‘That’s none of your business.’
‘It’s sick that you are reduced to spying on your women.’
‘It’s not spying. You don’t seem to understand. I’m looking out for her.
She’s young and vulnerable.’
‘You’re spying on her. If she’s smart she’s sleeping with your informant. That’s what I’d do.’ She giggled.
‘And I’d kill you,’ he replied, fixing her with stony eyes. She flinched with a perverse kind of pleasure as she detected the menace in his expression.
‘Your little wife is not so little any more.’ Lucia grinned and ran a tongue over her thumbnail.
‘She’s not fat if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘Not fat, just fatter.’
‘She’s softer to lie on. I like it,’ he said. ‘Besides, if she were skinny like you I might muddle you both up in the dark.’
‘We both have Italian names, I’m surprised you haven’t already put your big foot in it.’
‘I never lose control. You of all people should know that.’
‘Do you love her?’ she asked sulkily.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I love her to distraction.’
‘Well, it’s one very happy marriage then, isn’t it?’ she stated with sarcasm. ‘But I adore you too.’ Then she sat up and pouted at him, allowing her long
black hair to fall over her breasts, firm like newly whipped egg whites. ‘Why didn’t you marry me? I’m more beautiful than she is, more intelligent, more street-wise, I’m independent and worldly and I have no doubt that I’m a better lover. So, why didn’t you? Dimmi, porcine non ci siamo mai sposati?'
Torquil stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and rolled out of bed. ‘For all those reasons, angel,’ he replied. ‘For all those reasons.’
When Federica returned home in the early afternoon, Torquil was waiting for her. He embraced her in his duplicitous arms but she felt nothing but a tingling numbness and saw in front of her eyes those black clouds of doubt. ‘Are you all right, little one?’ he asked, stroking her hair. ‘You look exhausted.’
‘It was very sad,’ she replied, shaking her head, trying not to look into his eyes.
‘I missed you,’ he said. ‘I could hardly sleep without you.’
Federica smiled tightly. ‘I need a hot bath,’ she mumbled, pulling away from him.
‘And a massage,’ he suggested.
‘No really, just a bath will do.’ She sighed, putting her handbag down and
slipping out of her shoes.
‘I want to rub away your suffering.' he said and followed her up the stairs. ‘I know exactly how to cheer you up.'
Federica shuddered.
Torquil ran her a steaming bath scented with lavender essence and sat talking to her while she washed away the memory of Sam and her nostalgia. He told her he was planning to take her away on a long, hot holiday to Mauritius. ‘You’re anxious, sweetness, it’s no wonder you’re having trouble conceiving,’ he said.
Federica felt a sense of panic creep up to her throat where it tightened its grip and made it difficult to breathe. ‘What you need is a relaxing holiday in the sun. We can make love all day.’
‘Yes,’ she replied hoarsely, although the idea made her skin prickle with repugnance.
When she declined his offer of a massage and began to get dressed, he insisted that she needed it. ‘God, you’re tense,’ he said, rubbing her shoulders. ‘You see?’
‘I’m fine, really,’ she insisted.
‘Lie down.’
‘I’m fine, Torquil, please.’
‘Little one, I know what’s best for you, don’t I?’ he said, pushing her towards the bed. ‘Now, do as you’re told and let me massage away all that strain.’ Reluctantly she lay naked on her front and closed her eyes because if she opened them she feared she might cry. His strong hands kneaded her skin with lavender oil, rubbing away at the muscles that were taut around her shoulders and neck. The room was warm and she was hot from her bath. Soon his hands got the better of her and she felt her body relax against her will. Her mind cleared of thoughts of Nuno, her family and her conversation with Sam and concentrated on the pleasurable feeling of his fingers on her flesh. She was balancing on that tenuous border between meditation and sleep when her senses were alerted to his sudden shift in position.
He spread her legs in one swiff movement and fell on her, probing his way into the centre of her being, jolting her back to consciousness. He rode her hard and selfishly as if he was aware that he was slowly losing control. That little by little she was loving him less. She opened her eyes and fixed them to a point on the wall. Then the strangest thing happened. She mentally withdrew
from her body, as if it wasn’t happening to her, as if it were someone else lying helpless on the bed. She projected her mind back to Chile, back to Cachagua, to the beach where the sand was warm and soft like Lidia’s flour and the sea was hypnotic and soothing, drowning out her discomfort and humiliation.
In the barren months that followed, the butterfly box became her only source of consolation. She opened it to escape her unhappiness, reading her father’s letters and floating far away on the memories that were evoked by the magic of the strange, sparkling stones. As Torquil’s lovemaking grew more brutal the butterfly box became more vital. It was her lifeline. It was the only thing that sustained her.
It was at her lowest ebb that Federica received an anonymous note, delivered by hand through her letterbox like an epistle from Heaven.
You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief
But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked
She turned the note over in search of a further note explaining whom it was from. But there was nothing. Just a simple piece of white paper with the verse typed onto it. She sat down and read it again. She didn’t recognize it. She read it again slowly, thinking very carefully about each word. Whoever had sent it obviously wanted to help her, but remain anonymous at the same time. There was only one person she knew of who would have reason to hide his identity. Her heartbeat quickened and the adrenaline pumped through her veins awakening senses that had grown sluggish with sorrow. Ramon Campione. It could only be from her father. How typical of him to send an anonymous note. He had never announced himself. He had always just turned up unexpectedly. It had driven her mother mad, but it was his way. Then the content of the note was also very much his style. She remembered his stories, sometimes mystical, often spiritual. The turn of phrase was reminiscent of his own poetry, but above all it was his philosophy. He had always risen so far above every care and grief, risen so high that they had no longer touched him. He had been unaffected by cares even when his own family’s cares and needs had driven
them away from him. He had let them go. Once he had cared for her. In fact, there had been a time when she had believed his love to be unconditional and everlasting. But she had been disappointed, bitterly disappointed. Perhaps this was a tentative plea for forgiveness. Maybe he was trying to explain himself and his carelessness. But she hadn’t seen him for years. Why was he suddenly thinking about her now? Where was he? How come he knew of her unhappiness? Why did he bother?
Later, when she lay in the darkness next to the distant body of her husband, she pondered on the note that she had hidden at the bottom of the butterfly box. Her father cared. He wouldn’t have sent the note if he didn’t care. She smiled to herself. He knew she was suffering and he wanted to help. The note was a clear instruction. She had to learn how to rise above her problems. The trick was not to let them get her down, to take control. It was all a state of mind. Her unhappiness was because she allowed life’s struggles to burden her. For the first time since her marriage she felt a twinge of excitement as she took the initial cautious step in regaining control. She was tired of being a victim, it was time to take a stand. She was going to go on a diet, enrol in a gym
and
rise above her cares naked and unbound. But most importantly she wasn’t alone. Once more she felt the sun on her face and basked in her father's love.
Ramon sat down at his typewriter and began to write. He hadn’t attempted to write a book since the death of Estella which was now over three years ago. He had only written poems. Long poems of tormented verse, venting his pain and his regret in each carefully written line. He hadn’t left Chile, preferring to stay with his son and near Estella’s grave where he would often go to feel close to her, although his reasoning told him that she wasn’t in the ground but in the realm of spirit. He had watched with pride as his son had begun to write his feelings down in a diary. Sometimes they would sit on the beach and Ramoncito would read to him the lines he had composed about his mother. They were at first faltering, often clumsy, as he seemed impatient to release a grief that saw no other avenue of escape. But little by little he had refined his style, taken more time and begun to produce poems of great clarity and beauty. Ramon was touched. ‘Mama will be so proud of you, Ramoncito,’ he’d say, ruffling his hair with his hand.
‘How will she know?’ the boy would ask.
‘Because she can see you, my son,’ he would reply, confident that she was with them in spirit. ‘Because love has no boundaries.’
It hadn’t been easy for either of them. But while Ramoncito was distracted by his school friends and his schoolwork, his father was left alone to wallow in self-pity in the house on the beach where everything reminded him of Estella. Sometimes in the summer, the heavy scent of roses would rise up on the air and waff in through the window to hijack his senses. He would awaken from his dreams believing she was there, lying next to him, ready to caress him with her honey eyes and gentle smile. It was in those tormented moments that he felt the urge to sob like a child, clutch her pillow to his face and breathe in the memories that clung to the linen. So he had turned on the light and written his feelings down. Those poems had saved his sanity. They had also changed his life.
Ramon had learnt, through the intense scrutiny of his emotions, why he had run away all his life. First from his parents, then from Helena, then from his children and finally from Estella. He had run away from love. Love had terrified him. As long as he was on his own, far away from the people who cared about him, he was safe from the suffocating intensity of their love. The responsibility
had been too heavy for him to carry. So he had enjoyed their love from a distance, returning every now and then to check it was still there before breaking away again before it overwhelmed him. His intentions had always been good. He had suffered regret when he had watched Helena and the children walk out of his life, when he had travelled to England to find Federica crying in the porch of the church because she missed him, when he had seen her that afternoon on the bicycle, squinting into the sun. He had suffered terribly because he loved them. But he had also been afraid of his own capacity to love. He had run from that too. But Estella had been different. At first he had run from her like he had run from Helena. But Estella had loved him without wanting to possess him. She had loved him enough to give him his freedom. Her love had been pure and unselfish. Without realizing it he had learnt from her love. It was because of this lesson that he had decided to write a book, not for publication, but for Helena. An allegory with a hidden message. He wanted her to know why he had run from her. He wanted her to learn too from Estella’s undemanding love.
Sam sat on the top of the cliff and gazed out onto a sea that never changed,
whatever the season. The winter frosts painted the grass-topped cliffs with icy fingers, froze the rivers and streams, yet the sea stayed the same. It could be rough, it could be calm, but it was never dictated to by the seasons. It belonged to itself.
Nuno had belonged to himself. He had never been influenced by anybody. Sam missed him. The house continued to reverberate with his presence and they all still talked about him as if he were alive, retelling stories of the funny things he had said and the odd things he had done. Inigo had given his study to Sam. Sam had been so touched he had wept. His father had patted him firmly on the back and told him that he could do with it whatever he wanted. But Sam had kept it exactly the same. Ingrid was touched that he wanted to keep her father’s memory alive in the one room in the house that had truly been his. Sam had cleared the desk, placing all Nuno's pieces of paper with illegible notes scrawled in his hand across them, into a couple of boxes in order not to throw anything away. Then he had gone through his drawers. It was there that he had come across a yellowing book of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. It was a book he knew well. Nuno had often quoted from it and had given Sam a copy for his confirmation - indeed he had quoted from it at his funeral. But
there was something deeply touching about Nuno’s own private copy because he had written down his thoughts and ideas in the margins. However, it was the accompanying letter that inspired him.
It was then that Sam thought of Federica.
The letter was addressed to his wife Violet, Sam’s grandmother, and dated 8 May 1935. It was written from Rome. It spoke of his deep love for her and his desire to make her his wife. The marriage was obviously one her parents opposed for she had spiralled into a dark hole of despair from which there seemed no escape. Nuno had seen no other way to console her, being across the waters, so he had sent her his book with notes of encouragement which he had written into the margins alongside the verses he thought would give her strength. Sam was so moved by the letter that he read it more than once. Then he read the verses and Nuno’s comments. It had obviously worked for they had married in the end and shared many happy years together.
Sam thought of Federica. If it had helped Violet why not Federica? He sat down at the desk and typed out a verse. He had decided to send it anonymously because he felt there was more chance of her reading it and acting upon it if she didn’t know it came from him. After all, he had tried to reach her
twice and failed both times. Then he had gone all the way to London on the train to deliver it.
He had stood in wait outside her house under a black umbrella, so that she wouldn’t recognize him. Then he had hung around on the pavement for over an hour willing her to return. It had taken him that long to realize that she was already in the house. When he had peered in through the window he had caught a glimpse of her wandering about the rooms in her dressing gown, eating a packet of crisps. It was mid-afternoon. She was most certainly alone. He had resisted the temptation to ring the bell and slipped the letter through the box in the door instead before walking away and returning to Polperro on the late afternoon train.
He had spent the entire journey back to Polperro thinking about her. The image of her wandering through the rooms of her large, elegant house in her dressing gown, eating to assuage her unhappiness, had evoked feelings of both anger and pity. He had wanted to lie in wait for Torquil and hit him over the head, finishing him off for good. But he knew the only way to free her was to teach her how to do it herself. He hoped the letter might inspire her as it had inspired Violet. He dreamed of one day loving her himself, but those
dreams were frail clouds on the horizon.
‘You know, your wife’s going to the gym? She’s already lost weight. She only ate a salad last night at the Blights’. Not like her at all,’ Lucia said scornfully.
1Poverina, I’d hate to exercise and diet. Sex is the only pleasant way to stay in forma.1
‘She’s not going to a gym,’ Torquil replied loftily. ‘She’s got a personal trainer. I arranged it for her. It’s a good thing too, she needs to lose a bit of weight.’ ‘Sweet,’ she sighed. ‘It’s all for you, you know.’
‘I know. She’s been very distracted lately. I can’t seem to get through to her. Her silence drives me mad. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. Perhaps losing some weight will put the smile back onto her face.’ He shook his head in order to be rid of his domestic problems and grinned down at his mistress. ‘Now how about slipping into that little black ensemble I
bought you?’
‘Well, you'll have to be quick, I’m meeting Fede for lunch at the Mirabelle.’ ‘Well, come here then,’ he said, holding her against him and running his hand up the backs of her legs.
‘Do you still make love to Fede?’ she asked as his fingers traced the tops of
her lace stockings.
‘Of course.’
‘No results yet?’
‘None.’
‘I’m sure I’m fertile.’
‘I’m sure you are, angel,’ he said, spanking her on her naked bottom. ‘Ah, you’re ready for me.’
‘I never wear knickers when you come to visit,’ she said and laughed throatily.
But as much as Torquil tried to lose his anxieties in Lucia’s succulent flesh, he was unable to stop thinking about his wife. He sensed her detachment and it alarmed him.
Chapter 37
Helena should have recognised her daughter’s unhappiness, because she had suffered too and knew marital discontent better than anyone. But Helena had never had the ability to see further than herself and her own needs. She only saw Hal because, unlike Federica, she needed him. He had always been the part of Ramon that she had been able to hold onto. As much as she had tried to convince herself otherwise, she believed she had never stopped loving Ramon.
Arthur was kind and compassionate, doting and generous - everything that a woman should desire in a husband, but she yearned for the magic of those early years with Ramon. They haunted her by night in the form of sensual dreams, which reminded her of that transient paradise, and by day in the form of a constant, nagging regret. The worse she treated Arthur the harder he tried to please her.
At the start of their marriage she had welcomed his affection with gratitude, and she thought she finally had everything she could ever want. But after a while her thoughts had been dragged back across the sea to another life where
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