Page 50 of Daughter of Genoa
Vittorio
He’s been wide awake all through the conversation with Marta, galvanised by indignation and anger and love. But now the adrenaline is subsiding. As he walks down via Assarotti, clutching the tonic bottle in its paper bag, all he can think about is getting back into bed. And he will, he promises himself. He’ll get into bed and stay there for as long as he needs to, until the miracle tonic has had its effect. Just as soon as he’s found don Francesco – or Cardinal Boetto, or Mr X if he must – and made his excuses. He’ll sleep and he’ll forget all about his father. He’ll forget about Marta’s hand resting in his.
He’s halfway around piazza Corvetto when he hears Fulvio calling him. ‘Father? Father Vittorio, over here.’
The old man is sitting on a bench in the shade, looking eagerly up at him. Vittorio hesitates, torn between affection, duty, and a sudden, vicious resentment.Another one who needs me. Can’t I ever be left alone?And then he feels instantly guilty, because he’s the one who’s needed Fulvio lately, and Fulvio has been very kind about it.
‘Hello,’ he says, and does his best to smile. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stop – I have to get back.’
‘That’s all right, Father, quite all right. I just wanted to see how you are. What’s that?’ He nods at the bottle in Vittorio’s hand. ‘Taken up drinking? You want a nice flask, like mine. Lot more subtle.’
Now Vittorio really does smile. He sits down next to Fulvio and hopes he’ll be able to get up again. ‘It’s just a tonic. I’ve been a bit run down.’
‘I’m not surprised. But how are you doing otherwise, if I may ask?’ He leans towards Vittorio, lowers his voice like a conspirator. ‘I don’t suppose she’s seen sense, your Marta? I know, I know,’ he says with a wry grimace. ‘You’re far too decent to steal her away for yourself. But part of me wishes you would. Call me an old romantic, but you’re a good soul and you deserve something in this world.’
‘Thank you,’ Vittorio says. ‘I’m afraid she hasn’t, uh… seen sense, and I shan’t try to steal her away, but I do feel better after our talk. You really helped me,’ he adds, and Fulvio beams at him.
‘Well, then, I’m pleased. I like to be useful.’
‘I must get going,’ Vittorio says, although he doesn’t want to at all. He wants to sit and rest on this bench, basking in friendship and warm noonday air. ‘Thank you again.’ He puts his hand out to Fulvio, and the old man takes it and shakes it warmly.
‘Take care of yourself, Father. See you next time.’
‘Take care.’ Vittorio forces himself to stand. His limbs are heavy and the tiredness is claiming him, relentless and dragging. ‘Goodbye, Fulvio.’
*
By the time he gets back to the Gesù, it’s all he can do to keep standing. He looks for don Francesco everywhere: in each of the parlours, in the library, the refectory, even the bathrooms. When he reaches the small chapel at the heart of the community house, he’s swaying on his feet.
And there he is, don Francesco: kneeling in the front pew before the tabernacle, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. Vittorio ought to leave quietly and pretend he’s seen nothing. But something drives him forward: need or compassion, he doesn’t know. He blesses himself with holy water from the stoup, genuflects to the Presence – he wavers and almost unbalances, saving himself just in time – and goes to sit next to don Francesco just as old Father Hugh sat next to him, all those years ago.
At first, he thinks the other man is too deep in prayer even to notice. But then don Francesco raises his head, crosses himself, and sits back in the pew. His face is streaked with tears; he doesn’t even try to hide them, only takes out a handkerchief and polishes the salt from his glasses. He looks very young all of a sudden. And he is young, isn’t he? He can’t be more than thirty.
‘Father Vittorio,’ he says. ‘How are things going today? Are you holding up?’
And he smiles his meek, friendly smile. But he’s so evidently distressed and exhausted that Vittorio wants to lie, like he has so many times already. Say that he’s quite all right, that he’s ready and willing for any new task. He can’t, though, not this time. This time, he has to admit defeat.
‘Not really,’ he admits. ‘I rather overestimated myself this morning. I’m afraid I might need to rest for a couple of days.’
Don Francesco is all concern. ‘But of course you must rest. You must do whatever you need. As a matter of fact,’ he says, ‘it wouldn’t hurt for you to lie low. I’m afraid the Germans might be starting to pay attention to our movements. Ever since Passo del Turchino, I’ve been uneasy.’
Vittorio turns cold. He remembers don Francesco going to Nazi headquarters two or three weeks ago, asking to recover the bodies of the fifty-nine prisoners dragged out and shot in retaliation for a partisan bomb that had killed five Germans. Ten dead Italians for one dead German, that was the rule. The Germans had actually arrested don Francesco and held him for a little while in Marassi prison, suspecting him of being an opponent of the Reich – which he was, of course – but he’d given them nothing, and had eventually been released. The bodies had stayed where they were, heaped in a mass grave at Passo del Turchino, high in the Ligurian hills. And now don Francesco was afraid.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘Oh, well, I’m not concerned for myself,’ don Francesco says, and wipes his eyes. ‘These are the risks one takes. But if they do happen to be watching – if they’re watching here, specifically, or looking out for priests in general – then it’s a good time to be cautious. You’re safe so long as you’re on Church property, so stay on it for now. Rest until you feel strong enough to work again, and then we shall see how things stand.’
‘I will. Thank you.’ He doesn’t know quite how to ask, but he has to try. ‘Don Francesco, are you… will you be all right?’
‘Quite all right, yes. As much as anyone could be. It’s just that, sometimes…’ Don Francesco sighs. ‘What was that phrase of Mr Churchill’s again? “Blood, sweat, toil, and tears”? Sometimes, Father Vittorio, I wonder how much of those I have left in me.’
34
Anna
By the time Massimo arrived that evening, I still hadn’t managed to calm my nerves. I couldn’t stop thinking about Vittorio’s stricken expression. What good had it done to unburden myself? What could it possibly change, other than hurting him and altering our friendship forever? I felt wretched, and I wished I could throw myself into Massimo’s arms and tell him everything. But I’d promised Vittorio I wouldn’t say anything about what we’d discussed. If I could do nothing else for him, I could do that.
Massimo noticed, of course. He drew his chair up to mine and took my hands in his. ‘Anna, what’s wrong? Is something worrying you?’
