Page 37 of Daughter of Genoa
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Let’s do that now.’
22
By the time Vittorio has met the lady and her children at Brignole and walked them to the apartment at via Peschiera – a mercifully short distance, but uphill all the way – he’s starting to suffer again. Not from shortness of breath; that, thankfully, seems to be staying away. No, what’s paining him this time is the fiery itching under his arms and elsewhere, which only grows stronger the further he climbs and the more he heats up. It’s as if he has been relieved of one torment only so that he can more fully experience another.
Via Assarotti is just around the corner. Couldn’t he call in on Dr Rostan just once, have him deal with the dressing and look at the skin problem, too? How wrong would that really be? He stops right there on the pavement and briefly closes his eyes. He knows the devil is tempting him, and he tries to fight it, to recollect himself. But blocking out the outside world only leaves him at the mercy of the itch.
There’s a bar up ahead. Before he can think, Vittorio goes in and asks the man behind the counter if he can make a telephone call.
‘Of course, Father,’ the man says. He nods to the telephone that hangs on the back wall. ‘It’s all yours.’
‘Thank you,’ Vittorio says, so fervently that the man gives him an odd look. The card Dr Rostan gave him with his office and private numbers is tucked into his breviary; he thanks God he thought to put it there. He lifts the receiver and places it to his ear.
‘Number, please,’ the operator says. He gives the office number, and thanks God again when the doctor answers on the second ring.
‘Rostan here.’
‘Good morning, this is Father Vittorio. May I come and see you today?’
‘Certainly. Come by in an hour,’ the doctor says, and rings off.
An hour seems interminably long, but at least he’ll be seen. Vittorio replaces the receiver. ‘Thank you,’ he says to the man behind the counter – the owner, it must be.
‘It’s no problem, Father. Though if you wanted to buy something…’
‘Oh,’ Vittorio says, stricken. Of course, it’s only good manners to buy a drink when you’ve been allowed to use the telephone. But he hasn’t any money. He never carries any, except to pass on to others.
‘He’ll have a drink with me,’ a frail voice pipes up. Fulvio, the only customer, is sitting at a table by the window. ‘Give him a glass of that Vermentino, and another for me, too. Sit down, Father Vittorio, and let’s talk for a little while. If you’ve got time?’
He has time. He can’t deny that he has time, and some conversation might keep his mind off the itch. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and sits down.
Fulvio gives him a wide, rather gummy smile. He’s genuinely pleased, Vittorio realises – he wants the company, perhaps even needs it. The bar owner comes over with two small glasses of white wine and removes Fulvio’s empty one. The moment he’s gone, the old man says: ‘Well, now, how’s it going with you? Still got girl trouble? Oh, don’t take offence.’ He chuckles. ‘I’m only saying that to tease you, friendly-like. I don’t mean to suggest anything.’
But Vittorio isn’t offended. He’s imagining what it would be like if he spoke to this kind, lonely old soul as if he really were a friend, the sort of bosom friend Vittorio has never had. If he said:As a matter of fact, yes. I think I’ve fallen in love with someone and even if I could do anything about it, which I can’t, I’m fairly sure she’s fallen in love with someone else.He longs to say it. For a moment, he fears that he really will.
Fulvio’s looking at him. Not like other people do, not with concern or alarm, but with dawning compassion. ‘Oh, Father, the look on your face. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.’
Vittorio picks up his glass and takes a gulp of wine. He feels hot and sullen and there’s an ominous pricking behind his eyes. Fulvio leans forward.
‘Look,’ he says quietly. ‘You don’t know me and I don’t know you. We’re first names only, right? So if you want to tell someone about it – about her – without being judged or made to do penance or whatever else, then you can tell me. I don’t go to church. I haven’t been to church since 1871. I know the Angelus because it was drilled into me as a boy, and I like you, Father Vittorio, so it gave me pleasure to say it with you. But with all respect, I won’t set foot in a church until I’m dead, and maybe not even then. So if you’re thinking that you could spill your guts to me and then find me on the other side of the confessional grille or staring back at you from the front pew at Sunday Mass, you can lay that worry to rest right now. Whatever you say to me, I’ll take it to the grave, and I shall be there soon enough.’
So will I.
‘Her name’s Marta,’ Vittorio says. It’s a common enough name, so why not allow himself to say it? ‘She’s… she’s clever. She reads everything.’
‘Ah.’ Fulvio sucks his remaining teeth. ‘Bluestocking, eh?’
Vittorio ignores this. ‘She loves to work,’ he says. ‘She loves to work, and be useful, and help others, even when she’s in difficulty herself. That’s one of the things I… it’s one of the best things about her.’
‘Is she pretty, though?’ the old man asks.
‘I think she’s beautiful.’
‘And what does she think of you? That’s the question.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Vittorio says, feeling very bleak all of a sudden.
‘Oh, but it does,’ Fulvio says. ‘For all you know, she’s secretly pining over you. Some girls love a man in a cassock.’
