Part 27 (1/2)

'I'm afraid I'm not aware of it.'

'When's her birthday?'

'August eighteen.'

'Oh, Tom!'

He frowned, appearing to be genuinely bewildered. When I explained he said: 'I'm afraid I can't accept that individual characteristics have much to do with when a person's born.'

I didn't contradict that. I didn't argue. We walked on again. In a companionable way I slipped my arm through his. The truth was that when I'd picked up the receiver and overheard that unpleasant conversation I'd already had a drink or two, though not much by any means. Sometimes things aren't as crystal clear as they might be when you've had a drink. On top of that the line to Pennsylvania had not been all that good. He'd said something about what he called a 'little-girl voice', and that, of course, might well have been a compliment. I couldn't help thinking that it was nice to have your voice likened to a young girl's. For some reason my thoughts kept harping on that, and while they did so I kept wanting to tell him about the couple in the travelling entertainment business who'd perished when their motor-cycle soared towards heaven over the top of a Wall of Death. It was ludicrous of course, but I wanted to tell him of all people about taking that dog for a walk by the sea, and about the person I'd a.s.sumed to be my father importuning me in a cinema and in a shed and finally in a bedroom. I even wanted to tell him about the Oleander Avenue scandal. But he was cautious himself in what he said and in time I caught caution from him.

'Was it a h.e.l.l with Adele, Tom?'

'We were unsuited.'

'She left you in the end?'

'No.'

'Geminis often do the leaving. I only wondered. Did Adele have children later on?'

He replied, rather curtly, that Adele was forty-three when they parted and had not had children, though in fact she had re-married. I said I was sorry it had been a h.e.l.l with her.

We paused and looked back. I pointed out a hill-town in the misty distance, and a few more landmarks, a tower that two Swedish women had begun to renovate and then had given up, a rock formation that looked like human figures. As we walked on again I said: 'Why did they dislike one another, Tom? Your sister and your wife?'

He was reluctant to supply this information. His eyes had a faraway look and I remembered the jottings in the notebook at his bedside. No doubt he was among those jottings now, no doubt castigating Pilsfer for some fresh inadequacy. I pressed him, very gently. He said: 'They didn't dislike one another. It was simply that my sister wanted me to try again with Adele.'

'But it was your life, eh?'

'She didn't seem to appreciate that it was.'

Time had pa.s.sed, they hadn't made it up: there was more to all this than the bald explanation I'd been offered. Perhaps he didn't know: men sometimes don't. But I sensed that his sister had recognized Francine for what she was and made it clear to her at the time of the divorce. 'It won't last, Tom': he didn't confess his sister less outspoken and quieter in his presence had said that, but I guessed she had. I also guessed that the wound this opinion left behind was deep.

'There's another very good Italian word, Tom. Colpa Colpa.'

'What's it mean?'

Again I was careful not to alarm him. Colpa Colpa meant guilt, I explained. The General experienced guilt because of his daughter. Otmar experienced it because he was responsible for Madeleine's presence in Italy. 'And you quarrelled with your sister instead of standing up to Francine.' meant guilt, I explained. The General experienced guilt because of his daughter. Otmar experienced it because he was responsible for Madeleine's presence in Italy. 'And you quarrelled with your sister instead of standing up to Francine.'

He said something I didn't catch. We turned off the road on to a path that wound up a hill where umbrella pines grow in clumps. Here we must keep a special eye out for sleepy vipers, I warned. Better to have worn rubber boots, but Quinty's would be too small for him, and it was only after we'd begun our walk that I realized there was something on that particular hill I wanted him to see.

'This is a beautiful country, Tom. There are beautiful moments hidden away in corners. I have seen, near the Scala in Milan, a stout little opera singer practising as he strolled to a cafe. I have seen a wedding in the cathedral at Orvieto, when the great doors were thrown wide open and the bride and groom walked out into the suns.h.i.+ne. Something choked in my throat, Tom.'

I believe he nodded. Sometimes his gestures were so slight it was hard to make them out. There was the tranquillity of my house, I went on; in time there would be the garden. Where there had been only rusted iron and tumbled-down buildings before, birds would nest. Bees would search for honey among the flowers.

'It is as though, Tom, we are all inside a story that is being composed as each day pa.s.ses. Does that explain it better?'

'I guess I don't entirely grasp what you're suggesting. And about my sister '

'All right, Tom, all right.' I pressed his arm a little closer. He was on the way to becoming agitated, and really there was no need for that. Why should not Aimee be healed, I asked him, as the scratches on my face had healed already, as Otmar's stump would heal, and the General's leg?

'That is what we hope for.'

'She is happy here, you know. Or as happy as she can be at the moment.'

'My wife and I are extremely grateful to you '

'Is there not a sacrifice you would make, Tom? After years of keeping your young sister at arm's length, through no fault of hers? Do you not owe something to her memory? As the old man does to his daughter's and Otmar to Madeleine's?'

'I've come here to bring my sister's child home.' He spoke flatly; stolidly, I thought. For the first time he sounded a little stupid, although I knew that was ridiculous. 'I am taking in my sister's child,' he said.

Again I was aware of the jottings in the notebook, the darting swiftness of a mind reflected in that impatient scribbling. He knew about the brains of ants. He knew about the nature of their energy. His own brain contained the details of their thought processes or whatever he liked to call them. Of course he could not be stupid.

'Could it be, Tom, that you had to come here to know you should go back alone?'

'Mrs Delahunty '

'Look,' I interrupted, feeling it was necessary to do so. 'That's the grave of an American soldier.'

I pointed at an iron cross in the gra.s.s beside the path. I explained why there was no inscription.

'It is in memory of one man, but it also stands for many. The soldiers of the official enemy gave food and cigarettes to the peasants when the peasants were near starving. One man in particular gave all he had; they didn't even know his name. He died here in some pointless skirmish, but long afterwards they didn't forget him. What a gesture, Tom, to give away your food because you can go without and strangers cannot! And what a gesture, in return, to put a cross up to a nameless benefactor! It can't have been much food, or many cigarettes.'

I stepped forward when I'd finished and tore away gra.s.s and weeds from the base of the cross. Then we turned and retraced our steps. He had made no comment whatsoever on the soldier's grave. I took his arm again.

'They thought it was a miracle, Tom, that a soldier should do that. They put a cross up to a miracle.'

My sandals were covered with dust. So were his shoes. The paint on my toenails had temporarily been deprived of its gleam. Against the softness of my breast I could feel a tightening in the muscles of his arm.

'May I tell you something, Tom? Will you listen?'

'I have been listening.'

'Two men in love came to my house, dying a little more each day. In my house a son was terrified of his mother because fear was what she'd instilled in him since his birth, because she couldn't bear to let him go. In my house the women of a menage a trois menage a trois were cynically used. Pity made me gasp for breath, for there was no escape for any of them. It's different now, Tom.' were cynically used. Pity made me gasp for breath, for there was no escape for any of them. It's different now, Tom.'

There had been a terrible evil was how I put it to him, but in this little corner of Italy there was, again, a miracle. No one could simply walk back into the world after the horror of Carrozza 219. Three survivors out of all the world's survivors had found a place in my house. One to another they were a source of strength. Again I referred to the garden. I quoted the lines that had come to me, only to bewilder me until the General spoke so extraordinarily of a gift.

'Dare we turn our backs on a miracle, Tom?'

I sought his fingers, the way one does when one speaks like that, but roughly he disengaged himself. Suddenly he was cross and I thought he was going to shout, as other men have in my presence. But he didn't. He simply looked at me, not saying anything at all, not speaking again, not answering questions when I asked them. I offered him a drink when we arrived back at the house, but he said he didn't want a drink at nine o'clock in the morning.

12.

After that morning's walk I knew what Francine was.