,' she said. ‘Get this into you.' She smiled at Arthur as she put his cold beer down on the table. The glass was sweating. Lilian stared at the woman's hair, very blonde, smooth, rolled into a sausage curl above her forehead. She seemed old to the girl. Lilian thought Gracie Moran was brave. She didn't know why she thought that, exactly. She liked Gracie. She often wanted to speak to her on the street or in a shop, but she could never think of very much to say. Grace, on the other hand, didn't seem to have much time for her. She didn't understand that, either, exactly.

Grace handed her the glass of beer and lemonade and Lilian smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Moran.'

Grace gripped the tray tight between her fingers and put her fist on her hips. ‘Any word of your husband, Mrs Malone?' she said.

‘Not for a few weeks, but he was all right before.' Lilian put the glass down in front of her. She looked at Arthur, who was looking at her. She tried to think of something she could say.

Grace spoke instead. ‘Oh, well, no news is good news.'

‘Yes, I suppose,' Lilian said.

Grace looked at the floor, and then, as the conversation appeared to have run out of steam, she said, ‘Give me a shout,' and disappeared again.

Lilian covered her face with her hands. She said, as quietly as she could, ‘I keep almost asking her how Peter is. I always do that.'

‘Never mind, love.'

‘Oh, poor Mrs Moran.'

Arthur picked up his beer and took the first slurp. ‘Yeah,' he said.

‘Mum says it was very hard on her, losing her only child.' Lilian drew her finger down the glass, a trail through the mist of condensation. ‘It's funny, because I've seen her talking to lots of the Italian prisoners. I mean, they're not really prisoners any more.'

‘She's been through the crucible, Grace has.'

Lilian worried her brow again. ‘Has she?'

‘Even before Pete was killed. She doesn't hold it against those blokes.'

‘She hasn't got a husband, has she.' Lilian said, more a statement than a question.

Arthur's eyes were on her as he held the glass almost horizontal. His Adam's apple gurgled up and down. ‘No,' he said when he'd finished. He put the glass on the table and wiped his mouth. ‘It's bloody life that's been crook to Gracie Moran, not the Italians.'

‘She always looks happy, though,' Lilian said. ‘I mean, kind of happy, you know.'

‘Yeah, I know. Well,' Arthur sighed. ‘She gets through day by day, love. That's how she does it.'

‘I like her,' Lilian said.

‘Do you?' Arthur seemed just a little surprised.

‘Yeah! I always liked her. I think she's interesting.'

‘Oh,' he said, and he nodded to himself. He folded his arms, stretched out his legs under the table. ‘Drink up,' he said. ‘See how you like it.'

‘Do you think you can love two people?' Lilian said. The swill of her third shandy rocked in the bottom of the glass.

Arthur was holding his lighter up to a cigarette. Both hands were involved in the activity, and his eyes crossed as the flame ignited. He drew in. He snapped the lighter shut, withdrew the rolled cigarette, put back his head and exhaled a long stream of smoke. His eyes regained their focus as the stream drifted away from him. He said, ‘I don't know, love.'

‘I don't think you can,' she said.

He leaned over and pulled the tin ashtray, which Gracie had only a minute before emptied into a bucket, towards him. ‘Well, you got that sorted out, anyway,' he said.

‘Nobody knows what Bernie means to me,' she said.

Art felt the deep pleasure of another draw.

‘I'd go up and get myself shot instead of him, only they won't let girls be soldiers.'

‘Well, you could be a nurse,' he said.

‘Yeah. I could. My friend Bunny is training as a nurse, so she can go. After Bill the Coot was killed. She wants to meet an American.' She looked into her glass. ‘I really wanted to be a war correspondent. I had a lot to learn first, but Mr Scanlan said he'd teach me everything he knows. He says I'm not quite ready yet.'

‘Yeah, well you should listen to him. He's trained up a lot of good reporters.'

‘I know, but I'll just get ready and the war will be over.'

‘That'd be a shame,' he said.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘I mean no.' She laughed. ‘Sorry, I mean no it wouldn't be a same. A shame I mean, sorry. Then Bernie would come home, and everyone else.'

‘Mmm,' he said.

‘And then the Italians would go home to Italy.'

Arthur tapped his cigarette against the side of the ashtray. The glowing red worm of ash faded to grey almost immediately.

‘Do you think they will?' she said.

‘The Italians? Why? Do you think they might stay?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Mmm,' he said.

He watched the girl drain her glass.

She said, when she'd finished it, ‘You know when you've got a big house, and all the foundations are under it, and if someone puts their hand in,' and she reached her fingers out, ‘like this and took the most important brick out, everything would just fall down. Do you know what I mean?'

‘Sure.'

She pushed her glass away and played with the ring of moisture left behind. ‘Something's eating me,' she said.

‘I can see that.'

‘What do you think I should do? I know what my mother'd say. And Bunny, prob'ly, too.'

‘Well,' he said. He leaned his head back so that he could examine the smoke-dark ceiling. ‘Do you know what's wrong with women? They've got an answer for you; for every damn thing, they know the answer. Sometimes a person has just got to stumble along.'

‘And will that make you happy?' she said.

‘Happy? You didn't mention that. I don't know what makes you happy, Lil.'

‘Me either.'

He turned towards her, his crown resting against the wall. ‘I tell you what, Lil.' He reached out for his drink. ‘Let's drink to your happiness. Whatever that is, and wherever it may be.' He leaned towards her and held out his glass.

She picked up her empty glass, and clinked it too hard against Art's. ‘Thanks very much,' she said as a tear slid slowly as a snail down beside her nose.