Page 16 of Daughter of Genoa
‘Of course,’ I said.
Silvia ushered me out into the corridor, closing the door firmly behind us. ‘In here,’ she mouthed, and headed for the door next to the bathroom. She opened it to reveal a neat parlour, very like the one my mother kept for best. The furniture was old but immaculate, and there were doilies on every surface.
‘Sorry,’ she said, sitting down in one of the upright brown armchairs while I perched on the matching couch. ‘There’s nothing to sort out. I just needed a reason to leave him alone. He needs to have a good cough and a spit, maybe close his eyes for a moment, and he won’t do any of that while we’re around.’
‘Is he…’ I was having difficulty finding the words. ‘Has he always been so sick?’
‘Not always. Well, he can’t have been, can he? The Jesuits don’t accept invalids. They want strong soldiers of the Church Militant, and so forth. He must have been quite healthy when they got hold of him, or at least healthy enough for their purposes. But since we’ve known him…’ Silvia sighed. ‘Sometimes he’s better and sometimes he’s worse, but recently he’s mostly worse. I don’t know if it’s the weather or the time of day, or all of this.’ She waved her hand as if to take it all in: Genoa, and the bombs, and the Germans, and the Fascists. ‘But he isn’t helping himself by refusing to eat – that much I do know.’
We sat in silence for a moment, in grim acknowledgement of this truth. And then coughing sounded out from along the corridor, but now it sounded painful, wrenching. Silvia grimaced and shook her head.
‘I don’t like that, not one bit. Whatever there is that’s clogging up his lungs – it needs to get out. It needs to be moving or else it will fester, and if it festers then you’re in trouble. That’s why a cigarette helps. Believe me,’ she added, ‘I know all this too well. My father died of pneumonia.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘He was a lot older than our Father Vittorio. Let’s leave him for just a little longer, and then you two can start work.’
We waited until the coughing peaked and subsided, then gave way to silence. ‘Come on,’ Silvia said.
The window in the kitchen was open, letting in cold damp air, and there was a lingering smell of cigarette smoke. Vittorio sat at the table in the same seat Teglio had occupied the evening before. I was relieved to see that he looked somewhat better.
‘Ready?’ he asked, and I nodded. ‘Then sit down, Marta, please.’
I sat down next to him with the stack of forms before me. He’d anchored Teglio’s list between us, using the inkwell and a small metal ashtray.
‘How shall we do this?’ I asked.
‘I thought you could fill out the details in your best secretarial hand and pass each one to me. I’ll check it against the list, and then I’ll do the signature.’
‘And I shall sit here by the stove and finish my darning,’ Silvia said. ‘But I’ll make us some more tea first. Father, you’ll have a spoonful of honey in yours.’
‘No, thank you,’ Vittorio said. His abrupt tone startled me into looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the table and his brows were drawn together. At first I thought he was angry, but no – this was longing. This was a man who wanted a spoonful of honey in his tea.
‘Don’t you argue with me,’ Silvia retorted. ‘You’ll have one. It’s medicine. Marta, how about you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you so much. I don’t need anything to drink.’ In fact, I’d have liked a cup of hot tea more than anything – my mouth was dry and the draught from the open window was caressing my right ear in a very unpleasant way. But I could just imagine knocking it over and ruining this whole precious batch of forms.
‘Come to think of it, I shall take my tea by the window,’ Vittorio said. ‘Hot drinks and important paperwork don’t mix. If you don’t mind getting started, Marta?’
I didn’t mind. I took a form, pulled the list towards me and started filling in the details. I was aware of Silvia by the stove, trying to keep Tiberio from stealing her wool; Vittorio by the window, sipping his tea and taking in fresh air. I concentrated on my work, tracing each letter of each word with steady deliberation, Bernardo’s words echoing in my mind.We can’t afford any waste.
By the time I finished the tenth form, my hand was cramping and my wrist was beginning to complain. It had been years since I had been employed, since I had written by hand for any length of time. I put the pen down and sat back, trying to shake out the tension. Vittorio closed the window and took his seat.
‘Have a break now. My turn to concentrate. Well,’ he said, looking at the forms in front of him. ‘This is beautiful work. I’m not at all surprised, but I am very pleased. Thank you, Marta.’
And he picked up his pen and drew one of the cards towards him. I forgot all about the pot of tea waiting on the stove; I forgot to stand or stretch or go over to warm myself, as I’d been planning to do the whole time I was copying out the first batch. I simply watched Vittorio. First, he compared the details on the card with those on Teglio’s list, nodding in approval. Then he perfectly copied the mayor’s signature from Giovanni Episcopo’s card, working in swift, confident pen-strokes. He picked up the card and held it between finger and thumb, whether to admire it or help it to dry I’m not sure.
‘How do you do that?’ I asked. ‘I mean, so easily?’
‘I suppose it’s a gift. My training helps,’ he added.
‘What did you train as, a master criminal?’
A brief, dry laugh. ‘No, a librarian. Librarian-conservator, really.’ He set down the card and picked up a fresh one, his eyes already scanning the text I’d copied out. I had been dismissed. I accepted a cup of tea from Silvia and went to sit by the stove.
We worked like that, in shifts, until every name on the list was crossed off. But one blank form remained. Vittorio filled in the mayor’s signature and then passed it over to me.
‘Fill this in with the details you have on your current card, and sign it. You’ll need an address in Caltanissetta, so pick one from the list and change the house number. Unless you’d prefer to wait for another batch and come from a different town instead?’
