He did not say anything more about leaving his wife and she did not raise the subject, believing there was no need. He was moving toward her, every day he came closer. She sensed it as much in his eyes as in his caresses, in his words, and in the silences between them. She had never been happier.
As summer passed, he started traveling again. His trips frequently took him to Florence, more specifically to I Tatti, Bernard Berenson’s villa outside the city. He was not very communicative about these visits, not at first, but they came as a surprise to Kristín, who had never heard him say anything complimentary about Berenson. He used to make fun of his methods and had more than once implied that his opinion could be bought.
These trips usually took him away for three to four days at a time. She did not ask him any questions when he returned but was pleased to have him back and told him so. She knew from experience that he disliked this kind of talk, but she couldn’t help herself. He never answered; at best he would smile thinly and change the subject. At the beginning of July he reacted to her confession with these words: “He’s a Jew, you know.”
She waited and he continued, telling her that Berenson was a prisoner in his own home; he had often contemplated fleeing the country after the war broke out but had never gone ahead with the plan. He walked around the gardens in the mornings and evenings but wouldn’t risk going beyond the borders of his property and, not daring to make himself conspicuous, could no longer do any business.
He added, as if in answer to her unspoken question:
“There was never any bad blood between us, only slight professional disagreement from time to time. All that’s forgotten now. He’s taken to his bed and would probably be dead by now if he didn’t have an assistant to look after him day and night. I feel I have a duty to help him.”
In August a Christ by Verrocchio unexpectedly came into her hands. There was a knock on the door late one afternoon and after opening it to the visitor, a young man with a van, Signorina Pirandello called up to Kristín. She introduced them; he was her nephew who worked for the post office. He gave his aunt a basket of fruit, two chickens, and the painting, wrapped in a blanket. He had fetched it for her—or rather for Marshall—from Berenson’s villa and used the opportunity to stock up on food on the way. Signorina Pirandello had mentioned her nephew to Kristín; he was a member of the Fascist Party and had a bright future, as she put it. After saying good-bye and watching the van drive away, they went upstairs, Signorina Pirandello carrying the food and Kristín the painting.
It was accompanied by a report from Berenson, which Kristín read carefully. The handwriting, in blue ink on yellowing paper, was almost effeminate. Signorina Pirandello couldn’t hide her pleasure: the lean months were behind them. Marshall and Berenson had joined forces: Berenson would find the pictures, Marshall would procure them and see to the restoration and sales. They would share the profits. She made a point of emphasizing that they would not sell the works of art to the Germans; that was agreed, neither would dream of it.
“What about the Guercino?” Kristín asked. “Wasn’t it the Prince who bought that?”
“No,” the Signorina said firmly, “it was his wife, Princess Mafalda. Signor Marshall would never have sold that picture to the Germans.”
The Christ was so badly damaged that she had to repaint a good part of it; the canvas was moth-eaten and the strainer warped and rotting. She wasn’t surprised that Marshall had asked her to restore it; by now he always did when substantial repainting was involved.
“That’s where you excel,” he told her. “That’s where your capabilities are unique.”
The restoration took four months and she postponed her own painting, as Marshall said the job was urgent. He didn’t ask her to sacrifice her mornings; he didn’t need to, she did so willingly. When she finished the restoration, he was immensely grateful and urged her to return to her own work. She had completed eight pictures and had just embarked on the ninth when the Verrocchio turned up.
It was not long before another masterpiece came into Berenson and Marshall’s hands, a picture of a boy playing a flute by Giorgione. It was in no better state of repair than the Christ and Kristín let slip to Marshall that she wondered how he and Berenson could be so sure that it was a Giorgione. Hadn’t Berenson been mistaken before, attributing work to him that turned out to be by Titian?
She had only asked from curiosity, but her heart missed a beat when Marshall’s face hardened and his mouth twitched. She hadn’t seen that expression for a long time. He delayed his answer, staring at her in silence, then cleared his throat and said slowly and quietly, “Don’t worry about that. I have established that it is by Giorgione. Your job is to restore it.”
She sensed that he wanted to say more, but he restrained himself and left. Next day, however, he was affable and made no reference to the exchange. But she was unhappy and the fact did not escape him. That was when he said, “You should hold an exhibition of your own pictures, Kristín. I’ll arrange the gallery for you. It’s not large but the pictures will be displayed to their advantage there. You’ll only need twelve paintings. How would you like that?”
She didn’t answer and he patted her shoulder, saying she was ready and had nothing to be afraid of; he would book the space, that would be best, and she could always change her mind. After that he went, leaving her with the moth-eaten masterpiece on the easel and doubt gnawing at her soul.
HE WAS BORN AT THE BEGINNING OF JULY. I BROUGHT him home two weeks later on a hot, sunny day with a haze lying over the valley. It was past one o’clock; I remember we were running slightly late because I had been delayed that morning, unused as I was to traveling with a baby. Schwester Marie, whom I had hired at the beginning of summer, came with me in the car and you were there to meet us, having set off two days earlier from Florence to prepare our homecoming. I hadn’t seen Dr. Lombardi in Rome apart from that one occasion, telling you that since the pregnancy gave every sign of being normal, the English doctor in Florence would be perfectly adequate. Giovanni had slept most of the way but woke up as we climbed the hill and a wild boar ran into the road, causing the driver to brake suddenly. He had been driving slowly, so we were not badly shaken, although the shock was enough to wake Giovanni who grimaced and began to cry when the sun shone in his eyes. I picked him up and held him against me, breathing in the sweet smell of his soft head.
You had been waiting for us and were standing in front of the house with a welcoming committee. A great feast was being prepared in the garden to celebrate the imminent completion of the threshing; they would usually have held the celebration the following day, but it was brought forward to coincide with my bringing Giovanni home. I had seen the stacks of corn from the road and the steam-powered threshing machines, the dust golden in the sunshine and the farmhands, stripped to the waist and sweating in the heat. But now all abandoned their work and flocked to greet us, and Giovanni began to cry again when the faces crowded around him with the inevitable exclamations. I took him inside via the kitchen where the women from the tenant farms were busy with the cook and the scullery maids, tending to pots and pans, dishes and bowls, and there we were given another welcome and he continued to cry, though not with quite the same conviction as before. Schwester Marie and I took him up to his room where everything was as it should be and the window was open with the curtain drawn to prevent the flies from entering. There was a comforting murmur of voices from outside and gradually he calmed down, eventually falling asleep in his cradle. Schwester Marie reminded me that everyone was waiting for me and I tidied myself up in the bathroom before going downstairs. She remained with him, sitting in a rocking chair by the cradle, and I paused in the doorway to watch the shaft of sunlight that illuminated her shoulder whenever the breeze stirred the curtains. I lingered there longer than intended, savoring the sense of well-being that had suddenly enveloped me. It was deep and pure and I can still remember it because I’m sure I’ve never in my life been as happy as I was at that momen
t.
The celebration lasted into the evening. We had soup first, followed by smoked shoulder of pork and pasta, then l’ocio—goose that had been fattening for weeks, followed by sheep’s cheese and finally gelato. A great deal of red wine was drunk, there was laughter and dancing, and the sun shone on the valley, now pale yellow from the threshing. The children played among the corn stacks, climbing up and jumping off, and their excitement grew as the light faded and the chirruping of the cicadas intensified. I told myself it wouldn’t be many years before my own son would be climbing the corn stacks with them. I believe I smiled to myself at the thought. You had been holding my hand under the table and now accompanied me when I went to feed Giovanni, gazing at my breasts as if witnessing a miracle.
Over the following days we received countless gifts and congratulations from friends and family. The women from the outlying farms brought sweaters, hats, and mittens they had knitted, as well as a variety of items designed to bring my son good luck—a pebble, a rabbit’s foot, a bird’s feather. The days were hot and so were the nights, but I had cut my hair short that spring to be prepared. Now I cut it even shorter and you enjoyed running your fingers through it; you said I was turning into a proper country girl. We laughed and my thoughts were only of you and our son; they did not stray and I had no need to discipline them. Everything was as good as it could be and I woke up every morning happy and carefree. We went out into the garden after ten and I read under a tree while Giovanni slept in his pram at my side. Schwester Marie was always nearby so I could slip away when I needed to, though that was not often, as I lacked for nothing.
I don’t know when the restlessness began. The summer of our son’s second birthday had passed more quickly than I would have liked; without warning, harvesttime was upon us and I took a more active part in it than before, supervising the grapes being picked from the vines and carried to the fattoria in wooden tubs drawn by the oxen in big carts; watching the workers crushing the grapes in the tubs with long wooden poles before the wine was poured into barrels and left to ferment over the winter. I enjoyed this process more than ever before, as well as the sowing after the fields had been plowed. I attended mass in the chapel when the priest led the congregation in a prayer for rain, and celebrated with the peasants when our prayer was answered and clouds gathered over the valley, bringing the gentle showers. At last I had become part of this world and, though you said nothing, I could tell how much this pleased you.
He wrote me a letter after Giovanni was born. It took me by surprise, as we hadn’t had any contact since he disappeared from my hotel room in Rome. It was a short letter containing polite congratulations and nothing more. I read it only once before placing it on the pile of other letters we had received after Giovanni’s birth. You read it too and asked who Connor was; an old family friend, I explained, truthfully enough, and didn’t even have to remind myself how fortunate I was.
Then just before Christmas of ’39 I received a package from him. It was a little book, a special illustrated edition of Chekhov’s The Lady with the Dog. I knew what it meant, it wasn’t hard to guess, and this time I didn’t leave the accompanying card lying around for all to see but placed it inside the book, which I then locked in a drawer. Yet it contained nothing that I couldn’t have explained, nothing that wouldn’t have stood up to scrutiny. All the same, I couldn’t help dwelling on the story of Anna Sergeyevna, the lady with the dog, and her forbidden love for Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, and tried to remember how it had ended. I couldn’t, but stopped myself nevertheless from fetching the book from the drawer to find out.
Christmas passed quickly, to be succeeded by a cold, gray, uneventful January. I stayed indoors for the most part, reading or just letting my thoughts wander. While Giovanni was very attached to me, he did not complain when Schwester Marie attended to him. I began to take long walks in the afternoon, knowing that he was in good hands. When I was a child, I had been much closer to my nanny than to my mother, which may very well have been her intention. I did not want that to happen to our son.
It was on one of my walks that I saw you ride up one of the steeper hills on the western part of the property. You were alone and seemed to be in a hurry. There is only a single farm over there, one of three or four we should probably not have bothered restoring when we purchased San Martino. It was small and unproductive, supporting only one family: a young couple living with the husband’s mother and two farmhands. You had taken a liking to the young man from the start; he was hardworking and dedicated, and you said there was no one as skillful with horses as he. It had been a terrible shock when he died in an accident in the quarry two years earlier, crushed by an avalanche of rocks. With help, the widow had carried on, a remarkably determined and good-natured young woman. Or so I thought.
I watched you go inside and the farmhands come out minutes later. They went into a shed adjacent to the farm and started chopping wood. I listened to the echo as I waited for you to come out, never even thinking of crossing over to the farm myself or making my presence known in another way. It was cold and damp, the earth hard under my feet, a pale moon rising over Monte Amiata. When you finally appeared, more than a half hour had passed. You said something to the farmhands who stopped chopping and watched you in silence as you mounted the horse and rode down the hill before going back inside.
I kept to myself for the next few days. You asked if I wasn’t feeling well but I ignored you instead of confronting you. You were perplexed but shook it off, concentrating on your many responsibilities, saying to yourself: this too shall pass. At least, that was the impression I got. When Pritchett asked me what was bothering me, I told him. He quickly came to your defense, first reminding me that you had been keeping a close eye on the farm’s operations ever since the husband had passed away, then offhandedly talking about the “complicated” relationships many landowners have with their female tenants, citing examples and making light of it all. Seeing my reaction, he quickly added, “But that’s not what’s happening here. You should talk to him if you don’t believe me.”
But I decided not to, telling myself that nothing good would come of it and conveniently concluding that you were as guilty as I.
I did continue my walks but I never saw you again near the farm. Sometimes I stopped and waited, hiding at the edge of the forest, watching the smoke rise from the chimney. I often wonder, when I’m prosecuting myself, whether I was relieved or disappointed when you didn’t show.
So January passed and February arrived with the tramontane, the cold north wind that sweeps down from the hills and holds the valley in an icy grip for weeks at a time. When my mother announced that she wanted to come for a visit, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t face all the hullabaloo that would accompany her stay, but at the same time I wanted to see her. I told you about my dilemma. One could no doubt argue about your incentives; perhaps you just wanted to get rid of me—I wouldn’t be surprised, given how distant I had been lately. Anyway, you suggested I go on a trip with her, perhaps somewhere to the south. It would do me good, you said. I said, “I don’t want to leave Giovanni.” And you replied, “It’s only a couple of weeks. Schwester Marie and I can manage.” Our conversation continued along these lines for a while; my telling you that I found the idea of leaving difficult and your encouraging me to go, but eventually it was decided, and I called my mother, who was overjoyed. We resolved to go to Sicily for a week and then for a few days to Rome where my mother wanted to celebrate a friend’s sixtieth birthday. When she let it slip that she knew that Connor would be at the party, I didn’t bother responding. Never subtle and not ready to let the subject drop, she then added, “He’s been in love with you since I remember. Poor boy. You were never particularly nice to him.”
I was taken aback and had to stop myself from asking what she meant. Maybe she knew how much her statement would bother me, maybe she was pleased with herself when I cut the conversation short and hung up the phone.
Later that day I retrieved The
Lady with the Dog and the card that had accompanied the book. I read it in one sitting and decided it was time for me to thank him not only for the book but also for the note he had sent us when Giovanni was born. My letter was short and warm but neutral in tone. In closing I mentioned that I was on my way to Sicily and would be stopping off in Rome on my way home.
And so it started again. With that short letter, and the trip to Sicily with its restorative blue skies and landscape festooned with almond blossom. With my stopover in Rome and our trysts under cover of dusk and self-deception, with cautious words at first and hesitant touch. So it started, with his promise never to ask me to leave you and Giovanni but to settle for the secret hours we snatched together, to tell no one of our meetings and deny them if pressed. Deny them, whatever happened, whoever asked. So it started and did not end until too late.
I STARTED TRAVELING REGULARLY TO ROME, STAYING there for a few days each time. The English doctor in Florence had retired and I didn’t care for his replacement, so I seized the opportunity of consulting Dr. Lombardi again. I sometimes suspected that you did not mind my absences, yet our life together was generally harmonious, and we made an effort to treat each other with courtesy. Although I was usually the one to initiate anything more intimate, I don’t blame you for the lack of excitement in our love life—far from it. I am no less at fault since I showed you affection only when my conscience was plaguing me, which was usually before and after my trips to Rome.
I was admitted into the English social circle in Rome. They had always been cliquey and grew even more so after war broke out. Francis Goad and Harold Troye were the leaders of their little society, along with Miriam and Christopher Jones, who were diligent hosts and would invite both Italians and Germans to their dinner parties, such as Ambassador von Hassel and Foreign Minister Ciano. They had always done so and probably found it difficult to abandon the habit; anyway, in Rome the war was still little more than newspaper reports. Connor belonged to this circle of expats, though it was not he who put me on the guest list but Miriam Jones, who knew my parents.
Restoration Page 14
