“Thirsty perhaps, yes. Some light refreshments would be welcome.”
The major turned to me.
“I’ll take the doctor’s case upstairs and bring some prosecco?” I suggested. “Would the major enjoy a spaghettata? Something light?”
“As always, Santina, you read my mind like an open book. I’ll never convince anyone I am a quiet man of great depths at this rate.”
The doctor chuckled. “Your friends gave that up some time ago.”
I left the two men upon the canvas deck chairs in the garden beyond the terrace, under the fragrant shade of our lemon trees.
The smell hit me before I reached the upper landing; a putrid smack. I stood the doctor’s case just inside the doorway of the guest room and edged along the corridor. I knocked on Adeline’s door.
“Get away from me!” she yelled, a coarse growl from behind the heavy door.
“It’s only me, Santina.”
“Stay away!”
I stood in the stench for a moment. Whatever was happening the other side of this door needed immediate attention, but I was loath to pierce the peaceful bubble the major floated in with his friend two floors down at the far end of the garden.
“I’m going to open the door a little now, madam,” I said, trying to sound firm yet calm.
Silence.
My heart thumped.
I eased Adeline’s door open a little. The air thickened with the odor. My fingers crept around the door. I poked one eye around the edge. That’s when I saw her. She sat curled into a naked ball. Her back was toward me, the bones of her spine poking through her skin, across her buttocks the smudge of excrement. She didn’t hear me creep in. Didn’t see me look back toward the wall by her bed. Across the painted plaster, waste smeared the floral designs. I turned toward her again. Her shoe narrowly missed my head as I did so.
“I said get out!” she spat, lunging in my direction.
I slammed the door shut. Then turned the key for good measure.
My feet percussed the stone steps, tapping under the trip of my thoughts. Could I keep this incident from the major? I reached the men, saving the clinking glasses of prosecco from destruction several times before I did so. My flushed face gave away more than I wanted to.
“Santina, whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” The major knew me better than I’d like to admit. “Is Elizabeth alright?”
I placed the tray down upon the small wooden table between the chairs and straightened, a talking plank.
“Yes,” I answered.
The major stood up. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Adeline, sir.”
Now the doctor stood too. He didn’t wait for the major to take the lead. When he reached the bottom of the stairwell he had already rolled up his sleeves, someone who lived on the precipice of attending to emergency situations as a matter of everyday occurrence. I didn’t have a chance to explain before they stormed into her room and were enveloped by the awful sight. I stepped inside, after filling a bucket of water in the bathroom and grabbing the rags I used to clean the floor.
I didn’t dare look at the major. It would break my heart to see him defeated. In his friend’s first hour inside their sanctuary, the major’s upheld reality frayed. The major went to Adeline, took a sheet from her bed and wrapped it around her. He sent me to draw a bath. The doctor rummaged through the medicine cabinet.
“Where do you keep the belladonna, Henry?”
“It’s quite alright, James, we’ll clean her first.”
“Nonsense. Are the vials of Valium ready? That will sedate immediately.”
“I’m perfectly capable of handling this!” the major snapped, louder than I think he’d planned.
Elizabeth ran in. She heard her father shout and she burst into tears. Adeline looked at the major and began to roar, wordless, guttural. The doctor stepped in and gripped her from behind. “Don’t just stand there, Henry! Administer!”
I picked up Elizabeth and shut the door. Her sobs shuddered down my shoulder as I walked back to her room, her mother railing at the men, all the while the frustrated rumble of their voices echoing down the stairwell.
I waited with Elizabeth till she had returned to deep play. I made sure the wooden gate the major had made was secured, preventing her from entering onto the terrace, or out of the room. Then I returned to the upstairs bedroom. I opened the door. The eerie quiet prickled with tension.
Adeline was upon her bed now.
“I will see to Adeline,” the major said to me, dipping some washcloths into her ceramic washbasin.
“I will take care of the walls,” I said, pretending I didn’t hope one of the men would volunteer. Neither did.
“Why don’t you take the bath, James? Freshen up.” The major couched it as a question, but we all knew the doctor was not being given a choice.
“If you’re sure, Henry?”
“Quite sure.”
The doctor left.
The major and I worked in silence. I opened the doors. Wide shafts of golden evening sun glossed the once darkened room. In my periphery, I could sense the tender strokes of the major over his wife’s body as he cleaned her while she lay, collapsed into a Valium-induced sleep. Like a widower washing his deceased spouse.
After the disinfectant dried, I dropped the rag into the bucket and removed my thick rubber gloves. The major remained next to Adeline. He sat motionless, save for the gentle rise and fall of his wide back. The light from the sea caught the side of his face as he looked down at her. I watched his private moment of reflection. There was no hint of resistance in his expression, nor surrender to hopelessness. His hand moved round to his wife’s side by her lower ribs, as if he checked for her breathing. I watched his fingers smooth small circles across her abdomen. He wasn’t searching for his wife, nor pining for what was. Try as I might, my eyes could not look away. That he hovered nowhere but in the present moment compelled me.
When we were together he would often search his memory for a poem, something that had happened to him in order to prescribe some life, or grammatical lesson. But now, he was consumed only in the physical task at hand, no more. Much like our care of the garden, or Elizabeth, both jobs required a piqued focus on the shifting present.
Where was I now? Spying on a man who loved his wife deeply. I wasn’t here with them. I was prying. I watched his fingers. What was unspoken in that quiet space between a man and wife? How did it feel to caress the memory of the person he’d moved to Positano for? To hold on to the hope of his wife returning? Damaged but healed, fuller maybe in spite of, or because of, her fragile mental health. The love he described to me came floating back to memory. The way his face had softened in the morning light as he relived the first blush of love for Adeline, the dart that burned into his heart with speed. In the simple movement of his fingers, soft circles over her nightdress, I saw that unswerving devotion. It was ardent yet gentle. I thought about Paolino’s clumsy kiss just outside of this door only a few days ago. That icy feeling of being conquered surfaced again. I didn’t want to be fondled in deserted doorways. I wanted this adoration. I wanted to be loved like the man before me loved his wife. I tried to picture Paolino nursing me like that. The pictures were a watery reflection upon a moving sea, warped, fleeting, skewed. The major’s fingers slowed down. They ceased their dance.
That’s when he sensed me behind him.
Our eyes met.
I froze. Embarrassment pulsed through my veins. His sad glint gave way to something I couldn’t read. Neither of us spoke.
The doctor opened the door. He caught my gaze first and then faced the major. It looked like he had interrupted something; a second person had discovered me spying on my employers. My cheeks burned a deeper red.
I grabbed the bucket and rags and fled for the silence of my kitchen.
* * *
I lit several oil lamps placed on top of the balustrade for the men’s dinner. By the time they were ready to eat, t
he night was deep purple. The air was still. From the kitchen I could hear their conversation.
“Henry, we both know what the right thing to do is.”
“Do we?”
“Who are you keeping her here for? Her daughter? For her? It’s for you, Henry. You’re torturing yourself. You’re blaming yourself for what happened, aren’t you? This is some complicated plan to exhume your guilt. But this is no one’s fault, Henry. Postpartum psychosis is beyond our control. And the medical profession knows that some women simply do not recover. Why do you punish yourself like this?”
“What punishment, James? I don’t believe in retribution, or contrition, or whatever man-made construct you want to throw at me.”
Their talk fell silent. I saw it as the opportunity to take their plates. I had planned to offer a very light dinner, but after our start to the early evening I thought we all deserved some comfort. I worked through the adrenaline with two handfuls of cherry tomatoes, toasted walnuts, and a couple of plump garlic cloves, which I pounded with my marble pestle along with some capers, a glug of olive oil, a fist of chives, and one slim chili. I forked some salted anchovies into the mix, a pinch of fine sugar, and the zest and juice of a lemon. I let the salty citrus lift my mood, comforted by the savory earthiness of the garlic and determined kick of chili. It was a pesto of balance. Something we all needed a dose of. When the linguine was cooked, I drained it and forked the other ingredients around it, coating each strand with the savory mix. I placed the plates before them. The men breathed in the promising aroma. Their shoulders relaxed. Their expressions softened.
“As I was saying, James, what punishment?”
The doctor shook his head with a smile. “One woman elicits your heroics, the other services your corporeal needs. All under one roof. What punishment indeed!”
“Santina is a marvelous cook,” the major said, flinty. He didn’t look at me. I could feel his affront at the doctor’s remarks, which puzzled me. Together, the major and I had shown his friend that between us we could cope with Adeline, that neither of us longed for the household to run any other way. The doctor could see I intuited what all the members of this house needed at any given time. He may not have said it in so many words. He didn’t need to. I could see it in his eyes. But the way the major picked up his cutlery told me he was not best pleased; with me? With Adeline? With his friend? The afternoon’s events hovered over him like a tiny gray cloud of failure. I was dismissed without a thank-you.
We ate, the gentlemen upon their terrace, me at my kitchen table. All sat facing the same azure water, but our minds floating on different currents.
* * *
That Sunday morning I expected to forfeit my day off, in view of the company, but the major would hear none of it. I stayed on a little while longer, despite his insistence, even when Rosalia’s cousin arrived to take over for the day. The men departed for an early swim. I oversaw breakfast, rising before dawn to make sure the lemon cake was baked in time for their return, and that the small rolls I’d left would be still warm. I came back to the table with a second coffeepot. The doctor looked up at me, his hair still wet, his cheeks rosy with summertime. “Santina, you are a goddess. I’m sure this misery never tells you that!”
The major gave an operatic sigh.
“But you have to know you are,” the doctor persisted, despite the major’s resistance. “This is the best breakfast I have ever eaten. It is baked with love. The view is to die for. And the panorama isn’t half bad either.”
“That will be all, Santina, thank you.”
I returned to the kitchen, catching their bickering through the open doors.
“Good heavens, James, what on earth do you think you’re playing at? She’s not an imbecile.”
“Really? Happy to work for one though.”
“The sea air’s got to you.”
The doctor let out a breathy cackle. “Is that what they call it down here, Henry, old chap? Carry on—you’ve almost convinced yourself.”
In that moment I knew I couldn’t stay in the house to listen to their banter. I hung my apron upon the back of one of the chairs and let Rosalia’s cousin finish clearing up. I packed a bag for the beach. I needed to be in the water today. The doctor’s voice caught me off guard as I reached the main door. I had thought he had retired to one of the upper terraces.
“You always this jumpy in your own home, Santina?”
I had several answers, some more polite than others. None of them left my mouth.
“Off for a swim yourself?”
I nodded.
“Ought to have come with us! You could have translated what all the fish were talking about.”
I held my breath, waiting for the awkward silence to dissipate.
“It’s a ridiculous joke, Santina. Designed to stop you being afraid of me.”
I offered a feeble smile.
“It’s obvious I’ve put Henry under a little strain. He feels watched, I suppose.”
Then he watched me wait for him to continue. Or finish.
“Really, I’m trying—in a very pathetic way—to say how wonderful a help I think you are. And it doesn’t harm that your eyes are alive with a delectable energy to boot.”
He cocked his head to one side a little as he closed with a smile. I wanted to mirror him, but the hairs on the back of my neck bristled.
I slipped outside.
* * *
The beach wasn’t awake yet. I was glad. I didn’t want to wade into the shallows with the throng of scantily clad bodies. The sharp black stones poked at my soles as I tiptoed in. Then the emerald cool rose up around me. My breath snatched for a moment. I dipped my whole body down into the water, washing away all the prickles from yesterday afternoon and this morning. Nowhere else in my town could I feel invisible. I bobbed up for air once again. I didn’t realize quite how far I’d swum. I treaded the water between my feet, delighting in my thoughtlessness. I’d been cleansed of my week. The more difficult memories of the past few days washed away; my father, the major discovering Paolino and I alone in the house, Adeline’s outburst. Out here, lifted by the gentle pull of the waves, nothing mattered. Not even my American life, still hovering over the other side of my sea.
A voice called for me from the shore. It ripped me out of my floating emptiness.
I squinted against the light. It was Marco. I swam to shore, feeling like my anchor had just dropped and I was being reeled in. How had he recognized me out here? What on earth was he doing at the beach at this hour?
“You always half naked on a Sunday morning these days?” he said as he wobbled along the piercing stones. He threw me my towel.
“I’ve decided that I should be, yes, as a matter of fact,” I replied.
“Why you acting like them all of a sudden?”
“Good morning, Santina, how are you, my sister, may I buy you a coffee? Any of those seem like a nicer way to greet me on my day off?” I shook my hair, splashing him with the tips.
At last, a laugh.
“I’ve never seen you in town on a Sunday. What you up to?” I asked.
“Meeting some friends.”
He shifted his gaze to sea. The reflection crisscrossed his eyes. I read something sharp. He pulled down his sunglasses as I did so. My own warbled reflection bent toward me.
“You okay?” I asked. “You seem—”
“Hungry?” he interrupted. “I’m starving.”
“. . . on edge.”
“That’s what happens when your sister doesn’t visit you with her delicious picnics.”
“We’ve got guests. It’s been difficult.”
“He pay you extra?”
I slipped on my toweling dress and hooked my arm in his. I never knew how to talk to someone if they were hungry. Growing up not knowing where our next meal would come from had ingrained this obsession from an early age.
We reached Pasquale’s bakery near the mulino, where all the grain was ground. He and Rosalia were on the precipice
of a delicate romance. At least that’s what I could intimate through the ornate descriptions of his every look and smile shot in her direction. I couldn’t shake the sense that Rosalia’s plans were already formed in full and wondered if he had been party to them yet. When I did catch them together though, I loved the glow that cast over his face, rendering it even more relaxed and charming than it already was.
His bakery was simple, painted plain white, with one long glass counter. This morning it was loaded with tempting rows of pas-ticerrie ready for the Sunday feasts. Marco insisted on paying for several sfogliatelle, crispy, scaled pastries filled with lemon crème, others with the same pastry but named mini lobster tails, because of their shape, with toasted hazelnut crème. He wouldn’t listen to me when I said that was plenty, rather insisted Pasquale sell us two slices of torta della nonna for good measure, a thin, short crust pastry cake filled with a thick layer of custard and chocolate.
“On the house, Santi’,” Pasquale said when Marco tried to pay.
“Nonsense, Pasquale, please take something.”
“Rosalia talks of nothing but you and the house you work in and the food you cook—and the cakes! I don’t want any competition, you hear me?”
He placed our sweets upon a card plate and then wrapped paper around them with string.
“Buona domenica!” He smiled as he handed them over to me.
At that moment the beads of the doorway curtain flung out in all directions. Pasquale’s sister flew through them. Her face was white. She yelled out.
He raced out from behind the counter. “What’s the matter, Angelina?”
“You have to come quickly,” she replied, panting, “It’s Rosalia’s brother. They found him by the docks in Sorrento. They—”
She couldn’t get the words out. Her body shook.
Pasquale pulled off his apron. A colleague came out from the back. He signaled to Pasquale that he was fine to go. I watched him fly back out through the beads after his sister. I followed them, but they were racing away uphill. Marco stepped out behind me. Several other customers followed the commotion. I turned to a lady beside me on the pavement. She squinted at me in the white sun. “I just heard about it—terrible business.”
Four Hundred and Forty Steps to the Sea Page 14
