Page 39 of Daughter of Genoa
After breakfast, don Francesco asks to see him again. ‘Excellent news,’ he says, once they’re alone in the parlour. ‘It’s taken a certain amount of legwork, but between us, Mr X and I have managed to reconstruct the list that was lost the other day.’ He takes a folded piece of paper from the breast of his cassock and hands it to Vittorio. ‘If you’d be happy to start work on those…’
‘Of course I will. I’ll go right away. I’m sorry I left it behind,’ Vittorio adds, hot shame rising. ‘I should have thought—’
Don Francesco raises a hand. ‘Please, Father Vittorio, don’t you start excoriating yourself. I already had to reassure Mr X in that regard. We can remake a list, but we can’t replace either of you. As far as I am concerned, the discussion ends there.’
‘But—’
‘No buts.Ego te absolvo. Go forth and continue your work.’
As he sets off towards via Assarotti, Vittorio feels his spirits rise. He’s been forgiven – at least, for the mistake he’s admitted to – and the damage repaired. The morning sun is warming his limbs, his breathing is easy and rhythmic and, for the first time in weeks, he feels comfortable in his skin. And beneath it all is the knowledge that he’ll get to seeher. He can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about it.
23
Anna
When Vittorio walked into the kitchen that morning – only two days, by my calculation, since I had seen him last – I almost exclaimed out loud. The difference in him was striking. He was still pale and painfully thin. And yet he seemed taller, broader, more… present, somehow, in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
‘Good morning, Marta, Silvia.’ He put his black bag on the table and took out a little prayer book, slipping a piece of paper from between its pages. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t have time to find you something exciting to read, Marta. I only just got this list. It’s the reconstructed version of the one that was lost – I told you about that, I think – and it took time to put together. So I thought there was no sense in messing around looking for a suitable cover. Best just to come straight here and get on with it.’
He wasn’t coughing, I realised; wasn’t sweating or gasping or struggling for breath. I looked at Silvia and she raised her eyebrows as if to say:Yes, I see it too.
‘Silvia,’ Vittorio went on, ‘could I possibly trouble you for a cup of tea? And the blank forms, if you would. I don’t see them here. But then I didn’t give you any warning I was coming, did I? I hope Bernardo will forgive me.’
‘Tea,’ Silvia muttered. She seemed to be in a daze. ‘Forms. Certainly.’ She went to the stove and poured out a cup of tisane, then hesitated. ‘A spoonful of honey, Father?’
‘Yes, please. It’s not the same without honey.’
‘There you go.’ Silvia put the cup in front of him. ‘I’ll have to go and fetch the forms – we put them somewhere safe. I’ll be back in a moment.’
‘Thank you so much.’ He picked up the cup and took a sip, with positive enjoyment.
I sat down in my place and looked at him. He had a little colour in his cheeks now, I noticed, and the marks under his eyes were fading.
‘You’re better,’ I said.
‘I saw a doctor.’ Vittorio shrugged. It was a strangely casual action from him. ‘I had an infection of the chest. He made a procedure – it was unpleasant, but it worked and now everything is tickety-boo.’
Tickety-boo. I didn’t think he had any funny English words left to spring on me, and yet he’d managed it. ‘I’m glad it’s… I mean, I’m very happy you’re well. Did the doctor say what caused the infection?’
A shadow crossed his face. Just for the briefest instant – if I hadn’t been watching him, I’d never have noticed. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘An old trouble. I should have gone earlier, but it’s fixed now.’
‘Here they are,’ Silvia proclaimed, all but bursting into the kitchen. She was breathless herself – it seemed like she’d run down the stairs and back up again. ‘Bernardo had hidden them rather too well,’ she said as she set the stack of forms on the table. ‘And here are pens, and ink, and I shall get on with my knitting.’
She collapsed into her chair by the stove, and Tiberio hopped up into her lap. He knew the routine. My mind was boiling with questions: What old trouble, exactly, did Vittorio mean? Was he really completely back to health? Whyhadn’the gone to the doctor before? I looked over at him again, hoping to catch his eye and resume our conversation, but he pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘I’ll drink this by the window as usual,’ he said, switching back into Italian. ‘Marta, tell me when you’re ready to change over.’
I took the hint and started work. For the first few minutes, it was strange. Tiberio’s purr and the click of Silvia’s needles, Bernardo moving around in the shop downstairs, the distant sounds of the city that drifted in through the open window – all these noises were suddenly very loud and intrusive. I couldn’t understand why, and then I realised that I couldn’t hear Vittorio’s breathing. It had been the invariable background to our mornings together – strident and rasping, catching in his chest so that I felt an echoing catch in mine – and now that background was gone. Whatever unpleasant thing the doctor had done, it had clearly worked.
Soon enough, habit took over, and I was focused again. I filled out a dozen or so cards before I started to tire. I could have managed more if I’d pushed myself, but I never liked to risk it. The repercussions of any error that might creep in were simply too vast. When I looked up, Vittorio had resumed his seat at the table and was reading his prayer book.
‘Change?’ he asked without looking up.
‘Yes, please.’
He closed his eyes for a moment, murmuring something under his breath. Then he crossed himself, set the little book aside and gestured for me to pass him the completed forms. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and picked up his pen.
I suppose I might have got up at that point. Stretched my legs a little, had a cup of tea, trailed a piece of wool for Tiberio to follow. But I was exhausted, worn out by it all. I’d been keeping myself relentlessly distracted since Massimo had left, trying to drown out the echo of his words.I’ll be back soon, he’d said, and kissed me softly on the lips.As soon as I can. I wish I could make you a promise.He’d kissed me again, more urgently this time, and we’d sunk into one last, hungry embrace before he had to go.
