by Irma Joubert
The train took them to Milan, the city of La Scala opera house. Lettie found it strange to think that more than forty years ago Marco also traveled to Milan by train for a performance in La Scala.
In the compartment the other four laughed and joked. De Wet seemed to be in a world of his own, only occasionally taking part in the conversation.
It made her strangely unhappy.
She soon discovered that the easy familiarity that had existed between them the day before had, for some reason, disappeared. He did not sit beside her, nor did he offer to help her with her luggage.
They arrived in Milan at lunchtime. “We’ll register at the hotel before we visit the Milanese Cathedral,” Antonio said.
Lettie smiled and tried to catch De Wet’s eye. You were right, another church, she wanted to say to him. But he was not looking at her.
All roads led to the Milan Cathedral, or so it seemed to Lettie. Once there, all roads seemed to lead around the cathedral.
They stood some distance away to get the full picture. “Gosh, this is what I call a frosted Christmas cake,” Boelie said.
“I like it—it looks like delicate lacework,” Lettie said.
“To me it looks like a castle in a fairy tale, one in which the princess is locked in the tower,” Pérsomi said.
“I also think it’s a bit extravagant,” Klara said, tilting her head to study the building. “It’s very Gothic, isn’t it, Antonio? It doesn’t seem typically Italian.”
Antonio launched into a historical explanation of the cathedral’s mishmashed style. De Wet remained silent.
“You can climb up to the roof to get a better view of the sculptures,” Antonio said.
“Oh yes, I want to do that,” Pérsomi said at once.
“All right then,” Boelie said, smiling, “we’ll climb. Are you coming, De Wet?”
“Yes, okay,” De Wet said and fell in behind them.
He did not look in Lettie’s direction. He did not invite her along.
That evening she took the clothes hanger with her long evening gown from the wardrobe. Lettie was going to a performance at La Scala—a dream come true. What Marco—or her father—would have given to be a part of this experience!
She had bought the evening gown specially for this occasion. She vowed not to allow anything or anyone to spoil the evening for her.
Lettie applied her makeup carefully and took time fixing her hair. Then she picked up her evening bag and went downstairs to the foyer.
She saw De Wet from a distance. He was standing with his back to the staircase, talking to Klara and Antonio. He wore a dark dress suit that fit his tall figure like a glove. His hair gleamed silver in the light of the chandelier.
Lettie paused for a moment to look at him, then she continued down the stairs.
She saw Klara notice her. She saw De Wet turn to look at her. Just for a moment she saw the admiration in his gaze. Then a veil dropped over his face.
Antonio came to meet her. “Lettie, you look stunning,” he said sincerely.
“It’s my La Scala gown,” she replied, taking a playful twirl. “You don’t know how many years I’ve been dreaming about this evening.”
There was a strange expression in Antonio’s eyes as he smiled at her and nodded. For a moment she feared he would burst into tears. But he swiftly regained control.
La Scala was a large, stately building from the late eighteenth century. “It looks like a city hall,” Boelie said.
“A grand city hall,” said Pérsomi.
“Yes, the one in Durban,” Klara agreed.
“I’m sure the acoustics will be a lot better,” Lettie said as they walked through the elegant foyer to be shown to their seats.
Antonio had reserved seats in the front row of one of the opulent boxes, and they had an unobstructed view of the entire stage and the orchestra below.
They filed in to take their seats: Pérsomi and Boelie, then Klara and Antonio. De Wet stepped aside, and Lettie sat down next to Antonio. De Wet moved in beside her.
The interior of the building was as large and impressive as the exterior. Lettie took a deep breath. She wanted to etch every moment into her memory.
The members of the orchestra entered. The audience clapped.
The curtain went up.
She was drawn into a world she had first been introduced to through sound in her childhood home in the heart of the bushveld. The world of Enrico Caruso and Beniamino Gigli and Tito Schipa; of Bach and Mozart, Beethoven and Mendelssohn; of La Traviata, of Il Trovatore— of Leonora’s dream that would forever remain a castle in the air.
The music swept her along. She was oblivious of her surroundings.
When the lights came on for intermission, she looked up, surprised. “I was in a different world,” she told De Wet apologetically.
“I noticed,” he said, smiling. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Incredibly. And you?”
“Yes, Lettie. It’s a . . . yes, you’re right, it’s an incredible experience.”
In the bright light she looked up and smiled. “Up there is the loggione,” she said, pointing. “Marco told me that’s where they used to sit when they came here as students.”
He looked up and nodded. “It’s probably cheaper up there,” he said. “You’re thinking of Marco tonight.”
“Yes, but my memories are happy ones,” she said.
He smiled, almost sadly. “Yes, I know.”
When the lights went down again and the music began, Lettie became aware of De Wet’s arm on the backrest of her seat. He’s just making himself comfortable, she told herself and tried to bring her focus back to the events on the stage.
But she was constantly aware of his arm.
The world she had been so engrossed in suddenly became a small, artificial world on a stage.
She imagined she felt his arm touching her back. She sat motionless.
Then she heard him give a soft sigh. Removing his arm, he folded his hands in his lap.
The atmosphere had changed. The magic world on the stage could not enchant her again.
It was late when they reached their hotel. “No, I don’t think I’ll have coffee,” Lettie said, excusing herself. “I’m going to bed. See you all in the morning. And thanks, Antonio, for arranging this wonderful evening.”
“It was a pleasure,” Antonio said, smiling. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Sleep tight.”
Lettie had barely closed the door when there was a knock. When she opened, both Klara and Pérsomi were standing in the corridor. “May we come in?” Klara asked.
Lettie stepped aside, somewhat surprised. She had clearly said she was tired and wanted to sleep.
Inside the room, Klara turned to her. “Lettie, sit. Let’s talk.”
Lettie shook her head, confused. “Talk? What about?”
“You and De Wet.”
Lettie looked at her friend in silence. I’m tired, my very soul is exhausted, and I don’t have the strength for this. She sank down onto the bed. “There’s nothing . . .”
“There isn’t nothing, Lettie,” Pérsomi said calmly, sitting down beside her. “You’re like a coiled spring, De Wet is going around like a bear with a sore head, and neither of you is happy. Klara and I think it’s unnecessary.”
Lettie felt the last of her energy drain from her body. “It’s really nothing . . .” Suddenly the tears began to flow uncontrollably. “I’m so confused,” she said.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Pérsomi asked gently.
Lettie shook her head. But the words came anyway. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t even know what I want.”
There was a long silence. From outside came dim street noises. Inside, there was the dull drone of the air conditioner.
“How do you feel about him, Lettie?” Klara asked.
“I don’t know. I’m . . . afraid of him.” She surprised herself when she spoke the words. Afraid? Of De Wet?
Klara sat down on a chair. “Why?” she asked,
astonished.
“I don’t know. He’s . . . oh, Klara, he’s your favorite brother, I know, but he’s always been a Casanova, always ready for a good time. I know. And I can’t . . . Not now . . .” She stopped, as if words failed her. How could she explain?
“De Wet is no more a Casanova than Boelie,” Pérsomi said firmly. “We worked in the same office every day for more than thirty years. We worked together on numerous cases, often traveling to Pretoria on business. I’m not aware of a single occasion when he even looked at another woman while Christine was still alive. And goodness knows, he had plenty of opportunities. The young law clerks, the female interns, women who came to seek his aid with contracts or divorce—heavens, I wish you could have seen how shamelessly some women came on to him.”
“My son-in-law has told us how women of all ages chased after De Wet,” Lettie said quietly.
“He’s attractive and charming. It’s not his fault women find him irresistible,” Pérsomi said. “But he’s not a good-time guy, Lettie.”
“When he was young he had a different girlfriend every week.”
“That’s not true either,” Klara said seriously. “He always loved Christine, but he never had the courage to tell her. And then . . .” She shrugged. “Then it was too late. He could have spared everyone a great deal of misery if only he hadn’t been too afraid to speak up.”
Lettie kept shaking her head. “I . . . I’m just so confused, I really don’t know . . .” She fell silent. How could she explain something she didn’t understand herself?
“What are you afraid of, Lettie?” Pérsomi asked again.
There was a long silence before she replied, “I’m afraid . . . of what’s inside me. I’m no different from all the others. And my life, the way it is now, the way it was before I came on this vacation, is good. I’m happy. I don’t want to stir things up, I don’t want . . .”
She took a deep breath, tried to think clearly.
“I’ve been alone for more than twenty years,” she said, more for her own benefit than her friends’. “I’m not used to having someone around me. I have everything I desire: my beautiful home and garden, the town where I have spent my entire life, my friends. My two daughters and their husbands live close by. It’s where I plan to see my grandchildren grow up.”
She drew an almost gasping breath and tried to put her thoughts in order. “Isabella and Albert have taken over my practice—the practice started by my father. Leonora and Danie . . . Oh! Why would I want to complicate my life?”
“You don’t want to take a risk,” Klara said.
“There’s no reason to,” Lettie answered. “But there are many reasons not to. And don’t tell me, ‘He who hesitates is lost.’ There’s nothing I want to gain. I’m content with things the way they are.”
“You don’t think, if things work out between you and De Wet, the future may have great happiness in store for you?” Klara asked.
“But I am happy,” Lettie said. “And besides . . . Oh, Klara, be realistic. Why on earth would De Wet be interested in me in the long run? And don’t tell me I’m smart—no man looks at a woman because she’s smart. I’m . . . just plain old Lettie. Actually, I’m too exhausted to think.”
Klara got up and went over to the mirror. “Come here,” she said.
Lettie got up listlessly.
“Look in this mirror and tell me what you see.”
Almost indifferently Lettie glanced at her image in the mirror. “I see you and me,” she said.
“Look at yourself,” Klara ordered. “What do you look like?”
“Tired,” Lettie said.
“Come now, Lettie,” Klara said sternly. “As a child and a teenager, you were overweight, and you wore thick spectacles. What do you look like now?”
“A little thinner, but certainly not slim,” Lettie said.
Pérsomi joined them. “Lettie, you’re a beautiful woman, and now that you’re wearing contact lenses, everyone can see your extraordinarily beautiful eyes,” she said honestly. “And your complexion is like velvet.”
Lettie remembered her mother’s words, which had been no consolation to her at the time: “Your complexion is a bit oily, but it means you won’t have wrinkles when you’re older.”
“I think Klara is right,” Pérsomi said, still looking at Lettie in the mirror. “You don’t look at yourself objectively.”
Klara turned away from the mirror and sat back down on the chair. “I just want you to think carefully, Lettie,” she said. “De Wet might not be as self-assured as he appears. We all wear masks. Maybe he finds it hard to say how he really feels, I don’t know. Men think and act differently from us women.”
“I think,” Pérsomi said slowly, “you’re afraid he’s just amusing himself with you. I doubt very much that’s true.”
“I don’t know if that’s what I’m afraid of,” Lettie said slowly. “Maybe, yes, I’m afraid I’m just a distraction for him while he’s on vacation.”
“No, you’re not,” Pérsomi said.
“I suppose I’m most afraid of myself,” Lettie admitted reluctantly. “I . . . don’t want to take a risk.”
“Well, first you must decide how you feel and what you want to do,” Klara said and got to her feet. “Then you must be honest with De Wet. But it can’t go on like this.”
Pérsomi gave her a reassuring smile. “Right now you need to take a bath and relax. Try to get some sleep, it’s very late. Everything will look better in the morning.”
The morning did not bring the new perspective Pérsomi had promised.
Lettie showered, then went down to the dining room. She could do with a cup of coffee.
She saw De Wet the minute she entered. He was sitting alone, apparently having had the same idea. She poured her own cup and went to his table.
He got up immediately and pulled out a chair for her. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?” he asked gallantly, but there was a guarded expression in his eyes.
She sat down facing him and put her cup on the table.
She looked him in the eye. “De Wet,” she began, then shrugged helplessly, “I’m sorry I’m spoiling our vacation.”
“No, it’s me,” he said at once. “I’m so confused.”
She took a sip of the hot coffee. “I’m confused too,” she said softly.
He looked up, nodded slowly. “Yes, Lettie, I know.”
They drank their coffee in silence.
“We mustn’t spoil the others’ vacation as well,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
They carried on drinking their coffee.
They were walking through the Porta Ticinese, the old city gate of Milan, first built in the sixteenth century. De Wet and Lettie walked side by side, seemingly at ease in each other’s company.
They were heading for the Santa Maria delle Grazie, the Holy Mary of Grace church, where the mural of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper could be found in the convent.
“You say Marco was impressed with Da Vinci?” De Wet asked.
“Oh yes,” Lettie said. “Apparently Da Vinci was incredibly versatile. I’ve told you he was the first to describe the concept of a contact lens. He even designed a kind of helicopter.”
“I remember learning at school that he was an artist and sculptor and scientist or mathematician, or something,” De Wet replied. “I don’t remember the exact facts.”
“There’s more. I know he was also an architect and an engineer,” Lettie said.
“Boelie and Antonio will find it hard to believe that one person could be both,” De Wet said, laughing.
At last they stood in front of the Last Supper, one of the most reproduced paintings the world has ever known. “I never imagined it would be so big,” Pérsomi said, surprised.
“I didn’t know it was painted on a wall. I thought it would be on canvas,” Boelie said.
They stepped closer to examine the details. “See the oranges on the table?” Antonio asked.
“Yes?
”
“Well, it’s a historical error. Oranges were brought to Europe from India in the fifteenth century by Dutch sailors. The events in this painting date back one thousand four hundred years earlier.”
“Interesting,” said De Wet.
They studied the apostles, and Antonio identified each of them by name. “The building was damaged during the war,” he said. “In August 1943, the Allied troops bombed the church and convent. Large sections were destroyed, but some of the original walls survived, among them the wall with the mural of the Last Supper, because it had been protected with sandbags.”
“War is a terrible thing,” Pérsomi said with feeling.
“Terrible,” said Antonio, nodding in agreement.
There was a moment’s silence. Each of us was influenced in some way by the war forty years ago, Lettie thought. Antonio was a soldier and was taken prisoner. Boelie was interned. Pérsomi lost her brother, Christine the father of her unborn child. And through Christine, De Wet was connected to the war. Through Antonio, Klara’s life was completely changed.
And my own life too. Marco never would have come to South Africa if the war hadn’t ruined his health. He probably would not have died so young if not for the damage his lungs sustained during the war.
“The painting is disintegrating, isn’t it, Antonio?” Klara broke the silence.
“Yes, the wall has deteriorated and the base under the paint is disintegrating,” Antonio answered. “Ongoing restoration is carried out, but ultimately it’s just a question of time.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing we’re seeing it in time,” Boelie said and turned away. “I wonder if there’s any coffee around here.”
“Boelie!” Klara and Lettie said simultaneously and began to laugh.
The next morning they were off to Turin, scarcely a hundred miles away.
Lettie hurried off to buy an English magazine at a kiosk on the platform. When she rejoined the others, there was a vacant seat next to Klara, and one next to De Wet. He motioned for her to sit next to him, his gaze almost daring her to refuse. They both remembered what had happened the previous time.
