The Italian Romance (32 page)

They've gone, bag and baggage. Bit lonely, now, to tell the truth. It was nice having brightness in the apartment again. Haven't had that for a while.

I sit here, at seven o'clock in the evening, with a glass of wine. You find ways to make yourself comfortable, to accept the inevitable. There lies the problem with people erupting all over one's life; they disturb that equilibrium, very hard won.

You told me to go on. Be happy, and go on. You just didn't tell me why. Why go on? Everything paled compared to you. I don't mean you who could be so selfish, who couldn't bear my unbearable burden for me, didn't even want to think about it. Unless I'm wrong about that, which I often was. Always underestimated your silence. But I can't, Nio, I can't bear the drabness of the world, the sheer, bloody pointlessness of it. I saw your soul. You were my window. I'm a glass darkly on my own, the mirror of myself, that's all. And bloody hell, I am not much to look at, sweetheart, on any level.

I seem to spiral back again and again to the deep, deep place I saw only in you, my darling. Where all possible pain, all possible joy laid itself open to me. The morning you died, before I let your hand go, I promised both you and myself that I would never deny what I'd seen. And I've tried. Why we were blessed like that, after what we'd done, God only knows.

It's so hard without you.

Don't worry, it's probably the wine. Don't want to drink too much. I have to finish this blasted novel. I expect a call any day from you-know-who in London. Don't suppose you've got a manuscript for me, have you, Lil? He's probably sent me an e-mail. Must check that bloody thing, if I can get it to work. He tells me I'm going to have to become au fait with it, because that's the way the world is going. It would have suited you. You could have zapped your articles off to the
Venezuela Herald
and the
Reykjavik Tribune
with the press of a button. Instead of queuing up for forty-five minutes down at the mad post office. Just as bad as ever, you know. The queue-ees tell each other the same jokes, about bringing a packed lunch the next time and all that.

Enough of this. Onward and upward.

I wander to my workroom, take an eagle-eyed look around. Jane doesn't seem to have done any damage. Good God, she's stuck a passionflower in a glass. She must have picked it from the terrace. Oh, Nio, you would have loved her. What a dear, thoughtful child. It shines at me, its pale wings, purpling bleeding heart. So beautiful.

Let's see. Sign in. Never guess my password. One is not supposed to tell anyone, on pain of death. I told Jane because she absolutely needed it, according to herself. And she promised to forget it instantly afterwards. It's Nio-lil. Aren't I the old romantic? Never was when you were around, I hear you say. Maybe. I can't remember. You had enough of it for both of us.

Yes, there he is. A message.

I sit down, push the glasses up my nose. Oh! It's not from him after all. It's Francesca. I don't know why, but I don't like this. My heart is thudding.

There's her message. Lilian, she says, so formal. Lilian, I've decided to go on to Spain. I told you about the Australian artist I met in Rome last weekend. He's invited me down there,
somewhere above Barcelona. I'll leave tonight. I'll drop the keys in to Vanna. Thanks for hospitality. Francesca.

So long, been good to know you, is that what's she's saying? Bloody hell.

I lean back hard against the chair. I pick up my glass of wine from where I'd stuck it on top of a pile of books. I throw my head back and drain it.

Eight o'clock and I still haven't found the courage to pick up the phone. I'm very tempted to finish the bottle. If I do, and I ring her, she'll believe her mother's a drunk on top of everything else.

I'm afraid she'll tell me not to bother her again. I'm taking the coward's way out. If you don't hear it, it wasn't said; don't see it, it didn't happen.

And she'll be gone if I don't do it soon. Might be gone already.

I stand up, take the telephone in my hands, sit down again on the couch. Nothing for it but to dial the number.

I don't think she's there. It's ringing and ringing. Please God, don't let it be too late. She didn't give me her home address. Deliberate omission, I'm sure.

‘Yes, pronto. Francesca Byrne speaking.'

Byrne, Byrne, remember that. ‘Francesca, it's ... your mother.'

I hear her breathing.

‘Lilian,' I say.

‘Yes?'

‘I got your message, thank you. I just rang to say I hope you enjoy Spain and your thesis goes well.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Are you coming back this way?' I ask breezily.

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘Oh.' I close my eyes. I hold my hand against my breast. My heart is hurting.

‘I can't see the point. Can you?'

I swallow, try to find my voice. ‘The point could be that we see each other,' I say.

‘Lilian, I don't really think that's going anywhere. You know, I was curious, that's all.'

‘And you've satisfied your curiosity,' I say.

‘As much as I want to.'

‘I see. Is this because of what I said about Bunny? Bunny and I go back a long time. And from what I know of her, she wouldn't be bothered what I or anyone else says.'

Francesca laughs, I think. ‘That's true. She wouldn't give two hoots. I'm not Bunny.'

‘No,' I say.

‘Listen, Lilian, let's be honest. This is not a major matter to you, is it? You've got your work, your wonderful, exotic life, your Roman friends. As I say, I was curious.'

‘Francesca, I am like a drowning woman. My whole life has washed up over me these few weeks since you arrived. How can you think it doesn't matter to me? How have I managed to make you believe such a complete falsehood?'

She's silent. From anger, from a despair similar to mine?

‘Francesca, please, I know I don't deserve it. I know. But please don't just walk away.'

I think she's crying. ‘It's no use, Lilian. I can't do it. I can't forgive you for it. Do you know what I mean?' She blows her nose.

I rest my forehead against my hand. Tears are streaming so fast that they trail down my neck.

She says, ‘It's not fair to either of us, you either, if I just pretend. Is it?'

‘I understand,' I say.

‘It's too much. Just too much. Dad, and those years. Sometimes I'd walk into the kitchen and he'd be at the table, all by himself, and he'd look so sad. So sad. And, the truth is you walked out on me. You chose someone else over me.'

I nod. ‘I understand,' I say again.

I am winded from the blow. I can't speak.

She says nothing.

I hold the phone tight. I breathe out. ‘You mentioned Sam,' I say. ‘That I might be able to help her with her writing. I'd still like to do that. Do you think that would be all right?' I am hoping, praying that instinct will overpower passion.

Francesca says, ‘Yes. I'll tell her.'

I fold back against the couch. I bite my lip. Thank you.

‘Well, I'm packing. Goodbye, Lilian.'

‘Goodbye, my dear. God ... God bless you, my dear.' And she has hung up.

I am inconsolable, Nio. Help me, help me. I can't put the phone back into its cradle.

Only you know. Though you couldn't bear it. Crying myself to sleep.

And you're not here. You're gone.

I might as well put in my pearl studs. Why shouldn't they enjoy themselves at Johnny's party? It's not like they have forever. Probably be stuck in a box till Guido gets around to clearing me out of here after I kick the bucket. Cheerful thought. Must be all this black I've got on. Haven't worn this cocktail dress in I don't know how long. Bit old-fashioned.

I turn myself away from the mirror, and look back over my shoulder. It'll do. I fiddle with the line of the black cotton belt.

There's the phone, and I'm late. I clatter into the living room in my slightly too high heels. I'm used to flats these days. Old ladies' shoes.

Where's the remote thing? The radio's blaring. What is it, Shostakovich or someone? Can't find the stupid thing.

‘Pronto.' Can't hear a damn thing. ‘Chi? Johnny? Just a minute.'

I put the phone down on the sideboard. It rocks back and forwards. I clatter over to the dials, switch it off, clatter back. I hope the Barnardis are listening.

‘Sorry, Johnny,' I say. The quiet is momentarily too quiet.

‘You e-mailed me about six weeks ago,' he says.

‘I'm sorry? Please excuse me, I thought you were someone else. It was the radio. Who did you say you were?'

‘Johnny da Lucca, ma'am. Of Chicago, Illinois.'

‘Da Lucca?' I say. I flail my hand behind me for the kitchen chair I know is there. I can't reach it. I sit on the armrest of the couch. ‘Of Chicago?'

‘Yes, ma'am. Your assistant, Jane, e-mailed me about six or eight weeks ago. I've been awful busy, ma'am, and I just didn't get around to phoning you before.'

‘Oh.' Why is she e-mailing Americans? I say, ‘Mr da Lucca, I'm not exactly sure how Jane got hold of you.'

‘Well, you see, it's a funny thing. I've recently retired. I'm in car sales. We had a very good business. Oh, about two or three years ago, my son put us up on the World Wide Web, you see? Well then, I guess I kind of got used to it. About a week before your assistant contacted me, I got him to do me up a personal one, see, as I was out of the business. He took it over. And the wife and I, we just plan to have a look at the world, spend some time in our lake house.'

I wait. There's a moment's hiatus, one might say. ‘I'm sorry, Mr da Lucca, I don't quite understand.'

‘Yes, ma'am, you see our business is called Tuscan Hills. Tuscan Hills Used Car Sales. We also do trucks and other vehicles. Tony, my son, called my own web page, Da Lucca. See. So I guess that's how she got on to me. But as I say, I've been real busy.'

Good Lord, who is this character? I say, ‘I think there's been some kind of a mix-up.'

‘Yes, ma'am,' he says.

What is all this ma'am business? Is he also in the army? I say, ‘Jane was helping me look for someone. I think she's just made a mistake.'

‘Yes, ma'am. That's what I said to my wife. It's probably some kind of mistake. My folks are dead, ma'am.'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry,' I say. What do I say now? ‘Well...' I look at the kitchen clock. I should be there in three minutes.

‘Thank you, ma'am. It was just the coincidence of the names, that's all. Antonio. That was my father's name. I called my son after him.'

I pick up the black cord and knead it between my fingers. ‘Antonio?'

‘That's right. It was the coincidence.'

‘Mr da Lucca, where were you born?'

‘Why, in Italy, ma'am. That's on my web page. I came out here after the war. Didn't your assistant explain that?'

‘Strangely, I received a letter from her just today. She's not here any more, you see. She did ask me, actually, if I'd got an interesting e-mail. I suppose she meant you.'

‘Yes, ma'am. And this man, Antonio da Lucca, your husband, ma'am, is he still alive?'

‘Sadly, no,' I say. I press my lips together.

He doesn't speak.

‘Mr da Lucca, may I ask how your parents died.'

‘My mother died in Auschwitz. I found those records. My father, I believe, died in Australia. He was a prisoner there. Evidently he was wounded in the African campaign. My mother lost track of him. She told me he must be dead. And then, well, we had our difficulties with the Germans.'

I get up, move backwards, and collapse into the couch. My voice has got lost somewhere. I force it to say, ‘How did you get to the United States?'

‘That's a long story. Thanks to my mother, I got away. They came to our house one day. We lived in Florence, ma'am.'

I close my eyes.

‘She opened the window and made me climb out to the roof.'

I say, ‘And they took her.'

‘Yes, ma'am. I never saw her again. Her name was Leah, just as the e-mail said. Anyways, I made it out to the countryside. A family took me in, the Spaldonis. Well, then the Americans came
and I stayed with them for a couple of years. They couldn't get rid of me, you know?'

‘Yes,' I say.

‘Eventually, someone did me a good turn, ma'am. I haven't looked back.'

‘That's ... very good.'

‘So, I don't suppose I'm the person you're looking for.' He waits.

‘Could I ask your birthday, Signore?'

‘My birthday is May seventh, ma'am.'

‘Yes,' I say. It was always a bad day for Nio. I hold up the cord and examine it. I lick my lips. ‘And you were Gianni.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘I ... um ... I think we have a connection, Mr da Lucca.'

I hear his intake of breath. ‘What do you mean, Signora?'

‘My husband, Antonio da Lucca, was married to Leah Levi. They lived in Florence. They had a son, Gianni, birthday May the seventh. We know that Leah died in Auschwitz. My husband was captured in North Africa. He was a prisoner of war in Australia. He came home in nineteen-forty-seven.'

‘Nineteen-forty-seven. I left Christmas of forty-six.'

‘I'm sure my husband was your father, Mr da Lucca.'

‘I said to my wife it had to be some kind of mistake. Loretta! Loretta, come in here!' he shouts. ‘Sorry, ma'am. I'm in my den. I closed the door over before I rang ... honey,' I hear him say, though he's put the phone on his desk or somewhere. ‘No, just come here, hold my hand,' he says to her. I hear him shuffle with the phone. He speaks into it again. ‘Sorry, Signora. I was just telling my wife. Are you sure, ma'am?'

‘Gianni,' I say. ‘Your father had a photograph of you in his wallet when he was captured. He had it by his bed on the day he died. I'll send it to you.'