Italian Fever (30 page)

There was a man sitting at the table, his back to the door, hunched over a sheet of paper, holding a pen poised above the page in one hand, his cheek resting in the open palm of the other. Though there was everything in the picture to excite Lucy’s terror—the sheer impossibility of it was enough to unhinge her reason—there was nothing of threat or danger in the aspect of the man. He did not appear to sense her presence, or if he did, it was of no interest to him. As Lucy watched, her brain awash in conflicting assertions about the exact nature of reality, the pen came down and scratched out several words across the page, then lifted, poised again for action. The man stretched his fingers from his cheek to his eyes and rubbed them hard, then readjusted his position so that his chin rested on the ledge of a loose fist. Lucy had not moved a hair; indeed, she had hardly breathed since the moment her astounded eyes had found him. He studied his page and she studied him, both of them motionless and absorbed by their contemplations. Everything about him was familiar, though it was difficult in the gloom of the shuttered room to make out much in the way of particulars. And there seemed to be a deeper gloom, a gathered gloom, about the entire figure of the man, as if he absorbed what little light there was, so that he was outlined by a
nimbus of darkness. How could he even see what he was writing? she thought uselessly. But evidently he could see, for the pen came down again, this time in a series of quick strokes, striking out the words he had just written. He threw the pen down on the page and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shuddered; was he weeping?

Lucy relaxed her grip on the sill, but her knees were much too weak and her brain much too startled to attempt anything as demanding as speech or motion. She was condemned to stand in this tense, attenuated posture, watching an unbelievable tableau. The pen began to roll toward the edge of the table, claiming the attention of its owner, who lifted his face from his hands and looked down upon it. He stopped its progress, took it up again, and, as he did so, something caught his attention. He turned his head slightly. Lucy could see a little of his profile. There was a piece of paper near his foot; this was what he had noticed. He stared at it for several long moments, as if he was not sure what was to be done about it. Then, slowly, with an effort that seemed enormous and completely disproportionate to the task, he pushed back his chair and reached down through the dark air to retrieve the page that had strayed from him. Lucy drew in her breath and held it. Her mouth stayed open, her throat contracted over a sound she could not utter, and her heart bucked in her chest. As the man leaned over the floor, he turned toward the doorway and Lucy saw his face. It was DV.

Her head whirled; the world whirled about her head. She was fainting; she would fall into the room. He remained as he was, one arm stretched out to reach the paper, his face lifted over his shoulder to take her in, for he saw her, too; she had no doubt of that. His face was ravaged almost past recognition. The gray webbed skin stretched taut against the bones, his
dark lips looked more like a black smear than a mouth, and his eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, were wide with a speechless horror, as if he were ever in the presence of his own reflection. And yet those eyes burned into the space between them, burned into Lucy’s consciousness with such force, they seemed to hold her up. What agony was this, what unthinkable depths of suffering had he endured? He held her in his gaze for a moment with an expression of such mute and eloquent pleading that her fear evaporated and she understood he was incapable of harm. He was incapable of everything but suffering. And when she had understood this, he released her. Giving a sigh so deep that it seemed to come from the bottom of the world, he turned away, back to the problem of picking up the page, which he accomplished. Then he took up his pen again, bent over the table, and resumed the eternal labor of his composition.

“Oh Lord,” Lucy said. She let herself fall back against the wall and slid down to the floor, where she sat with her legs splayed out before her, unable and unwilling to move. Her breathing was rapid and deep, as if she had been running. She closed her eyes and rolled her head back against the wall. It was impossible. That was all she knew. DV was certainly dead. He was not still sitting in this damned farmhouse trying to write a decent sentence. People had hallucinations; she had had one—that was possible. She opened her eyes. She was still holding the letter; she had, in fact, been gripping it so furiously, it was creased and damp. “I’m burning this,” she said. “First opportunity.” She pressed her palm against her chest. Her heart was still beating away in there, pumping ordinary blood in the ordinary way. She edged along the floor toward the stairs. She wasn’t looking into the room again. She didn’t need to. She could tell he had gone; she could feel it in the air,
which had perceptibly lightened and grown warmer. She could see a slab of light across the floor at the foot of the staircase pouring in from the window near the door. Just get down there, she advised herself, any way you can. She negotiated the first few steps sitting down, like a baby. Then she stuck the letter in the waistband of her pants and hauled herself up by the rail, holding on to it with both hands while she made her way down to the sitting room. Her heart rate had slowed, but her thoughts raced out of all control, leaping and raging, colliding with one another, crashing up against the solid walls of reason and sanity, which she was now heartily grateful she had spent so many years constructing. She had never imagined they would have to stand against such an assault as this, but stand they did. “I’m not mad,” she said. She crossed the sitting room and threw open the door upon the fresh, welcome light of day. It was behind her now, this thing, this horror, whatever it was; it was gone and she would never speak of it to anyone as long as she lived. She breathed in and out slowly, counting a few breaths, and then she concentrated for a moment on the reassuring beauty of the bougainvillea flowers, still blooming, though it was certainly late in the year. She heard the sound of a car in the distance, approaching rapidly along the road at the bottom of the hill. She lifted her head, listening closely. Yes, it was making the turn into the drive. It was the driver, coming to take her away from here, to the airport and then to Brooklyn. Back to Brooklyn! she thought with a thrill of pure joy. She stepped out into the drive. She could see the car now whirling up the hill, and as she watched its steady progress, she was overcome by a powerful exultation. DV would be here forever, but she did not have to stay. “
Andiamo
,” she said, striding purposefully away from the house and down the drive to welcome her deliverer.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

R
OME
, “the eternal city,” has perhaps earned its sobriquet for the never-ending restoration work that has occupied its industrious citizens for centuries. Since Lucy Stark’s visit, the scaffolding that for so many years hid the Galleria Borghese from view has come down, revealing an impressive facade of beautiful proportions and nearly blinding whiteness. The visitor now enters via a grand staircase, there are modern bathrooms, a souvenir shop, and long, long lines of eager art lovers waiting to get inside.

I would like to thank Stefano and Anna Rizzo, Roberto Chiappini, Mavi Cini, Alice Falconi, and Walter Falconi for their hospitality and patient interest in my questions about all matters Italian, from property law to plumbing.

Thanks also to my agent, Nikki Smith, for her tireless defense of my interests; to my editor, Robin Desser, for her energy and enthusiasm; to John Cullen, for reading and correcting this manuscript repeatedly, intelligently, and generously; and to my daughter, Adrienne, as always, for inspiration.