Dancing to the End of Love

by White, Adrian

  I listen to Morrissey on Maria’s iPod. It sounds like he’s living in Rome and I wonder if he’s feeling as displaced as I am right now.

  There’s a knock at my door and Maria comes into my cell. She’s still in her work clothes and her face is blotchy from crying. She looks like shit.

  “Hey,” she says.

  I turn off the music, bring my feet round to the floor and sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Sit down,” I say, and I’m reminded of the Padre’s early cell visits. Maria sits down next to me on the bed.

  “I’ve come to apologise,” she says

  “You can’t help being sick.”

  “That’s not what I’ve come to apologise for.”

  I can appreciate how and why Maria might throw a hissy fit every once in a while but I don’t know how to say this without insulting her. This is the life she’s been dealt so who am I to say what her reaction should be? My problem with what happened in the Refectory is all about me.

  “I don’t know what to do in a situation like that,” I say. “Whether I should come and help or leave Ines to it, or what?”

  “You don’t have to do anything. You’re not under any obligation.”

  “It doesn’t feel like an obligation, more like unknown territory. I don’t feel like I’m any use to you, compared to Ines.”

  “Ines has had a lot more practice at coping with my tantrums.”

  “It isn’t the tantrums; it’s more about not knowing how to cope with you being so sick.”

  “But I’m not sick. I mean, I’m not particularly sick tonight.”

  “So what was going on earlier?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to apologise for.”

  I’m still in foreign territory. Maria might be half my age, but she has baggage I can only imagine. I feel like the junior partner here, but when I turn to look at her she seems so young and scared – too young to be carrying the weight of her sickness around – and I tell her it’s okay, whatever she needs to do, however she needs to act to get through the day, is okay with me.

  “You won’t think it’s okay once I say what I came to say.”

  “You’re about to finish with me?”

  As I say this, it sounds so juvenile. Finish with me? She doesn’t need to finish with me; she’s leaving for Pisa in a couple of weeks, so she can rid herself of me quite easily without any major scenes. We’ve barely got started to be talking about an ending, yet I’d understand if this was her choice.

  “I think you might be about to finish with me,” she says.

  Again, this sounds like teenager talk, or Brendan-speaking-in-Italian talk. It’s relationship talk, that’s what it is, and it’s been a long time.

  “Tell me what you came to say.”

  If this is just about the two of us being together, I feel on safer ground. What unnerves me is the whole Maria’s going to die stuff.

  “When I told you I was on the Pill, I wasn’t being entirely honest.”

  This is a surprise. We talked a lot about contraception before we started having sex – in great detail, actually – and, as in all things medical, Maria knew exactly what she was at. She told me she was on the Pill, primarily to help regulate her periods. Her menstrual cycle, like so many different parts of her body, is shot to fuck – in this instance by her poor nutrition. So, this was one form of medication she hadn’t told her Papa about. But this wasn’t all; I listened to Maria as she gave me the low-down on having sex with someone who has Cystic Fibrosis. I think she was trying to see if it grossed me out, if it would turn me off wanting to be her lover. The antibiotics increase the yeast content in her body which results in Maria repeatedly suffering from thrush. She often has bad breath, either from a chest infection or from her medication. She might have a coughing fit at any time, particularly during vigorous exercise like sex. And the mucus she produces isn’t just in her lungs. The biggest deal, though, is how prone she is to picking up an infection – any infection – so she can’t have unprotected sex without a condom. This was fine by me, only I had to tell her I didn’t have any condoms on me when I was released and that I couldn’t imagine being able to buy any at the Villa. Maria had an unopened packet of five that we checked the date on. She wanted me to know she had to keep some with her at all times, just in case, and I said this was fine too, that I thought she was right to do so. The only problem was that when we actually got to the condom stage, Maria told me she really didn’t want to use a condom, that it was part of the problem of sex for her, and that anyway she didn’t want to use one with me. What about the risk of infection? I asked, and she said she didn’t care and I said she should care but she said no, she really didn’t want to, so I said okay, but let’s not have sex at all until we talk this through. I told her about the blood tests and medicals I’d had when they deported me to Ireland. I told her that since then I’d had sex with Juliette – unprotected sex – but that so far as I knew I had no infections or diseases but who knows what we carry without our knowing? She told me it was as much about cleanliness as about STDs and I said come on, let’s just use a condom, but she said no it’s my choice, and I said it’s my choice too, and so we left it for another day. I read up on it and it seemed to me that not wearing a condom was just not an option; most sites said ‘must’ rather than ‘should’. When I pointed this out to Maria, she told me she wanted to have sex with me but she didn’t want to use a condom, and I said I know but you’re asking me to put you in danger, and she said she’s in danger already, why worry about picking up one more infection? Because this might be the one that kills you, I said. I’m going to die anyway, she replied, which is kind of final. When she saw the effect this had on me, she told me it was a matter of trust and that she trusted me and finally I thought who am I kidding?

  But this is different now.

  “Why did you tell me you were on the Pill?”

  “I was on the Pill. I am on the Pill. Only, when I don’t take my medication, I don’t take all my medication – including the Pill – so for the past month I can’t honestly say I’ve been on the Pill.”

  “So you could get pregnant?”

  “It’s unlikely but yes, I might.”

  “Unlikely?”

  “With a menstrual cycle like mine, I don’t stand much of a chance of ever getting pregnant.”

  “But you knew what you were doing? When we started having sex, you knew you might get pregnant?”

  “I told you – it’s unlikely.”

  “I lost my daughter.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to lose another.”

  “I know – I’m sorry. Ines told me how stupid I’ve been – and selfish.”

  “Is that what all the shouting was about earlier?”

  “Yes. She asked me if I had any idea what you’d been through.”

  “Whatever about me – what if you were to get pregnant?”

  “Then I’d have the baby.”

  “What about college?”

  Maria shrugs.

  “Jesus, Maria!”

  “Jesus yourself!” she shouts, and stands up. “I might not get another chance.”

  “What?”

  “I might not get another chance,” she repeats.

  “Are you saying you were deliberately trying to get pregnant?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.”

  “How was it then?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind, that’s all; I wouldn’t mind if I did.”

  I look at her. If it was anyone else I’d think she was simple and that would be an end to it, and an end to us. But she’s not simple; she’s a mess but she’s no fool. I’m angry, but not as angry as I’d have thought.

  “I can’t go through that again,” I say.

  “No.”

  “I wish you’d told me.”

  “You wouldn’t have had sex with me.”

  “I’m not your last chance,” I say. “This isn’t even our last chance. We can wait a mo
nth.”

  Even as I say this, I’m conscious of the fact that Maria will be gone to Pisa before that month is through.

  “It sometimes feels like my last chance.”

  This is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. It’s hard to equate what I hear with the beautiful young woman in front of me.

  “Do you forgive me?” she asks.

  “For not telling me you might get pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  As if I have a choice.

  I call down to Giovanni at the cottage after work and it’s obvious again that something is on his mind. I hear the sound of his lathe in the workshop and when I open the door he looks up briefly and acknowledges me with the slightest of salutes from his chisel. He returns his focus back to the piece of wood he’s working on and I hesitate about joining him inside. I can’t hide behind my lack of Italian any more and even a fool like me can see we’ve lost the early ease we once had together. Thinking about it, most of that was down to Giovanni’s geniality and his willingness to take me under his wing. Work time is fine because we have clear roles and jobs to get done, but it’s like he’s reconsidering the whole friendship thing and it’s a shame. I decide to leave him be at his lathe and I walk around the cottage to the seats on the terrace where we usually drink our aperitifs. I sit and wait for Giovanni to finish with his woodturning and he takes his sweet time – so long that it begins to feel like he’s sending out a message for me to leave, but I stay.

  Giovanni goes directly from the workshop into the cottage and I hear him washing his hands in the bathroom. He knows I’m still here and I know he knows we need to talk. We either sort this out or my days spent working in the Villa gardens are over. He walks out on to the terrace, a bottle of pastis in one hand and two glasses with ice in the other. He pours the drinks, raises his glass and says salute but that’s all; he puts the glass back down on the table. It’s not unusual for us to sit in silence – through necessity when we first met – but this is different. I must have offended him in some way, and I guess it’s something to do with Maria. I’m a little pissed off about this because Giovanni was all for Maria and I getting together, just as Brother Michael was, and it’s a bit late now for them to be having second thoughts.

  “I care about Maria,” I say.

  I know this sounds stupid, but I can’t stand the avoidance any longer. Giovanni looks up, distracted it seems.

  “What? Oh – that’s good,” he says, and takes a sip of his pastis.

  “In case you were worried.” I’m determined not to let this go, but Giovanni doesn’t react. I watch his attention drift away again. We’ve shared drinks at this table so many times now and it’s always been companionable. There have been other awkward moments – lots of them – but it’s never been like this before.

  “What’s wrong, Giovanni?” Nothing; no response. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  He shakes his head.

  “No,” he says, but he’s not convincing.

  “I know there’s something wrong – something not right.” Still nothing. “You’re going to have to tell me.” I can’t think what the equivalent of ‘spell it out for me’ might be in Italian.

  Giovanni pours more pastis into both glasses, though neither of us were ready for a refill.

  “You have a daughter,” he says.

  Christ – what the fuck has that to do with anything? I had a daughter, I feel like correcting him.

  “You have a daughter,” Giovanni says again, “so I think I know you care for Maria.” He takes a sip of pastis, and then drains the glass. It’s unlike him to knock it back so fast. “She’s very beautiful, yes?”

  I presume he means Maria.

  “Yes, she’s very beautiful.”

  “But very sick too; lots of work, I think.”

  “Yes – lots of work.” High maintenance, I say to myself in English.

  “But worth it.”

  “Yes, she’s worth it.”

  “So you see – I know you care for Maria.”

  “What is it then? I need to know if I’ve done something wrong.”

  Just as with the monks and the brothers up at the Villa, Maria and I could easily have crossed some behavioural line with Giovanni and Ines without even knowing it. There’s a difference between encouraging us to get together and approving of us fucking like rabbits.

  “I think I might offend you,” Giovanni says. I can tell he’s deliberately speaking in simple sentences.

  “How?”

  “I have to ask you something.”

  “So ask.”

  “Do you still miss your daughter?”

  This is what he’s been building up his courage to ask? This is the reason for the long looks and the silences? I’m reminded of the Padre, with his questions and attempts to understand me. I’m not offended; invaded maybe, but not offended.

  “I’m sorry,” Giovanni says, “of course you still miss your daughter. What I mean is does it get any easier? Does it still hurt the same?” He looks down at the ground and then away across the garden. “Sorry, these are stupid questions.”

  The Padre has trained me well. There was a time when I couldn’t get past my anger, but now all I feel is an overwhelming sadness. I see through Giovanni’s embarrassment and understand that he’s talking about his son and not about my daughter.

  “No, it doesn’t get any easier,” I say. “It changes, but it still hurts the same.”

  “Is there nothing you can do?”

  I don’t need to answer this. I don’t need to tell Giovanni I know what he’s talking about. I don’t need to add to his embarrassment. I don’t need to tell him I wish I’d fought to keep Ciara. I don’t need to tell him I still believe I’d have lost that fight but that I might have held on to something, some self-respect perhaps, or maybe even some form of access that allowed Ciara to learn who I was as she grew up. I don’t need to say I wish I’d done things differently. I don’t need to tell Giovanni that for me it’s too late, that the best thing I can do for Ciara is to let her go, to let her live her life and hope it’s a happy one.

  Now I am ready for a drink and it feels good again to be here as Giovanni’s friend. This is a proud man and I’m not about to ask him to spill his guts. I don’t want to know why he and Ines couldn’t have any more children, but I’d love to find a way for him to be happier with the son that he has. What is it in Giovanni’s head that won’t accept his son has to find his own way, especially when the younger Giovanni is doing so well? I want to warn him that if he’s not careful the years will get away from him, that one day he’ll realise it’s too late, but I can’t tell Giovanni how to live his life. I think about Maria’s Papa – how he must know he doesn’t have the luxury of time and yet still he’s pig-headed about his daughter. I’d like to be able to tell them both: do whatever you can, whenever you can, not to lose your child. I’d like to be the example for them not to follow.

  “I was a good father,” I say, and Giovanni smiles.

  “Well, that’s something at least.”

  “Only, it came to an end.”

  “Yes.”

  We sit for a while in silence – companionable silence now. It gets to the time when I’ve to get back to the Villa for my dinner.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question before I leave?”

  “Yes, of course,” Giovanni says, though I can hear the unease in his reply.

  “The motorbike in the workshop – is it in working condition?”

  “Giovanni’s bike? It’s not been used for a long time, but there’s no reason why it shouldn’t still work.”

  “Do you think he’d mind if I cleaned it up?”

  “I think he’d be happy if you did – me too. Ines keeps on at me to get rid of it, but it’s Giovanni’s bike so it’s his decision. She never liked him going out on it.” Giovanni laughs. “I was in trouble with her for months for encouraging him, but what can you do? Boys like bik
es and she seemed to forget that we did most of our early courting on a motorbike.”

  “Will I be in trouble with her if I get it going again?”

  “That’s a risk you’re going to have to take. What do you know about bikes?”

  “Nothing; I’ve only ever driven a moped – but I’d like to give it a try.”

  “It’s a good bike, very manageable for a beginner. In fact, that was why I chose that particular bike, so you’ll soon master the gears.”

  “Be nice to get out,” I say. “Maybe I could take Maria out on her day off?”

  “Good luck with that,” he says. “But I suggest you check with Ines first.”

  When I see Michael in the Refectory, he apologises for his comments at dinner the other day. He needn’t have worried. I tell him it’s refreshing to hear some home truths every now and again – that I kind of miss the Padre’s attempts to goad me into taking better care of myself.

  “I spoke to him yesterday,” Michael says. “I came looking for you when he was on the phone, but I’ve a feeling you’re not such a regular in the library these days.” This is Michael’s way of saying he knows what Maria and I get up to in my room. “Anyway, he was asking after you, so I told him you were getting along famously.”

  “And the Padre – how is he?”

  “He’s happy enough. He’s found a new vocation.”

  “He’s left the priesthood?”

  “Well, he was never ordained but yes, he and the Church have parted company.”

  “What happened?”

  “They told him enough was enough – that you were enough, actually – and that he should concentrate now on his vocation for the priesthood.”

  “And he chose – what?”

  “He’s working for an organisation that helps political prisoners, though he’s going to find it that much harder without the power of the Church to back him up.”

  “He’ll be kept busy then.”

  “Very busy, by the sound of it, but not so busy that he’s forgotten about you.”

  “How do you mean?”