The Grey Beginning, page 16
“Each to his own lowbrow tastes, thank you. I prefer to wallow in crime and in chocolates. Have one?” He shook his head. I offered the bag to Rosa, who had returned to her seat and was watching me somewhat warily. She accepted a piece of candy and crunched it between her teeth with such relish that I put a handful of it into a dish. “I can see you’re a fellow chocolate fiend, Rosa.”
David translated, and Rosa’s face broadened into a grin. She nodded vigorously. “Grazie, signora—molto grazie.”
I patted her on the shoulder. “Enjoy yourselves. Buona notte, Rosa. Good night, David.”
Before I so much as closed the door they were deeply involved in the drama. The screen blurred and flickered, but it didn’t seem to bother them; Rosa shook with laughter at some quip of J. R.’s and nudged David. I was tempted to stay. They looked so comfortable—so happily lowbrow, like me.
The house was quiet and deserted. I barely saw Emilia’s apron fluttering around a corner.
I had to shift my parcels to turn the doorknob. The books slipped again and I made a rush for the bed, reaching it just in time to spill books and parcels onto its surface. Then I jumped back with a gasp. My fingers had touched something wet and slimy.
There was a lamp on the bedside table, but I wanted to get as far from the foul thing as I could. And I had thought I was being morbid when I speculated about snakes in my bed! I found the light switch by the door, and pressed it.
It wasn’t a snake. It was the mutilated remains of my pretty flowers, crushed and torn, oozing sap like blood from their broken stems.
Chapter
7
MY ANGER WASN’T OF THE SPEECHLESS VARIETY THIS time; I swore at some length, using several expressions of which my father would not have approved. (“Big as you are, don’t think you can use swear words in my presence, young lady—and it’s no lady you are to say such things.”)
Francesca had disapproved of my going out with Sebastiano, but I didn’t suspect her of committing this vulgarity. It was worse than vulgar, it was obscene. The flowers had been so fragile and pretty. They had been not only crushed, but wrenched and ripped by hard, spiteful hands. I was sure the hands had been Emilia’s; but was it Francesca who had prompted the destruction? Like Henry the Second and Thomas à Becket—“who will free me from this turbulent priest?”
I couldn’t leave the mess, it was smack in the middle of the velvet spread. I cleared it away, but it left a disfiguring stain, like the stain of memory in my mind that could never be forgotten.
The fit of rage on top of an active day and little sleep the night before left me exhausted. I got undressed and climbed into bed with my pile of books and my chocolates and my carafe of water on the table beside me. Eating chocolates always makes me thirsty, and I intended to eat every last one of them. The water had looked stale, beaded with tiny drops and hazy with sediment, so I rinsed it out and refilled it.
The nice proper English detective story or the decapitated head? I sorted through the pile, trying to decide, and realized I had acquired an extra book. As soon as I saw the title I knew how it had got there. Collected Poems of Robert Browning. David must have brought it down with him intending to give it to me, and sneaked it into the pile. What a nut he was.
I tossed it aside and opted for the detective story. Decapitated heads were too suggestive of my murdered flowers. But the detective story was dull, and by the time I had eaten my chocolates (filled with peculiar combinations of liquor, nougat, and marzipan) I decided I didn’t care who had murdered Lord Billingsgate.
The only Browning I could remember reading was My Last Duchess. It had been a requirement one year in high school. I had hated it. At the time I didn’t understand why I hated it; it takes a certain experience to comprehend fully the chilling, subtle evil of the Duke. As I leafed through the book I found other familiar lines that I hadn’t known were Browning’s. “God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world.” Says who, Robert Browning? With a little snort of laughter I recognized the line I had overheard the first day I met David. “My scrofulous French novel, On gray paper with blunt type….” Poor Brother Lawrence, in his Spanish cloister!
I remembered David saying that the Brownings had lived in Florence. I must ask him to show me the house, if it was still standing. Although I had never had much use for Robert, I had adored Elizabeth, especially the sloppier, super-romantic sonnets. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Robert must have had some good qualities to inspire those words.
Actually, he wasn’t such a bad poet himself, I decided after a while. I read “Andrea del Sarto” and “Fra Lippo Lippi” because I recognized the names—they were Florentine painters—skipping a lot, because the poems were awfully long-winded. There were some good lines, though. The ending of “Fra Lippo Lippi” rather caught my fancy; the old rascal is on his way back to the monastery after an un-clerical night on the town when he is stopped by the watch. “No lights, no lights,” he begs. “The street’s hushed and I know my own way back. Don’t fear me! There’s the grey beginning….”
I wished I could be sure I knew my own way back. I had taken the first stumbling steps, but the end of the road was lost in darkness, without any sign of the gray light of dawn.
When the sounds woke me it was the dead, silent center of the night. The moon had set; faint starlight delineated the window. The sounds were coming from inside my room. The hair on the back of my neck lifted as I listened.
I sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. He was huddled on the floor just inside the door. Both hands clutched the leg of the chair in a grip that whitened his knuckles. His pajamas stuck to every fragile bone; they were soaking wet, as if he had stood under a shower. The sudden burst of light dilated his pupils to black, hiding the silver-gray. He forced one word out of his distorted mouth. “Help…”
I ran to him and scooped him up bodily. His bones felt like the hollow bones of a bird, and waves of shivering ran through him.
“Pete! For God’s sake, honey, what is it? What happened?”
“Don’t let them…” His teeth were chattering so violently he couldn’t get the rest of the word out. His crooked fingers dug into me like the kitten’s claws.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anybody do anything. It’s all right….” I went on crooning meaningless words of reassurance as I carried him to the bed, meaning to wrap him in the blanket. Luckily I was still holding him when it happened. Every muscle in his body went into a spasm, hardening like wood. The hands that had clung now struck out at me. His flattened palm cut a stinging slash across my cheek. At first I thought he was having an epileptic seizure. Then I saw his face, and reeled, almost losing my hold, as his fist smacked into the side of my head.
We fell onto the mattress, with me on top. My body pinned his arms to the bed, but he continued to struggle, writhing and kicking with an unnatural strength. I must have outweighed him by fifty pounds, but I could barely hold him down. That was all I could think to do, and all I could manage—hold him, keep him from hurting me or himself, until the attack passed. But every now and then I could have sworn that something flickered behind the eyes that were narrowed with rage—something frightened and bewildered, begging for the help he could not request in words.
The fit passed as suddenly as it had erupted. His eyes closed. I thought he had lost consciousness, and was about to shift my weight when his dark lashes fluttered. He whispered, “Are they gone? Are they gone?”
“There’s nobody here but me,” I said, fighting to keep my voice calm.
“Signora?”
“Yes. It’s all right, honey.”
His lashes stuck together in wet points. I rolled over and took him in my arms. “It’s all right. Everything is all right now.”
It wasn’t all right, though. He couldn’t look at me. He risked one quick glance, and then scuttled on hands and knees to the farthest corner of the bed, where he huddled against the headboard with his hands pressed to his eyes. When I tried to touch him he let out a thin mewing scream, like a rabbit cornered by hounds.
Sometimes, during that long night, I looked at the clock. The hands didn’t seem to move. It was still dark outside when at last he ventured to open his eyes. I was sitting as close as I dared, ready to grab him if he went into another convulsion. But it was over—whatever it was. His chest rose in a sharp sigh. “Signora.”
“It’s me.”
His arm lifted, with painful slowness. I took his hand, but that wasn’t what he wanted. His fingers squirmed free and reached for my face. They traced every feature, as a blind person might. He could see, though. His eyes were focused and aware.
“It is you,” he said. “I am very sleepy, signora.”
“Me too. Get under the covers. You can stay here the rest of the night.”
He rubbed his eyes fretfully. “No. I must be there, in my bed. I must see where Joe is.”
My heart gave a painful lurch. If Francesca had been right—if he had struck at the kitten as he struck at me…“Okay,” I said. “I’ll carry you.”
I couldn’t manage it. He was too heavy and the stairs were too steep. We staggered up them together, leaning on one another. His door was closed but not locked. The kitten was nowhere in sight.
Pete went straight to the wardrobe and opened its door, to be greeted by a reproachful yowl. Like a true philosopher Joe had whiled away the hours of his imprisonment by sleeping. He rose in one of those fabulous stretches only felines can achieve, back arched, tail stiff. Pete dropped to the floor. “He is safe,” he murmured. “Joe is o-kay. They didn’t…”
He fell asleep sitting there. I caught him as he swayed and lifted him onto his bed. With a businesslike air, Joe headed for the litter box. I found clean clothes in a drawer and changed Pete’s pajamas. His muscles were relaxed like those of any sleeping child. His lashes lay soft on his cheeks. I had to lift him to get his arms into the pajama top. His eyes opened a slit. A smile curved his lips. “I came to you,” he murmured. “I did it. To you.”
I spent what was left of the night lying on the rug by his bed. Joe kept me on the qui vive, walking up and down my body and nibbling my hair. Not until the room grew light did I get stiffly to my feet. The child was deeply, peacefully asleep, the cat curled up against his back. Through the barred window I could see the cypresses taking shape against the gray dawn. “There’s the grey beginning….” But not here. Not in this room.
II
I didn’t expect to sleep, but I did, instantly, like someone who has been hit over the head. From the angle of the sunlight streaming in when I woke I knew it must be late. Memory returned, total and horrifying. I got out of bed so fast my head swam, and I had to sit down for a minute.
Finally I opened my door and looked out. The house was as silent as a tomb, but Emilia must have been waiting for me to show signs of life, for she appeared instantly. “You are awake, signora. You wish breakfast?”
“Please. Where—where is everybody?”
“Alla chiesa, signora.”
Her expression and her tone implied that I should have been at the chiesa too. I couldn’t have cared less what she thought of my devotional failures. I said, “And Pete—il conte—is he at church too?”
“Sì, signora. Naturalmente.”
I closed the door, practically in Emilia’s face, and collapsed into the chair. Naturally il conte was at church. Naturally.
Then he was all right. He was functioning normally. No one had noticed anything wrong.
I sat staring at my bare feet until Emilia came back with my tray. The coffee restored a few of my wits. Could I have dreamed the whole ghastly episode? My aching muscles denied that comforting solution. There were bruises on my shins, where he had kicked me, and a tenderness behind my ear. It had not been a dream. But how could a child go through an attack like that and be fully recovered in the morning? If Francesca was to be believed, there had only been two comparable episodes, weeks apart. Had there been others she didn’t know about? Other times when he fought it alone, locked in his room, or sought help and comfort from…
From whom? “I came to you,” he had said. He had known it was coming. He had shut the cat in the wardrobe, so it wouldn’t be hurt, and struggled down the stairs to my room.
I hardly need say that by that point in my meditations the tears were streaming down my cheeks and dripping into my coffee cup. I wiped my face, wincing as my fingers touched another sore spot where his open hand had hit me.
I knew I must tell Francesca. I knew it, and I had no intention of doing it. I should be ashamed to admit that, even in the light of what happened later. It was nothing less than criminal negligence. But I could not bring myself to betray the boy. That was the word that stuck in my mind—betrayal. He had come to me, with God only knew what effort and courage. What would Francesca do if she knew what had happened? Lock him in his room, increase the dosage of the drug he was taking—the same old remedies, only more of them. I couldn’t see that her methods were proving particularly effective.
It was a strange coincidence that his door had not been locked last night. But coincidences happen. Someone had forgotten, that was all. Thank God, thank God, he had thought of me. Thank God he had come to me instead of…
I was leaving in five days.
By the time I got myself under control my coffee was too salty to drink. I reminded myself that the situation had not changed. He was no worse than he had been before I arrived on the scene. He might even be better. Relapses were only to be expected. It was consummate egotism on my part to think that my half-baked therapy would restore him to perfect health overnight. Things like that happened in movies, not in real life. I would talk to Sebastiano—really talk to him, not exchange compliments. That was all I could do, except make the next few days as happy as possible for Pete.
And then walk away clean, jeered my conscience.
What the hell can I do? demanded my common sense. I’d take him home with me in a second if I could. I can’t. I have no right.
My conscience had no answer to that one, but it wasn’t satisfied. I could feel it rumbling unhappily, like an empty stomach. An empty conscience is much more uncomfortable.
I was getting dressed when the churchgoers returned. Their arrival was heralded by an altercation in the hall—Pete’s shrill voice, and Emilia’s growl.
I rushed to the door. She had him by the arm, although he wasn’t doing anything except arguing. He looked like a child model for an expensive catalog—shirt and tie, polished shoes, three-piece white linen suit.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I wanted to see if you were awake,” Pete said.
“I told him he must not disturb you, signora.”
“You knew I was awake. Let go of him.”
“Sì, signora. As you desire.”
The look she gave me didn’t match her submissive reply. She walked away.
He looked tired. There were dark stains like bruises under his eyes. He looked at me shyly from under his fantastic lashes. “I dreamed of you last night, signora.”
“Did you? What did you dream?”
It was hard to speak casually, but I must have succeeded; he gave me another long, measuring look and then shrugged. “It was a funny dream. I don’t remember. Will we do something today?”
I threw caution and common sense to the winds. “How would you like to go to a carnival?”
III
Francesca agreed to my request that I be allowed to take Pete to the carnival, but expressed some concern that the crowds might be too much for me. She had heard there was a great deal of pushing and shoving at such affairs, coarse language, rude overtures to young women….
I could almost hear Jim and Michael howling with laughter. After Celtics and Red Sox games, with beer bottles, fists and epithets filling the air, I felt sure I could cope with a carnival crowd. I explained that David was going with us.
Francesca nodded approvingly. “Yes, he will do very well. I will see that he is suitably rewarded.”
As I withdrew from the presence I told myself I must repeat that condescending comment to David. He would be highly amused.
Not to my surprise I found David hanging around the kitchen. Rosa was baking—some variety of crisp little brown cakes that smelled divine—and he was eating them almost as fast as they came out of the oven.
“You sure took your sweet time,” he said when I walked in. “Is Pete—” He broke off, staring.
“That bad?” I said.
“You look like the morning after the night before.”
“Your gallantry is remarkable. I didn’t sleep well.”
“Hm.”
“We’re all set.” I handed him the car keys. “I’ll collect Pete and meet you out in front.”
Excitement had made Pete so hyper he didn’t notice how tired he was. We ate the most awful, indigestible combination of food—“American hot dogs,” which didn’t taste like hot dogs, but some variety of sausage—slabs of pizza, lemonade, soft drinks, taffy sticks twisted into red-and-white columns. Most of the stalls and rides were typically tawdry affairs, but the carousel was wonderful—real old wooden horses, the kind they put in museums in the States, lovingly repainted and gilded. I had forgotten there would probably be a carousel. By yelling and sliding around on my horse and generally making a spectacle of myself, I managed to keep from waxing sentimental; and if Pete was reminded of his mother he kept his feelings under better control than I did. There weren’t any giraffes or elephants or lions, just horses. Some white.
I went bravely on a couple of the rides, the kinds with little cars that bump into each other or swoop sickeningly around a central pole, and then I copped out. David gave me a meaningful look when I said wanly that I would prefer to sit down for a while, but he didn’t say anything.
Pete did not want to leave, of course. He whined and complained like any rotten, normal youngster until David said equably, “Cut that out or I’ll slug you.”
