Page 46 of Daughter of Genoa
‘Anaemia?’ It sounds so innocuous, nothing like this bone-deep, sucking exhaustion.
‘Not enough iron in your blood,’ Silvia explains. ‘It’s quite common – well, for some people. I expect you haven’t had it before. Men don’t, generally,’ she adds. ‘For obvious reasons.’
‘I see,’ Vittorio says, although he doesn’t.
‘But if you’ve been sick with this infection of yours, and fasting, and then when youdoget to eat it’s hardly nutritious stuff, the Lord knows… well, it’s not surprising if you’re running a deficit. You probably just need a tonic.’
‘A tonic,’ he repeats. He can’t remember when he last had to take a tonic, not as an adult. But he can taste, well over thirty years on, the sticky, sickly honey-sweet stuff his nurse used to make him drink – for his lungs, supposedly. All it ever did was coat his tongue with sugar and make him feel slightly sick. ‘Would that really help?’
‘Of course it would,’ she says. ‘A couple of spoonfuls of iron tonic a day, and you’ll be right as rain. It’s a miracle-worker, that stuff. I have a spare bottle, if you’d like.’
‘Please,’ he says. It’s all he can say.
‘I’ll fetch it,’ Silvia says, and then the shop doorbell rings and Bernardo, on the other side of the curtain, clears his throat and says: ‘Customers. New ones.’
‘On second thoughts, let’s go upstairs. Come on, Father.’ Silvia sets off and Vittorio follows, but he thinks longingly of that forgiving leather chair.
‘Marta knows you’re here, of course,’ she says quietly over her shoulder as they climb the stairs. ‘She heard the doorbell. But don’t you worry. Marta, dear?’ she calls out, and now Marta herself appears on the landing. She has on a dress, a blue cotton dress with yellow flowers, and her hair is tucked behind her ears. Vittorio’s throat is tight and he has to clutch the handrail; the iron is cold against his damp skin.
‘Yes?’ she says, and smiles down at him. ‘Hello, Father Vittorio.’
‘Our friend here hasn’t had a good night,’ Silvia says briskly. ‘He’s going to have a little sit-down before you start work. This way, Father.’ She takes his arm – everybody, he thinks resentfully, feels quite free to manhandle him these days – and guides him along the corridor towards the parlour.
‘What shall I do?’ Marta’s voice sounds behind him. He can’t look around. ‘Can I help at all?’
‘You brew some tea and make a start on the cards, if you like. He’ll be with you shortly. Have you got the list, Father?’ she asks, and Vittorio reaches into his breast pocket and hands it to her. It’s crumpled and slightly damp. ‘There you go, dear. Now come with me,’ Silvia continues, lowering her voice as Marta’s footsteps retreat into the kitchen. ‘Sit down and I’ll fetch the tonic. You can have a dose now and a little rest, I think, before you try to do anything. You’re practically cross-eyed.’
Vittorio lowers himself onto the sofa. It’s not especially comfortable, but even sitting down is a profound relief. By the time Silvia returns with the bottle of tonic, a folded blanket tucked under her arm, his eyes are already closing.
‘Drink,’ she commands, and brings a spoon to his lips as if he were a child. He’s beyond dignity now, beyond discipline, beyond even staying upright. He meekly swallows the green herbal liquid – it’s urgently refreshing, as necessary as water on a hot day – and lets himself sink again, stretching out on the hard, uneven couch. The blanket settles over him in a waft of air and wool fibre and then it’s dark.
30
Anna
By the time Vittorio finally appeared in the kitchen, Silvia had given up on him and gone to help Bernardo in the shop. I had filled out all the cards, drunk all the tea, and was amusing myself by practising the mayor’s signature on the back of the list while Tiberio purred in my lap.
‘Good morning,’ Vittorio said, and blinked at me. He looked tired, but definitely a little better than before. ‘It is still morning, isn’t it?’
‘Just about,’ I said.
‘Oh, well.’ He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Is Silvia downstairs? Do you want me to fetch her?’
‘There’s no need,’ I said. ‘Not on my account. Unless you would prefer…?’
‘No, no. I think we’re quite all right as we are. I’m just sorry I can’t speak English with you. My mind, today…’ He shook his head and sat down in his usual chair. ‘It’s too much effort. I have anaemia, Silvia says. She gave me a tonic and I must say, it’s helping somewhat, but I’m still wiped out. Let me see what you’ve done,’ he went on, reaching for the cards. ‘Oh, you’ve filled in the details already. You’re very efficient. Pass me the list, would you?’
‘Here you are.’ I turned the list over and passed it to him, but he’d already spotted the signatures on the reverse.
‘These aren’t bad,’ he said, inspecting them. ‘You have a good eye, in fact. Soon you won’t need me at all.’
It was a joking remark, of course, but there was something in the way he said it – some small, sad note that made me want to reach out and touch his arm, offer him some kind of comfort. I knew I mustn’t, so I stroked Tiberio’s ears instead; he raised his head and pressed his face into my hand, his nose a cold whisper against my palm.
‘All right,’ Vittorio said. He took a card from the pile and lined the list up next to it. ‘I shall deal with these now, but perhaps you and… you and Mr X might double-check them afterwards. Just to be sure.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t work today,’ I said. ‘Maybe you should go home and sleep until you’re well again.’
‘No. No, there’s no need for any delay. I’m really feeling much better already. And besides,’ he added, with the hint of a wry smile, ‘I must think of my higher duty.’
