The Garden of Angels

by David Hewson

  He wished he could write the priest a letter. There was so much to say. An apology that they would not enjoy another leisurely coffee in Rosa Salva. Thanks for their long, interesting and rewarding friendship. A regret that they would never again visit La Fenice for the opera, not that he believed the priest was a fan. He simply enjoyed the company and to indulge a friend. Then, inevitably, shame on Diamante’s part that he’d gone along with the Crucchi at all, agreeing under pressure to be president of the qehillà after the rabbi who’d held the position had been forced out. Finally, some expression, however faint, of hope that one day a new and optimistic light might dawn over Italy, with it the kind of freedom and intellectual honesty he’d foolishly taken for granted.

  The trouble was he felt certain the Germans would surely find any such message and pounce on the quiet, decent Catholic hidden away in his vast and empty basilica on San Pietro, praying for the day the Republic of Salò might fall. Diamante had, in his own mind at least, been careful not to incriminate any of those around him. Though if the Nazis and their torturers locked him in a room and began to work with their needles and pincers and all their devilish cruelties he could not, he knew, guarantee that silence would continue.

  What man could? Filippo Garzone? He was unsure and there were those two fugitive partisans from Turin to consider, along with the young Paolo Uccello, one more innocent enmeshed in the schemes of others, perhaps against his will, trapped by a single outburst as he watched the body of a murdered woman dragged from the cold lagoon.

  Of all the reasons to take the course he planned, the idea he might betray those around him was uppermost in his mind.

  Aldo Diamante smiled as his finger ran down the names on the pages, families, children, mothers he knew and had treated over the years in Giovanni e Paolo. Now he couldn’t set foot past its glorious, historic doors, once the entrance to the religious society known as a scuola that worshipped next to the basilica of the same name. At least, as he’d told everyone repeatedly, he’d worked in the most beautiful hospital in the world. Not many men could say that. Nor any Jew perhaps for many years to come.

  He went to the fireplace and, one by one, placed the sheets of the qehillà list on the flames, watched them shrivel, turn dark, then, as he poked the ashes, vanish up the chimney where they’d disappear into the dense winter fog.

  It took longer than he thought. There was a community in these pages, alive, vibrant, full of laughter and generosity, as deserving of life as any other. He placed each sheet on the burning logs and watched it blacken and fold in the flames. A part of him wished he’d paid some attention to the rabbis. They surely had words to say for a desperate time like this. But prayer was never the Diamante way, even now.

  The last piece of paper had only five names on it, a happy, middle-class family on the Lido, not far from the Grand Hôtel des Bains where a German author, much admired, once wrote a novella called Der Tod in Venedig. Death in Venice. Diamante had read it as a student and found the story quite depressing. No one, he believed, should die of cholera in the twentieth century.

  That, at least, he found amusing. It was the fond thought of a young man, naive, fired by the daydream that the world might be made a better place, if only one discovered the means, the rules, the treatments and the procedures. If only science and logic replaced superstition and ignorance.

  When the final sooty flake of paper had disappeared up the chimney Diamante shuffled to the desk, picked up his old leather medical bag and sat with it on his lap next to the busy, licking flames. He’d contacts still at the hospital, brave nurses and doctors who provided him with the means – drugs, medical instruments – to carry on his work in the ghetto, with Jewish patients alone.

  A supply of morphine was essential, naturally.

  He took out his favourite syringe, one he’d owned for a decade or more, made in Vienna, the glass clear and well-marked, the needle as sharp as the day he’d bought it.

  Out of habit he picked up the bottle of bleach and water he always used to disinfect the thing before he used it.

  He was still shaking his head at that last pointless act as he dragged his favourite armchair across the room until it faced his two most beloved belongings, the photograph of himself with Natalia on a gondola close to Vivaldi’s old church, La Pietà, taken forty or so years before. And the portrait of his parents, the twelve-year-old Aldo standing between them, a stethoscope in his hands, a future already decided.

  There’d been so much love over the years. In spite of everything, Mussolini, the Germans, he felt he’d been lucky.

  So many people to remember too, all the many shades of humanity a curious city like Venice had to offer.

  He reached out and pulled the photo album from the shelf by the fire.

  Aldo Diamante was smiling at all those familiar faces when finally he found the vein.

  PART FOUR

  For once my father was there at the table when I came down to breakfast. It was nearly nine, early for me when there was no school, late for him. He looked up from his coffee and a plate filled with the crumbs of a cornetto from his favourite place, Tonello.

  ‘When do you go back to class, Nico?’

  ‘I think … Monday. Sorry about all this, Dad.’

  ‘Not me you need to say sorry to, is it? The poor kid you beat up.’

  ‘I didn’t beat him up. That was Scamozzi. I know I should have tried to stop him. It won’t happen again.’

  He scowled.

  ‘Scamozzi. I can’t believe you hang around with scum like that. You know his family were Fascists during the war?’ He grimaced, as if a bad memory had returned. ‘Given half the chance they’d go that way again.’

  ‘Someone said we were Fascists once.’

  His face lit up with fury and that was rare.

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Some kid. I don’t remember. Not Grandpa. His father.’

  ‘Tell them not to be so stupid.’

  ‘What did we do?’

  ‘I wasn’t even born. Why ask me?’

  ‘I know. But—’

  ‘We survived. That’s enough, isn’t it? Plenty didn’t.’

  I tried the line about writing a school project and explained I’d wanted to talk to Chiara about what happened back then but she wasn’t interested. He listened, eyes wide, clearly amazed I was even considering such a thing. When I stuttered to a halt he asked, ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

  ‘I thought it might be interesting.’

  ‘No one wants to talk about it.’

  ‘That’s why I thought it might be interesting.’

  Then came the short lecture. Italy had swallowed the lies of the tyrant Mussolini. Il Duce had become the toy of Hitler. The country was divided and stayed like that in a way long after the war was over while different political factions fought for control.

  ‘When I was your age people were thinking maybe the Russians would come and we’d go commie. We had the Years of Lead and terrorism, idiots on both sides, bombs in the street. That’s all over, thank goodness. People don’t want to talk about the past. What’s the point? It’s nearly a new century, for pity’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t we learn? Isn’t that what history’s for?’

  ‘Not that history. You don’t learn anything from insanity. Now …’ He got up from the table and checked his watch. ‘We’re both going to visit your grandfather. I’ve got a plane to catch afterwards. Won’t be back for a few days. Don’t get into trouble.’

  This time it wasn’t a girlfriend but a meeting in London. Something to do with banks. I’d been planning on going round to the camera shop to see if my films were back from the day before. It seemed that would have to wait. All the same when we arrived at the hospital he wanted to talk to Nonno Paolo on his own for a while.

  I sat outside the room staring at the lagoon and the walls of San Michele, unable to stop myself wondering how long it would be before we were both seated on a black funeral boat headed out
there, a coffin inside covered in wreaths.

  They were together for a good forty minutes. I could see them through the glass, talking, animated too. Perhaps it was an argument. Then Dad got up and walked out of the room and said it was my turn.

  ‘That’s your future settled anyway,’ he added.

  ‘What’s going on? I don’t …’

  I couldn’t say anything else. He’d closed his eyes and the pain there was so obvious I didn’t know what to do. Dad had kept his emotions hidden, from me anyway, all that summer. Now I realized how raw and agonizing it was for him too. I felt an idiot for not trying to see things from his perspective. That’s being a kid, I guess. You just don’t notice.

  He blinked, was fighting back the tears. So I hugged him and he did cry then so I joined in.

  ‘Nonno Paolo’s been thinking things through,’ he said when he’d got back some of his composure. ‘There are going to be some changes. It’s one reason I’ve been away so much lately.’

  He came out with the news. Grandpa had negotiated for the House of Uccello to be taken over by a giant multinational conglomerate. We were to move from being an independent upmarket producer of fine fabrics for those with money to burn to being a brand, our name on everything from sweatshirts to trainers, with franchised stores across the world.

  ‘If others can do it I suppose …’ Dad shrugged. ‘Congratulations, Nico. We’re about to enter the world of the idle rich.’

  ‘We don’t have to if you don’t want. Surely?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s either that or leave me to run the company.’ He nodded back at the window. ‘He doesn’t think I’m capable.’

  ‘Nonno Paolo’s sick. Maybe he’s not thinking straight.’

  He put down his case and stared right at me.

  ‘It’s his body that’s failing. Not his mind.’

  ‘I mean it, Dad. It doesn’t need to happen now, does it?’

  ‘Do you honestly believe this is my idea?’ His voice was breaking. I’d never seen him this bad, not even when Mum left us. ‘Do you think I’d be catching a plane this very day if he hadn’t told me to?’

  That had never occurred to me.

  ‘Stay around for a few days, Dad. He needs you here. I do too.’

  ‘I can’t! He’s been working on this for almost a year. It has to be done now. He says so. He’s right. He usually is. I’m not the man he is. No one is. All the work he’s put in could fall apart when he goes. He’s already taken soundings. The shareholders want this. They don’t think I can run the company the way he does. It has to be fixed. In a day or two I’ll be back.’

  A day or two.

  ‘I don’t want to be stuck here on my own anymore.’

  He patted my shoulder, hugged me, kissed my cheek.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll cope. The Uccello are good at that. We’re going to sell our name. Put it on whatever others choose for us. And after that we’re all secure for life.’ He spotted the clock on the wall. ‘Damn. I’m late. Keep him company, Nico. I have to see the lawyers in London.’ He touched my shoulder and smiled. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been distracted of late. Grandpa’s illness. All this uncertainty about the company. When it’s over we’ll have more time for one another. I promise.’

  ‘I’m sorry I just … sat back and watched.’

  He looked surprised by that.

  ‘You didn’t. He told me you’ve been coming here every day. He’s loved that. He says he’s never felt closer to you. But …’ Dad wagged a finger and I saw Nonno Paolo in him just then. ‘Steer clear of that little bastard Scamozzi. All you’ll get hanging round evil little creeps like that is trouble.’

  When I walked into his room straight away he asked how Dad was. There was no easy answer. This wasn’t just about the company. They were going through the final steps of saying goodbye to one another. I couldn’t imagine what that was like. I still can’t.

  ‘Dad doesn’t know about any of this, does he?’ I said. ‘What happened in the war? You? The partisans? Not a single thing?’

  He waved a skinny grey hand. His face seemed bloodless. He seemed to be fading by the day.

  ‘You won’t understand yet but there was no point.’

  ‘Didn’t he ever ask?’

  ‘No. Thank God. Don’t you see, Nico? People forget the pain so quickly. We’re built like that. If we weren’t we’d never achieve a thing. When he was your age no one wanted to hear about the horrors their parents had lived through, any more than we wanted to trouble them with our past. The truth is war’s almost boring when you live through it. The dark creeps up on you like a summer night. It’s there before you realize. No guns, no explosions, to begin with. No one bleeds. It all seems rather unreal. And then …’

  There was another coughing fit. When he finally got his breath back he said, ‘I know I usually begin by asking you for questions. Not today. I want to know. What do you make of these people? These characters in this story?’

  ‘I like them. Some of them.’

  He said, eyes wide, ‘Really?’

  ‘Most. Even Alberti. He doesn’t seem a bad man at heart.’

  ‘Good and bad. Black and white. We all want to file people and events into categories. Doesn’t matter we live in a world that’s mostly a lot of different shades of grey.’

  It had to be said.

  ‘I don’t like Artom.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Vanni, of course. I warmed to Mika. She seems trouble but she’s brave. She’s up to something. It may be something bad. I don’t know yet. But she can’t stop herself. She seems … genuine.’

  ‘But foolhardy too. Surely.’

  ‘I think … I think foolhardy’s a part of being brave. If you weren’t you wouldn’t dream of doing those things.’

  His voice lowered a tone and he said, ‘What’s wrong with her brother?’

  I guess I was blushing.

  ‘You know what’s wrong.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’

  I leaned forward and touched his bed clothes. They were so white, so pressed, so stiff they felt like a shroud, or how I imagined one.

  ‘He’s leading you on. He’s using you. Your … feelings. Also he’s sitting there doing nothing, hiding out from the Germans while his sister risks her neck.’

  Nonno Paolo looked out of the window for a moment and I wondered if there was a tear in his eye.

  ‘Without Vanni we’d never have met Salvatore Bruno’s deadline. Who knows what would have happened then?’

  ‘Perhaps. But just sitting there at a loom …’

  ‘Standing, actually. He was wounded. The man could barely walk.’

  I kept quiet.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Out with it.’

  With folded arms and a deliberate pout I said, ‘No. I know what you want me to ask and I won’t. Sorry. The point I’m trying to make …’

  He was laughing. At me. At himself.

  ‘The point I’m trying to make is … will you stop that?’

  He couldn’t. There were tears in his eyes. A strange, unexpected, unwanted moment of hysteria gripped us both.

  ‘Please … will you cut that out?’ I begged.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry … I don’t get much amusement in here. And your face …’

  ‘I thought it seemed obvious he was using you. That’s all. You said Mika begged him to … to keep you sweet.’ A thought struck me. ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Ah.’ He leaned back on his pillow, happy it seemed. ‘You’re asking yourself the obvious question. How could I know the content of conversations I was never party to?’

  It hadn’t really occurred to me until then. Perhaps because his story had begun to get to me.

  ‘How can you?’

  He sighed.

  ‘I can’t. I can still guess. And people tell you things. You remember them. Perhaps not precisely but that doesn’t really matter. A story can be true even if some of the details are … inexact.’
r />   ‘You mean made up?’

  I got a severe glance for that.

  ‘I thought I’d said this already. We write our own lives, Nico. If we don’t the danger is we let someone else write them for us.’

  ‘Did you imagine you loved him?’

  There. I couldn’t stop myself.

  He took my hand and gave me a rather indulgent look at that moment. The sort a parent offers a child who’s said something stupid.

  ‘You do keep wanting to jump to the end of the story.’

  ‘You can tell me that much, surely.’

  He thought for a moment and I realized this was a question that perhaps had gone unanswered in his own head.

  ‘The two of us were close. How much is our affair alone.’

  ‘What?’ I was offended. ‘You’re the one who’s put all this in my head. Now you tell me it’s none of my business!’

  ‘Oh.’ He squeezed my fingers and his eyes glazed over. ‘There’s a reason I write about these things, not speak of them. You’ll come to appreciate it, I hope. These were unreal times and both of us lived quite unreal lives. Don’t judge me … don’t judge us by how things stand today.’ He blinked and a sudden glassy tear rolled slowly down his wrinkled cheek. ‘How I have loved watching my awkward, confused grandson grow over the years.’ He wiped his face with the sleeve of his pyjama top, closed his eyes, looked so old, so tired, so weak. ‘And now I make him miserable.’

  ‘I really don’t want you to die, Grandad … You’re only seventy, seventy …’

  He bent his head and gave me a familiar mock cross schoolteacher look.

  ‘You don’t know how old I am? I imagine you’ll forget my birthday next.’

  ‘No.’ It came back. ‘It’s September the thirteenth. You’re seventy-four.’

  There was a little shrug of his skinny, withered shoulders.

  ‘If you say so. I stopped counting long ago. The years … fade after a while. The whole damned business of growing old is a nuisance. So much left to do. To say. To tell. Look in the drawer.’