Page 45 of Daughter of Genoa
Back to bed.It’s all he wants in the world. ‘Thank you.’
‘You can report to him here at your usual time, tomorrow morning.’ Mr X gets to his feet. ‘If he can’t be there, I shall. All right?’
‘All right,’ Vittorio says as lightly as he can. But he knows he won’t be well tomorrow morning, either, or the day after, or the day after that.
‘Rest well,’ Mr X says. ‘Good day, Father Vittorio.’ He goes out and Vittorio slumps forward with his head in his hands, trying to summon the energy to stand up. If he doesn’t move now, he’ll fall asleep right here. He plants his hands on the table and levers himself to his feet, and then sets off, step by dragging step, along the corridor and up the stairs to his room.
He doesn’t pull back the covers. He doesn’t even take off his cassock. He simply lies down as he is, on top of the bedclothes with his shoes still on, and goes to sleep. His last waking thought is that, no matter what it costs him, tomorrow morning he must do all he can to stay vertical.
29
The world outside is full of Germans. It’s not that Vittorio didn’t see them before. He was always aware of them, always on the lookout for a field-grey object in the margins of his vision. But he couldn’t afford to stop and look at them, either. If he’d allowed himself to take in the sheer scale of their presence – if he’d let their brutal display affect him – then he’d never have been able to go outside at all, much less do his work.
But whatever filter was protecting him has gone, washed away by exhaustion. Now he’s half-walking, half-stumbling across piazza De Ferrari, that day’s list tucked into his inner breast pocket, and Germans are all he can see. Patrolling in groups and loitering by cars, standing vigilant on corners, conversing in knots. A few of them look as he passes by. No doubt they always do, but today he notices and it throws him; he trips over his own feet and has to steady himself against a lamppost. The Germans laugh, thinking he’s drunk.Schaut mal, der ist ja besoffen, der Priester!
Silvia and Bernardo’s seems an unimaginable distance away; it might as well be on the moon, but he’s promised that he is up to going and so he must go. He strained every sinew keeping himself upright and awake through that morning’s meeting, assuring don Francesco – and he’s both guilty and relieved that it was good, gentle don Francesco he had to lie to – that he was still a little tired, but already much better, thank you. And he convinced him. For a moment, he even managed to convince himself, so much did he want it to be true.
It isn’t true, though, and his path is lined with temptations. If he sits down, he knows he won’t get up and go on. The chairs set out in front of the bars of the Galleria Mazzini call to him. Reaching piazza Corvetto, he forges on past the benches, refusing to look left or right in case Fulvio happens to be there; his sympathy would be altogether fatal. As he begins to climb via Assarotti, his muscles sing with pain and his nerves are taut. The German headquarters loom up on his right and he wishes he’d taken the longer way, the back-streets route he took with Marta, because today it’s like walking past the mouth of Hell.
After that it’s the endless rise, rise, rise of the street and the sun beating down on him, so that by the time the Waldensian temple comes into sight he’s so weak that he fears he might faint. He turns into via Curtatone and allows himself to rest for just a second, propped against the wall of the temple, in the hope of recuperating a little strength. But it’s no good, and he arrives at the Tipografia Guichard sweaty and palpitating.
Bernardo greets him with wide eyes and a shake of the head. ‘You’ll sit down, Father,’ he says – it’s very much a command – and he takes Vittorio by the shoulder and steers him into the back office, where he pulls out the big chair at the desk and all but pushes him into it. Vittorio sinks into the battered old leather chair with its high back and soft, hollowed-out seat. It’s an unbearably sweet feeling.
‘What’s happened, Father? Aren’t you well? I’ll phone Dr Rostan,’ Bernardo says. ‘Ask him to come as soon as he can.’
‘No,’ Vittorio blurts out, panicking. ‘No, please don’t. I’m fine. I’m just a little tired, that’s all.’
Bernardo snorts. ‘You’re more than a little tired. Anyone can see that. If you’d just let me—’
‘No.’ Vittorio tries to look Bernardo in the eye, but he’s so exhausted that his vision keeps blurring and refocusing; he’s blinking up at him like a drunk or a mystic. ‘Please don’t call him. There’s really no need. Please.’ He knows he sounds desperate. He can’t have Dr Rostan see him like this; he can’t stand to hear what the doctor might have to say. ‘I’m just tired, truly I am. I had some kind of virus. You’d only be wasting his time.’
Bernardo looks at him rather like Mr X did before: assessing, sceptical. ‘If you insist,’ he says after a moment. ‘But you’ll let Silvia have a look at you, at least.’
Oh, thank God.‘Yes. Yes, of course. But could she come to me here?’ Vittorio asks. ‘I don’t want to worry Marta.’
Bernardo nods. ‘Probably wise,’ he says gruffly. ‘Stay where you are and I’ll fetch Silvia.’
‘Thank you,’ Vittorio says. He lets his head nod for just a moment, barely long enough to blink, and when he looks up again Silvia is already there.
‘Tired, are we?’ She’s studying his face; her mouth is a tight line. Vittorio feels as vulnerable as if he’s stripped off for the doctor.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘What kind of tiredness? Are you sleeping? Not sleeping?’
‘I’m sleeping.’ Even saying the word makes him crave sleep. ‘I sleep all the time. It’s the only thing I want to do.’
‘And do you wake up feeling rested, or do you just go on being tired?’
‘Yes,’ Vittorio says. ‘I mean to say, I keep being tired. I don’t feel like I slept at all.’
‘Heart skipping a beat? Any mouth ulcers? Sore tongue?’
‘Heartbeat, yes.’ He moves his tongue around his dry mouth. His lower lip sticks unpleasantly to his bottom teeth; probing it, he finds a small raw patch. Another sensation he’d managed to blot out. ‘Ulcer, yes. Ow.’
‘Right. Now, would you pull down your lower eyelid for me? Like this,’ she says, and demonstrates, dragging her eyelid down with her index finger to expose pink shiny flesh.
Vittorio does as he’s told, and Silvia makes a face. ‘Yes, I thought so,’ she says. ‘Looks like anaemia to me.’
