Page 5 of Daughter of Genoa (Escape to Tuscany)

Vittorio

Back when the Jesuits were powerful, before the Society was dissolved and then restored, the community house at the Gesù stood next to the church: on piazza De Ferrari, where the Navigazione Generale building is now.

There was even a covered bridge leading directly from the upper floor to that of the Palazzo Ducale, the seat of the Doges of Genoa.

Now Vittorio and his fellow priests live on top of the church itself, in a set of rooms accessible by elevator.

As he steps into the wood-and-iron cage, a wave of tiredness hits him and he has to lean against the wall until it passes.

He’d hoped there might be something for him to do, something urgent and necessary that would carry him through the rest of this long day.

But when he reported to Cardinal Boetto on the way here – or rather to the cardinal’s secretary, an earnest young secular priest called Francesco Repetto – there were no orders waiting.

Don Francesco had listened to his account of the bombing in Carignano, the finding of Marta and how she’d come to stay with Silvia and Bernardo at the Tipografia Guichard.

He’d taken off his round spectacles and polished them, and he’d said in his gentle, worried voice: ‘Waldensians, I suppose, to judge by the name. And you know them, do you, this couple?’

‘I know them well enough, yes. They work with Mr X.’

Don Francesco instantly relaxed. ‘Oh, that’s splendid. Then I shall tell him all about it when he gets here. Well done, Father Vittorio. You go and have something to eat, and get some sleep, too – you’ve had a rough night.’

Vittorio wanted to protest. But as soon as he opened his mouth, his breath snagged in his throat and he broke out coughing: that spasmodic, dry cough that’s been bothering him more and more lately.

He’d just about managed to stifle it, clamping his handkerchief to his mouth and swallowing repeatedly so that the saliva ran down the back of his throat, but it was too late.

‘Yes, you had really better rest up,’ don Francesco said firmly. ‘It’s not going away, is it, that cold of yours? Have you been to the infirmary?’

Vittorio wiped his eyes, which were streaming now; on top of everything else, he thought. ‘Just dust,’ he said. ‘The air, you know, after…’

‘Yes, I can imagine,’ don Francesco said. ‘Shall I fetch you some water?’

Vittorio shook his head. The back of his throat was tightening again, itchy and threatening. ‘Quite all right,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘If you’re sure. Then I shall see you tomorrow morning, so long as you’re feeling up to it. Take care, won’t you?’

Vittorio nodded, managed to splutter out some polite words. Then he left, in rather more of a hurry than he’d wanted to. As soon as he got out of the Archbishop’s Palace into the fresh air, he coughed until he gagged and almost vomited.

It really is just a cold , he tells himself now as the elevator doors open and he steps out into the familiar corridor. I’ve always had a weak chest, ever since… well, anyway. Damp weather and nervous strain, that’s all that’s causing it now. Nothing to worry about.

For a moment he stands there and wonders what to do.

Since he’s been ordered to work with Cardinal Boetto, his time outside of that work is his own.

Apart from the odd report to his superior, he accounts to nobody but God and don Francesco; because, while the cardinal oversees the Archdiocese of Genoa’s clandestine activity, it’s really his secretary who has his eye on the sparrow.

And don Francesco has told him to eat and sleep and do nothing. He could do exactly that, if he wanted.

It’s a tempting thought – the sleep, anyway.

He doesn’t want anything to eat, has to force himself even at mealtimes.

The strain of it all has taken his appetite as well as stealing his breath.

But he’s spent a terrible night sitting on the floor of the tunnel under Galliera Hospital, dozing off only to be startled awake again.

He never sleeps in the daytime, not unless he’s severely unwell.

Perhaps today, however… He eyes the stairs that lead up to the priests’ quarters, and he thinks longingly of his bed.

Whatever he does, he must check in on the library first. He certainly won’t rest unless he knows it’s in good order.

He heads along the corridor towards the small room with its handful of bookcases.

It’s a modest enough domain for one who trained at the Vatican Apostolic Library.

Still, it’s his – no, not his as such, but he’s responsible for it – and he’s spent a bit of time teaching one of the junior members of the community, Brother Carlo, how to look after it when his own duties for Cardinal Boetto keep him away.

Let’s see how well he’s managing , Vittorio thinks, and he pushes the door open to find chaos.

The little returns trolley, where the priests and brothers leave books when they’re done with them, is stacked perilously high.

There are more books abandoned on the librarian’s desk, and those that remain on the shelves are clustered haphazardly together, out of line and out of sequence.

‘No,’ Vittorio says out loud. ‘No, no, no.’ He pushes the trolley over to the desk and starts pulling books out of it, grouping them into the sections where they belong.

He’ll replace them all, at least – he can’t bear to do less than that – and then perhaps he’ll give the whole place a once-over.

Make sure the shelves are all in order and the books perfectly lined up: what he once heard an English Jesuit, the librarian at Heythrop, call stricting .

Yes, that would be a good use of his time, much better than going to bed and languishing there.

He’s done this so often, he doesn’t even have to think. The work takes him over as it always does: the steady rhythm of it, the comforting heft of the books and the satisfaction of looking at each finished shelf. Before long, he’s forgotten that he meant to rest at all.

*

When Vittorio gets into bed that night, he finds that he can’t lie on his back.

There’s an oppressive heaviness in his chest, like a weight bearing down on him.

Instinctively he rolls onto his side and feels the heaviness loosen and shift, letting him breathe again.

But his heart is racing and the fear he’s managed to suppress all day is surging up.

What if he really is sick, and not with a cold?

What if he’s sick again like he was as a boy?

He can’t bring himself to name the disease, not even to himself. The idea of it is too terrible.

But it can’t be that, can it? There’s no fever, no sputum, no blood.

All he has is a dry cough and a sore chest. He’s tired, yes, but who wouldn’t be tired after four years of air raids?

He has no appetite, but who would be hungry when the food on offer is so scanty and poor?

He’s probably got some deficiency, some long-running infection that’s sapping his strength.

If he were to go to the infirmary tomorrow and tell them all about his symptoms, they’d doubtless just tell him to rest. Maybe that’s what he should do, though.

Go to the infirmary and quell his worries once and for all.

All right, then , he thinks as his eyes begin to close and his limbs to relax.

I’ll go first thing in the morning. I won’t let that old fear stop me.

I shall list everything that’s wrong with me, and whatever they tell me to do for the sake of my health, I shall do it.

Even if it means stopping work for a while.

Even if it means leaving the library to Brother Carlo. Yes, even that.

And the decision feels right – of course it does. It’s the correct thing to do. But even as he drifts off to sleep in the warm glow of righteousness, he knows deep down that he still won’t bring himself to do it.