I tell her it’s not about making love or having sex, and say again that she needs to get some sleep.
“I like it when you make love to me.”
“I like it too.”
“I like it when you fuck me.”
“Yes, I like that too.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“But you’re going to.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“No,” Maria says and leaves it at that. She closes her eyes and I think she might be giving in to sleep, but after a couple of minutes she looks up at me again. “You’re still here.”
“Yes.”
“You’re staying, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I’ve decided I can sleep in the spare bed – the bed that Ines uses when she sleeps over – and worry about the consequences tomorrow.
“You took pity on me.”
“No.” There’s a world of difference between pity and compassion.
“Will you make love to me?”
“No, go to sleep.”
“Not even out of pity? A sympathy fuck?”
“No. I’m going to wait here until you fall asleep.”
“Will you do something for me – one last thing, and then I promise to go to sleep?”
“What is it?”
“Just put your finger inside me?”
“Maria –”
“I promise – it will help me sleep.”
I don’t believe her for one second but she’s true to her word. She lies on her tummy with my hand over her bum and my finger inside her and she goes to sleep.
I see Michael at breakfast, which is unusual, and I get the feeling he’s been waiting to speak to me.
“You made it up with Maria then?”
I look at him and it’s obvious he knows I spent the night in Maria’s room. I eventually slept in Ines’ bed, though it took me a while to fall asleep. I lay there listening to Maria struggling for breath, angry at her for smoking but realising my occasional cigarette with Giovanni probably doesn’t help much either.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask Michael.
“With me – no, but you must realise you can’t do a thing in this place without everybody knowing.”
“She was sick.”
“Right.”
“And Ines . . . Ines had gone back to the cottage.”
“So you had to stay the night to make sure she was okay?”
“She asked me to so yes, I did.”
“And how is she now?”
“Hungover; feeling bad about the way she treated Ines.”
Maria looked like shit as I left her room, but how much this was due to drink and how much to the state of her lungs I don’t know.
“I said you were perfect for each other,” Michael says. “Does she have work this morning?”
“It’s her day off, which might explain why she had so much to drink.”
“She had so much to drink because she was mad at you.”
“So, again – am I in trouble?”
“You have to find somewhere else to live, yes.”
“Immediately?”
“No, but soon.”
“That bad, eh?”
“If you mean sleeping in Maria’s room, then no – there’s plenty worse than that goes on between the staff.”
“But it’s time for me to go?”
“You’re the Padre’s man and the Padre isn’t exactly the flavour of the month.”
I’ve known all along that the Church was using Michael, not only to help accommodate me at the Villa but also to keep an eye on me. It was the friendship between Michael and the Padre that allowed them to find a place for me at the Villa but without the Church the Padre would never have secured my release. The powers that be tolerated my working and living at the Villa but take the Padre out the equation and it all makes very little sense.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“The Padre? I told you – he’s found his true vocation.”
“Looking after hopeless cases and lost causes?”
“He’s too good a person for the priesthood.”
“And you, Michael – what about you?”
“We’ll see; maybe I’m not quite good enough.”
I doubt that somehow. Michael went out on a limb to help me, just as the Padre did, only I think he possesses a pragmatic streak the Padre lacks.
“What did you say to Giovanni?” he asks.
“About?”
“You’re fixing up his son’s motorbike?”
“Yes, only it doesn’t really need any fixing – just cleaning and two new tyres.”
“Giovanni came and asked if I’d arrange for him to make a phone call to his son.”
“Really – he came to you?”
“Exactly – it must have killed him. He didn’t want Ines to know, so he asked to use the phone in the office. I get the feeling this was a first for him.”
“So how did it go?”
“Excruciatingly – at least, that’s what the girls on Reception told me afterwards. I left him to it and apparently he was shouting so loud into the receiver that everybody now knows you’re fixing his son’s bike – including Ines, probably, though if she’s any sense she’ll keep that to herself.”
“Is Ines working today?”
“She left the kitchen as you arrived, so I’d say right now she’s letting Maria know exactly what she thinks of her behaviour last night. Plus, she’s breaking the news that Maria’s to leave for Pisa sooner than she thought.”
“Like when?”
“Like tomorrow. We’ve arranged for an ambulance to take her up to Pisa and she’s to check in to the hospital there for a week or so before she starts college.”
“An ambulance – she’s not that sick, is she? I mean, she’s not particularly bad at the moment – more hungover than anything.”
“It’ll probably be a car rather than an ambulance, but with a paramedic from the hospital here in Rome to drive her up there.”
“So you really do want rid of her? Jesus – you guys are ruthless once you make up your minds, aren’t you?”
Michael smiles and shakes his head.
“You give us too much credit, Brendan. It’s Maria’s father who’s arranged this, though I agree – he must know some important people to get everybody helping out in this way.”
“She’s not going to be happy,” I say.
“Is she ever?”
I look up sharply at this.
“Sorry,” Michael says, “that’s unfair. She has a lot on her plate for someone so young.”
“Not exactly suited to the service industry though?”
“No,” he says, “certainly not.”
“So, what – she leaves tomorrow whether she likes it or not?”
“I don’t see that she has much choice, do you?”
“She’s going to freak.”
“Probably,” Michael says, “if her past record is anything to go by.”
And then, I think, she’ll get so agitated she’ll have to be admitted to hospital anyway. What happens between Maria and I is the least of her problems.
“I’d say you got more than you bargained for?” Michael says.
He’s too polite to say what we’re both thinking – that, just like the Villa, this is the ideal opportunity for me to rid myself of Maria.
It’s time I was at work, so I take my leave of Michael and go in search of Giovanni. He’s not at the tool shed and there’s no sign of him in the gardens. Recently, it’s not unusual for Giovanni to take his sweet time turning up in the morning. Now there are two of us to cover each day’s regular chores, it’s understood that whoever turns up first gets on with whatever needs to be done. I set the sprinklers to run for an hour or so and get to work on the rose bed. I shout Ciao to Alessandro the pool guy who I got to know when an ivy plant grew too close to the water and caused a spread of algae that shut down the pool for tw
o whole days. He wasn’t best pleased but how was I to know? I just thought the ivy looked pretty along the wall surrounding the pool. Alessandro’s polite enough though and he raises the vacuum poles he’s carrying by way of a greeting.
“Where’s the old man?” he shouts, but he doesn’t wait for a reply.
In fact, I don’t see Giovanni until late in the morning and when I do it’s obvious he’s not interested in doing any gardening.
“We have the new tyres,” he says, referring to his son’s motorbike. “So – come, come.”
He’s impatient for me to leave the roses and to follow him down to the cottage. I drop my tools down on the ground. If anyone checks up on me it’ll look as though I’ve just popped away for a minute or two, though it’s my boss who’s dragging me away from the work. Plus, if I’ve to leave the Villa in a couple of weeks then what does it really matter?
“I took the bike down to the garage in the village,” Giovanni says, “and had it looked over. They fitted the new tyres and the mechanic there took it out for a run. I bought the bike off his father so he was happy to see it again.”
“And is everything okay? No problems?”
“Everything is good. He changed the oil and we have a full tank of petrol. We’re good to go.”
He says this last sentence in English and he’s delighted with himself for having done so. The bike stands out where the driveway to Giovanni’s cottage leads down to the village. It looks like something of a period piece but that’s because it is.
“It’s a Moto Guzzi Galletto 160,” Giovanni says, and looks to see if I understand the full import of what he’s telling me – which of course I don’t.
“It’s a beautiful bike,” I say to appease him, though it has more character than actual beauty. “Are you the original owner?”
Giovanni misunderstands me and tells me his son owns the bike.
“But did you buy it from new?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “This is the bike I was riding when I met Ines.”
“And then you gave it to your son?”
“Yes.” Giovanni shrugs. “I’m not sure he really wanted it. He wanted a bike but maybe not this one. He thought it was an old man’s bike and I guess he was right, but it’s perfect for a beginner.”
Giovanni shows me how the bike has a simple gear system, even though it’s actually a moped.
“Italian postmen always used a Galletto,” he says, and I realise this is where the bike gets its classic retro look. The leather saddle bags at the side are stiff and scuffed-looking, but I can see why Giovanni’s left them on; they add to the bike’s authenticity. “So, jump on,” he says.
Giovanni goes through the starter mechanism and gets me to rev the engine while the bike is still on its stand. The noise and the vibration resound in my stomach. He shows me the brakes, the clutch and the indicators – pretty much in the way he first showed me a rake for clearing the garden beds and also, I guess, in the way he must have shown the younger Giovanni. While he’s explaining, Ines walks by on her way home from the Villa. She doesn’t speak but the look she gives us sends a clear message.
“Boys,” is what she’s thinking, and not in a nice way. I don’t know who she’s the maddest at – Giovanni for starting over with the bike or me for not being with Maria. Or perhaps she’s just had enough of us all over the past twenty-four hours?
I look at Giovanni and see the look isn’t wasted on him. His love for Ines, his admitting to having been a fool about his son and the forlorn hope that I might somehow replace the young Giovanni are all apparent in his face. He pushes the bike forward off its stand and gestures for me to drive a short distance up and down the road.
“Try,” he says in English.
I do so and I feel the weight of the bike beneath me. I accelerate to keep my balance but stay in the low gear. I brake and put my feet to the ground and then gradually turn the bike round towards Giovanni. He waves me on, telling me to change gear. I drive on past him up the narrow road that I guess leads eventually to the Villa. I get a feel for the clutch and the gears before braking again and returning to Giovanni. He was right: the bike is an easy one to ride.
“Okay?” he asks. Despite Ines, I can see he’s delighted to have the bike running again. “Wait one moment,” he says, and walks down the driveway to his cottage.
I practise setting off and holding my balance at a slower, walking pace. Giovanni returns with a couple of helmets.
“This is my son’s,” he says of the newer helmet of the two. “This one,” he says, holding up something that looks more like a horse-riding helmet, “belongs to Ines.” He straps this second helmet to the leather panniers. “In case you need another.” The obvious inference is it’s for Maria. “If you go that way –” Giovanni points down the hill “– you come to the village, so if you have any problems you can call into the garage and they’ll help you out. They’ll know it’s my bike. If you go up the hill, you’ll eventually reach the Villa, but it’s a long way – much further than when we walk through the woods. And when you’re finished, when you’re happy, leave the bike by the workshop.”
In other words, Giovanni is going in to talk to his wife and he doesn’t want to be disturbed.
The young Giovanni’s helmet is a good fit, even if it’s awkward to put on over my glasses, and Giovanni helps with the strap beneath my chin. He slaps me on the shoulder and I have to turn my head to see him through the clear plastic visor. Both my vision and my hearing are restricted but we both understand that the wearing of a helmet is a non-negotiable with Ines. I nod to Giovanni in acknowledgement for what he’s done for me – specifically with the bike – and set off down the hill. I take it easy but when the road levels out I pick up speed and lean into a couple of bends. I’m nervous and it’s strange to be so mobile; strange to be so free, too, I guess. I get to the village in less than five minutes, without having passed another vehicle on the road. I slow down and see the garage, a bar and a goods store. It makes me realise how insular I’ve been up at the Villa, Giovanni and Ines being my only connection to this real world on my doorstep. I see a couple of villagers going about their business, a few cars parked at the side of the road and, before I know it, I’ve passed through and on down the hillside. I pick up speed but then I have to slow right down as the road becomes steep and twisting, hugging the contours of the wooded land. I’m quite alone, though I ride in anticipation of another vehicle heading towards me at each turn in the road. The cover of the trees makes it quite dark in places, with occasional flashes of bright sunshine making it hard to adapt to the lack of light. I can hear nothing over the noise of the engine.
As I ride out from under the cover of the trees, I come to a junction and turn right because it’s the easiest choice. The route is still very picturesque but now there’s traffic on the road and I pick up speed to go with the flow. I have a clear view of the lake to my left and I can see how the road makes its way down to the lakeside town. I’ve no idea what this town might be called, or how long it would take me to ride all the way to Rome. When I see cars parked up ahead at a viewing location, I pull over and almost skid on the gravel at the side of the road. This gives me a jolt – a reminder that being in control of the bike is more than enough for me to concentrate on. I feel strange though and almost giddy to be out amongst people again – no religious, no jailers – like the freedom of a motorbike ride has gone straight to my head.
I turn off the engine and park the bike on its stand, then take off the helmet and enjoy the view. It reminds me of looking across the lake in Leitrim, though this is on a grander scale and the lake is a turquoise blue. I think back to revelation – the gift, it felt like at the time – of being able to pick out the distant individual trees with the new glasses arranged for me by Jack Reilly.
There’s a surprising amount of development from the road on down to the water. It’s not unpleasant at all and totally in keeping with the environment, but I decide this is as far as I want to go. I don
’t like the idea of negotiating roads that are busy with traffic, just for the sake of being able to say I made it all the way to the lake. This is nice and besides, I know where it is that I really need to be.
I get back on the bike and take care as I cross over to the other side of the road. I make the left turn to get back up to Giovanni’s cottage, growing in confidence with the bike, and I enjoy the ride back up through the trees. The engine has a strong guttural sound and heads turn to watch as I ride through the village. The bike is so distinctive, I’m sure they know it’s Giovanni’s; perhaps they’re mistaking me for his son? I continue on when I come to Giovanni’s cottage and take so long to reach the Villa I suspect for a while that I may have taken a wrong turn. I arrive at a back entrance to the Villa grounds, behind the chapel and by what were once the stables. I kill the noise of the engine immediately and wheel the bike over to what I hope is an inconspicuous spot in the shadow of the chapel walls. The bike feels out of place here at the Villa, as though I’ve brought a piece of the outside world on to hallowed ground. I’ve not felt this way about the Villa before and I know right away that my time here is over and finished with. I wonder if Giovanni knew what he was doing by suggesting I venture out on the bike.
I take off the helmet and ruffle my hair to cool the sweat on my head.
“Hey,” says Maria, from over by the door to the chapel.
Preoccupied as I was with building up the nerve to speak to Maria, it’s disconcerting for her just to appear in this way.
“I heard the bike,” she says by way of an explanation, and then she smiles. “Everybody heard the bike.”
She steps forward and the sun shows the outline of her body beneath her dress. As ever, she knows I’m looking.
“You were in the chapel?”
“Making my peace with God.” she says. “Well, with Papa actually.”
“Michael told me.”
She stands across from me, with the bike between us.
“I guess I only have myself to blame.”
“For last night?”
“Partly for last night, and also for getting drunk and smoking. For going to pieces all over again.”
“Nobody blames you for losing it every once in a while.”
Dancing to the End of Love Page 29
