Illusions of Love (24 page)

Sylvia chose a table looking out at the Grand Canal. A small motorboat was tied up at the pier unloading produce.

How incredible, she thought. Like a delivery truck!

After her breakfast of rolls, black coffee andformaggio, Sylvia went for a walk. The narrow streets were still deserted except for vendors getting ready for the tourists. Here and there shopkeepers were washing down the sidewalks in front of their stores.

Cats rummaging through the garbage cans stopped to peer at her. One arched its back and snarled.

“Don’t be so disagreeable. It’s too beautiful,” she scolded them aloud. Sylvia felt as if she were in love with the world. Laughing at herself, she tossed her straw hat up in the air, shouting into the empty street, “Oh, Venice, I’ll always remember this time!” Then walking rapidly, she returned to the hotel.

As she entered their room, she found Martin had just finished dressing.

“My God,” he said, ‘what time did you get up this morning?

From now on, Syliva, if you’re going to disappear please leave me a note. “

“Were you worried, Martin?” she asked, secretly pleased.

“Yes… a little.”

“I think that’s charming, but I’m a big girl now.”

“Be that as it may, this is a foreign country, and young women can’t be too careful.”

She smiled, thinking. Oh, Martin, you should have known the perils I survived all the years you were away, but all she said was, “I love it when you’re protective.”

“Where were you, anyway?”

“Downstairs, having breakfast.”

“So early? I just called room service. Now you’re going to have to sit and watch me eat. Then maybe, if you’re very good, I’ll let you out of this room long enough to see a little of the city.”

She laughed as Martin took her in his arms.

At twelve o’clock they found themselves seated at a sidewalk cafe in St. Mark’s Square. The overfed pigeons strutted nonchalantly around their table until as if stirred

by a single thought they took off into the air, almost blanketing the sun.

Sylvia watched as they finally settled on the other side of the Square.

“Oh, darling,” she said, “I’ll remember this all my life. I’m so happy that this is one city we’re both seeing for the first time together.” She didn’t add that in London she had occasionally found her pleasure clouded by memories of that dreadful year of selfimposed exile.

Martin took her hand and said, “Yes, I know. Now I’m going to take you for a ride you’ll never forget.” He led her back to the Grand Canal, where he hired a gondola for the afternoon.

They lay back in each other’s arms and watched while the pa lazzi and churches slid by on either side of them.

That night in Harry’s Bar, Sylvia said tearfully, “Darling, I just feel so sad we’re leaving tomorrow. Do you think we’ll ever come back?”

“Of course,” Martin said.

“We can come back once each year on our anniversary.”

She reached over, took his hand.

“God, I really hope so, Martin.”

By noon the next day they were on a train bound for Rome. After they were settled at the Excelsior and began sightseeing, Sylvia sensed that Martin was no longer enjoying himself. He seemed distant, withdrawn, as he had been when Jenny first broke off their affair.

But Martin wasn’t thinking about Jenny. All he could remember were the days right after the Italian surrender, the children rummaging in garbage cans, and thirteen-year- old girls selling themselves for a candy bar.

He tried to exorcize the images with a frantic schedule. For the first time since they left the Andrea Doria they stayed up late. They danced almost until dawn, and when Sylvia woke still tired at noon, Martin presented her with a long list of places he’d arranged for them to visit: the Forum, the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the Baths at Caracalla.

They even went across the Tiber to Vatican City to visit St. Peter’s and the Vatican Museum. They didn’t get

back until after five. Sylvia expected they would have an intimate dinner in the hotel, but Martin announced they had reservations at a well-known nightclub. Sylvia was on the verge of protesting when she noticed his tense expression. Uncertain what was troubling him, she decided to go along and hope the show would cheer him up. Patience, Dominic had recommended, and patient she would be.

For a while in the dark, smoke-filled nightclub, Martin seemed to regain his spirits. He laughed loudly at the Italian jokes Sylvia could not follow, but she noticed that he was drinking more than usual, and when he thought she wasn’t looking, his face was drawn and blank. Sylvia was almost asleep when Martin finally suggested they go.

All the way back to the hotel she tried to guess why Martin seemed so depressed. Her first thought was that something had reminded him of Jenny, but then she decided that was foolish.

As soon as they reached the Excelsior, Martin stripped off his clothes and flung himself on the bed. Sylvia went into the bathroom, turned on the taps, added bubble bath, and watched the tub fill. After she immersed herself in the soothing water, she lay back, looked up at the ceiling, and tried to think.

If knowing someone for a very long time meant that they would achieve a perfect union, then she and Martin should have had total compatibility. But that wasn’t true. She had known Martin all her life, loved and adored him, but there was a part of him she didn’t understand at all. Every time she had tried to break down that barrier and see what lay inside, he had stopped her. The fact that they were now married hadn’t changed a thing.

Lying among the bubbles, she forced herself to put her own fears aside, reasoning that no matter what it was that bothered her husband, he needed her. She dried herself, walked into the bedroom, and snuggled down beside him. In spite of the fact that she felt him tense as she moved closer, she kissed him passionately and whispered.

“My darling Martin, I do adore you so.”

Sylvia had no way of knowing that the ghosts that had haunted him since the war had left him impotent tonight. She had probably thought sex would cheer him up, but for the moment it reminded him of too many sweating bodies and too much cheap perfume.

“I’m sorry, Sylvia, but I’m very tired.” He regretted the words of rejection the moment they left his mouth. But, as happens with people who are unable to reveal their weaknesses, Martin found himself imprisoned by them.

Sylvia suddenly remembered the night when he’d first come home from the war, when she had stolen into his room and tried to make love to him. He had said almost the same thing.

“I’m sorry, Sylvia.”

She sat up slowly and took Martin’s hand.

“Do you really love me?”

“Dammit, Sylvia, why do you ask me that?”

“Because I suppose I need reassurance.”

“About what?”

“That you love me, Martin.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have married you if I hadn’t.”

Trying to keep from crying, Sylvia said, “You’ve become so remote in the last few days. Sometimes I do think you have regrets about marrying me.”

With more irritation than he meant, Martin snapped, “What are you trying to say, Sylvia?”

“I think you’re still in love with Jenny McCoy.”

Martin sat bolt upright, angrier than she had ever seen him.

“Goddamn it, Sylvia, I’m not going to spend the rest of my life feeling that every time I upset you, it’s because of Jenny. I never want you to mention her name again. I want to forget her.”

Trying to maintain what little dignity she had left, Sylvia got up and went to the bathroom. She was certain now that Martin was in love with Jenny. The tears rolled down her cheeks, and for a long moment she wanted to die. Then she washed her face in cold water and sat on the rim of the bathtub. Be honest at least, she scolded herself. He was in love with her, and at times I’m sure he’s torn between you

and her, but you’re his wife. You’re here, she’s not. For God’s sake be smart and make the most of it.

Alone in the bedroom, Martin cursed his outburst. He might just as well have slapped her. Contrite, he got out of bed and tried to open the bathroom door, but it was locked. He knocked.

No answer.

“Darling, I’m sorry.” He waited.

“Sylvia, please open the door.”

No response.

He went back to bed, wishing he could undo the hurt he had caused her.

Dammit, he was always wounding the people he loved best. He was trying to decide what to say to her when she opened the door and came back into the bedroom.

He looked up as she seated herself on the edge of the bed. Softly, she said, “Please forgive me if I offended you.”

He reached for her hand.

“It wasn’t you, Sylvia.”

“Do you want to talk about it, darling?”

He hesitated. Could she really be made to understand what a strain it had been on him being back in Europe. Could she accept the fact that even the pleasures of a honeymoon could not erase the terrible memories of the war, which Italy in particular reawakened? Or would she be insulted or think him weak? Everywhere they had gone, he had seen a million ex-GIs, laughing, talking, drinking, holding hands with dark-haired Italian beauties. They had fought in the war, too, but seemed to have made peace with the past. Even the Italians seemed to have picked up their lives with their usual zest. What was wrong with him that he alone could not shake off the sad recollections?

Staring at Martin’s ravaged face, Sylvia suddenly glimpsed the truth.

She was able to put aside her own insecurities and think only of her husband. The problem wasn’t her, it wasn’t secret comparisons with Jenny, it was simply that it was too soon for Martin to enjoy Europe without feeling guilty. She thought very carefully before speaking.

“Darling, you know how I have adored our honeymoon,” she said.

“But you know, I think playing tourist is getting a little boring. I don’t mean you, dearest, you’ll never be boring. But I think maybe it’s time to go home. How would you feel about that?”

He put his arms around her and drew her close.

“I love you, Sylvia,” he said huskily.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

Once again Sylvia realized that her patience and her uncanny ability to guess Martin’s wishes had helped her choose the right course of action. She hoped she would never lose that gift.

The trip home was an exhausting one and the pair spent only a night’s stopover in New York. The flight from Europe was delayed and they were able to snatch only a few hours’ sleep before it was time to dress and return to La Guardia to board their plane to San Francisco.

Sylvia in particular had a hard time shaking the effects of the trip.

Tired and listless, she barely had the energy to unpack and give Bess and her parents their gifts before collapsing into bed.

On Friday, the fourth evening after their return, Bess gave a small family dinner to celebrate their return. Martin came home early from the office to find Sylvia still undressed and resting on their bed.

“Are you all right?” he asked, knowing she would normally be downstairs helping Bess.

“Yes,” she said, forcing herself to get up and start her bath.

“I

don’t know what’s wrong with me. And here you

were the one who said Europe had been tiring. “

Later, after a meal she barely touched, she looked around the living room and asked if anyone minded if she excused herself. Martin quickly leaped to his feet.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” he asked, gazing at her drawn face.

“I’m fine. It’s just the effects of the flight. I still haven’t adjusted to the time change.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Let me run on upstairs.” She cheerfully said goodnight to the other guests, but once outside in the hall Sylvia thought she was going to faint. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead, and she clung to the newel post, waiting for the sensation to subside.

Finally she felt a little better and continued on to her room, where she got into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning, when she came downstairs, Martin and Bess had already finished their breakfast.

“My God,” Sylvia said.

“I can’t believe I slept this late! Why didn’t you wake me up, Martin?”

“Because you seemed to need the sleep. How do you feel this morning?”

She was really still a little sick, but she answered, “Fine now.”

Bess asked quickly, “What do you mean? Were you ill?”

“No, not exactly. I just felt rather strange … ” What do you mean, “strange” What were the symptoms? “

“Mother, I think you’re making much too much of this.”

“Be that as it may, you didn’t answer the question. I asked you for the symptoms … ” Well, slightly nauseated. “

Bess smiled.

“Oh, my dear. Let me see if we can get an appointment with Dr. Friedman.”

Before Martin could object, Bess had dialled the doctor’s number, which she knew by heart. He said he could fit Sylvia in at two o’clock.

All during the ride into the city Bess kept her happy suspicions to herself, but once the nurse ushered Sylvia into the inner office, Bess anxiously paced the waiting room.

After the examination, Dr. Friedman asked Sylvia to dress and come into his consulting room.

“Well, my dear,” he said smiling as she sat down, “I do believe you are going to be a mother.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost certain. Of course, we will run a test to be sure.”

Sylvia was so overcome with happiness that she scarcely paid attention to Dr. Friedman initial instructions. She did hear him say, “A first child at thirty requires a little more rest, a little more caution.”

She looked at him with unspoken concern.

“Dr. Friedman, I must have this child. It must be healthy.”

“Well, we really don’t have anything much to concern us, but I would suggest that you not exert yourself. No strenuous exercise, a rest in the afternoon, no cigarettes or alcohol. And watch your diet. It’s not so easy to lose weight after the baby at your age.”