The Crooked Path

by Irma Joubert

  Antonio appeared behind him. “Sorry we’re so early, Lettie,” he said, smiling, “but Klara and I are leaving today. I have to be back at work tomorrow. You probably haven’t had time to find your feet yet.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Lettie. “I’m quite at home around here. This is where I grew up. Please take a seat.”

  The two brothers sat facing her—two figures carved from the same block of marble by the same sculptor—one in radiant health, the other pale and emaciated.

  “Marco came to South Africa to get well. It’s the main reason he’s here,” Antonio began awkwardly. “He can be a hard nut to crack, but I want him to come and see you every week so you can keep an eye on his progress.”

  Marco sat calmly, watching her with a slight smile that reached his eyes. When Lettie glanced at him, he said in an amused tone, “Actually, I’m the elder brother, you know!”

  “And you allow him to bully you like this?” she played along.

  He nodded, pretending to be serious. “It’s terrible. But if it means I’m going to be fussed over by an attractive young lady, I’ll allow it.”

  Was he making fun of her? His expression was friendly, and he seemed quite serious. “You’re a flatterer, just like your brother,” she replied. “Tell me, what are your symptoms?”

  “Antonio is in a hurry,” Marco remarked. “Please go, Tonio, you have a long drive ahead. I’ll manage. I know exactly what’s wrong with me. I’ll walk back to my lodgings. It’s not far.” Again with that slight smile.

  Antonio got to his feet. “Very well,” he said. “Lettie, promise you’ll make sure he visits you every week.”

  “I promise.”

  The two brothers spoke to each other in Italian, Antonio waving his hands and talking earnestly. Marco nodded and smiled, then laughed and gave his brother a pat on the shoulder. Antonio put his arms around his brother. They kissed each other on both cheeks and said a few more words before Antonio hurried off.

  “Good, now we can be properly introduced,” Marco said, sitting back down.

  They spent the next half hour talking, Lettie writing, Marco waving his hands in the air.

  He was different from his brother after all. His voice was more intense than Antonio’s, and at the same time softer. He spoke perfect old-fashioned English with an enchanting accent. And his eyes held the hint of a smile even when he was being serious.

  She forced herself to focus on nothing but the medical facts. She questioned him in great detail, and he answered as comprehensively as he could. She paid special attention to his diet during the past seven years. The picture became clearer.

  “Fine,” she finally said. “Now will you remove your clothes, please, and lie on the bed?” She drew back the curtains around the bed.

  “Everything?” he asked dubiously.

  “No, no,” Lettie said. “Shoes and socks and shirt will do.”

  When she picked up the stethoscope, she noticed a slight tremble in her hands. It’s just because he’s my first patient here, she told herself.

  She examined him carefully while he lay stretched out on the bed. “Marco, you’re . . . very thin,” she observed.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “We’ll have to do something about that,” she said. “I’ll do some research on special diets, and I’ll speak to Aunt Gertie at the boardinghouse.” She listened to his heart and lungs and said, “She can be quite strict with her lodgers, but she has a good heart. Fine,” she concluded, stepping back, “you may get dressed now.”

  “My chest?”

  “It’s quite congested. We’ll keep a close watch on it. I’m going to prescribe a tonic to build your strength, as well as a cough mixture. Does your chest hurt when you cough?”

  He shrugged. “A little.”

  “The medicine will help. Look after yourself and don’t catch cold. The pharmacy is next door to the surgery.”

  “Is it possible to catch cold in this place?” he asked, putting on his shoes.

  “You’ll be surprised,” Lettie replied.

  Late that afternoon, as they were driving home, Lettie said to her father, “Marco Romanelli was my first patient this morning.”

  “I saw him,” said her father. “The man is nothing but skin and bone.”

  “How he survived on what he was fed is a mystery,” Lettie said. “I don’t think any of us around here know the true meaning of the word hunger.”

  Christine paid Lettie a visit in her first week at the surgery. She wanted Lettie to see Gerbrand.

  “This sturdy little chap?” Lettie said, smiling at the boy, who was watching her with suspicion. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He was never . . . er . . . vaccinated against smallpox as an infant,” Christine said uncertainly.

  Lettie frowned.

  “I was in Egypt during the war . . . ,” Christine began to explain. “Then, just before Christmas, De Wet said . . .” She reached out with her hand and stroked the little boy’s hair.

  “Never mind,” Lettie said. “It’s good that you’ve brought him. I’ll fetch the vaccine.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not going to be easy,” Christine said anxiously.

  During her two-year internship at the hospital, Lettie had dealt with plenty of small boys. “Don’t worry, it’s child’s play,” she said, kneeling in front of the boy. “Your name is Gerbrand?” she asked, smiling.

  The boy glared at her.

  Ten minutes later Lettie said, “Well, not quite as easy as I had thought. But I think we’re friends again. Did you come to town with your dad?”

  “Yes. But . . . er . . . I also wanted to see you,” Christine said softly.

  “What’s wrong?” Lettie asked.

  Christine brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “I . . . think I’m pregnant.”

  “Chrissie, that’s wonderful!” Lettie exclaimed. “Get up on the bed, let’s take a look. Are you late this month?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “How late?” Lettie asked, handing Gerbrand a toy car from the cupboard.

  “Four months,” Christine answered.

  Lettie looked up, startled. “Four months! Have you seen a doctor?”

  Christine shook her head helplessly.

  “Well, don’t worry,” Lettie reassured her. “We’ll make sure everything is right.”

  The little redhead appeared at her side. “Don’t hurt my mommy,” he said.

  Lettie smiled. “I won’t, I promise.”

  He narrowed his eyes, then turned his attention back to the toy car she had given him.

  “Tell me, Chrissie, why didn’t you come in before now?” Lettie asked, following the routine procedure.

  “I was . . . afraid,” Christine said very softly.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Lettie said. “Everything sounds normal, everything looks right. You can get dressed. I suppose De Wet is over the moon?”

  “He . . . doesn’t know,” said Christine.

  “Well, then you’re going to tell him—tonight,” said Lettie. “He’ll be ecstatic.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course,” Lettie said firmly.

  That night as she lay in bed she thought of her friend. It must be wonderful for a woman and her husband to know they were going to give birth to a little person.

  She rolled over and tried to sleep.

  But sleep didn’t come.

  Lettie began to look forward to Marco’s weekly visits. Sometimes they chatted awhile before she examined him. He had a habit of leaning closer when he was listening, looking her in the eye, occasionally nodding, his gaze seeming to reflect her words. His bony hands with the long fingers usually lay calmly folded on the desktop between them.

  He asked about her practice, her patients.

  “They’re mostly children, sometimes women,” she answered. “I have only one male patient. Fortunately he comes regularly, to maintain the balance.”

  Marco smiled. “Not always volunta
rily,” he said.

  They spoke about the school where he was teaching. “It’s . . . very strange,” he said. “The children are completely different here, the routine as well. And yet, in a strange way, it’s the same.”

  “Can you handle it? I mean, are you strong enough to stand in front of a class all day?”

  “I get very tired,” he admitted. “But most afternoons I’m able to rest. I’ve been excused from sports coaching this term. It’s just . . . the coughing that bothers me at times.”

  “We’ll try a different cough mixture,” she said. “We’ll have to see what works.”

  During his next visit he spoke of his love of reading since childhood. “Any kind of book, but mostly historical nonfiction. It gives you access to a different world, Lettie. It’s probably the one thing I missed most when I was . . . in camp. That, and music.”

  “How many languages do you speak?” she asked.

  “I don’t speak them all, but I read quite a few,” he answered vaguely.

  “And what are you reading at present?”

  “I usually read two or three books at the same time, but the one I’m enjoying most at present is a collection of Leonardo da Vinci’s writings. I consider him one of the most remarkable minds that has ever lived,” he said. “Did you know that, among other things, he sketched a type of helicopter at the beginning of the sixteenth century? The design was highly impractical, but the idea was sound.”

  Lettie nodded. “He was from your part of the world—from Florence, wasn’t he?” she asked.

  Marco gave her a surprised look. “You know that?” Then he smiled. “Yes, he was born in the town Vinci in Tuscany, some way south from where we live. But he worked in Milan for a long time, for Ludovico il Moro. That’s our part of the world. It’s . . . er . . . Not everyone knows where Da Vinci was born.”

  Another time he told her of his love of music. “I miss good music,” he said, speaking of his landlady. “Aunt Gertie’s radio is on all day, but it seems she mostly listens to Afrikaans serials. And the music is . . . well . . . not my type of music.”

  Lettie laughed. “It’s probably boeremusiek—local instrumental music. My father has a wide variety of classical records. You should come and visit sometime. My dad would love to play you his collection.”

  “Thank you,” he said, nodding. But like most unspecific invitations, it remained hanging in the air.

  On a warm Friday afternoon at the end of February, Marco said, “Lettie, these weekly visits are a waste of your time. I’m in better shape than I’ve been in years.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “And the cough?” she asked. “I need to monitor your lungs on a weekly basis. Besides, Antonio paid in advance, so you’ll just have to come, whether you want to or not.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to come,” he hastened to assure her. “It’s just that I hate wasting your time.”

  “I’m not all that busy,” she said, still smiling. “Besides, winter is imminent, and we must make sure you don’t fall ill.”

  “The way Aunt Gertie’s feeding me, you’ll have to put me on a diet soon.” He smiled, taking off his shoes.

  “Hmm,” Lettie said after a while. “Looks good. You gained three ounces this week. Let’s take a listen to your heart and lungs.”

  The following Wednesday night the sound of the phone shrilled through the house. The operator kept ringing until Lettie’s father picked up. It was a sound Lettie had grown up with. The sound of the phone in the dead of night meant there was an emergency somewhere. In the past she had rolled over and gone back to sleep, but now she jumped out of bed and got dressed.

  “Who is it?” she asked, nearly colliding with her father in the passage.

  “Neels Fourie called,” he replied. “It’s his father, Oom Cornelius. Doesn’t sound good. He can’t breathe. You don’t have to come. It could turn into a long night.”

  “I’m coming,” Lettie said, already at the back door, thinking of Klara’s father and grandfather on the farm.

  In the car her father said, “He’s very weak. I’ve been expecting the worst for some time. But you never can tell.”

  They drove on in silence. Lettie looked at her father’s hands on the wheel. The hands of an old man who shouldn’t be called out in the middle of the night anymore. “You must teach me to drive so I can take the midnight calls,” she said as the old Hudson crossed the Pontenilo bridge Antonio helped to build so long ago.

  “There’s no need. I can do the night calls,” her father said. “It doesn’t happen all that often.”

  “Still,” Lettie insisted.

  When her father stopped at the Old House where Klara’s grandparents lived, De Wet’s car was parked outside. Inside, all the lights were on.

  They were too late, Lettie realized the minute they entered the sickroom. “He’s asleep,” said Klara’s ouma, but it was clear that she knew.

  Lettie turned and went to the kitchen. “Let’s make coffee,” she told the old black woman who stood wringing her hands in front of the stove.

  “Cornelius . . . ?” she asked softly.

  Lettie shook her head.

  The old woman fell to her knees and covered her head with her apron. Somewhat awkwardly Lettie put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. The next moment De Wet was there. He knelt beside the old woman and spoke to her gently. “It’s better this way, Siena. Oupa won’t have to fight for breath any longer. He’s at peace now.”

  “The Lord has come to fetch him,” the old woman said in a muffled voice.

  De Wet looked up. “Siena and Oupa grew up together,” he told Lettie. He got to his feet. “Will you make coffee, Siena, please?” he asked.

  “Leave everything to me,” she said, getting up with an effort. “Where’s Ouma?”

  “I’d like to attend the funeral,” Marco told Lettie on Friday afternoon. “I didn’t know the old gentleman personally, but he’s family nonetheless.”

  “I’ll be going as well, for Klara’s sake,” said Lettie.

  “Do you think we could go together?” asked Marco. “I’m not sure how things are done in your church.”

  “Of course you can come to the funeral with us,” Lettie said. “And there isn’t much to do. Wear a dark suit and tie and sit quietly.”

  He smiled. “Sounds irresistible,” he said. “A black suit and tie on a February afternoon. It’s hot, or haven’t you noticed? And sitting quietly during a service of which I don’t understand a word sounds like fun.”

  “It’s high time you learned some Afrikaans,” Lettie said. “You’re in Boer country now. Come, get on the scales and we’ll see how you came along this week.”

  “I’m reading an Afrikaans book,” he said as he took off his shoes.

  “Does it make sense?” she asked.

  “It’s a children’s book I borrowed from the library, the story of Pinocchio. Fortunately I know it. And there are pictures as well.”

  She laughed. “Do you read it at bedtime?” she teased.

  She was constantly amazed at how easy it was to talk to Marco, even to joke with him. She who had always been struck dumb in the presence of any boy or man.

  Suddenly, for no good reason at all, she was looking forward to the funeral. It’s absurd, she thought, it’s . . . improper.

  She needed a new dress anyway, she decided that evening. She didn’t have a black dress. She’d been steadily losing a pound or two every week. Early Saturday morning she found her way to Miss Pronk’s dress shop. She chose a black dress, draped over the chest, with a narrow waist and a full skirt that fell in soft pleats.

  “My goodness, Lettie, who would have thought you could look so striking!” Miss Pronk said, pleased. She was a tall, thin woman with hair piled high on her head and a nose like a quarter pound of cheese. “You were always such an awkward, chubby little thing. Just look at you now . . . beautiful, yes, gorgeous.” Miss Pronk tugged at the dress and touched Lettie’s neck. “Your mother’s pearls would ad
d the finishing touch.” Her gaze fell on Lettie’s hair. “And go to the hairdresser’s. A new style is what you need.”

  Lettie shook her head and paid. “Thank you, Miss Pronk,” she said. “I’ll come back next month for one of your pretty frocks.”

  “Remember the hairdresser’s!” Miss Pronk called after her.

  Lettie laughed and waved over her shoulder. What a strange lady. But she’d been running her tiny “boutique” for donkey’s years.

  Back on the street Lettie had second thoughts about her hair. She’d worn it long since junior school. And she didn’t have a lovely mane like Annabel’s or Klara’s. Her hair was too fine. Why not try something new?

  On an impulse she walked into Ellen’s hair salon. Two ladies were waiting. She was on the point of leaving when Ellen saw her. “Lettie!” she called out. “Sit down. What brings you here?”

  “Do you have time?” Lettie asked, suddenly unsure. Should she really have her hair cut? What if she looked silly? She was so used to wearing it in a French roll.

  “Of course I have time, dear,” Ellen said, producing a comb from her ample bosom. “What are we doing today?”

  “I’m . . . not sure. I just feel it’s time for a change. Do you think I should cut my hair shorter?”

  Ellen removed the hairpins and ran her fingers through Lettie’s hair. “You have lovely hair,” she said, “but it’s thin and fine, with a bit of a wave.” She tilted her head and studied Lettie’s face from all sides. She delved into her bosom again and produced a pair of scissors. “I think we should cut it short, dear, and see how much curl there is. We can always give you a perm.”

  Not on your life, Lettie thought. “Do you think so?” she asked anxiously.

  “Yes, dear, I do. What do you say?”

  “Go ahead,” Lettie said recklessly, “it can always grow again.”

  Just over an hour later she left the salon feeling light-headed. At home she slipped away to her bedroom and studied her image in the mirror. She looked strange. She felt almost naked.

  She continued to gaze at the new short hairstyle. She didn’t have Christine’s blond curls, just soft waves. She looked younger, she realized, surprised and happy. And stylish.