Page 32 of Daughter of Genoa
But Vittorio isn’t thinking about dying. He’s thinking about all the time he’s spent sitting in closed rooms with the people he’s supposed to be helping. The shared meals, prayers, conversations with his fellow Jesuits. The mornings spent with Marta, working together at the kitchen table, filling the air with frivolous, unnecessary words.
‘If it is tuberculosis,’ he says, ‘does that mean I’m contagious?’
The doctor shakes his head. ‘No. If there’s no infection in the lungs – if you’re not coughing up sputum – then you’re not going to be infecting anyone else. The one you need to worry about is yourself. You must get those tests done right away.’
‘All right.’ Vittorio is starting to feel very strange: numb and detached, as if he’s been dropped into a conversation that doesn’t concern him at all. ‘I will.’
‘Good man. Now, if you want, I can draw off some fluid just to make you more comfortable. It isn’t a pleasant procedure – I have to use a big needle. But it will give you some respite.’
‘Yes,’ Vittorio says. ‘Yes, please.’
*
When Dr Rostan shows him out, he shakes his hand warmly and says: ‘I wish you the very best, Father. And if you have any questions or you need help, then you must come back to me any time. All right?’
‘I will,’ Vittorio says. ‘Thank you.’
‘I must say, you were very good about the needle,’ the doctor adds. ‘I’ve seen stronger men than you make a fuss about it. No offence, of course.’
‘None taken. It was a relief to get some of that fluid out.’ The truth is that he’s used to enduring discomfort for the sake of improvement. If he told this good Waldensian about the thin seven-corded whip he uses to flog himself three times a week, or the barbed chain he sometimes wears around his ankle, he knows that the fragile understanding between them would instantly vanish.
Outside, the sun is high in the sky. Vittorio stops and takes a tentative breath, and then another. He’s still aching and the tightness is there, but now his lungs expand just enough to let in a thin stream of sweet air. It’s such a sudden pleasure that he feels almost faint. Perhaps he’ll sleep tonight. He could happily sleep now – fatigue is dragging at him, but that’s unthinkable. He has to get on with his day, and that means going to talk to don Francesco. He can’t conscionably put that off any longer.
As he walks down via Assarotti, the devil starts up his assault.You don’t need to rush to do anything. You’re feeling so much better as it is. And you’re not going to hurt anyone, are you, if you keep on as you are for a little longer? See how you go. Seeheragain, spend a little more time together – just working, of course – before you do the right thing and let them send you away. It wouldn’t be a sin. God would understand.And the more the sun shines on him, the more his body begins to relax with the steady flow of his new, easier breathing, the more appealing it all seems.
He gets as far as piazza Corvetto before he realises that he’s going to die.
His knees buckle. He sits down abruptly on the nearest bench, cold nausea washing over him, and prays that he isn’t about to vomit. Just as he’s pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his face, a hand descends on his shoulder, making him start.
‘Are you all right, son? Father, I mean to say.’
Vittorio turns his head. There’s a man sitting on the bench next to him: as old as Methuselah, his broad, wrinkled face dotted with brown spots. He blinks his watery eyes and says: ‘You don’t look too well, if you don’t mind my saying. Something up?’
‘Yes,’ Vittorio says. It seems useless to deny it. ‘I had some bad news. I’m sorry to disturb you.’
‘Oh, you’re not disturbing me. I like company. But I’m sorry for you,’ the old man says. ‘All upset like that. I’d say you had girl trouble if you weren’t wearing this thing.’ He reaches over and tweaks the skirt of Vittorio’s cassock, letting out a throaty chuckle. ‘Sorry, Father, didn’t mean to shock you. Whatever’s wrong, I’m sure it will all pass over. In the meantime, have some of this.’
He reaches into his jacket – a smart English-looking tweed jacket, the kind Vittorio’s father used to favour and perhaps still does – and brings out a silver flask. Vittorio starts to shake his head, but the old man insists.
‘Have a drink. You need it – and you won’t offend me by refusing, will you? Good lad.’ He nods approvingly as Vittorio takes the flask with a trembling hand and brings it to his lips. The brandy inside is fiery and good. ‘Go on, drink.’
Vittorio takes a big draught of the brandy, much more than he would usually allow himself. He wipes the neck of the flask with his handkerchief and hands it back. ‘Thank you, signor…’
‘Fulvio. That’s my name – I don’t bother with formalities. What’s your name, Father?’
‘Vittorio.’
‘Like him,’ Fulvio says, and nods at the old king’s statue. ‘I don’t suppose you have a brother called Emanuele?’
Vittorio laughs. ‘It so happens that I do. And another called Umberto.’
‘Well, that tells me quite enough about your family,’ Fulvio says. ‘Look, Father Vittorio, why don’t you sit here with me for a little while? I won’t bother you. But I can’t let you go yet, not while you still look so bad.’
It’s been so long since Vittorio sat in the sunshine: not praying, not helping anyone, not listening or confessing or working. ‘All right,’ he finds himself saying. ‘Thank you, I will.’
19
Anna
