by Adele Parks
He's given up hope.
He no longer believes we will ever be a family. I'm alone in trying for this. I'm chilled by the thought. The tears I've been hoping to keep at bay throughout lunch finally, silently, roll down my face with the inevitability of a determined tank progressing over the soil of a conquered country. The tears splash on to my lap and are caught by the paper napkin that I'm shredding. I can't bring myself to look at Roberto. He's the cause of my tears, which is bad enough – the humiliation would scar all the more if he witnessed them too. Anyway, I sense that he's not looking at my tears, he's staring out towards the fountain. How long have I been trying to kid myself that we were looking in the same direction? I grab the tattered napkin and scrunch it into a tight ball. My fingernails dig into the palm of my hand. I concentrate on that discomfort in a pathetic effort to distract from the howling pain of realizing exactly what my life amounts to.
A bloody mess.
My husband is fascinated by another woman. I am intrigued by another man. Italy is not the answer to all my problems, I have brought my problems with me from England just as surely as if I packed them with my passport. There is no baby. My husband no longer believes there ever will be one.
How will I ever stand up from this table?
Of course his belief in our chance of having a child makes no material difference, we can still have sex as regularly (or irregularly) as before, but something has irrevocably changed between us. I feel a lump of grief throbbing in the pit of my stomach.
Time shudders on, for how long I don't know. Two minutes? Twenty? I mine into my deepest resource and drag out my dearest belief. I will have a baby. I will be a mother. With or without Roberto's hope, I have to carry on. I choose one fantasy from my extensive portfolio, the one about shopping with my teenage daughter, and I polish that fantasy. I think about her buoyant grin and my fake exasperation as she tries on yet another funky skirt. For several minutes I visualize the sounds, smells and sights that will accompany this scene and eventually my tears stop and my breathing calms. Finally, I find a reserve of strength and say, 'I want to head to Juliet's home.'
Roberto is still looking at the fountain and has not noticed my distress. 'The so-called Casa di Giulietta is just a tourist trap. The balcony wasn't even added until 1935. You are the English literature expert but even I know that William Shakespeare was dead long before then,' he says with a grin.
Just because he's right doesn't make me feel better towards him for making this observation.
'I want to imagine Romeo standing under her balcony,' I say quietly and firmly. 'I need to believe in the romance.'
Roberto shrugs. 'OK.'
41
24 March
'Been busy?' asks Chuck as I hop into his car.
'Sort of. Usual stuff, just working in the bar. Oh, and went to Verona on Thursday.'
'Just you and Roberto?'
'Yes.'
'So did you enjoy the romance, the architecture and the history? It just oozes out of every stone, doesn't it?' comments Chuck.
'I guess,' I smile weakly. His enthusiasm is normally infectious, but the thought of Roberto resigning himself to our infertile state has made me immune.
'Too many pigeons, Pinocchio puppets and pedestrians for you, hey?' asks Chuck, hazarding a guess at my morose state. 'Wasn't it what you expected?'
I play with the idea of telling him why I stayed in my room all day Friday, ignoring the sunshine and the calls that I turn up for my shift in the bar; I lay on my bed and quietly wept until my skin was sore. I tried to repeat my trick of visualizing a moment of maternal bliss but the exercise is becoming harder and harder. Even dreaming gets lonely. I think Chuck would understand. If not him, then who? Not Alison. When I called her, she said that deep down part of me has known that it's been years since Roberto was actively interested in baby-making. Maybe – but there's a difference between subconsciously accepting a lack of enthusiasm and openly embracing the possibility that he's given the idea up entirely. What a numbing, Armageddon thought; he is despairing of us ever being a family. We should have talked about that. I should have known that. The way I should have known that the vineyard was a bar and that Ana-Maria was an ex-long-term girlfriend. What is happening to us? What has happened?
I am a blank. A nothing. I have no purpose or direction if I'm not trying for a baby; if we aren't going to be a family what are we to be? Roberto seems to think we can be a happy and fulfilled couple just by running the bar but we're not that happy. Quite a lot of the time I'm very unhappy. Most of the time, actually. When have I been truly happy in Italy? The night at Perche No? was fun. But then I got my period. Another full stop.
I want to tell Chuck all of this but if I start talking I know there's a strong possibility that the tears will start to gush again. I can't risk that before work.
'It was fine. I'm just nervous about today.' My excuse is plausible but a jot away from credible. I hope he doesn't call me on it. To avoid him doing so I add, 'I've brought along a couple of English books and magazines to give the conversations a starting point, but I'm not sure they are the right sort of material. The magazines I found under my bed are mostly gossip or fashion mags but I did manage to search out a dog-eared copy of Newsweek as well. Roberto picked it up at Heathrow when we flew here.'
He nods approvingly, 'All good stuff. Relevant. Pupils like that. You have nothing to be nervous of. I'll drop you at the secretary's office. She'll give you a list of the names of your students. They are all one-on-one sessions this morning. Your students will love you. You are going to be awesome. I like your skirt by the way. It's er good. It's er short.'
It's impossible not to smile at him.
At lunchtime I wander out into the sunshine leaving the school behind me and bump straight into Chuck.
'Well?' he asks with an enormous grin.
'It was brilliant. I had such a good time. I can't believe I'm being paid to talk to people, especially nice people. I'm teaching one of your ex-pupils actually; Francesca Contadino.'
'Oh yes.' Chuck nods but doesn't add anything more.
Francesca is mesmerizing. She has a neat, hard body and a wide, whooping smile. When I was teaching her I found myself wondering if she and Chuck ever dated. Not that I have any right to feel uncomfortable imagining Chuck kissing every inch of Francesca's stunning hard body. But.
'Who else did you teach?' he asks.
'A woman in her fifties, who wants to travel to Asia. Asia, can you imagine it? You don't think of women her age having a gap year, do you? She's having advanced lessons in English plus she's studying Chinese. She's frighteningly bright. And there were two executives from the Pirelli plant. They need to be fluent for work. Of course, they were both utterly charming and captivating. Italian men their age always are, aren't they?' Chuck is grinning at me although I'm unsure as to exactly why. 'They were all lovely,' I add, in case he thinks I have a crush on the businessmen. I wish he knew me better, then he'd know I don't do crushes, or at least didn't.
'Did they like your magazines?'
'Yes. I think next week I might take a manual or even a TV clip and have a discussion around that. I'll get Mum and Dad to send some things over. I think it's important to keep the discussion material varied.'
'You're brilliant, a natural,' says Chuck, and then he envelops me in an enormous hug. He picks me up into the air and shakes me around a little before he carefully lowers me back down to the ground.
'Wow, you are really big, aren't you,' I mutter.
I seem short of breath, which is humiliating. I either look unfit or I look as though I'm some sad old bird who literally pants with excitement when a lump of hunk is in close physical proximity. The shame. The accuracy. I feel the imprint of his arms wrapped around my body way after he's let go. Maybe I should feel bad about that but actually it's hard to dislike.
Chuck grins. 'Do you have time for lunch or do you want me to drive you straight back to Veganze now?'
'You don't
have to drive me. I wouldn't dream of putting you out like that. I'll get a bus. You have to teach this afternoon, don't you?'
'Yes, but my next class isn't until four. I'm expecting to hear all about your classes first. I was just hanging around, waiting for you.'
For me. It's tempting. 'Well, I don't have to be at the bar until six.' I check my watch. 'We could eat here and then I could get a bus back.'
'We could eat here and then I'll run you back. We have plenty of time.' Chuck takes hold of my arm and steers me towards the street. 'I know a great pasta joint.'
Chuck is as good as his word. He does know a great pasta joint. He takes me to a small, slightly scruffy trattoria which I'd have certainly dismissed if I'd been on my own. The paintwork is chipped and the cutlery doesn't match. We sit at heavy wooden tables with paper place settings and napkins. The owner is also the waiter and chef too, apparently. But he embraces his multi-tasking with an unusual buoyancy and verve. He's clearly delighted to see Chuck, who is obviously a regular, and they chat in Italian for a good ten minutes before settling on penne with pesto sauce.
'Did you understand any of that?' asks Chuck, when the proprietor dashes back to the kitchen and we are alone.
'Some. You were talking about the ingredients of the sauces. He persuaded you away from the Bolognese sauce because he was unconvinced by the quality of the tomatoes at market today, plus he mentioned that pesto with penne would be quicker.'
'Wow, well done.'
'I understand more than I can speak.'
'The lessons will help there. It's just a matter of confidence.'
'Of course I might have just made a lucky guess; the chances that you'd be talking about food were pretty high; that's what Italians talk about most of all.'
'I suppose,' concedes Chuck as he snaps a breadstick in half. 'Do you fancy a drink?'
'At lunchtime?'
'Is that wrong?'
'Not if I'm making the rules, but I thought Americans barely drank and certainly not at lunchtime.'
'I'm not thinking of sinking a galleon, just one glass of red now and then. I won't get in the car for a few hours. Drinking and driving is a no-no but that's me, not a national trait. America is a big place. Californians probably do drink less than average but there's a horrendously high occurrence of alcoholism in the mid-west and other places. It's really hard to generalize.' Chuck pauses and then adds, 'You operate hampered by a lot of stereotypes, don't you?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, you are always saying, "I didn't think Americans did this or that" or "Italians are this or that." You have quite a bank of prejudice.'
'I do not. I am not a prejudiced person at all.'
Chuck shrugs. He pauses while he asks the proprietor to bring us a couple of glasses of wine, then he asks me, 'Do you know any Dutch?'
'Uh uh,' I shake my head. 'The Dutch are hard business people – traders, bankers and such. Not my type.'
'What about the Spanish?'
'I love the Spanish. They are such passionate people. I once worked with a girl who was Spanish; the poor thing was always having rows with her boyfriend.'
Chuck laughs, the way people who think they've just proven a point laugh. ' That was probably to do with her age or his infidelity, or her spending habits, or about a million other things could be the reason, you can't just put it down to her nationality,' he says.
'I can. Anyway assuming she spent a lot and he was unfaithful is also operating in a stereotype,' I point out.
'Where do you get this stuff from? Unbelievable,' says Chuck, shaking his head with something that looks like disbelief.
'I read a lot,' I tell him proudly.
'Is that instead of living a lot?'
I stare at him warily and try to think how I should answer. I wonder if he's trying to offend me. I decide not, Americans are very polite, they are just a little more straightforward in the way they express themselves than the Brits are. Suddenly I can't see the table because tears are swimming in my eyes.
'Hey, hey, I'm so sorry. I was only teasing. I didn't mean to upset you.'
'It's not you,' I stutter through my tears.
'Then what is it?'
I take a sip of my wine and wonder how much I should say. The morning's teaching distracted me from the pain of Roberto accepting our childlessness but Chuck's off-the-cuff comment has unexpectedly struck a chord and once again I'm face to face with the question: what is it that I've been doing with my life other than waiting? Reading while waiting to start a family seems worthy. But if there's no baby, then what?
'I want a baby.'
'What, now?' Chuck looks confused.
'Now. Soon. Always,' I blurt. 'It's all I've ever seriously wanted but it's not happening.'
I take a large gulp of my wine and then I tell him everything. I tell him that since I was a little girl I've fantasized about having a big family and, when I was fourteen, I honed that desire. For eighteen years I've harboured a dream to live in the middle of a huge, boisterous, Italian family. I tell him how I only ever dated Italians as I ruthlessly pursued that dream, and I tell him how I was so sure that I'd lucked out when I met Roberto and we quickly fell in love. And then I tell him the hard bit; the bit where the fairytale turns into a lonely nightmare. I tell him about the countless examinations and interviews with doctors, specialists and consultants, the herbs, hormones, rituals and tests. I tell him that I used to adore my friends' and brothers' kids but now I find it really tough being around them. I hate myself for not being a bigger person. But I'm not. I'm sad and I'm verging on bitter.
'I hate it when other people expect me to hold their newborns. I know they think they are trying to be decent, offering me some sort of consolation prize. But it's hard. Plus, there are loads of rubbish mothers out there. Everyone knows that. They are put on earth to torture me.'
And finally I tell him the worst thing of all.
'Roberto's given up hope. He said so on Thursday.'
Chuck has stayed silent throughout my lengthy outburst. He did at one point order another glass of wine. Now he stretches across the table and squeezes my hand. Without thinking about it I lace my fingers into his and we hold hands as though we are lovers, not friends.
'But you haven't given up hope. Isn't that the important thing? You are strong enough to hope on your own and that might be enough, providing—'
Chuck breaks off. I look at him and he's almost blushing; he's definitely embarrassed. I understand what he's getting at.
'Oh yes, we are still having sex,' I reassure him.
'Well, good, erm.'
'Yes, I continue to hope because there isn't even a specific problem.' I say this with angry disbelief, as though it was the first time I'd ruminated on this fact, not the ten thousandth. Each time I do so the unfairness hits me anew.
'There isn't?' asks Chuck surprised.
'None that the docs can find. Unexplained infertility they call it. The best the doctors can offer us by way of explanation is that our –' I hesitate and wonder how, or even if, I should say this. Sex and baby-making has become quite scientific for Roberto and me. It's normal for us to talk about the most intimate acts without any embarrassment, reverence or mystery. Now I'm talking about baby-making with Chuck I'm suddenly very aware of the reverence and mystery of sex once again. I falter.
'Let's just say everything is functioning and theoretically we are capable, but you know, we're just not that compatible.'
Chuck gets my meaning. 'A friend of mine had the same thing. They tried IVF. They have two kids now.' Chuck sounds so hopeful I could kiss him. It's been forever since anyone was hopeful about my situation.
'IVF? No, Roberto won't think of it. He believes what is meant to be will be and that we oughtn't to interfere with this sort of thing. This one is up to the Big Guy.' I point to the heavens.
'But that's crazy and a bit selfish. You could argue IVF is a modern-day miracle,' says Chuck.
You could argue that and I have. I'
ve used the exact words to no avail. I shrug. 'Who's to say it would work anyway?' I ask. 'The odds are not high.'
'Maybe, but you must resent Roberto for not wanting to try.'
'I do actually.'
I can't believe I've just said this. How disloyal of me. What a revelation. I roll the words around my head. I resent Roberto. For the first time I consciously acknowledge that I'm annoyed with him for refusing to try IVF. I'd try anything. I'd do anything.
The proprietor reappears; he coughs. Chuck straightens up, letting my hand fall from his grasp.
'Mi scusi,' says the waiter as he drops two enormous plates of pasta in front of us with a thud.
Chuck hands me a napkin and I blow my nose. 'Thanks for listening,' I say shyly.
'Thanks for talking. My heart breaks for you, Elizabeth. You'd be a great mum. I know it. And you know what? I really believe you will be one day. Who knows what's out there?' he says enthusiastically.
'Do you think so?' I look up and meet his sparkling green eyes that dance with hope and integrity. I feel doused in his warmth and goodwill.
'I've never wanted kids. It's just not my thing at all. But listening to you talk about them and how much you want them has really moved me.'
'What?' I pull away as he throws his pail of icy water over me.
'I've never understood the longing some people have to reproduce; that whole thing has just passed me by. But my God, Elizabeth, you are so passionate and you've given it so much thought that I really have some insight into your longing.'
'But you don't feel it?' I ask with disbelief and an irrational disappointment. Why should I care if Chuck wants babies or not?
'No, not at all.' He forks a large amount of pasta into his mouth and chews thoughtfully.
'And here's me thinking you were the perfect man,' I joke, even though I'm feeling unreasonably gutted. What the hell is wrong with me?
'You thought I was the perfect man?'
He stops chewing and we stare at one another. The tension between us is palpable. I don't know what to say. There isn't a joke to hide behind.
