Restoration Page 12

  After making love, we lay in bed side by side, listening to the silence, finding each other’s hands. We kept the window open, barely exchanging a word.

  After ten days I could extend my visit no longer. We decided to meet again as soon as possible, either in Florence or in Rome, where he was about to start a job at a small law firm.

  I had only talked to you once on the phone during my visit. You had asked about my mother and I had said, “She’s better.” I omitted to tell you that the broken leg had been a fabrication, having no desire to cut my visit short.

  I FELT SICK IN THE CAR FROM FLORENCE, TORMENTED by mingled loss and guilt. I tried to commit everything about Connor to memory, afraid I would forget some essential quality—his eyes or the movement of his hands, or his voice, whispering so delightfully in my ear as we lay watching the breeze stirring the curtains in the hotel room. I dreaded my homecoming, terrified that you would be able to tell what I’d done, and had to ask the driver to stop more than once so that I could get some fresh air. But I calmed down eventually, and as we drove up the valley and I saw the cloud of dust rising from the quarry at the eastern end of the hill, I felt I had recovered my composure.

  As strange as it may sound, our relationship improved after my return from Florence. I am not saying it in an attempt to excuse myself; it just happened that way. I made an effort and you responded in kind; we became warmer toward each other, trying to nip all disagreements in the bud, sometimes touching for no reason. We hadn’t slept together for a while but this now changed when, the day after I came back, you and I made love as tenderly as when we first met. It was as if months or even years of strain and disappointments had been wiped away. You held me in your arms all night, wouldn’t even let go in your sleep. When we awoke, you didn’t say anything but looked at me with a smile that almost broke my heart.

  That morning I sat down at the desk in my bedroom and wrote Connor a letter, telling him that I had made a terrible mistake, apologizing profusely, wishing him well. It was poorly written, but wanting to get it out of the house as soon as possible, I didn’t take time to improve it. He didn’t respond for a long time, and I did everything I could to stop thinking about him.

  I achieved a great deal that summer. I planted wisteria and many varieties of roses, and helped Pritchett clip the new hedge in the English garden. It had been a cold, windy spring, mice had eaten the carpets, and the damp had made it impossible to tune the piano, but summer arrived with the most glorious weather imaginable: hot, sunny days and warm nights.

  When I discovered at the beginning of November that I was pregnant, we were both happy, you not least. You behaved like an excited little boy, laying your ear to my stomach when we got into bed in the evenings and forever ordering me to be careful, not to bump into anything, not to overdo it, and to make sure I didn’t trip. We had tried in the past, most recently a year before, and when nothing happened, it was as if we had failed. At least that’s how I felt, and although you never admitted it, I could tell that you felt that way too. After that we seemed incapable of bringing ourselves to make love; the passion had gone and the act had become a mechanical chore with a specific aim—just like the improvements on the hills, the construction of roads, dams, and bridges.

  I chose an obstetrician in Rome for reasons that had nothing to do with Connor. Dr. Lombardi had looked after your cousin during a difficult pregnancy and was widely respected. I thought the local doctor was good enough but you wouldn’t hear of it.

  Connor’s letter arrived three days before my first appointment with Dr. Lombardi. While it was short, I could sense that he had rewritten it a thousand times, not knowing what tone to strike. At the end of it, he begged me to meet him one last time, if only to properly say good-bye. I decided to call him that afternoon and arrange a meeting in Rome. I told him to meet me at three o’clock the following Wednesday in the lobby of my hotel and asked that he follow me discreetly up to my room since I didn’t want to be seen with him in public. I would explain everything and that would be it. We would part friends; he would go on with his life, I with mine.

  On the train to Rome, I scripted my speech to him, even writing down parts of it. By the time I was done, I felt pleased with it, convinced that within hours I would be putting this episode behind me in a careful and responsible manner.

  It was therefore surprising how nervous I felt when I disembarked and hurried from the station into the city. Dr. Lombardi noticed my agitation but naturally could not guess the reason for it.

  “You’ve no need to worry,” he said. “Everything looks fine. You’re a fit young lady and really don’t need any special care.”

  I had left my suitcase behind at the hotel on Via Veneto, next door to René’s hair salon which would later become popular with the wives and mistresses of German officers. It was before three o’clock when I returned from the doctor but Connor was already waiting for me at the bar in the lobby and must have been watching the door, as he noticed me the moment I entered. Without making any sign, he followed me at a little distance to the lift and waited there with me, not saying a word. We were not alone and he stood behind me on the way up. My room was at the end of the corridor and I made for it without looking back. I could hear his footsteps behind me and slowed down when I realized how much I missed him and wanted to be with him, almost coming to a halt. He slowed down too. But then I continued, opening the door to the room, leaving it ajar, taking a few steps inside. The curtains were drawn back and the sun shone on the blue wallpaper and an opalescent vase of yellow flowers that stood on the mahogany table by the window. As I stood there in the silence, I heard him close the door.

  He didn’t say anything but took me in his arms and kissed me on my neck.

  “Connor,” I started but failed to continue when I felt his hands on my shoulders and breasts.

  After making love, we lay as we had done in the hotel room in Florence, side by side, listening to the din from the street.

  “Why don’t you leave him?”

  His question caught me unawares.

  “You know how much I love you.”

  I reached for his hand, stroking it with my thumb.

  “There’s nothing to hold you,” he continued. “While you don’t have any children.”

  I hadn’t yet told him I was pregnant. I had meant to but couldn’t find the words.

  “Shh,” I said. “Let’s not talk.”

  He was quiet, but I could sense from the tension in his hand that the same question remained on his lips. I sensed it as I caressed his hand with my thumb and when I took hold of his long, lean fingers. His hand lay still; he did not caress me in return but neither did he pull it away.

  As the light faded and the rumble from the street died down, my eyelids drooped. When I woke up, he had gone.

  I hadn’t unpacked my suitcase when I checked into the hotel. It stood on the floor in front of the wardrobe and I contemplated it in the dusk as I grasped the fact that Connor was no longer with me. Sitting up in bed, I switched on the lamp to see if he had written me a note. I was surprised when I saw that he hadn’t.

  It was only just past seven o’clock, yet it seemed much later. Feeling uneasy, I went into the bathroom where I washed my face with cold water. I was drying it when I heard the chambermaid knock at the door to inform me that there was a phone call for me down in reception.

  I hurried down, convinced it was Connor ringing to explain or apologize for his disappearance. So I was unprepared for the sound of your voice and my reaction gave me away.

  “You didn’t call after seeing the doctor. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it’s all right.”

  All of a sudden I found that I was shaking.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Is everything all right? What did the doctor say?”

  “That it all looks normal,” I reassured you.

  “Thank God. I was start
ing to worry.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Alice, what’s the matter?”

  Realizing that my voice was about to break, I had to put an end to the conversation.

  “I want to come home,” I said. “Tonight.”

  I hadn’t intended to return until the following day and had missed the last train. But I couldn’t bear to stay; I felt that everything I held dear was slipping from my grasp. When I went up to my room and looked in the bathroom mirror, I saw that I was deathly pale. You’re despicable, a voice whispered in my head. Despicable.

  Suddenly weak at the knees, I slumped to the floor and sat there as if paralyzed until there was a knock at the door. It took me a long time to get to my feet and answer it, and the chambermaid was clearly startled when I opened the door.

  “Your husband rang,” she said, avoiding my eye. “He’s found you a car.”

  We set off at nine o’clock. The driver was a young man whose father owned the car but as he was getting on, his son had largely taken over the job. He told me this, as well as a number of other things that I’ve forgotten. He was chatty but I sat silently in the back, trying to get a grip on myself. It wasn’t easy; the voice in my head persisted and was unsparing, yet not as merciless as it was to become later. I pictured you at the train station when I left, calling after me: “Take good care! Don’t carry your case yourself!”—still standing on the platform as the train had pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” I heard the driver say when I didn’t answer one of his questions. “I talk too much.”

  He was a nice young man. The sound of his gentle, cheery voice made me feel better, and I told him so.

  Gradually I calmed down, and by the time we were well on the way home, I had begun to see my life in a clearer light than before. I had made a terrible mistake, but it was not irrevocable. Connor had done me a favor by leaving; we had no future. I didn’t blame him. He had said he loved me but I had been unable to return the words, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

  I’ve behaved like a spoiled child, I told myself in the darkness on the journey home. I’ve jeopardized everything with my selfish irresponsibility. Thank God I’ve come to my senses.

  It was late at night by the time we drove up the road to the house. The odd bird, awakened by our passing, flew into the beam of the headlights; otherwise all was quiet. You were waiting for me in front of the house and came over to the car the moment it stopped. You looked anxious but this changed when you bent down and saw my face. You hugged me and I began to sob.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” you said, stroking my cheek. “It’s okay. I’m glad you came back tonight.”

  As we walked into the house hand in hand, the moon lit up the hillside and the ribbons of mist down in the valley.

  I live on a farm in the south of Tuscany, I wrote in my diary the following morning. Twelve miles from the nearest railway station and five from the nearest village. I never want to leave.

  WHEN THE FRONT LINE REACHES US, THE VIOLENCE we have witnessed so far—partisan skirmishing, the odd air raid, random executions by Germans and Fascists—will seem like a mere rehearsal.

  There is fighting around Orvieto and on the roads north, and we can hear the rumble of guns from beyond Radicofani, which presumably means that the Allies have reached Acquapendente. They are advancing fast; it’s only four days since they took Bracciano. The traffic in the valley was heavy during the night as the Germans prepared for battle. They have set up antiaircraft guns by the city gates, according to the plumber who came from Montepulciano yesterday to repair a broken pump, and from tomorrow will embark on a house-to-house search for partisans and other hostile elements. This may only be a rumor but we can’t take any chances and have told the farmers to make sure that any partisans they may be sheltering will be gone by sunset. Signorina Harris has been attending to a Brit and a partisan in the clinic; two of the farmhands are taking them into the woods where they can hide.

  Meanwhile, I ask Melchiorre to get ready to take me to Montepulciano. We’re running short of medicines and I blame myself for not having gone earlier. Pritchett is not pleased that I’m making this trip but knows that there is no way around it. I don’t expect it will be easy to convince the officer—or doctor, rather—to part with even a small portion of his valuable supplies, but I’m relying on my belief that he’s a sensible man. I may also ask him if we can have back the buildings that he requisitioned but hasn’t yet made use of for purposes other than storage.

  Before we leave, Pritchett hands Melchiorre a revolver. He hesitates before taking it, and I can see him thinking back to the night in chapel.

  “It’s all right,” I tell him. “I trust you with it. We all do.”

  He finally takes it and quickly shoves it under his seat.

  The road is in a bad state and our progress is slow. Everything is quiet at first; there’s no traffic because the Germans avoid the road in daylight and the country people don’t take unnecessary risks. We notice two German military trucks in a clearing halfway between San Martino and Montepulciano; they are camouflaged with branches and leaves and the soldiers are sitting on the hood of one and the roof of the other, scanning the sky for aircraft. But there are no planes to be seen, not until we approach Montepulciano; then one heads straight for us, abruptly lowering its trajectory. We leap out of the cart and take cover in a ditch beside the road but there is no need, since the plane climbs again and vanishes behind Monte Amiata.

  As we approach Montepulciano, I see the antiaircraft guns by the city gates. It is a chilling feeling to look down their barrels, and Melchiorre tightens the reins a little before he recovers. A soldier stops us when we reach the gate and walks around the cart. He does not speak and after a short pause waves us on. I sense that Melchiorre is jumpy and say to him, “You’re doing well.”

  The horse is tired and plods slowly across the piazza inside the gate. The sun gleams on its sweaty neck, but disappears as we climb the cobbled street that opens off the square. The buildings cast a cool shade and it is so quiet that we can hear nothing but the rattling of the wheels and the echo of hooves. The houses are shuttered, all the shops closed, and for a moment I feel as if we have entered a ghost town. Then I see a woman with a basket on her arm appear at the end of the street and later a crowd in the Piazza Grande in front of the cathedral with its unfinished campanile. The hospital stands on the other side of the hill, the northern side, and silence envelops our journey there, deadening the hoofbeats and filling me with misgiving. I tell myself that there is no reason to be afraid; the inhabitants are sensible to keep a low profile, and anyway the sun is at its noontide zenith, the hour of the siesta. Yet I jump when the church clock strikes one. My heart pounds in my chest and takes a long time to slow down.

  I wonder if I should take Melchiorre in with me but decide against it. He drives into the shade beside the entrance, climbs down from the cart and fetches water for the horse. I watch him walk away up the street, holding a bucket in his right hand, its handle squeaking as it swings to and fro.

  Outside the hospital two soldiers are sitting in chairs, smoking. One of them makes as if to stand up when I enter, but changes his mind. Inside the cool lobby I ask after the doctor and am kept waiting for quite some time. When he eventually appears, he says, “You shouldn’t be here.”

  His manner is not curt but I’m taken aback nonetheless.

  “We need medicines,” I say, giving him the list of what Signorina Harris has requested. He hurriedly runs his eyes down it.

  “You couldn’t have come at a worse time,” he says, handing the list back.

  Beckoning me to follow, he strides quickly down the corridor, without looking left or right. I see into two small wards where staff are tending to patients, then a large room where one bed after another is being made up. There are two long rows of them against the walls and there is a window at the end of the ward; everything is white and orderl
y and the floor gleams with polish. All the beds are empty. From the window the dome of the church of Madonna di San Biagio can be seen on the hillside below the city wall, dazzlingly white in the sunshine. I slow down and the girls and boy who are making up the beds, clearly all locals, look up in my direction. I quicken my pace again, as the doctor is now far ahead.

  He is already gathering the medicines together by the time I catch up with him at the medicine store in a room off the end of the corridor. Assuming that he won’t be able to remember the list, I hesitantly hold it out to him. But he doesn’t give it a glance, just hastily takes bottles and jars from the cupboard and tells me to open my bag. I obey and together we arrange the medicines inside it; those there is no room for—two small bottles—I stick in the pockets of my dress.

  On my way here I had worked out how I was going to ask him to assist us and the people we are sheltering when the front line comes our way. But I was given no opportunity to raise the issue because he glanced at his watch, shook his head, and said, “You shouldn’t have come. Get off home as fast as you can. Hopefully you’ll escape.”

  “What do you mean?” I finally had the presence of mind to ask but he didn’t answer, simply steered me into the corridor and led me to the entrance.

  “On such a beautiful day too,” he said when we emerged. “Signora Orsini, get out of here as fast as you can.”

  The soldiers who had been sitting by the door smoking when we arrived were now nowhere to be seen. Melchiorre had watered the horse and was waiting by the cart. He helped me up and the doctor stood in the doorway, watching us with a look of impatience. He did not say good-bye as we slowly set off but his eyes followed our progress up the street.

  I remember what I was thinking when we set off from the hospital. I remember it clearly because it was in no way related to the doctor’s behavior or the sense of foreboding that accompanied the treacherous silence. It suddenly struck me what a beautiful little town Montepulciano was. Here it has towered on its chalk escarpment for centuries, I said to myself, poised between heaven and earth, like some covenant between God and man, the work of both, enjoying the blue of the sky and the scent of the earth. Here it has stood, through war and catastrophe, representative of eternity in our little district.