Page 40 of Daughter of Genoa
Vittorio was absorbed in his work; Silvia, by the stove, had dozed off. I might as well have been alone. Love and melancholy, fear and desire – they battered against me like a wave. I couldn’t fight any more. I sat still and let them claim me.
24
Vittorio
She used to watch him. He’d got used to feeling her open, curious gaze – had come to welcome it, to soak it up like the warmth of the sun. For weeks, she’d bestowed it on him while he was too self-conscious, too hemmed in and disciplined to respond. Now he’s watching her, and she is lost in her own world. Soft, downcast eyes fixed on the table before her; one hand gripping the other as if for comfort, her face flushed and sombre.
Vittorio knows then that his instinct was correct. Marta is in love, and not with him.
He tells himself that it doesn’t matter. He tells himself that he cannot even really be her friend. And what would she want with him anyway? A priest, sick in body and broken in spirit; a forty-two-year-old innocent who last kissed a girl when he was sixteen. Even if by some miracle she did want him, even if he could forget his vows, jettison all his discipline and scrub away the indelible mark of his consecration, it would be too late. She’s had enough sadness in her life without him blighting it any further. Let her love Mr X. Let Mr X love her, for that matter. It would be only right, and good, and natural if he did.
Once the first surge of pain subsides, there’s a certain relief. He can see himself clearly now, as if from the outside. Exhausted and ill, his senses befuddled, grasping for consolation in the well-meaning interest of a kind-hearted young woman. It’s embarrassing. Vittorio can only thank God he had enough wit left to realise all this before he made a fool of himself; or more of a fool, he thinks, remembering his confession to Fulvio. But he can’t afford to get caught up in that now – not when he has work to do. He gives himself a mental shake and gets on with it.
He does well, too. He gets through the whole morning’s work that way. But then Silvia, stacking up the completed forms, says: ‘I’ll put these back in their safe place, shall I? I expect Mr X will come by for them later.’
Marta blushes. It’s more than a blush: she’s radiant with pleasure, suffused with hope. And Vittorio knows that her love is returned.
Just so, he tells himself. That’s natural, and right, and good.
She’s watching him now. Her look is a silent plea:Tell me he’s coming.He has to clear his throat. ‘I dare say he’ll pass by. But I can’t tell you when, I’m afraid. I haven’t managed to speak to him lately.’ And he busies himself packing his things away so that he doesn’t have to see the disappointment written on her face.
They say their respective goodbyes and he goes out. He’s halfway down the stairs when he hears hurried footsteps behind him, and turns. Marta, her cheeks pink and her eyes shining, terribly close to him in the narrow staircase. He can smell something like incense – roses, it must be roses – and his heart is thumping, battering at his ribs like some poor, demented thing in a cage.
‘Father Vittorio,’ she says, and clutches at his sleeve. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling a lot better. But you’ll take care, won’t you? Chest infections can be so tricky. You can’t afford to have a relapse, and we don’t want you to, above all. So promise me you’ll try to rest and get as much fresh air as you can. Please?’
She’s so near that he could reach out and touch her face, bring her lips to his. He looks down to ward off temptation and there are her fingers, gripping the fabric of his sleeve. He wants to cover them with his own but he mustn’t. He’s still staring at them when she lets go, snatching her hand away as if she’s been reprimanded.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m being too familiar. I shouldn’t tell you what to do. It’s just that…’
‘It’s all right,’ he manages to say. ‘You mean to be a friend. Go back upstairs, Marta.’
She doesn’t move. ‘Promise me first that you’ll take care of yourself. You have to.’
‘I promise. Please go now. I’ll see you…’ His English is failing him. ‘When I next am here, I’ll see you.’
‘Good.’ He can hear the smile in her voice. ‘I’m glad. Goodbye, Father Vittorio.’
And she turns and mounts the stairs. Vittorio walks down, through the back office and through the curtain out into the shop. It’s only when he sees Bernardo look up from the printing press, oil can in hand, that he realises he didn’t wait and listen as he usually would, to make sure that the place was empty: which, thank God, it is. Had there been customers – the wrong sort of customers – he could easily have drawn fatal attention to the operations going on upstairs.
‘All right, Father? You finished for today?’
‘Yes. Could you…?’ He gestures at the door, and Bernardo moves to unlock it. ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’ And he steps out into the warm sunlit air. The city lies before him, devastated, a rubble-strewn mess. He looks away and turns right, following the curve of the street as it winds downhill. He’ll go straight back to the Gesù, see if don Francesco has anything for him to do. And if he doesn’t, there’s always the library.
By the time he reaches via Peschiera, panic is rising, constricting his chest. He turns right and heads for the bar, the one where he saw Fulvio last. He peers in through the plate-glass window, trying to look inconspicuous and knowing he must be failing. But Fulvio isn’t there, only three somewhat less ancient men playing cards, and the owner, gloomily drinking coffee (or, more likely, some dreadful coffee substitute) behind the counter.
He should turn back, but his feet carry him on, along via Peschiera, onto via Assarotti and to the left. He walks past the German headquarters with its guards and its leering windows and its foul red-and-black banners, his eyes fixed on piazza Corvetto and the rump of Victor Emmanuel’s horse. He feels urgently now that he must talk to someone; that he must talk to Fulvio. But he walks a full circuit of the piazza and can’t see him on any of the benches. Vittorio doesn’t know what to do. His throat is aching and there’s a terrible knot at the apex of his stomach, right under his ribs. He sinks down onto the nearest bench, pulls out his breviary and opens it, shielding his eyes with his hand. And for the first time in days he struggles to breathe.
A touch on his shoulder. He risks a glance to his left and sees a pair of legs in grey slacks, battered brown brogues. It’s Fulvio, thank God. ‘Hello, Father. Were you hoping to see me?’
Vittorio nods. His vision is blurring with tears; he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He fixes his eyes on the page before him and watches the words dance, shifting in and out of focus.
‘You’re lucky I haven’t anything else to do with my days,’ Fulvio says, sitting down next to him. ‘Well, I shan’t ask you any questions now. That’s what’s fatal, in my experience. Here’s what we’ll do. You stay like that, with your hand over your eyes just so, and we’ll pretend you’re hearing my confession. Because people do that, don’t they, if it’s urgent? Even outside on a bench?’
He nods again.
‘Good. I won’t confess to you, of course – I’m not about to start all that up now. I’ll just talk about any old nonsense until you’ve had a chance to pull yourself together. And that’s before we get to the matter of the duck,’ Fulvio says, abruptly loud. ‘Lust, gluttony and wrath at the very least. I can’t begin to tell you the things that duck and I got up to. It would set your… all right, she’s gone. Sorry, Father Vittorio, some nosy old bird wanted to sit right next to us. She’s taken herself off now, face like a slapped arse – excuse my language. I had an auntie like that on my mother’s side; well, an auntie by marriage. Awful woman. Every time she came to the house she used to insult my mother. “Oh, my dear Agnese, what an original hairstyle. I would neverdareshow off my ears like that.” Stupid cow. Now her husband, my uncle, he was the gentlest soul you could wish to meet – like my mother, for that matter. I remember the time…’
And he goes on like that, trotting out old stories and rehearsing family grudges until Vittorio’s throat stops hurting, the knot in his stomach loosens, his vision clears and he can sit up again, and breathe. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You saved me.’
