Nostalgia

by Jonathan Buckley

  The girl’s behaviour became wilder. It became her custom on a Sunday to wait outside San Giovanni Battista while Mass was being celebrated, and to scorn the worshippers as they emerged, or to dance lewdly in front of them. On market day she would dance on Piazza del Mercato. People at work in the orchards and vineyards would come across her, bathing in the sunlight as if its heat were the highest blessing of God. The dead, she proclaimed one morning on the steps of San Giovanni Battista, do nothing but watch the living, and spend eternity in a gloom of envy and regret.

  A farrier’s wife, after discovering her husband disporting with Ginevra at the stream, climbed onto the scaffolding of the Palazzo del Podestà and from this pulpit she condemned Ginevra for her lasciviousness and her blasphemies. A butcher stepped forward to inform the gathering that his son had been tempted by the young woman when he came upon her yesterday, outside the Porta di Massa, at noon. But this was not possible, said another man, because at noon yesterday he had been riding along the road to Volterra and had seen Ginevra rooting in the earth like a boar. Yet it was a fact that at noon she had been at the Porta di Massa, said the first man; and it was a fact, responded the other, that at noon she had been on the other side of the town, by the Volterra road; and so it was ascertained that the girl, beyond doubt, had been at two different places at the same time.

  It was decided to bring Ginevra before the magistrates, and the company of townspeople set off immediately to find her: they looked by the Porta di Volterra and by the stream; they searched the orchards; they went up onto the walls to scan the land around the town; for the first time since the day she had come back to Castelluccio, she was not to be seen anywhere. It was as if she had known that she was about to be sentenced. Darkness came down, and the town gates were closed. Either the girl had fled, it was reasoned, or she would return to her shelter in the course of the night. Two men were dispatched to keep watch at the Porta di Volterra, and there, at midnight, Ginevra was seen, moving across the grass so lightly, it was said, that she left not the slightest mark of her passing. She was seized; forty or fifty people gathered around her. She listened in silence to their accusations, then turned upon them in fury. She decried them as hypocrites and liars and fools. She spat and cursed, and she tore apart the rags in which she was clothed until she stood as naked as Saint Francis when he divested himself of his garments before the bishop of Assisi. Clawing at her captors’ eyes, she broke free, and was pursued through the town. The farrier whom she had seduced was at the head of the mob, and as the girl raced across the market square, with her long black hair flowing behind her like a pennant, he sprang forward to take hold of her. His hands reached into the hair, but they grasped nothing, as if her hair had become smoke. The girl ran on, towards the Siena gate, and there the farrier sprang again. But again she eluded him, because in the blink of an eye Ginevra di Michele vanished like a fume, with a sound like the clatter of an owl’s wings.

  10.7

  As is customary on the night before the Festa di San Zeno, the streetlights have been turned off. All along the curve of Corso Diaz, candles are burning on windowsills in lamps of blood-red glass; illuminated by the lantern that has been hung in the bell-chamber of the Palazzo Comunale, an arch of brick glows in mid-air, a hundred feet above Piazza Maggiore; on the façade of San Giovanni Battista, the statues lean into the light that strikes them side-on from the Caffè del Corso.

  Claire walks out into the centre of the piazza, where she turns slowly, admiring the star-strewn sky. ‘This is a great idea, turning the lights off,’ she says. For a minute she stands there, face upturned.

  ‘Nightcap?’ Robert suggests.

  ‘You’re not going to Teresa’s?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ he says.

  She looks at him.

  ‘Not tomorrow, nor the day after,’ he answers.

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t decide if you were preoccupied or bored,’ she says, with a robust sympathy.

  They take an outside table and Robert requests an amaro; asked, he explains what it is; she’s doubtful, but orders the same.

  ‘Definitively kaput?’ she asks.

  ‘She’s decided to give her husband another chance,’ he tells her.

  ‘Rarely a good move,’ says Claire. ‘I gave mine another chance.’

  ‘So Philippa wasn’t the first offence?’

  ‘She was not. There’d been a fling with a secretary from the office. Started at a Christmas party – stationery cupboard scenario. Unbelievably tacky. When he was rumbled we had the full works: tears, remorse, self-hatred, more remorse, more tears. “It’ll never happen again,” and so on. After a few weeks I cracked and let him back.’

  ‘And he did it again.’

  ‘Twice. Philippa was number three. And the reason he didn’t want kids is that he wanted it to be just the two of us. Oh, the irony,’ she says, in a mordant drawl. She takes a sip of her amaro, winces, reconsiders, takes another sip. ‘But I’m fine now. It doesn’t rankle at all,’ she assures him, with a clenched-teeth smile.

  ‘But you still use your married name.’

  ‘Laziness. Haven’t got round to changing it. But I will.’

  ‘And it helped with the element of surprise, I suppose.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, if Maurizio had taken a booking from a Westfall, Gideon would have known about it within the hour.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I suppose so. Didn’t think of that.’ Over Robert’s shoulder she can see the woman who served them, standing at the counter, stretching cling film over a bowl. The woman is deep into middle age but she has a trim figure, and the tight-fitting grey skirt looks good on her. She’s taking great care over what’s she’s doing, smoothing the cling film into the belly of the bowl, as if this action were a craft, like making a drum with a superfine skin. And as her hand passes over the bowl for the fifth or sixth time, she glances up, perhaps at the reflection of herself in the mirror beside the till, and her hand stops.

  Robert says: ‘So, you really did like the music? Guldager’s stuff, I mean.’

  ‘I did,’ she answers, presenting to him a mild smile as her attention returns. ‘But don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Just what I was going to ask.’

  ‘Well, I can’t tell you. I enjoyed it. It held my attention. It surprised me. That’s all I can say. You didn’t?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say fascinating. Interesting, maybe. I don’t think I’ll be able to remember it in the morning, though.’

  ‘Neither will I. Does that matter?’

  ‘Not sure,’ he says. ‘Gideon would say it does.’

  ‘Gideon isn’t always right.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘He should have stayed. Might have given him the odd moment of pleasure. Something new for his ears, at least. Perhaps something to think about. Shouldn’t artists be open to new experiences?’

  ‘Up to a point. But if you’re open to everything you don’t get anything done. That would be Gideon’s line.’

  She tilts her head and purses her lips, acknowledging the point, but unconvinced. A smile appears. ‘He thought I was only pretending to like it, to get a rise out of him, didn’t he?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, you can tell him I wasn’t,’ she states. ‘If anything, I was playing it down. If anyone else had asked me, I’d have been more enthusiastic. But with Gideon I couldn’t, because I didn’t want an argument. And I knew I’d look stupid if I had to talk about it. But you can’t really talk about it, can you? You can’t persuade someone to like something you like. Especially music. Maybe. All you can do is ask them to listen. Same with Gideon’s pictures. You can tell me what he’s trying to do, and you can tell me how he does it, but even if I understand all that, I can’t be persuaded to love it, can I? Does that makes sense? I’m talking drivel – that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you are,’ she says.

  He halts and looks at her. ‘No,’
he repeats, ‘I agree with you. All you can do is listen.’

  They walk down Corso Garibaldi, between the tracks of red candlelight. As they are about to turn into Piazza del Mercato he notices, in Via dei Falcucci, about thirty metres off, silhouetted against the lantern-lit stone of the Porta di Siena, a shape on top of a cable that spans the street from gutter to gutter: an owl. ‘Look,’ he says; he touches her elbow and they creep a few steps closer. ‘He’s often here,’ he whispers, ‘even when the lights are on.’ He explains that the building at number 27 has been empty for years, because various members of the last owner’s family have been squabbling in court over their inheritance, so now the place has a resident population of rodents. ‘A steady supply of snacks,’ he says. Then, putting out a hand: ‘Near enough. They can be dangerous.’ For five minutes or so they keep a watch on the bird; it remains motionless.

  ‘That’s enough for me,’ whispers Claire.

  ‘Two more minutes.’

  She waits for two minutes more; the bird could be made out of plastic. ‘I’m off,’ she says. ‘You staying?’

  ‘I’ll give it a bit longer,’ he answers.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Good night.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ he says. He counts to sixty before turning: she’s almost out of sight, striding across the piazza, head up, apparently marvelling at the sky. He stays in Via dei Falcucci for another half-hour, waiting for the owl to swoop; it doesn’t budge.

  10.8

  The tawny owl (Strix aluco), which was first classified by Linnaeus in the 1758 edition of Systema Naturae, is a sturdy and medium-sized owl, being 37–43cm (14.5–17in) in length, with a wingspan of 81–96cm (32–38in); the female is about five percent longer and twenty-five percent heavier than the male. Common to woodlands in much of Eurasia, the tawny owl is an opportunistic nester, occupying sites such as holes in tree trunks or the abandoned nests of other species. It is a nocturnal bird of prey, eating rodents and other small mammals, as well as frogs, insects, worms and birds. Many of the subspecies are so poorly differentiated that there is no agreement as to how many subspecies there are: some authorities list fifteen, but most accept eleven. The owl of Via dei Falcucci is a male Strix aluco sylvatica, a subspecies identified in 1809 by the English naturalist George Shaw.

  The eyes of Strix aluco are large, with densely packed retinal rods (almost 60,000 per square millimetre), but many researchers contend that the owl’s night vision is only slightly more sensitive than a human’s, and that the bird’s prowess as a nocturnal hunter is attributable chiefly to its sense of hearing. In common with other owl species, the tawny owl has ears that are asymmetrically placed and differently structured; the discrepancy between the way a sound is perceived in each ear enables the bird to locate its source precisely. The hearing apparatus of the tawny owl has been estimated to be approximately ten times more sensitive than the human ear.

  The tawny owl is typically monogamous, though some males are polygamous. The territory of an established pair varies little from year to year, and is defended strongly, especially in the spring, when there are fledglings to protect. Attacks on human intruders are not uncommon: the bird invariably aims for the face, descending at speed with talons extended, and as the tawny owl is virtually silent in flight its approach in the darkness is rarely detected until the last moment. People have been injured while imitating the owl’s call, or after unwittingly wandering too close to a nest. Wildlife photographer Eric Hosking lost his left eye to a tawny owl in 1937; since then, bird photographers have often worn a fencing mask or similar protection when taking pictures of these birds.

  10.9

  ‘Robert,’ his mother says, as if surprised to hear his voice, though only two weeks have passed since their last conversation.

  ‘Not in bed, are you?’ he asks.

  ‘No, love. Not yet. You know me.’

  ‘So how are you?’

  ‘Ach, you know,’ she sighs.

  ‘Tell me,’ he says.

  ‘Not getting any younger.’

  ‘But you’re well?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she concedes.

  ‘And dad?’

  ‘The knees are giving him terrible trouble,’ she says. ‘This morning, he couldn’t get out of bed. Couldn’t bend his legs. I keep telling him he’s got to do something – give up the bowls or get the doctors to take a look.’

  ‘Well, he’s not going to give up his bowls, mum.’

  ‘But he won’t go the doctor either. Doesn’t want an operation. Bit of stiffness in the morning is par for the course at his age, he says. But it’s ridiculous, Robert. It’s not a bit of stiffness. He could hardly get out of his chair this evening. He’s got to get it seen to. I’ve told him a thousand times, but he won’t listen.’

  ‘Shall I have a word?’

  ‘Won’t do any good. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘I’ll have a word anyway.’

  ‘Next time, maybe. He’s turned in for the night. Took him ten minutes to get up the stairs. You should see him. Walks like he’s got broken glass in his legs.’ She pauses, and he knows what’s coming next. ‘Pity you live so far away,’ she says.

  ‘It is,’ he responds, as always.

  ‘Have you thought about Christmas?’

  ‘Mum, it’s the middle of August.’

  ‘I know. But the flights book out fast. You don’t want to leave it too late.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘We’d love to see you. You know that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Mary and the family are staying for a couple of days, we hope. Boxing Day and the day after.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘The children will be really disappointed if they don’t see you. They haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘It feels like ages to them.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘See what you can do, Robert. Just for a day or two. I know you’re needed there as well. But a brief visit, that’s all. Think about it.’

  ‘I will, mum. I will.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, in a humble murmur – like an acquitted defendant thanking the magistrate – that always grates, but can still give him a twinge of guilt. ‘And how’s Tania?’ she asks.

  ‘Teresa, you mean.’

  ‘Sorry. Teresa. How’s Teresa?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘She won’t mind if you’re home for a few days,’ she says, more as a statement than a question.

  ‘No, ma, she won’t.’

  ‘And Gideon. How’s Gideon?’ she asks, in the tone that’s customary for this question, a tone that one would use in asking after an unruly but likeable acquaintance whose life is regularly punctuated by wacky escapades.

  ‘Working away,’ he answers. ‘Another American wants a portrait. A lady with a plastic face. And someone has vandalised one of his pictures.’

  ‘Oh no. Who? Where?’

  ‘At the exhibition,’ he says; there is no response. ‘The show I was telling you about. In the town hall. Someone wrote a rude word across one of the paintings, but we don’t know who. Not yet.’

  ‘Who would do a thing like that?’

  ‘They’re very passionate about their art over here, ma.’

  ‘Gideon must be upset.’

  ‘He’s OK. I fixed it. Only a bit of ink. Not as if it was ripped.’

  ‘It was ripped?’

  ‘No, ma – I said it’s not as if it was ripped. The damage was minor. It’s fixed.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘It’s the parade soon, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘What are you going to wear?’

  ‘I’m not in it, mum. Gideon’s taking part, but I’m not. Looks like Charles Laughton doing Henry VIII. I’ll send you a photo.’

  ‘And send me a picture of you.’

  ‘But I’m only watching. I’m not in fancy dress.’

  ‘I know. But send me one anyway.’
r />   ‘I look the same now as I did last year, give or take a wrinkle.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  ‘OK, ma. I’ll send one.’

  ‘I’d like that. Thank you.’

  She’s never been one for long conversations on the phone; it’s time to wrap it up. ‘I do have one bit of news,’ he tells her. ‘We’ve had an unexpected visitor. Gideon’s niece.’

  ‘He has a niece?’

  ‘Daughter of the brother who died last year. He hasn’t seen her since she was a kid. Just turned up on the doorstep. Thought it was time to reintroduce herself.’

  ‘Gosh. And was he pleased to see her?’

  ‘It was quite a surprise.’

  ‘I bet. How did it go?’

  ‘It’s still going. She’s here at the moment.’

  ‘She’s staying with Gideon?’

  ‘Sort of. She’s here.’

  ‘You mean with you?’

  ‘My apartment, yes.’

  ‘Robert—’

  ‘Separate rooms, ma, separate rooms. She has my room; I’m on the sofabed.’