‘It’s a beautiful picture,’ he said.
He had wanted to say that it was she who was beautiful but at the last moment he had ducked it. She looked up at him.
‘Yes, you certainly did a fine job.’
And then because it seemed like he could contain himself no longer, he said, ‘I really like you, Miss Reynolds.’
Her face broke into a broad smile.
‘And I really like you, Mister Owens.’
Afterwards she would recount how those weeks in April and May had been for her. There had been that initial attraction she had felt when they first met. Then the weeks in Annapolis when she had thought of him all the while. They would laugh at the way he had kept on finding reasons for them to meet.
‘But it suited me,’ she would say. ‘I had to get to know you – to see what you were like.’
He wrapped the photographs in several layers of brown paper and tied them with string. He had to get back to his clients. There were no more reasons for them to meet now and he could come up with no more excuses. There was nothing else for it.
‘I wonder if you’d like to meet next week?’ he asked. Perhaps we could have lunch – or go for a walk – whatever you liked really.’
There was a heartbeat and then she said, ‘I should like that very much.’
The emphasis on the ‘very’ thrilled him. They arranged to meet in the lobby of Willard’s on the following Wednesday. They would have afternoon tea and go for a walk.
For the rest of the day he thought of nothing else but their forthcoming rendezvous. The six days until he would see her again seemed suddenly endless. He woke in the middle of the night and lay awake for hours thinking about her. The next night was the same. He went to bed late, slept for about three hours and then was awake until six, at which point he decided there was no point in staying there any further so he got up.
The nights assumed the same pattern after that. Then on Monday, he received a hand-delivered note asking if he would like to meet tomorrow instead of waiting until Wednesday. He sent a reply agreeing eagerly. After yet another night of broken sleep he somehow got through to lunchtime when he put up a ‘closed’ sign in the studio window and went out.
He knew today would be different. Previously there had always been these ostensible reasons for them to meet. In reality he suspected they had been little more than pretexts – on both their parts. But today there was no reason, no pretext. This was all about seeing each other, about being together.
He arrived first and was waiting in the lobby when she came in. She was wearing the same skirt with the Greek pattern that she had worn when she had come to collect the painting. Her face broke into a big smile when she saw him. He stood up. She came across and, with no hesitation, she put her arms around him. His arms encircled her. And then they kissed on the lips so hard that Gilbert thought his knees would buckle. If anyone was watching, Gilbert didn’t care and it seemed, neither did Sarah.
11
For a couple of hours no one spoke and a poisonous silence reigned. Gilbert figured that since conversation seemed to be Roberto’s natural state, he was happy to deny him this. The horse clip clopped along the packed dirt road with a vaguely sad air about him. Birds twittered and fussed in the trees on either side. It was warm and Gilbert and Roberto were in shirtsleeves. Gilbert was sweating but the shakes had stopped now that he was halfway through the bottle of whisky. He tried to stop thinking about Sarah. Eventually the silence seemed to become more than the Italian could bear.
‘So why your country make the war anyway, boss?’
They were on the road that ran almost due north towards Rockville. Roberto had a map and had marked the route on it in red pencil. Then he had shown a disinterested Gilbert the road he planned to take, calling out the names of the towns they would pass through.
‘Rockville, Middlebrooke, Clarksburgh,’ – he pronounced it ‘boorgh’, ‘Hyattsville, Urbana, Monocacy, Frederick City, Adamsville, Cregerstown, Emmitsburg’ – he said the names with the emphasis on the last syllable – ‘and then Gettysburg.’
Roberto said the names with great gusto as though he had known them all his life. Gilbert found it intensely irritating and ignored Roberto’s question. After a silence in which Roberto decided he wasn’t going to get an answer, he said, ‘Abe Lincoln gonna free the slaves?’
Again, ‘Abe Lincoln’ came out as ‘a blinken’.
Gilbert glanced at the man beside him. It was hard to tell what age he was – somewhere in the range twenty five to thirty was the best Gilbert could manage. He noticed that Roberto’s pants were newly ironed as was his freshly laundered shirt. He was clean shaven and his hat looked quite new. Beneath it his hair was shiny as though it had been washed and had some kind of lotion on it. There was a faint scent or perfume or fragrance wafting from him. Roberto looked straight ahead with a look of great concentration on his face, the reins held tightly in his hands. There was a sense that he was surprised that the horse was moving and it was as though he expected that at any moment, it would stop.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ Gilbert answered grudgingly.
He hoped that would be the end of it.
But then Roberto said, ‘But it no start out like that.’
‘Look, if you know so much about it,’ Gilbert snapped. ‘Why are you asking me?’
Roberto said nothing but a hurt silence descended on him. Gilbert was suddenly sorry. A distant voice – very faint and very distant – told him that this was not like him. He took a long swig from the bottle and wiped sweat from his face. He scoured his mind for something to say. Eventually he asked, ‘How long do we have to stay?’
‘Stay?’
‘Away?’
‘Until after the week end.’
‘And what day is it now?’ asked Gilbert.
‘Thursday.’
After another long search for conversation, Gilbert said, ‘Roberto?’
‘Si?’
‘Thank you for saving me on the stairs that time. I could have really hurt myself if it hadn’t been for you.’
‘Don’ mention it.’
Silence returned. The horse trotted along, its hooves and the trundling of the wheels the only sounds.
‘It didn’t start out like that,’ Gilbert said.
He wasn’t sure whether he was talking to Roberto or trying to remember for himself. Maybe he was trying to see if his brain still worked or if the whisky had destroyed it.
‘The war, I mean.’
‘No?’ offered Roberto.
‘No. At first it was about whether the Southern states – the Confederacy – could leave the Union – the United States.’
‘And could they?’ asked Roberto.
‘Well they could. They tried to. They did.’
‘Ah,’ said Roberto.
Gilbert took a swig from the bottle and held it up to see how much was left. There were about two fingers. He clawed some more facts from the fug of his brain.
‘And that’s why we went to war. The Southern states left and declared themselves a separate country. Then they attacked some Northern soldiers at Fort Sumter, so this was an act of war against this country. And so we declared war on them.’
‘So is two countries or one?’
Gilbert really didn’t want to be having this conversation. He emptied the bottle.
‘They think they’re a separate country. We think it’s one country.’
‘So for them is a war against a foreign country. For you is a civil war.’
‘Yeah, I guess that’s it.’
Roberto thought about this for a while and then said, ‘Must be confusing.’
Gilbert nodded to himself. It was certainly that.
Roberto asked, ‘And you boss – you for the North or the South?
‘Well I’m originally from New York so that’d have to make me a Northerner.’
‘So you a blue guy?’
‘I’m a blue guy.’
‘So you wanna free the slave
s?’
‘Of course,’ said Gilbert. ‘No man has the right to do that to another man.’
‘No boss, you right. I for the blue guys too.’
Roberto went silent. Gilbert hoped that the conversation was over, that Roberto wasn’t going to ask any more questions. Gilbert was about to suggest that they stop so that he could get the second bottle of whisky from the back when Roberto asked, ‘So if you guys win the war there be no more slaves?’
‘That’s right. Now it’s all about the slaves. Since the first of January this year, all slaves in areas rebelling against the United States have been declared free.’
My god, where had he remembered that from?
‘Is a good thing,’ said Roberto. ‘An’ if you win the war, those guys – the gray guys – they gotta come back into United States?’
‘I guess so.’
There was a long silence before Roberto said, ‘Can you make people to do something like that?’
‘I guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?’
‘And you, boss, you don’ join the army?’
Vaguely, he had known that the question was going to come. He wondered where to begin to reply. Sarah had been sick? He had to take care of her; he couldn’t leave her. He had been making so much money.
‘Cos they gotta ’ow you call it – inscription – now, boss.’
Gilbert had a hazy memory. Some time, just around the time of Sarah – it was pretty much the last piece of war news he remembered – Congress had brought in a conscription act. It made anyone between twenty and forty five eligible to be drafted.
‘Conscription,’ Gilbert corrected him. ‘Yes, I think I have to,’ he said throwing the bottle into the ditch. ‘But nobody’s come and asked me yet.’
After a pause he added, more to himself than to Roberto, ‘Or if they did I don’t remember.’
There was a long silence after this. Gilbert wondered how best to broach the subject of the second bottle of whiskey. Then Roberto said, ‘Boss, there’s something else we gotta talk about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Up to now you pay me thirteen dollars a week, right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Gilbert.
‘Is okay. But now – on this trip, for these photographs we gotta have a new deal. I mean, is my idea, the tip-off about the battle – without me we no get it. So now, for these pictures, any money we make – how about is fifty fifty? Your wagon and equipment but my idea, my tip-off. What you say?’
Gilbert didn’t care.
‘Sure,’ he said.
‘Thanks, boss. We shake on it,’ and he extended a hand to Gilbert.
He took it and they shook hands. Gilbert was conscious of how damp and sweaty his hand was. They rolled along in silence for another while.
‘What you gonna do with your share of the money, boss?’
He pronounced it ‘mah-ney’.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gilbert. ‘Buy whisky?’
The answer hung in the air. It was clearly not what Roberto had wanted. Gilbert was acutely aware of just how much he had lost the skill of ordinary conversation.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ he asked.
‘Well, depends ’ow much we make. But I’d like to find a proper place to live. And I’d like to be able to buy some good food. I miss the food of Italy. And I’d like to go to concerts, ‘ear music. And buy books. My English become a lot better very quickly if I can read books in English.’
‘Well, that doesn’t sound like too much,’ said Gilbert. ‘We should be able to make enough to do all that.’
Then Roberto said, ‘You terribly unhappy, boss. What ‘appen? What ‘appen to you?’
‘My wife died,’ said Gilbert dully.
‘I sorry, boss. I so sorry.’
Gilbert muttered his thanks. What was the point in people saying that? They meant well but what did it achieve?
‘I dunno what that must be like,’ said Roberto.
‘No – actually,’ said Gilbert, ‘– actually, you do. Let me tell you. Have you ever really loved somebody?’
‘Si,’ said Roberto quietly.
‘I mean really loved them. Loved them not in some abstract way. But loved being with them – loved the things you did together, the way you were with them, the way they made you feel.’
‘Si,’ Roberto said again, even more softly.
‘Now imagine that they’re gone. And they’re not gone for a few days – or gone on a ship. They’re gone. And you’re never going to see them again. Or be with them. Or hear their voice. And imagine that it’s been like that for months and it’s going to go on being like that and never stop.’
Gilbert turned to Roberto.
‘That’s what it’s like,’ he said.
After a long, long silence Roberto asked, ‘Do you think you’ll get married again, boss?’
‘I doubt it. I don’t think I’ll ever meet someone as beautiful as her again.’
Gilbert reached into his satchel and extracted the photograph. It was the head and shoulders shot he had taken of her. Not for her the posed seriousness of most studio portraits. No, she had a huge smile on her face, her eyes were bright and her hair had caught whatever light there had been that day so that it shone. He passed it to Roberto.
‘Oh boss, she very beautiful. And so ‘appy.’
‘Well, she wasn’t always happy but when she was, she was very happy. She had a great laugh. I can still hear it.’
Roberto studied the picture some more and then handed it back.
‘There are lots of beautiful women in the world, boss.’
‘Not like her there aren’t. And anyway, when do you get a second chance at something like that? Somebody who is just right for you in every way?’
‘And was she, boss?’
‘Well, mostly. When she was happy. And people can’t be happy all the time, can they?’
‘No, is true. But maybe you ain’t ready for somebody else yet, boss.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, there are things you gotta fix. You gotta quit drinking. Get your health back. You look like shit, boss, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Oh no,’ said Gilbert, feeling the irritation again. ‘I don’t mind at all.’
‘Get some money,’ Roberto continued. ‘You can’t ’ave a woman without money. At least not the kinda woman you’d want.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Gilbert drily.
‘Well, you gotta shake this bad feeling you ’ave, boss. That’s the tough one. I don’t know ’ow you gonna do that.’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever do it,’ said Gilbert.
‘I think you just need time, boss.’
‘So they say.’
‘Maybe they say because is true, boss. Everything passes, you know. When you ready, the woman come along.’
‘I could really use a drink,’ said Gilbert.
‘Next town is a Rockville coming up.’
Roberto sounded like a railway conductor.
‘’ow about some coffee instead, boss? You like some coffee? You’re gonna need a steady ‘and when we start taking pictures. We comin’ into Rockville right now. We find a place and ’ave some coffee. Then you feel better.’
They found an inn on the edge of Rockville, a small wood frame house. They dismounted and Roberto stretched and then kneaded his buttocks with his hands.
‘Jesus a Christ, my ass is so sore,’ he said.
‘A few days of this will toughen it up,’ said Gilbert.
‘Maybe I don’t want my ass toughened, boss.’
They tied the horse to the rail. There was a pump beside the inn and so they pumped some water into a bucket and gave it to him. Then they went inside. They ordered coffee and Roberto ate some cherry pie. When they came out, both the horse and the wagon were nowhere to be seen.
12
Afterwards Gilbert often thought that if he had been asked to pick one time – of all the times – that they had been
truly, truly happy, he would have picked the afternoon in the grounds of the Smithsonian.
It had been the Saturday after they had met at Willard’s. By then, though neither of them had said it, he would reckon afterwards they were probably both in love. In his case he hadn’t really thought about it. He was simply in a state of grace. Everything seemed to be bathed in a golden light. It was how life should always be – and would always be now that he had met her.
He remembered his previous woman – the one in New York – once saying to him that life wasn’t always a bed of roses. Gilbert had always said that it was – or at least, that it should be. Now, with Sarah, it would be.
They had arranged to meet at the front door of the Smithsonian and she was waiting there when he came hurrying up the path. Her face broke into a smile when she saw him. What do you fall in love with first, he wondered. Is it the face?
He came up to her and they kissed.
‘When we saw each other – just there,’ she said. ‘It was like we were Romeo and Juliet. You know – that they would see each other in a crowd or something, and it would be like there was nobody else in the world but the two of them.’
She smiled. How he loved her smile. He touched her face with his fingertips and kissed her again. The action didn’t seem odd or unconventional to Gilbert. In the golden bubble he occupied with Sarah it made complete sense.
They walked away from the main door and found a secluded bench shaded by trees. She folded her parasol and took off her hat. There were birds in the trees above their head and hopping on the lawn.
‘We should have brought some food for them,’ she said. ‘Do you like birds, Gilbert?’
He said that he did.
‘When I was a child, I used to watch them for hours from my bedroom window. I put out crumbs and they’d land on the window sill. They seemed so free and happy.’
They turned towards each other gazing into each other’s eyes. She smelt of orange blossom. Gilbert knew that if he lived for a thousand years he would never have a more perfect moment than now. He felt complete disbelief and wonderment that this was happening to him. He wondered if love was really discovery. You came across someone beautiful and the more you learned about them, the more beautiful they became.
Sunlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 2) Page 6
