Authors: William Trevor
I suggested, though diffidently, that none of us can get through a night’s sleep without the assistance of dreams. Sometimes we forget we dream. We remember briefly and then forget. Or do not remember at all.
‘I am not familiar with the subject,’ Mr Riversmith said.
Hoping to encourage him, I carefully retailed the details of the dream. I described the boy he’d been. I described the child his sister, Phyl, had been. I asked him if he remembered a Venetian blind that on occasion might have rattled, a slat tapping against the kitchen window-frame.
‘No.’
The reply came too quickly. To remember, it is necessary to think for a moment, even for several minutes. But I didn’t want to press any of this. I finished my drink and pushed away a plate of soup, not caring for the taste of it. It was disappointing that Mr Riversmith wasn’t going to bother, but of course it couldn’t be helped.
‘I just thought I’d mention it,’ I said.
I don’t think he spoke again while we had lunch but afterwards, as we walked through the streets to where the car was, I noticed to my surprise that he attempted to engage Rosa Crevelli in conversation. Since her English scarcely exists, it must have been an extremely frustrating experience for him. It was all the more bewildering that he appeared to persevere.
I was a little upset by this and somewhat gloomily walked with the General, whose slow pace suited me. The day before I’d noticed further letters from the two firms of solicitors, so I raised the subject as we made our way together.
‘I’ve written to say I am creating a garden.’
‘Good for you, General!’
‘I’ve been meaning to say, actually: you’ve no objection to Otmar and myself delaying our departure a while, have you?’
‘Of course I haven’t.’
‘He’s nervous to mention it to you, but he’s wondering if the garden could be his way of paying for his board and lodging?’
‘Of course it could be.’
‘From me, it’s a gift, you understand? I shall continue to pay my weekly whack.’
‘That’s as you like, General.’
Since we were passing various small cafés and bars I suggested that he might rest for a few minutes and have another cup of coffee. He readily agreed, and when we found somewhere agreeable I decided not to have more coffee but ordered a glass of grappa instead.
‘A garden can’t make up for anything.’ The old man, quite suddenly, returned to the subject, perhaps feeling that this was the time to say it, now that he had me on my own for a few minutes. ‘But at least it will mark our recovery in your house.’
‘Stay as long as you like.’ I replied softly, knowing that that, really, was what we were talking about.
‘You’re kind,’ he said.
We made a detour on our journey back to my house, turning off the main road and winding our way up to a Benedictine monastery. It was cool and leafy, with a coloured sculpture high up in an archway, and another in the same position on the other side: this is the abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore, as close to heaven on earth as you will ever find. With the exception of the General, we all descended several flights of steps, through a forest of trees, to the monks’ church in a cool hollow below. Along the cloisters were murals of St Benedict’s life. Doves cooed at one another, occasionally breaking into flight. In the monks’ shop mementoes were laid out tastefully.
‘Gosh!’ Aimée exclaimed, as delighted as she’d been by the picture of the shepherds and by the hen I’d bought. ‘Otmar, isn’t it fantastic?’
Otmar was always there, unobtrusively behind her. His devotion was remarkable, and constantly she turned to him, to share a detail that had caught her imagination or to tell him something she’d thought of, or just to smile.
‘It is fantastic,’ he said.
‘What’s “fantastic” in German, Otmar?’
‘
Phantastisch
.’
‘
Phantastisch
.’
‘That is good, Aimée.’
‘Would a German understand me?’
‘
Ja. Ja
.’
‘Tell me another word. Tell me the name of a bird.’
‘
Taube
is for dove.
Möwe
is for seagull.’
‘How do you say “beautiful”?’
‘
Schön
is for beautiful.’
‘
Schön
.’
‘That is good.’
‘
Möwe
.’
‘That is good too.’
Mr Riversmith bought her a little red and green box with drawers in it, and then we climbed back to where the General awaited us. He had found a tea-room and was reading about flowers again.
‘It’s really beautiful down there,’ Aimée told him. ‘A monk patted my head.’
As we moved towards the car I managed to draw Otmar aside, to reassure him that his proposal for paying what was owing was quite acceptable, and to repeat that he, too, was welcome to remain in my house for as long as he wished.
‘I have no skills for the work. I bring no knowledge.’
I reassured him on this point also, and for some reason as I did so a vivid picture came into my mind: of his buying the railway tickets to Milan on 5 May and counting the notes he received in change. ‘Shall we have a cappuccino?’ Madeleine suggested. ‘There’s time.’ I might have placed a hand on the shoulder from which his arm had been cut away, but somehow I could not bring myself to do so. I might have said he must not blame himself. Without knowing anything, I might have said it was all right.
‘It is possible,’ I said instead. ‘A life you did not think of when you lay in that hospital is possible, Otmar.’
For a second the eyes behind the large spectacles fearfully met mine. I remembered his fingers interlaced with Madeleine’s, and the old man as straight as a ramrod beside his daughter. I remembered the two children arguing in whispers, and a workman with a shovel, standing by the railway line.
‘She is going back to America,’ Otmar said, and there our conversation ended.
In the car Quinty regaled Mr Riversmith with information
he’d picked up somewhere about St Mary of Egypt. ‘Singer and actress she used to be,’ his voice drifted back to where I was sitting, and he went on about how scavenging dogs wouldn’t touch the remains of St Bibiana, and how the Blessed Lucy endured a loss of blood through her stigmata every Wednesday and Friday for three years. I was unable to hear how Mr Riversmith responded and didn’t particularly try to, because that Quinty was having a field day didn’t matter any more. What mattered was that Mr Riversmith was an ambitious man: that hadn’t occurred to me before. He was ambitious and Francine was ambitious for him, and for herself. There were other professors with microscopes, watching other colonies of ants in other trees. He and Francine had to keep ahead. They had to get there first. What time could they devote to a child who had so tiresomely come out of the blue? Would serious ambition be interrupted in Virginsville, Pennsylvania? That’s what I wondered as Quinty continued to be silly and Mr Riversmith, poor man, was obliged to listen.
When we returned I lay down for an hour; it was almost seven when I appeared downstairs again. Aimée was in bed, the General said, and wished to say good-night to her uncle and myself. He and I went together to her room, where the shutters had been latched to create an evening twilight. When Mr Riversmith spoke her name she answered at once. I sat on the edge of the bed. He stood.
‘Aimée, I would like you to have the hen I bought. It’s a present for you.’
To my surprise, she seemed bewildered. Her face puckered, as if what I’d said made no sense. Then she turned to her uncle.
‘I didn’t ever know there was a quarrel.’
‘It wasn’t important.’
‘But it
happened
.’
‘Yes, it happened.’
Since that seemed inadequate, I added:
‘Disagreements don’t much matter, Aimée.’ And deliberately changing the subject, I added: ‘Remember the picture of the shepherds?’
‘Shepherds?’
‘The shepherds with their dog.’
‘And a
hen
?’
‘No, no. The hen was what I bought for you.’
‘What else was in the picture?’
‘Well, sheep in a pen.’
‘What else?’
‘There were hills and houses,’ Mr Riversmith said, and although I wasn’t looking at him I guessed that that familiar frown was gathering on his brow.
‘And eight trees,’ I added. ‘Don’t you remember, we counted them?’
Through the gloom I watched her shaking her head. Her uncle said:
‘I guess you remember the angel in the sky, Aimée?’
‘Have you come to say good-night? I’m sleepy now.’
I mentioned the visit to the monastery, but the entire day except for that reference to a quarrel appeared to have been erased from Aimée’s memory. Her breathing deepened while we remained with her. I could tell she was asleep.
‘This isn’t good,’ her uncle said.
Of course the man was upset; in the circumstances anyone would be. He asked if he might telephone Dr Innocenti, and did so from the hall. I listened on the extension in my private room, feeling the matter concerned me.
‘Yes, there will be this,’ Dr Innocenti said.
‘The child’s suffering from periodic amnesia, doctor.’
‘So might you be, signore, if you had experienced what your niece has.’
‘But this came on so suddenly. Was it the excitement today, the visit to Siena?’
‘I would not say so, signore.’
Mr Riversmith said he had arranged to return to Pennsylvania with Aimée in four days’ time. He wondered if he’d been hasty. He wondered if his niece should be taken back to the hospital for observation.
‘The journey will not harm your niece, signore.’
‘All day she seemed fine.’
‘I can assure you, signore, she has recovered more of herself than we once had hopes of in the hospital. What remains must be left to passing time. And perhaps a little to good fortune. Do not be melancholy, signore.’
Naturally, in all honesty, Dr Innocenti had had to say that the journey would not be harmful. It was not the journey we had to dwell upon but the destination. And this was not something Dr Innocenti could presume to mention. There were further reassurances, but clearly Mr Riversmith remained far from relieved. No sooner had the conversation with Dr Innocenti come to an end than he made a call to his wife in Virginsville. I guessed he would, and again picked up the receiver in my room. She was not surprised, the woman said. In a case like this nothing could be expected to be straightforward. Her voice was hoarse, deep as a man’s, and because I’d heard it I at last pictured without difficulty the woman to whom it belonged: a skinny, weather-beaten face, myopic eyes beneath a lank fringe, eyebrows left unplucked.
‘What you need’s a good stiff drink,’ I said a little later, when Mr Riversmith appeared in the
salotto
. He looked shaken. For all I knew, she’d given him gip after I’d put the receiver down. For all I knew, this weather-beaten woman blamed him for the mess they’d got into – having to give a home to a child who by the sound of things was as nutty as a fruitcake. Added to which, the heat in Siena might well have adversely affected the poor man’s jet-lag. I poured him some whisky, since whisky’s best for shock.
10
After I’d had my bath that evening I happened to catch a glimpse of myself, as yet unclothed, in my long bedroom mirror. My skin was still mottled from the warm water, the wounds of 5 May healed into vivid scars. A dark splotch of stomach hair emphasized the fleshiness that was everywhere repeated – in cheeks and thighs, breasts, arms and shoulders. To tell you the truth, I think it suits me particularly well in my middle age. I’d feel uneasy scrawny.
I chose that evening a yellow and jade outfit, a pattern of ferns on a pale, cool ground. I added jewellery – simple gold discs as earrings, necklace to match, rings and a bangle. Not hurrying, I made my face up, and applied fresh varnish to my fingernails. My shoes, high-heeled and strapped, matched the jade of my dress.
‘You’re putting us to shame tonight,’ the General remarked as we sat to dinner on the terrace, and you could see that Otmar was impressed as well. But Mr Riversmith reacted in no way whatsoever. All during dinner you could tell that he was worried about the child.
‘You mustn’t be,’ I said when we were alone. A local man who hired machines for ploughing had arrived, and the General and Otmar had gone to talk to him at the back of the house.
‘She’s suffering from a form of amnesia,’ Mr Riversmith said. ‘She draws the pictures and then forgets she’s done them. She’s forgotten a whole day.’
‘We’re lucky to have Dr Innocenti here.’
‘Why did the German say he’d drawn the pictures?’
‘I suppose because there must be an explanation for the pictures’ existence. It would be worrying for Aimée otherwise.’
‘It isn’t true. It causes a confusion.’
Because of his distress he was as forthcoming as he’d been when he’d felt guilty about his sister. Distress brings talk with it. I’ve noticed that. In fairness you couldn’t have called him ambitious now.
‘Look at it this way, Mr Riversmith: an event such as we’ve shared draws people together. It could be that survivors understand one another.’
His dark brows came closer together, his lips pursed, then tightened and then relaxed. I watched him thinking about what I’d said. He neither nodded nor shook his head, and it was then that it occurred to me he bore a very faint resemblance to Joseph Cotten. I didn’t remark on it, but made the point that all four of us would not, ordinarily, have discovered a common ground.
‘D’you happen to know if they’ve given up on the case?’ he asked, not responding to what I’d said.
I didn’t know the answer to this question. Since the detectives had ceased to come to my house we’d been a little out of touch with that side of things. The last I’d heard was that they considered their best hope to be the establishing of a connection between the events of 5 May and some other outrage, even one that hadn’t yet occurred. I repeated all that, and Mr Riversmith drily observed:
‘As detective-work goes, I guess that’s hardly reassuring.’
I sipped my drink, not saying anything. It was Joseph Cotten’s style, rather than a resemblance. A pipe would not have seemed amiss, clenched between his strong-seeming teeth. You didn’t often see those teeth because he so rarely smiled. Increasingly that seemed a pity.