Page 36 of Daughter of Genoa
‘Hmm,’ Bernardo said. ‘Shall I say grace?’
Over dinner, I sat as quietly as I could while Silvia continued to talk. She was bright-eyed, apparently set on making up for my and Bernardo’s taciturnity, and she regaled us with stories from that afternoon’s church council meeting. Pastor Peyronel had made a stern appeal for donations from all those who could afford it. Dr Rostan had been asked to speak to the youth group about the dangers of dancing, but had refused on the grounds that it was a delicate matter and should best be addressed by someone with a speciality in adolescent development. In Silvia’s personal opinion, he simply didn’t want to do it. But his reasons had been accepted, eventually, and the council had decided to send for a lady doctor from Turin who was known for giving brisk talks on such matters.
‘What’s wrong with dancing?’ I asked.
‘You have to beclose together,’ Silvia said, as if it were obvious. ‘It stirs up the passions.’
I remembered the dances I’d gone to as a girl – some quite lovely memories, in fact. Silvia definitely had a point. ‘I see.’
‘It’s very dangerous for the young, it’s true,’ Bernardo said. ‘They need a lot of guidance. Grown-ups, of course, can make their own decisions.’ I shot him a quick glance, but he was focused on his pancotto.
When we’d eaten and washed up and the evening was over, I went to my room and got into bed. I hoped to find some trace of Massimo, some lingering scent of cedarwood or shaving soap, but of course there was nothing. We’d had only a little time, and we’d had to be so quiet, so careful. He could scarcely have left an imprint. But the memories were there, so fresh and vivid I could live them all over again: holding tight to him, stifling my gasps in his neck as he brought me to ecstasy; his mouth seeking mine, kissing me fervently as the world fell away. I missed him. I had only just found him, and now I had to wonder where he was and what danger he might be in, and when – if – I would see him next.
21
Vittorio
For the first time in weeks, Vittorio doesn’t wake until the morning bell rings. He’s lying in bed, on his back; he’s kicked off the covers and his nightshirt is clinging to him, soaked through with sweat. He’s aching and clammy and itchy, but he’s slept for once. He’s really slept.
He sits up slowly and perches on the edge of the bed, waiting for the usual coughing fit. But it doesn’t come, and when he breathes in he can feel his lungs expand, steady and serene. He does it again and again, wondering at the rise and fall of his ribcage, before he comes back to his senses and forces himself to his feet. Peeling off his nightshirt, he goes over to the washstand, drenches his washcloth in the water he put out the night before – it’s cold, of course, but that’s the point – wrings it out and lathers it with soap.
And then Vittorio does something he never does. He looks down.
It’s an unpleasant shock. His chest is sunken, his ribs and hipbones jutting out. Below his concave stomach, his penis lolls awkwardly, half-engorged; he must have had a shameful dream. The creases of his groin look angry, red and prickly, like the heat rash he once had as a boy. His arms are wasted, bones and veins horribly prominent. He lifts one experimentally and catches sight of a red patch of inflamed skin in the hollow of his armpit.
And there, affixed to his side a few inches down, is the dressing Dr Rostan applied yesterday. He’s supposed to have it removed, or changed – today? tomorrow? He can’t remember. But he knows that he can’t do it himself. And if he goes to the infirmary, he’ll have to explain; it will all be over then, and he hasn’t even spoken to don Francesco yet. He meant to yesterday, of course, but he ended up sitting with Fulvio on the bench at piazza Corvetto until the Angelus rang at noon. They’d prayed it together, Vittorio leading and Fulvio responding, and Vittorio had got back to the community just in time for lunch. After that there was work to do and meditation and dinner and the steady, constant demands of the Liturgy of the Hours, and the day had ticked past until it was gone.
He can’t go back to Dr Rostan and ask him to see to the dressing. That would only compound one act of disobedience with another. No, he must go today and tell don Francesco everything. Then he’ll be given proper treatment, and can go to his end in good standing with the Lord. He begins to wash with the cold wet cloth, his eyes fixed ahead and upwards, towards the crucifix that hangs on the wall.
*
That morning, Vittorio assists Cardinal Boetto in celebrating Mass at one of the side altars of the church: a job usually reserved for a student or a Jesuit brother, but both are in short supply. Cardinal Boetto offers to assist, in fact, and let him preside; but with so much on his conscience, Vittorio does not feel confident enough in the state of his soul to say Mass himself. He’s likely doing wrong even by assisting. After a brief and extremely polite argument – because if he admits that he has sinned, Vittorio fears that this kind, pragmatic man will offer to hear his confession right away – the cardinal accepts and says nothing more about it. He doesn’t even raise an eyebrow when Vittorio refrains from Communion.
Afterwards, just as Vittorio is finishing breakfast in the refectory – not that he’s eaten much, but he’s managed something, at least – don Francesco comes bustling up to him.
‘Good morning, Father Vittorio. May I speak with you for a moment? Have you got time?’ It’s a genuine question. Vittorio feels a sudden pang of guilt at having wanted to lie to this kind, thoughtful man, even by omission.
‘Of course. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to talk to you.’
‘Oh, well, that works out nicely. The Holy Spirit in action.’ Don Francesco beams at him. ‘Where can we go that’s private?’
‘This way,’ Vittorio says, and leads him to one of the small parlours the Jesuits use for spiritual direction. As they walk along the corridor, he rehearses the conversation in his head.Don Francesco, I have something to tell you. Don Francesco, I’m afraid I had some rather bad news…
But as soon as the door is closed behind them and they’re alone in the spartan parlour with its two chairs and its plain table and its portrait of St. Ignatius, don Francesco begins to talk. With more than even his usual urgency, because it’s urgent. There’s a family arriving this morning on the train from Lucca. A mother and her three children for expatriation to Switzerland, all organised by Mr X. The father should have come, too – the move was originally planned for the following week, but he was arrested last night. The children speak Italian fluently, the mother less so: they are Polish Jews, part of the great wave of refugees who arrived after 1933 only to find themselves, a few years later, plunged back into the same hell they had tried to escape. Someone from the Lucca organisation will have seen them onto the train; he or she may even be travelling with them, but once they arrive in Genoa they will need a new, safe pair of hands. Will Vittorio meet them at Brignole station and walk them to the safe house in via Peschiera?
‘Of course I will,’ Vittorio says, and don Francesco looks profoundly relieved.
‘Oh, good, good. I told my contact in Lucca to expect a priest: a slim dark-haired priest with round spectacles and a Jesuit cassock and a breviary in his left hand. If you hadn’t been free, I would have swapped my own cassock for a Jesuit one and found a way to go myself. But I can’t go, not really. I never can do quite enough.’ Don Francesco shakes his head in self-recrimination. ‘It’s very frustrating,’ he says. ‘Anyway, you wanted to talk to me, didn’t you, Father Vittorio? Let’s do that before we get into the details. Is there something wrong?’
He’s looking at Vittorio in the way people tend to look at him these days, head cocked to one side, eyes full of concern. This would be the moment to say it all out loud.Don Francesco, I’m dying.
‘It can wait,’ he says. ‘Tell me about the family. How will I find them?’
The strategy works. Don Francesco begins telling him all the details: when they’re expected, by which train and on which platform; how old the children are, two girls and a boy. ‘I shall give you some money and ration cards to take along for them, if that’s all right. Or if you’d rather have someone else deliver those, share out the risk, I can ask Mr X to arrange—’
‘No,’ Vittorio almost snaps, and don Francesco looks faintly startled. ‘I mean to say, it’s quite all right. I don’t mind carrying them.’
‘If you’re sure, then that does make things much easier. Shall we go and fetch those now?’ He’s already getting to his feet. Don Francesco is always on the move. He has so much to do, and his entire work – the whole operation of the Curia, of DELASEM and the many people who depend on it – has been drastically affected by the destruction of the Archbishop’s Palace. Vittorio’s state of health isn’t that kind of emergency. So long as he’s feeling all right, it can continue to wait.
