Page 42 of Daughter of Genoa (Escape to Tuscany)

But there’s so much he’d have to forget.

Can he really bring himself to pardon this man for every terror he’s inflicted, every spirit he’s broken, every underhand thing he’s done?

Can he pardon him for what he did to Marta?

He sees her as he first saw her, curled up terrified and alone in the shelter at Galliera, and love drives its thorns into his heart.

‘Come on, son.’ The commendatore leans towards him. ‘Let bygones be bygones, eh? I know it’s been difficult between us in the past, but you mustn’t worry about that. I’m quite prepared to forgive you.’

*

Vittorio arrives at the community house weak and winded.

The adrenaline that propelled him along – away from the vanished shipyard, away from his father – is running out and he’s nauseated again, his heartbeat pulsing unpleasantly in his temples and dark spots floating before his eyes.

The elevator doors close behind him and he leans against the wall, trying to collect himself; but soon they open again and there is don Francesco, hurrying along the corridor.

‘Father Vittorio! Where on earth have you been? Oh, you look terrible, terrible. Come on,’ he says, ushering Vittorio towards the parlour where they usually meet.

‘I was watching for you, I must confess. Brother Carlo took your breakfast up this morning and you weren’t in your room.

I couldn’t find you anywhere. Do you need water?

Food? Shall I send to the infirmary for—’

‘No,’ Vittorio says. He swallows, tastes bile. ‘No, I’m all right. But I do need to speak to you.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Don Francesco opens the parlour door and waves him through. ‘But you must tell me if you want anything. I’m expecting Mr X shortly, just to let you know – hopefully we shall be done before he arrives.’

Vittorio sits at the table. ‘I think perhaps… I think he needs to know this, too. But if I could talk to you first, in confidence…’

‘Of course you can.’ Don Francesco sits down opposite and smiles at him, his hands clasped together. ‘You can tell me anything.’

And so Vittorio takes a deep breath and he tells don Francesco the whole story.

Well, not the whole story. He can’t bring himself to tell this earnest young priest that he has fallen in love, abandoned his discipline, lost sight of his vocation.

In this more acceptable version, Marta is his dear friend – that, for a Jesuit, is quite bad enough – but the rest is true, at least in outline.

It was affection, he says; pure, chaste, foolish affection that drove him to conceal the state of his health for so long.

(And his dedication to DELASEM, he almost adds, but something tells him that don Francesco would take that badly; he’d fret about it, and he’s visibly distressed already.)

He hadn’t known he was dying until it was very late, too late to do anything about it.

And then he’d found out that his father had committed that terrible wrong against Marta and no, he hadn’t disclosed it to don Francesco or to Mr X, although he really ought to have done so right away.

He knows that. He was so very sick, so far from God.

He wasn’t in his right mind at all. And then early this morning – he’s outright lying now, because don Francesco has taken off his glasses and is sitting with his head in his hands – he’d gone to take some fresh air and to look at the sea, and he’d run across his father taking a walk by the port.

‘Go on,’ don Francesco says, without looking up. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘It went badly,’ Vittorio says. ‘I’m afraid he said something that… it didn’t sit well with me, and there was an argument. I can’t remember exactly what I said to him, but I think that perhaps I gave away that I knew Marta and what he had done to her. I can’t be sure. But if I did…’

His father’s face is before him, congested and angry; his own raw voice rings in his ears.

Was it worth it? Ruining a young woman’s life, tearing her from her family, killing her husband and smearing her reputation?

And just look, look at all the good it did you.

Look at the glorious legacy you’re leaving behind.

‘You think he might lash out again,’ don Francesco says. He looks up and puts on his glasses. ‘Given what he did before. He might try to avenge himself on you or Marta or both – and he knows where to find you, at least. Is that what you’re telling me?’

Vittorio nods, miserable. ‘Yes.’

‘Right.’ Don Francesco pushes back his chair and goes to the window, turning his back to Vittorio. ‘This is rather beyond me. I’m afraid we shall need Mr X.’

‘I’m sorry—’ he begins, but don Francesco cuts him off.

‘No, Father Vittorio. Not now.’

They lapse into a tense silence until don Francesco, craning his neck, says at last: ‘Ah, here he comes. I’ll go down and meet him. I think it’s best we speak privately before he sees you.’

‘Thank you,’ Vittorio says, but it’s the wrong thing; don Francesco shakes his head and goes swiftly out.

Vittorio is left alone in the little parlour with the loudly ticking clock and the portrait of St Ignatius.

And he feels very much alone: isolated and awkward, just like in his novice days when he’d wait in vain for his mother’s visit.

That wasn’t the same parlour, of course; it wasn’t the same community house, but it might as well have been.

There’s a universality to Jesuit parlours.

Time ticks by, and he’s beginning to wish he’d given in to don Francesco’s entreaties right at the start and allowed himself to be fed or at least given some water.

Just as he’s wondering whether he can justifiably go along to the refectory and fetch a glass – because his mouth is dry and sour and his head’s starting to ache – the door opens and Mr X comes in with don Francesco following close behind, carrying one of the wooden folding chairs that stand in the corridor.

There’s no bonhomie this time, no offering of cigarettes. Mr X sits down across from him and fixes him with a steady gaze.

‘Tell me everything,’ he says. ‘I’ve heard it from don Francesco, and now I need to hear it from you. From the beginning, please.’

Vittorio glances at don Francesco, who is now seated in the corner, but the other priest won’t meet his eye. ‘If you would, Father Vittorio,’ he says.

‘Very well,’ Vittorio says, and he begins his story.

It’s slow going. Mr X is much harder to lie to about his feelings for Marta; he’s got that unnerving look about him, the look of a man who knows he’s being lied to.

Perhaps he does know. Perhaps Marta’s said something to him, something that’s given Vittorio away.

Mr X is a man of the world, after all. And God only knows what the two of them confide about when they’re alone together, when they…

Images flood into his mind – vivid, uncalled-for images – and a wave of heat engulfs him.

‘May I have an aspirin?’ he asks don Francesco, who glances at Mr X.

‘Of course,’ Mr X says, and don Francesco hurries out. ‘Are you feeling all right? Relatively speaking, of course.’

‘I’m fine. Just a headache.’

‘Then let’s press on, because this is rather urgent. Now, you had reached the part about your father – about finding out what he had done to Marta. I must say, that was news to me.’

‘Yes. I asked her not to say anything to you.’ The words come out in a rush. ‘I must have put her in a terribly difficult position. I should have—’

‘The story, Father Vittorio,’ Mr X says.

Vittorio bows his head and resumes where he left off. Now he’s talking about his father, it’s a little easier; indignation carries him along, and he’s in full flow when don Francesco comes in with a glass of water and a plate with a slice of bread and margarine.

‘Best eat something if you’re going to take aspirin,’ he says, setting the glass and plate in front of Vittorio along with a small white pill wrapped in a napkin. ‘It’s hard on the stomach.’

Vittorio crosses himself and picks up the bread with shaking hands.

He can’t tell if he’s hungry or sick, and Mr X is still watching him, but he manages to take a bite and then another.

By the time he’s eaten the whole slice and drunk the water with the aspirin, his stomach has stopped roiling and the throbbing in his temples is starting to recede.

‘Better?’ Mr X asks, and he nods. ‘Good. Now you can tell me exactly what you said to your father.’

‘I can’t remember, I’m afraid. I might have—’

Mr X leans forward. ‘No, Father Vittorio, I think you do remember. I think you know every word he said to you, and I’m damn sure you know every word you said to him. And I need to hear it. All of it.’

When Vittorio has finished repeating every word, Mr X swears, and then apologises to don Francesco for swearing.

‘It’s all right,’ don Francesco says. He’s as white as paper, and he can’t look at Vittorio at all. ‘Entirely justified.’

Mr X leans back in his chair, drums his fingers on the table. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘We need to sort this out.’ Vittorio expected him to be angry, to lose his cool for once and upbraid him, even threaten him. But the coldness that’s radiating from him is far, far worse.

‘I truly am sorry. I know…’ The words are spilling out, unstoppable, desperate.

‘I know you love her. I love her, too,’ he says, and don Francesco sucks in a breath.

‘Everything I’ve done, I… I didn’t mean to put her in danger.

I know I have, but I didn’t mean to – you must believe me.

Please help her. I don’t care about myself, only her. Please.’

Mr X pushes back his chair and stands up. ‘Go to the San Martino Hospital,’ he says, just as if Vittorio hasn’t spoken. ‘Straight to the leper ward.’

‘The leper ward?’

‘The Germans don’t go in there – too cowardly. You’ll be given a bed. I’m sorry, don Francesco, I have to go. Can you get a message to our doctor friend?’

‘Of course,’ don Francesco says.

‘Thank you. Good day.’ He strides out, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

Don Francesco gets up and hurries to the window.

‘Forgive me, Father Vittorio, but I must see that he gets away. It’s my constant worry.

’ He’s studying the panorama, tapping his fingers on the windowsill.

‘He’ll go out through the church, of course – looks so much less suspicious.

Oh, there he is,’ he says at last. ‘Just look at that.’

Vittorio doesn’t want to look, but he gets up and goes to stand next to don Francesco.

And there far below, crossing piazza De Ferrari, is Mr X: not walking, but sauntering past a group of German soldiers.

One of them looks at him, and he nods and tips his hat; the German nods back and turns away, scanning for miscreants.

‘I don’t know how he manages it,’ don Francesco says. ‘I go out and about, of course, and do what I must do. But he makes it look terribly easy, and he’s taking such a very great risk compared to me. I feel quite inadequate.’

They watch until Mr X is out of sight, and then don Francesco turns to Vittorio and looks him directly in the eye for the first time since he re-entered the room.

‘I dare say he’s off to the Guichards’.’ His voice, like his face, is soft and expressionless.

‘Mr X is very protective of those he loves. And he’s very fair to those he doesn’t. ’

‘Yes,’ Vittorio says. He’s choked with misery, overcome by a mercy he doesn’t deserve.

Don Francesco puts a hand on his arm. ‘I think you’d better make your confession,’ he says.