by Debbie Rix
Throughout the day, people came to the shop to buy exquisitely decorated cakes, or tarts, which would be wrapped carefully in white boxes and tied up with pink ribbons by the girls who served at the pastry counter. Sam watched the customers’ faces, intense with concentration, as they debated which of the spectacular treats on offer they would take home to share with their families. She wondered, wistfully, what special event they were celebrating that day, what birthday, or anniversary the cake would mark. The purchase of these cakes distressed her a little more each time she witnessed it. There was an intrinsic happiness about it that she found unbearable as she considered the devastation of her own family life – Michael lying half-paralysed in a hospital bed, her beloved children back in England, the discovery of her husband’s deception, and the existence of Carrie, the interloper, intruding uninvited into her life. Had anyone, she wondered, told Carrie?
She ordered two cappuccinos da portare via, along with a couple of brioches, little croissants covered with sugar, for them to have for their breakfast. Then shoving the brioches into her bag and balancing the two coffees precariously one on top of the other, she walked through the ancient archway, across the cobbled medieval courtyard, the walls of which were painted with peeling frescoes, that led to the modern hospital – an example, she thought, of all that was bad about seventies architecture. Each time she arrived at the hospital, she cursed the heavy glass and steel doors, wondering at the lunacy of designers who could make the entrance to a building designed to house sick and frail people so impenetrable. Having navigated the doors while somehow holding tight to her coffees, she was invariably met with ‘vietato ingresso’ signs on the lift barring her from using them and requiring a long walk up four flights of stairs to Michael’s room.
He was sleeping when she entered. She put the coffees and pastries down on the sterile little table next to his bed. She wandered over to the window, gazing out at the jumbled jigsaw of roofs and courtyards below. In those buildings and in those gardens, people were living their lives to the full. Lovers were kissing, children were laughing, mothers were cooking meals for their families.
She, on the other hand, felt as if her life had simply stopped. Like the blood leading to Michael’s brain, her future had come to an abrupt end. She had only the present. In this little, stuffy, ugly room.
She tried to open the window to let in some air, but the metal casement was jammed. She turned on the tap at the basin to wash her hands, but there was no hot water. Irritated, she crossed the corridor to the nurses’ office. Three women, languid and bored, dressed in shapeless white uniforms, looked up at her with mild surprise as she tried to explain, with a minimal grasp of Italian, about the lack of hot water.
‘I would like to give my husband a wash… lavare Michael,’ she said, frustrated and embarrassed in equal measure by her own inability to speak their language. ‘But there is no hot water… aqua calda.’
The nurses looked at her impassively. One of them spoke. A dark woman, with golden skin, her hair tinted an unrealistic shade of red, tied up at the back of her head in a loose chignon.
‘Non c’e aqua calda. L’ospedale e in via di rinnovamento…’ her sentence trailed off and she gestured out of the window, where Sam could see groups of workmen labouring in what had been a car park below.
Sighing with frustration, Sam returned to Michael’s bedside. He lay unmoving, still sleeping, the two halves of his face somehow at odds with one another - his mouth in a faint smile on one side, whilst the other turned downwards, as if dejected. Both united by the beard, speckled black with red… and, increasingly, grey. She loathed it, as if the beard was in some way responsible for her predicament.
Intent now on shaving if off, she swept back across the corridor, noisily grabbing a large saucepan from beside the ancient cooker where the nurses made their coffee. She found a box of matches, turned on the gas, lit a ring and clanged the pan, full to the brim with water, onto the heat. Then she went in search of towels. There were none in his room so she opened cupboards in the corridor, rifling amongst the linens until she found an old sheet. That would do.
Returning to the kitchen, she walked between the staring, sullen nurses and, using the sheet, picked up the old pan. She walked back into Michael’s room and quietly set the pan down on the floor by the basin. She picked up the soap and dipped it into the steaming water. Its heat made her wince. Her hands covered in foam, she sat on the edge of his bed, focused on removing the stubble from his face. As she began to touch his beard with her fingers, his eyes opened and he frowned at her.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling? I thought I would give you a wash.’ Her voice, she was aware, was brisk, efficient. Her emotions checked.
His expression didn’t change, but he moved his good hand to touch hers. Then he shook his finger and touched his beard.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, as cheerfully as she could, ‘I won’t touch the beloved beard.’
Gently, she began to wash his face and neck, lifting his head – so heavy and awkward – from the pillow. She soaped his naked chest and, lifting the sheet that concealed his genitals, she washed that part of him too. All the while, as she soaped, rinsed and dried him with the sheet, he watched her, his eyes filling with tears. At one point, a blonde, plump nurse came to the door. She said nothing, but shrugged and turned away, her lazy shuffling steps audible on the polished lino as she retreated down the corridor. Sam suddenly remembered the coffee she had brought. It was not quite cold, the lids having preserved some of its steaming heat. Carefully lifting Michael’s head off the pillow, she held the cup to his mouth. He closed one eye with pleasure, or perhaps concentration, as a dribble of foam escaped from his partially paralysed lips. She picked up the croissant, tearing a small piece from the end. She dipped it into the hot coffee and held it to his lips. He tried to smile and made a little murmuring sound. He opened his mouth just a little, like a reluctant baby tricked by his mother into eating something he does not want. He chewed feebly, finally swallowing the soggy pastry. Then Sam took a piece for herself and they sat like this, silently eating their breakfast, Sam struggling to keep back the tears as she tried to bring some normality to this otherwise quite abnormal situation.
The sullen blonde nurse reappeared at the doorway and seeing the pastry spoke sharply.
‘Signora… no… no brioche.’
It was Sam’s turn to be sullen now. She turned away from the nurse and deliberately inserted another piece of sweetness into her husband’s mouth. The nurse sighed and left them alone.
Later that day, as Michael again slept, Sam spoke with the Professor and one of his senior team, who fortunately spoke English.
‘It is too soon for us to know how good a recovery Michael might make,’ the young doctor said. ‘The Professor will have to conduct tests which will take several days before we know anything more. Ultrasound on his head and neck will be required. I am sorry, he says, but there is no more that we can do just yet. We must be patient. But we will do our best to help you in any way we can.’
‘Thank you,’ she had said, automatically, thinking to herself, it’s not his head that we need to be scanning, but his heart.’
Chapter Four
May 1999
The washing became something of a ritual for Sam. Day after day she would visit her husband, encroach on the hospitality of the persistently unfriendly staff, sling a pan of water onto the gas, rummage in the cupboard in the corridor for a sheet to dry him with, mystified by the Italians’ obstinate refusal to use towels when they bathed, and retreat to his room ready to tend to him.
Every day, as she soaped his limbs, rinsing off the suds as best she could with the warmed water, the repetitive actions took on an almost meditative quality. She could not talk to Michael about the one thing that tormented her – his betrayal, and so she concentrated, instead, on this one task.
But on the fourth day, she could contain herself no longer.
‘Michael,’
she said, fixing him with her cool green stare, ‘we need to talk… about… Carrie.’
He closed his eyes, his head twisting away from her.
‘Don’t turn away from me!’
She came round to the other side of the bed, feeling the anger welling up in her like a volcano. Tears fell silently from his dark brown eyes, leaving a damp patch on the thin sheet.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, taken aback. ‘I don’t mean to upset you… but I need to know what’s going on. Should I be here? Is it serious, I mean… should Carrie be here instead of me?’
He looked up at her, alarm registering on his face; she took hold of his paralysed hand instinctively and squeezed. A small sensation, like a tiny electric shock, pulsed back at her.
‘Hey, I felt that she said. ‘Did you?’
But he turned his face away once again. She took a tissue from the box on the bedside table and wiped her own nose and eyes, then turning it over to the dry side, she dabbed at Michael’s eyes too.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave it. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.’
Later that day, as he slept, she took an old notebook out of her bag, a habit that had not left her since her reporter days, and began to write down her thoughts. Frustrated that she could not explore the problems in her marriage with her husband, she found some curious comfort in listing the issues.
‘When did Michael meet Carrie?’
‘Does he love her?’
‘Does he love me still?
‘Do I love him?
‘Is our marriage worth saving?’
‘How would I cope without him?’
At this last question, she looked at the almost lifeless body of her husband in the hospital bed and began to cry.
The following day, she arrived at the hospital, as usual, with their breakfast, and found the Professor talking to her husband.
‘Ah signora,’ he said warmly, as she entered the room. His underling took on the role of interpreter once again.
‘Your husband is making good progress. We think that not too much damage has been caused. He has been lucky. He needs to spend a little time each day trying to use his right side. A little conversation would be good for him. See what you can do.’
When they had gone, she sat on his bed and held the coffee to his lips.
He took a few little sips.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured almost inaudibly.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
‘What for? Having a stroke, or having an affair?’ Her voice, she was aware, had taken on a brittle edge.
‘Both,’ he said with some effort, before sinking back onto the pillow.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘OK, well, that’s something, I suppose. I can’t blame you for the stroke so you don’t need to apologise for that. But the other…’
‘You don’t understand… it’s not what you think,’ he said.
‘What don’t I understand?’
He shook his head slightly, but the effort seemed overwhelming, and he closed his eyes.
‘Michael.’ She put the coffee back on the bedside table and nudged his arm gently, to check if he was asleep. He opened his eyes once again.
‘We’re going to have to talk about it sometime you know. We can’t just brush it under the carpet. Not that there is a carpet,’ she said, ironically, gesturing towards the cheap lino.
He attempted a faint smile.
‘We’ll park it for now,’ she went on, ‘and I guess we’d better do as the doctor suggested and perhaps attempt a little conversation? Something neutral.’
His eyelids drooped a little and she could sense the huge effort he was making just to keep awake.
‘How are the kids?’ he asked, his voice slurring slightly.
‘Oh, they’re ok… my mother is wonderful – as always. The twins are fine. They’re always just happy in one another’s company aren’t they? And Freddie is up to mischief, as usual.’
Michael smiled a little. ‘Good lad,’ he murmured.
‘I miss them so,’ said Sam, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Darling…’ Michael reached his good hand out to her.
‘It’s OK,’ she said hurriedly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘In some ways, it’s best not to think too much about them really. As I have no idea when I’ll be home to see them, it’s sort of easier – do you understand?’
He nodded sympathetically, and closed his eyes finally.
‘How about we talk about the film?’ she said a brightly, ‘what you’ve uncovered, what you’ve found out?’
She noticed his battered briefcase, which lay dusty and forgotten, like a brown leather reminder of the man Michael used to be, beneath his bed in the hospital. Amongst the files, hefty laptop, address book and diary, she found three reference books about the building of the Tower of Pisa.
‘Shall we go through your notebooks?’
But Michael’s eyes remained closed and a faint snore escaped from his mouth.
Sam thought about what he had said: ‘you don’t understand’. What had he been trying to tell her? Had she misjudged him about Carrie? Frustrated by her inability to discuss it with him and faced with the prospect of gazing out of the window or going for yet another solitary walk – something that, if she was honest, was becoming more than a little tedious – Sam, in need of distraction, took the reference books over to a table in the corner of the room and laid them out alongside Michael’s notebooks. At least, she reasoned, she could get ‘up to speed’ on the project, ready to discuss it when he awoke. In the old days, before the children, it had been their habit to discuss their work projects. It was one of the things that had drawn them together. One telling the other what they had done that day, exploring the issues, debating the best way of telling a story, writing a commentary. She had acted as an informal editor to her husband, always called in by him when he was cutting a film, her views and analytical mind eagerly explored. He was proud of his wife’s journalistic skill. And she of his. He had a vision, a passion for telling a story. He was always keen to look behind the obvious, to seek out truth in the obscure. But those days had gradually lapsed, especially with the birth of the twins. Their life together had become a round of sleepless nights, of just getting through the days. Sam had eventually been forced, or at least had allowed herself to be persuaded, that work and three children under five was incompatible, and she had thrown herself into the business of mothering and home-making. But, whilst she loved the children more than life itself, she knew, in her heart, that it was not enough. Her creativity was frustrated by their very existence.
That was when she had developed a passion for gardening. It provided an outlet for her creativity and afforded her, or so she hoped, a few moments of peace. Alone in the borders, she was able to plan where each new plant should go, to visualise the swathes of colour or form that would grow with each year that passed. But Michael did not really share her passion. He saw it as a curious hobby for his wife. An affectation almost, that was quite outside his own experience. He was still immersed in the business of film making, still travelling to London, meeting fellow producers in trendy cafés and media members-only clubs. When he came home from work, her mind was distracted by the needs of the children and gradually the conversations about work that they had so enjoyed just dwindled. The complexities of finding babysitters precluded meals out alone, when they might have had the opportunity to talk. Their lives instead, were dominated – as were those of most of their married friends – by domestic trivia, anxieties about the children and sheer hard work of managing their combined lives.
As Sam sat at the table, sipping her lukewarm coffee, she realised that this trip to Pisa was the first time she had been alone with Michael since the children had been born. And, in reality, with Michael so unwell and incapacitated, she was effectively alone. Her mind free of domesticity: there were no meals to be cooked, no beds to be made, no children to comfort
, no housework to be got through. She missed the children terribly, of course, and rang her mother each evening to make sure they were OK, but she was aware that somewhere, in the midst of her distress, there was an almost tangible sense of peace. Much as she had felt before her marriage, when she had been reporting abroad. Alone in a hotel, researching an idea, making notes, thinking of nothing but the story; there was clarity and calm. Then the crew would arrive and the business of making a film would be frantic and complex and the peace would evaporate.
She laid out the three reference books, and opened Michael’s notebook to a clean page. She fished a pen out of his briefcase and wrote in large neat handwriting – Pisa. The first book she opened provided the architectural details of the three buildings that formed the Campo dei Miracoli; the second was more particularly about the Tower itself, detailing its entire history, from the date the first foundation stone was laid to the present day. The third was a large hardback book containing maps, architectural drawings and paintings of Pisa dating back to the fourteenth century. The early images were romanticised drawings of the city that bore no relation to the place in which she now found herself. The town walls were not a square as they were in reality, but were drawn instead in an untidy circle, surrounded by childlike wavy lines representing the sea, upon which galleys rocked and rolled, their oars dipping centipede-like into the waves. Curiously, these drawings rarely featured the city’s most famous landmarks – the Tower and cathedral – but instead portrayed Pisa as a little hilltop town filled with tightly packed tower houses that were such a feature of Pisa at that time. Cheek by jowl with one another, they formed a higgledy-piggledy place, a romantic dream of a city that reminded Sam of an idealised village that she had seen in one of the fairy storybooks of her childhood.
