Page 47 of Daughter of Genoa
It was an innocent phrase in itself. Anyone might have said it; but only one person had ever said it to me. Surely there was no way that Vittorio – my friend, my comrade, my rescuer – had anything to do withhim. It was simply impossible. That’s what I told myself, but I still felt sick.
‘That’s quite a declaration,’ I said.
Vittorio picked up his pen. He was already focused on the list in front of him. ‘Oh, it’s just something my father used to say.’
‘Your father,’ I echoed.
‘Yes. I can’t remember if I mentioned him to you before. He’s… well, shall we say that he’s a character? I think that would be the most charitable way to put it.’
‘What does he do?’ Even as I asked the question, I knew that I oughtn’t. It would have been better to drop the subject and pretend it never came up; to content myself with knowing Vittorio as he was, and not to worry about who his relatives might be. But some perverse impulse drove me on.
Vittorio looked up from his work. He set down his pen, just as if this were a normal, everyday conversation – which it wasn’t, not for us. ‘He’s a shipbuilder,’ he said. ‘He has a yard here in Genoa, or he did, anyway. It’s probably been blown to pieces by now. He and I haven’t spoken in a long time – oh, twenty-five years.’
‘That must be strange,’ I said. I was feeling rather faint, and I couldn’t decide whether I was horrified or fascinated that Vittorio had chosen today, of all days, to be so forthcoming. ‘Living in the same city and not being in touch. You really don’t talk to him? You don’t see one another at all?’
‘No. This is hard to explain to… well, to someone like you.’ That wry smile again. ‘Please don’t take that the wrong way. But you love your mother and father, don’t you? And you know that they love you, even if they can’t help you right now.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well, there’s no “of course” about it for me,’ Vittorio said matter-of-factly. ‘When I joined the Society of Jesus, I had to leave my family behind. I know many Jesuits, good and dedicated Jesuits, for whom that was a terrible struggle. They understood what was required of them, and they did it, but it was painful and they grieved. It wasn’t painful for me. In fact, it was very easy, because my father was an unpleasant man – a nasty, bullying, angry man – and I’d had enough of him. When I told him that I wanted to be a Jesuit like my teachers at school, he took it as a sort of criticism, and I suppose he was right. I liked them better than I liked him. Anyway, he threatened to cut me off, so I let him. It was that easy.’
‘And your mother? Did she cut you off, too?’
‘My mother…’ He sighed. ‘When I was a novice, family members were allowed to visit twice a year. She came once, and then never again. Perhaps he stopped her, or perhaps she decided that on her own. I used to wonder, but I don’t any more. What’s the point?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s quite all right. It was all a very long time ago. But it’s funny, you know: I can still hear my father sometimes. Always at the oddest moments, like just now.’ He made a face – the commendatore’s face – and he said in the commendatore’s voice: ‘Look, son, it doesn’t matter what you’ve got to say about it. I must think of my higher duty.’
And, oh, I could see it now. Age him thirty years and bulk him out; give him a moustache, whiten the hair and strip away the cassock, clothe him in English tweed with a fat-knotted necktie and a watch on a thin gold chain and a mustard-yellow waistcoat straining at the buttons. It was him.Hewas him.
My horror must have shown on my face, because Vittorio frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, and I quickly looked away. Tiberio, sensing my nerves, jumped down from my lap with a thud and stalked off.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘No, something is wrong – I can tell. Are you shocked? I oughtn’t have told you all those things about my parents.’ He shook his head. ‘Self-indulgent of me.’
‘It’s all right. I asked to you to tell me.’
‘Still. It’s unpleasant, and you have enough unpleasantness to be going on with. I should have thought before I opened my mouth. I’m sorry, Marta.’
I couldn’t bear his solicitousness. It made everything worse. ‘I’m sorry for you, that you suffered like that,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some tea.’ I stood and tried to pick up my cup and saucer, but that was a mistake. My hands shook violently and the china rattled and threatened to fall. I had to set it all down again; and sit down, too, before I stumbled.
Vittorio was looking at me and there was something terrible in his expression, the same cold horror I’d felt just a moment before. ‘Hang on,’ he said in a pale, quiet voice. ‘You know my father. Don’t you? You know my father and he said something, did something… I think you’d better tell me.’
*
Commendatore, I tried so hard to spare him – not for your sake, but for his. I began by telling him the blandest, the most stripped-down and flattened-out version of events I could possibly concoct. I had worked as your secretary for four years, and then, when the Racial Laws came in, you had dismissed me. I’d been upset at the time, yes, but when I thought about it – I said, swallowing down my nausea – when I actually thought about it, you had only done what countless other men in your position had done. You had acted to protect your livelihood. Really, my upset was with Mussolini, not with you.
But Vittorio was my friend, and he was your son. He wasn’t fooled for a moment. ‘But that’s not it,’ he said. ‘You’re not being honest with me, Marta. You’re trying to spare my feelings, but I don’t need you to do that, and I don’t want it, either. You must tell me the absolute truth. You won’t hurt me and you certainly won’t shock me. Nothing he does could shock me.’
So I told him what you’d promised me, and how you’d gone back on it. I told him what you’d said about your important Fascist clients. I recited the line about your ‘higher duty,’ and saw a look of disgust cross his face.
‘I hated working for your father,’ I said. ‘I hated him – I’m sorry, I did. That’s the truth. He was a bully and a boor, and whenever something reminds me of him, I become terribly angry at how he treated me. That’s why I got upset just now. So I was happy when he let me go – I walked out and I didn’t go back. It was all over and I never, ever saw him again.’
I thought that might satisfy Vittorio, but it didn’t. He leaned forward. ‘And then what happened?’ he asked.
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