The Canal House

by Mark Lee

  “Amy called from California. She’s argued with her boyfriend about the NATO bombing. Now she thinks he’s a fascist and she’s flying home.”

  “How soon?”

  “Two days. She’s in Los Angeles, staying with some friends.”

  I walked up to him and we kissed as if to confirm that we were still together.

  “We’ll go down to Bracciano,” he said. “It’ll work out. I promise.”

  “Don’t promise.”

  “I assume—”

  “Don’t assume.”

  “I hope.”

  And there was no answer to that, because I hoped, too.

  • • •

  WE TRAVELED DOWN to Rome on the train, picked up Daniel’s car at the convent, and drove north to Bracciano. The air was warm and the trees along the road showed a green haze of new leaves. Mustard grew in the road ditches and a mass of white morning glories clung to a strand of barbed wire. We passed through a village. Daniel made a hard left onto what looked like a cow path, and we bumped down a dirt driveway past a line of cypress trees. The farmhouse was small, but there was a terraced garden and a grove of olive trees with little gray-green blossoms on the tips of the branches.

  Daniel parked on a patch of gravel and a tiny woman in a black dress walked down from the garden. I had already been told about La Signora. I knew a little Italian and had studied a phrase book on the train. “Buon giorno,” I said, but she ignored me and began talking to Daniel. It was as if she had spent the last few months composing a very long speech about the farm. As she pointed and explained, we took a tour of the olive grove and the irrigated garden. One of the wells had gone dry and an army of snails had attacked the lettuce. The carrots were sick, but the parsley was triumphant. If something was in good shape, Daniel would say: “Va benissimo.” If there was a problem with weeds, he’d look sad and murmur, “Sono spiacente.” I’m sorry.

  We stopped beneath the arbor and Daniel introduced me as l’amica mia, Dottoressa Julia Cadell. La Signora stopped talking and appraised me as if I was a farm animal. I could tell that she was satisfied, because she put her arm around me and guided me through the house. She told me that Signor Daniel had been an irresponsible landowner, but now that such a gracious dottoressa had arrived, everything would improve.

  We were nearly out of money. Daniel contacted the Telegraph and some German newspapers and arranged to write articles about the upcoming Italian elections. And for the first time since leaving Kosana, I started working as a physician. The daughter of one of La Signora’s nephews was sick and the village doctor had left for Capri. I took out my medical kit and followed La Signora over to a house in the middle of an apple grove. The moment I stepped into the bedroom and saw the feverish child lying on a bed, my doctor self reemerged from hibernation. The girl had a bad ear infection and I prescribed some antibiotics. It was an easy diagnosis, but the parents were grateful and her uncle brought us six bottles of homemade wine.

  After that the villagers decided that I was a good pediatrician, and I was asked to examine several children. I had trained myself not to feel an emotional attachment to my patients, but the informality of these examinations made me lose some of my objectivity. I liked to pick up the babies and feel their warm breath on my neck. Sometimes they would touch me and their hands would play with my hair. If I held them tightly, I could hear their breathing and their heartbeats seemed to dissolve through my own skin.

  I spent one afternoon with the postmaster’s wife and her baby, then returned to the house at sunset. Daniel had cooked roast chicken stuffed with garlic and fresh rosemary. He started a fire in the fireplace, mixed in a few cypress logs with the oak and a faint pine scent filled the living room.

  “How’s your new patient?” he asked.

  “She’s getting better. There’s lots of pinkeye in the village. That’s the third case I’ve handled this week.”

  “People don’t always wash their hands.”

  He refilled my glass of wine, but I didn’t drink it. “Daniel, I’ve been thinking. I want to have a baby.”

  I waited for what seemed like a long time. Daniel looked at me and I felt like he was considering all possibilities—then he smiled broadly.

  “Yes. I’d like that to happen.”

  We never discussed it again. That was all that was needed between us. I was nervous but happy, filled with daydreams about the future. The first month went by and nothing happened, then the second month disappeared with the same result. La Signora sensed what was going on and started bringing me bunches of parsley and bottles of fresh milk from the village dairy, as if these foods would guarantee conception. Daniel and I had a moonlight picnic down by the bridge and we ended up making love on a blanket. Looking up at the stars, I felt as if I had been absorbed into the earth beneath my body. Surely this would be the moment. It must occur, now. But another month passed with no change.

  ONE DAY IN JULY, Daniel and I woke up early, when it was still cool and pleasant enough to work. Daniel made French toast with our last two eggs and the bread left over from supper. We ate breakfast outside, with a basket of apricots and a jar of La Signora’s strawberry jam.

  I drank my tea, he sipped his coffee, and we both read the newspapers. The village postmaster brought us the International Herald Tribune and the Telegraph three or four days after they were published. I liked the fact that all the urgent stories had lost their shrill insistence. If you were reading about some crisis, it was already fading into the past.

  “Looks like a visitor,” Daniel said as a Ford sedan with rental plates turned off the road and came down the dirt driveway.

  “It’s probably another pair of lost tourists, like those Norwegians.”

  “I liked the woman, but her husband talked too damn much.”

  The sedan approached the house and I realized that Billy Monroe was driving. Billy parked next to the Alfa Romeo; then Richard got out and gazed up the slope. I had thought about meeting Richard again and in these imaginary conversations we were always polite with each other. Now the real person was here, just a few hundred meters away, and I didn’t feel prepared. Perhaps I was a coward back at Westgate Castle, but on the night of the party it felt much easier just to give back the necklace, slip out of the evening gown, and walk away.

  I heard a click as Daniel placed his coffee cup back on the saucer. He looked annoyed, but he didn’t say anything. Richard left Billy standing beside the rental car and headed up the path. I could see that he’d lost weight in the last few months and that made him look older. As he approached the arbor, Richard’s confidence asserted itself and he smiled cheerfully.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Hello, Richard.”

  He nodded to Daniel. “Beautiful place you’ve got here. Do you own it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great location. Great investment.”

  Daniel glanced at me. “Would you like to speak to Richard alone?”

  “Oh, no,” Richard said. “I must talk to both of you at the same time.” He sat down at the table. “Forget about what happened last year. That’s over. It’s in the past. When you two left I was surprised and upset, but I’ve dealt with it. Some things don’t work out and you just have to accept the reality.”

  “Then why are you here?” I asked.

  “Hand-to-Hand is in trouble. The entire organization is falling apart. I didn’t realize how crucial you were,” he said, turning to me. “I thought I could hire anyone to do the job. Our refugee effort in Kosovo was disorganized and misdirected. We got some bad publicity.”

  “I read the article in the Times,” I said.

  “Everyone read that bloody article. Donations are down eighty percent and George Riverton says that the government is reconsidering its support.”

  “I’m sorry, Richard. I’m not going to be executive director.”

  “Of course not. I realize that. But I do need your help with a specific situation. I don’t know if you two have been moni
toring the news from East Timor.”

  Daniel nodded. “They plan to vote on independence from Indonesia.”

  “Yes, exactly. When the independence side wins there are going to be refugees, food shortages, and a breakdown of public services. The Indonesian government has armed the local militias and they’re already burning down people’s homes. This is a crisis situation that will demand an immediate response. It’s the precisely the reason why we created Hand-to-Hand. No red tape or committees. Just a group of organized professionals, saving lives.”

  “And what do you want me to do, Richard? Go to East Timor?”

  “Get us through this deployment while I look for a permanent director.” He paused. “Without your help, the whole organization will collapse.”

  I glanced at Daniel and saw that he had assumed a deliberately neutral expression, the sort of mask he wore as a journalist. It was impossible to know what he was thinking and I felt guilty and boxed in. “I need to think about it,” I said.

  “Of course. Talk this over with Daniel.” Richard glanced at Daniel and grinned as if they were old school friends. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk around your garden.”

  Richard hiked back down the hill and Billy approached him. Murmuring to each other, they began to study the hollyhocks like botanists out on a field trip.

  “What do you think?” I asked Daniel.

  “It’s up to you.”

  “Of course it’s up to me. But I still want to know what you feel about this.”

  “You were right, Julia. I wanted to work in Kosovo. And you know what? I think you did, too.”

  “I felt responsible, if that’s what you mean. There’s nothing wrong with feeling responsible.”

  “I didn’t say it was wrong.”

  “If an organization like Hand-to-Hand is doing some good, you can’t just let it go under. You heard what Richard said. It’s a short-term problem.” I leaned forward and touched his hand. “Daniel, come to London with me. We’ll rent a new flat, a place like the Canal House.”

  “We can’t go back.”

  “You could work alongside me. You know three languages and you’ve been everywhere. You’d be a great help to any relief organization.”

  “I’m a journalist,” Daniel said. “Not an aid worker. I know how to talk to an editor, travel to a new country and find out what’s really going on. We’re both professionals, Julia. It’s time for us to rejoin the world.”

  “All this is because of Richard.”

  “We would have had this discussion, eventually. You’re restless, too. It’s time to see if we can work at our jobs and stay together. I think it’s possible—”

  “Hello! Hello, there!” Richard was calling to Daniel. “What are these pink flowers called? They’re quite attractive.”

  “Valerian.”

  “Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Richard nodded, then continued down the slope to the olive trees.

  “Do you agree with what I said?” Daniel asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “Then we’ll stay here.”

  “No. That’s not right.” My voice sounded stronger. “I should take the job.”

  I TOLD RICHARD I’d return to Britain on Monday. “This is just temporary,” Richard said. “Get us over this rough patch. That’s all.” He praised the farmhouse and the garden again, then got back in the car with Billy and disappeared.

  That evening, Daniel boiled pasta and went out to the garden to get the ingredients for a salad. I called Laura to see if I could to stay with her until I rented a flat near the Hand-to-Hand office.

  “It’s such a shock to hear from you,” she said. “You completely vanished. A man named Billy came by looking for you, but I couldn’t tell him anything. He was very nice, said he was a friend of Richard’s. Paid me your share of the rent, six months in advance. Your room is still here, waiting for you.”

  It bothered me that Billy had given her the money last November. Richard had obviously expected to talk me into returning to London. He was right, of course. They had found me and now I was coming back. I had the impulse to hang up the phone and cancel the whole plan.

  “So what have you been doing?” Laura asked. “Did you take a new job?”

  “I’ve been traveling,” I told her, as if my time with Daniel was a long journey to another country.

  It was cold that night and we ate inside with candles on the table. I could feel my practical doctor self returning as I explained how I would organize the relief effort. Daniel nodded and gave a few suggestions, but for most of the evening he was quiet.

  We made love that night with new urgency, postponing the moment when it had to end. Afterward, as Daniel slept, I went to the living room and sat on the couch with a blanket wrapped around me. Daniel was right about my growing restlessness. If I had gotten pregnant, if something decisive had pushed us off in a new direction, I would have been satisfied with our new life. But that hadn’t occurred. Instead of changing ourselves, we had acted like fugitives, hiding from the world, avoiding our responsibilities.

  When I returned to the bedroom, Daniel was lying on his back, breathing slowly, with his right arm lying on the pillow near his head. It looked as if he was throwing a ball or reaching for book or raising his hand to wave good-bye. Stay with me, I thought. Stay with me, forever. But I slipped beneath the blanket and lay beside him and didn’t say a word.

  Nicky

  14 THE LAMB

  I had planned to fly down to Italy and stay at Daniel’s farmhouse for a few weeks that summer. Daniel sent me occasional e-mail about life in Bracciano and the short trips he and Julia took around the countryside, but the messages stopped in July.

  It had been nine months since Daniel and Julia had left Westgate Castle and I’d assumed they were still together. Lovers were supposed to break up in the wintertime when the heating failed and the water pipes burst. Lovers fought on Christmas morning, birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and at drunken parties in Hampstead when someone flirted with a stranger in the kitchen. They left each other after the children arrived or the bills came due or when someone’s alcoholic father showed up expecting to stay for a few months. It seemed impossible that two people could find anything to argue about at Daniel’s farm in Italy.

  I had saved up enough money for a holiday and Carter Howard agreed not to call me for two weeks. A normal person would have flown to a tropical paradise where drinks are served with little umbrellas and French girls named Yvette teach you how to scuba dive, but I didn’t feel like dealing with people. I had been traveling ever since I became a professional photographer. It feels all right if you keep moving, but the moment your train stops you start to wonder how you got there.

  Instead of going to a therapist, I woke up late and watched wildlife shows on television. Richard Seaton had filmed a new commercial for his bank, which ran constantly. The commercial started with this big-necked lad named Shawn saying he never thought he’d own his own place and it ended up with Richard helping Shawn’s family move their ugly furniture into their new house. In the final shot, Richard placed a snooker trophy on a shelf and Shawn rearranged it with a smile.

  After seeing a documentary about manatees or a family of dingoes in the Outback, I’d walk across the street to the British Museum. I liked to sit in the long hall where they kept the Elgin Marbles. The sunlight filtered through the grayish glass overhead and the benches always felt cool to the touch. The sculptured horses stolen from the Parthenon so many years ago were always galloping forward, the stone centaurs always fighting, while voices of children echoed off the walls.

  The Elgin Marbles would calm me down and I’d go outside to the portico. An endless stream of American, Japanese, and German tourists arrived in buses. They carried maps and guidebooks and showed ambition. They would enter the museum and see the Rosetta Stone. They would buy a souvenir for themselves or a gift for their relatives. Then they would leave and travel to another place and then another plac
e after that.

  That summer I was jealous of anyone with plans or a destination. Sitting by the Corinthian columns, I watched the tourists enter the museum courtyard. Something about me seemed approachable and couples offered me their cameras to take their picture. If they had given me a camera with an adjustable lens I could have deliberately blurred the shot or messed up the frame, but it was always a cute little device that focused and wound automatically.

  I’d hand back the camera, resume my post, and watch my photograph walk away. I envied the people who posed together. Meeting some stranger and falling in love seemed to be the most ambitious thing anyone could do. To seduce another, please another, to enter into another or let them enter into you, to follow or guide another seemed like such a difficult task, and yet so commonplace.

  At five-thirty the museum would close and the crowd would flow out through black spike gates. I’d buy two or three newspapers and walk over to the Lamb, a pub near Corams Fields. The original fields had been turned into a playground where no unaccompanied adults were allowed. You could peer through the iron railings and see children running around or riding on skateboards. Some bedraggled sheep lived on a strip of land near the fields. They were kept there for some kind of a petting zoo or as a feeble reminder of the distant countryside.

  The Lamb was a cozy pub with a low ceiling and sepia photographs of nineteenth-century actresses and political figures. There was no recorded music, dartboards, or drunken yobs. I liked the pub’s padded benches and the wrought-iron tables with a brass railing around the outside edge. If there was an earthquake or a bomb blast the little railing would keep your beer glass from falling onto the floor. After drinking a few pints, I would order supper and the food would come rattling downstairs in the pub’s dumbwaiter. I’d drink one last beer, then stagger back to the Ruskin to check my e-mail. No message from Daniel or Julia. No messages at all.