A Funeral in Fiesole (18 page)

‘The stuff you remember, Paola.’

‘She brings back things I’d never have thought of otherwise.’

‘Why do you think you remember so much, Auntie Paola?’

I spoke to Lori. ‘I tended to be quiet. I observed a lot.’ I laughed. ‘A typical oldest-child habit, I guess.’

‘One thing I certainly wasn’t … observant. Or quiet!’ Suzanna spoke to Lewis, but we all heard, and laughed. You had to give it to Suzanna; she knew herself, and could be unapologetic and funny with it, no matter how acerbically she phrased her words.

Lively conversation started around the table, and the two brothers walked off together to settle the bill. I let them. My head and heart were taken by memories of Basile, who would take and guide my hand with the brush, to trace outlines of some landscape. ‘Distance … remember distance. It’s as important between a tree, a hill, and a church as it is between the nose, the lips, and the chin. Distance. Always. Accurate distance means accurate likeness.’

I never painted seriously, and I wondered whether his advice had anything to do with the way I wrote – with my writing style, in which I placed distance between characters, between events, between the premises on which I constructed my stories. Distance between me and my readers? Perhaps there was a bit of Basile in what I did and how I wrote.

Not even I – not even I and my elephantine memory – remembered everything. Matilde had brought some things back to me with such power when everything in my life seemed worthless and confused, now John was no longer in it and I was drifting. After the drive back to Fiesole, I found it was all suddenly clear and full of soothing meaning and direction.

Dinner at the
osteria
was a definite failure. We all returned more distant and close to hostile with each other. Still, I was soothed by recollections brought on by renewing my connection to Matilde. The way she spoke about Basile reawakened the way I felt about him as a teenager. The young woman I no longer was.

Basile had stood there, one day, between the doors leading to his room and the one where all his canvases were stacked; tall, with riveting light-coloured eyes which seemed incredibly sad. How could a sixteen year-old even conceive of adult sadness? How could a young girl, in a checked blue skirt and yellow blouse, with hair pulled back with black velvet ribbon, conceive of what was happening? I could not have been anywhere near guessing how he felt – or even whether there was anything to guess.

He stood there and put his hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘In English … in English, is there only one word for distance? Tell me, Paola, how you say it in English.’

How could I have known what he meant? I thought he meant the distance between a nose and a lip, a lip and a chin. I thought he meant the distance between a tree and a church steeple. ‘Distance …’ I said. The woman nearing sixty now saw meaning hidden from the girl of sixteen.

‘In Italian, we have
distanza
… and there is also
lontananza
.’

‘Oh.’

‘The first … it is … it is mechanical, scientific, mathematical. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘For artists, and tailors, and builders, yes?’

‘Yes?’

‘
La lontananza
is emotional, my sweet.’ He made a wry expression. ‘It’s distance between people. There is a song, by Domenico Modugno. One day you will listen to it …’

Because it was hard to understand what he meant, all I could do was smile. At sixteen, it felt like sentimentality reserved for adults. At fifty-eight it rang with recognition and regret.

Matilde hinted at his reason for leaving Fiesole. I never saw him again, he put distance between us, because he was – she said – an upright and moral man. He created
lontananza
between us, to protect me, one might think, from what could turn into an inappropriate love.

It would have taken a less cynical woman than myself, at the moment, to consider what might have happened had he been less upright and moral.

The ensuing years were a jumble of recollected flashes of shifts and changes. How I started writing. How I met John. How I ended up, because of and despite some decisions, living in Australia. Years went by without a thought of Basile.

I had his painting. Matilde made sure I did. I knew for a long time it was vital to find it, but I didn’t know exactly why. The awakening of a memory, prompted by a departing husband, and an old woman in a tiny apartment in Italy, could seed the desire to own the painting. I truly formed the wish to search for it while sitting in an uncomfortable claustrophobic aeroplane seat all the way from Melbourne, trying to remember a time I felt loved. I had it now; I knew I was well-loved, and the painting was mine. Was it enough?

Packing

Paola kept insisting we talk about the will, and the last thing Harriet thought we should do was discuss whether we were all going to sign the acceptance. Of course we were; it was patently obvious none of us had any real reason not to. It would mean personal and financial disaster to me if someone didn’t. I hardly had patience to wait another day.

Harriet too seemed stressed. ‘Remember what the notary said.’

‘Dottor Ugobaldi said a lot of things, Harriet – which of them do you mean?’

‘He said acceptance is irrevocable.’

I held out my hands, palms up. I pushed sliding spectacles up my nose again. ‘What possible reason could there be to want to revoke?’

‘We can’t – it’s the law. Once a will is accepted, there’s no going back.’

‘Yes. He was clear about it. Mama left no debts, no complexities, no knots to untie … nothing we would ever regret. So …’

Unless it was to spite each other, no one would renounce; and the time for spite was long past. We might have done it as young people, but not now.

On the way to the room Harriet and I were using, at the end of the wing, I heard music. It was a tinny high-pitched sound, and it came from Paola’s room. She was playing something on her laptop. Once more, she was being quiet, scrutinizing our movements and faces and words like a predatory bird before retreating to her nest. Paola was an owl.

The music stopped as I passed, and started again. The same song, some old Italian song from so long ago I could not – would not – dredge my memory for it. Paola was the memory freak, not I, and here she was, playing something that would either replenish, or stimulate, or stop – hopefully – one of her vivid memories. She was right – it was a curse. If I had a similar mental facility, it would have driven me mad.

Harriet had our belongings spread all over the place.

‘Packing already?’

‘Well, we are leaving tomorrow, darling. We have to leave at some point.’ Her voice sounded funny.

‘Harriet!’

She stood, shifted slightly, and dropped into my arms. Not quite sobbing, but choked with emotion.

‘Are those tears?’

‘We lived here long enough, Nige.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Harriet. Don’t tell me you wanted the house. Oh, sweetheart. You’re disappointed we didn’t get this house.’

She mumbled something against my chest.

‘This is the only clean shirt I have left, darling. What’s wrong?’

She laughed. ‘Oh, Nigel. We are such stupid, stupid people.’

Whatever made her say such a thing?

‘Through the whole afternoon, Nige – through the funeral, through the reading of the will, I kept hoping, hoping, hoping we wouldn’t have to give up this house. Part of our lives happened here, and yours … mostly yours … since you were a tiny child!’ Her voice rose, and it sounded angry. ‘Why aren’t you upset?’

‘Well – now you’re getting angry at me!’

‘I am!’

I still couldn’t understand. Of all siblings, I was the one who came out best. Mama had devised it all perfectly. So a crumbling house in the middle of Fiesole, where everything was so expensive to fix, was gratefully not part of it. I was surprised the others seemed so likely to sign. ‘Harriet – look at me. This place will cost an arm and a leg to renovate … to restore. Some parts need rebuilding. We could never afford it … not even a quarter share of such a thing. Surely you can figure it out. We are so …’

‘In debt, I know.’ She moved away and snatched a series of tissues out of a box. Flip, flip, flip. She crushed them all over her nose and mouth.

‘Your mascara’s run.’

‘Thank you, Nigel. It’s exactly the kind of observant encouragement I need right now.’

‘We got the best deal out of it all – surely you see it.’

‘We should … or maybe
we shouldn’t
sign the document. It’s not a deal. It’s a legacy. When is the notary coming back?’

‘Tomorrow. Are you crazy? Harriet – we … all our problems were solved by Mama’s will. We can’t not sign!’

‘I don’t get to sign, Nige – you do.’ She gave me a watery glare across the bed, where she had laid out all our folded clothes. ‘I can’t find one of my brown shoes.’

‘I’m going to put the kettle on.’

‘We can’t talk in the kitchen.’

I stood in the doorway and glared back at her. ‘Yes, we can. We can do anything we like. Come and have a cup of tea, and we’ll go over our blessings one more time. Come on, darling – you do see it, don’t you?’

‘I will when I’ve found my shoe.’

She was so exasperating. So maddeningly sweet and impossible. Luckily, the kitchen was deserted. The fridge contents told me a number of things. I should shop more frugally, and one should blanch chopped vegetables immediately or they go a horrible shade of brown. I threw out several bags and bowls of diced stuff and put the kettle on.

Harriet walked into the kitchen talking. ‘… this table was where you solved Tad’s online course assignment problems. This fridge was your lifeline. The cupboard under the stairs was perfect for Lori’s sheet music. Her cello looked fabulous in Mama’s sitting room.’ She sniffed.

I had to pull some sense into this. If my wife kept me from signing, it would upset everything for everyone, but especially for us. Why she could not see it was beyond me. I gave her a tally of my own. ‘The scullery buttresses are crumbling. The rubble wall has come down. The driveway needs resurfacing. Have you any idea what a truckload of gravel would cost
in Florence?
Goodness knows what’ll be found when someone goes up in the roof. The ceilings upstairs all drip. Harriet – you could make the list yourself. Sweetheart – think.’

‘I am thinking. The room down the passage where the brown chair is – it’s fabulous for thinking. The view from the back terrace is … there should be a pool down there. You know it would be perfect. The back bedrooms in the wing are so gorgeous …’

‘ … and the bathrooms are so dated. All the taps are jammed. Or they drip, leaving green streaks on the enamel … Harriet!’

‘And what’s going to happen to all the furniture …’

‘You know the answer to that one.’ I splashed hot water onto a generous mound of tealeaves at the bottom of the big old teapot, which I saw had a crack in the lid. Why did I only see such things when I was upset? ‘This teapot’s had it.’

‘No. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’ She sat diametrically across from me at the big round table. ‘It’s me who’s going funny.’

‘What brought it on?’ A glimmer of hope appeared. I hoped it did not shine in my words. In my eyes. She had to see reason.

‘Tad’s going off tonight. He’s meeting a bunch of guys, he called them, and they’re taking the train right across to somewhere. Can’t remember now.’

‘But that’s great.’

‘I know.’

‘Lori’s moving down to the hostel in Florence – all the orchestra is getting ready for the Mudge … whatever.’

‘
Maggio Musicale
. Darling – it’s her life.’

‘I know.’

‘And we can afford to give them some money, you know. It’s not going to break the bank.’

‘It’s already broken, Nige.’ She lay both forearms in front of her in a hopeless gesture and lowered her head. ‘These were the two worst, most expensive years of our lives.’

‘But they’re nearly over. All I need is to get back, get stuck into some job interviews, and when the bequest goes through … when it’s all settled, you’ll see. It’ll all work out in the end.’ I pushed her mug across, and went round to sit next to her with mine.

‘But I don’t want it to be the end.’

Ah. There it was. I forked shaky fingers through my hair. I needed a cut, and could not wait to get back to London. Realization there was more to Harriet’s outburst than I’d thought came through my own preoccupations. ‘Okay – out with it, Harriet. Tell me what’s wrong. I think I can feel it, in a way. You tell me.’

‘How do I know? I don’t know specifically. I’m exhausted. We’ve done little but sit and talk, sit and eat, sit and listen … and it’s worn me right out.’

‘It was meant to be a kind of …’

‘Don’t say holiday, Nige. Don’t say
holiday
.’

I knew what she meant. I knew very well. Unemployed people don’t … can’t … take holidays. I could not wait to get back to London and seek employment. Something had to come up. I was a pretty decent programmer. Some IT firm was bound to offer me something good. Starting on the whole job debacle with Harriet, though, was not a brilliant idea right at that juncture. ‘Okay – it’s never a holiday with Paola here, is it?’

She nodded and shook her head in turn.

‘Having all this – the funeral, the siblings, the family stuff … all at the same time the kids are getting their wings, their independence … not easy is it?’

‘Nobody needs me anymore.’

There it was again. That’s what was wrong with her. The children were drifting away, getting their own lives. We were going to lose our connection to Fiesole. Mama was gone. I had no words. I just stood and pulled the teapot over, and poured myself more tea. ‘Drink yours, darling.’

She took up her mug.

‘Think of the next two years, Harriet – think of the work. We need to deal with our part of the bequest, and it’s going to be time-consuming … and fun.’

‘If everyone signs. We need everyone to sign.’

Did she come out and say it, at last? Relief flooded my head, like a shot of whisky.

‘And on top of it all there’s lots of organizing to do, and hard work, and changes.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She saw. I thought she started to see none of it could happen without her.