“Sounds good.” His voice gave nothing away; if he gave even half a thought to what it might mean to be alone on a rooftop with me and some wine, I couldn’t tell. And that was fine. “So I’ll see you at three tomorrow.”
“Si. Fino a domani. Until tomorrow. Buonanotte, Michael.”
“I know that one! Buonanotte, Simon.”
Buonanotte.
Boston, Sunday, 23 September
This morning, knowing my afternoon would be busy, I got an early start so I could get some homework out of the way, with special attention to documenting some ideas inspired by Persie for my TOK course. I also needed to work on the applications to some other schools Dr. Metcalf is pestering me about, though I didn’t quite finish today.
Speaking of Persie, I half expected to see her at breakfast, but it was just Mum and Brian, and Brian had only tea, no food. So I guessed he had eaten with Persie in her rooms.
After I let Mum know Michael would be joining me for antipasto on my roof deck this afternoon, Brian asked me a question in a very pointed tone of voice.
“Did you happen to speak with Persie last night?”
Based on the way he asked, he already knew the answer. I had nothing to hide. “She was waiting for me on the landing.”
“What did she want?”
“She asked for help figuring out how to tell you what she was thinking.”
“She knows how to talk to me.” There was definitely something accusatory there.
Deep breath; don’t lose your temper, Simon. “But she has a hard time figuring out what your mood is. I got the impression she wanted to make sure you were in a good mood before she spoke to you.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Gave her a few cues to look for, told her I thought your mood was pretty good at the moment.”
“And do you know what she wanted to tell me?”
“Yes.” Why was he turning this into an issue? What was wrong with what Persie had told me she wanted? I had been sure he’d be glad to hear all of it. I had even told Persie to trust me.
“Is that all you’re going to say?”
“Look, she waylaid me on the landing, said she wanted more freedom, said she might like to take breakfast downstairs with everyone else, said she wanted to visit museums and to see more art, and that she wanted Mum and me to go with her. She also said it looked like you’d made up your mind about a tutor before asking her what she wanted.”
“None of that sounds like Persie.”
“So, what, am I lying through my teeth, then?”
“That’s enough, young man.”
“You keep telling me that. And this time, I’m quite sure it isn’t.” I set my fork down and glared at him, ignoring the tension coming from Mum in waves. “You know, I would have thought you’d be genuinely thrilled to have her express an interest in art—and in being part of the normal household routine, and even more delighted to have her approach you on her own to tell you that. Because it was her idea, not mine.”
“Both of you, quiet. She’ll hear you.” Mum’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
Brian lowered his voice. “It seems likely that someone has tried to influence her. I offered her the opportunity to meet both candidates, and immediately she said she wanted the one who wouldn’t live here. She had already made up her mind.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for that. I never said a word to her until she approached me.”
“And she had her mind even more made up after she spoke with you.”
Suddenly it hit me what the problem was. “You thought she’d prefer the live-in tutor, didn’t you?”
“You seem to think you know her better than I do.”
Okay, that’s another part of the problem. But—where did it come from? Careful, Simon. “What I know is that she wants to expand her world badly enough to ask for my help on how to tell you that.” There were worlds between the words in that statement, beginning with the fact that she hadn’t known how to talk to her own father about something very important to her.
“And what you don’t know is what will happen when she fails.”
“When she fails?” Mum’s voice nearly squeaked. “You’re not giving her half a chance!”
I felt like Kay; the parental units are fighting, and I’m caught in the churn.
Brian said, “Excuse me,” and left the table.
Mum stared after him, looking as though she were considering following him.
I said, “It was just a smoke screen, then, asking for her opinion. Do you suppose he’s jealous? Is he mad that she asked you and me to show her art, and not him?”
“I don’t know.” She stood. “But I’m going to find out. This can’t go on.”
Finally, alone. Breakfast in peace. And later, I avoided everyone at lunchtime, sending a few things up on the dumbwaiter late in the morning, leaving a note that said I had lots of homework. Which was true enough.
Michael was already in the hospital room when I got there, which was a relief; I’d been prepared to hang out in the hall and wait, otherwise.
The dear lady was slightly propped up on the bed, tubes and wires attached in various places. Her face was badly disfigured by the sag on the left, but her eyes were bright and attentive. Michael introduced me as though there were nothing wrong with her. Not only did this impress me, but also it set the stage for my interaction with her. She actually held out her right hand for me to shake, and instead of shaking it, I kissed it, which caused her to make an odd sound that I interpreted as laughter. So did Michael, to judge by the smile on his face.
It seemed cruel to try and engage in small talk with her, so in halting Italian I apologised for my unacceptable version of the language and told her in English that I would do my best to read anything she cared to give me. She looked at Michael, who had a canvas shopping bag printed with big red and blue flowers—without a doubt one of his grandmother’s. He pulled out a shoe box that had once held a pair of dark-red high-heeled shoes. Italian shoes.
“I made sure these were in date order this morning,” he said. “Nonna, do you want to start at the beginning?”
She made some gesture with her right hand, which Michael interpreted as asking him to sort through them; maybe she had a favourite. He stopped when she grunted and handed the envelope to me. I accepted it reverently, careful not to damage the envelope or what it contained. I read the addressee information aloud, but the return address was not legible. I’m not good with dates and numbers, so I read the date in English. It was 20 September 1954.
Carissima sorella, it opened. Dearest sister. I made my way through it as best I could, which I think wasn’t too bad, recounting the sadness the abandoned sister felt when Michael’s grandmother and her husband, Victor Vitale (whom the sister evidently held in fairly low esteem), left everyone and everything—tutti e tutto—behind, abandoning tradition and everyone who loved her for the hope of material gain in the US. There was mention of many children, evidently nieces and nephews, as though sister Bianca were doing her best to assail her sister Sofia (Nonna) with guilt that would bring her home. At some points whilst I read, Signora Vitale would roll her head and wave her right hand, which Michael interpreted for me as an editorial on her sister’s naked attempts to manipulate. Signora Vitale even seemed to chuckle once or twice.
The next letter was from a school friend who supported the move and who complained about her own husband, Rocco, for his old-fashioned ideas about gender roles.
Most of the letters were newsy, full of family doings and misdoings, but occasionally they were more intimate, sometimes evidently in response to something Signora Vitale had written. It was a little like reading some of St. Paul’s Epistles and trying to construct what letters or conversations he might have been responding to.
Around quarter past four, Signora Vitale’s face began to sag more noticeably, and she wasn’t responding to what I read with chuckles or groans or grunts any longer. Michael made leaving noises, and I kissed the sig
nora’s hand again and told her it had been a great honour to be allowed to read her letters to her.
Before we could exit she grabbed Michael’s arm with her right hand. The right side of her face seemed to be trying to smile. She pulled on his arm a little, then released him and pointed at me, and then held her right hand up, staring at it as though willing it to do something. Finally she managed to fold her middle finger over the first, as though crossing them for luck. But then she pointed the entwined digits at Michael, at me, at Michael again, and smiled as best she could.
I couldn’t see Michael’s face as he bent over to kiss her good-bye. “No, Nonna. We’re just friends. See you tomorrow.”
So the signora knew the truth about Michael. Had she perceived this on her own? Had he confided in her when he was looking for an escape from himself? Neither of us spoke as we walked through the halls. Michael seemed embarrassed, which made me worried and annoyed that his grandmother had stolen my thunder before my lightning was ready.
Outside on the street, holding tight to the flowered shopping bag, Michael gazed about rather than look at me. He said, “Listen, can we not do this antipasto thing today?”
Yup; lightning fizzled. My best move at this point would be to seem not to care. “Of course. You taking the T back?” I knew there was a station not far away.
He shrugged and looked vacantly around him. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“I’m going to locate a taxi. See you.” And I turned back towards the hospital entrance, where the occasional taxi would no doubt drop off a passenger. I didn’t turn around or look back, so I don’t know how long he stood there. But before I reached the entrance I decided to take the T myself. I didn’t want to get back to Marlborough Street as fast as a taxi would take me. Truth be told, I didn’t really want to go back there at all. But I had so much homework to do. So I waited just long enough to be sure that Michael would already be on a train and that I wouldn’t see him on the platform.
Dinner was a fairly silent affair. Everyone seemed to be angry with Brian, including Persie, who wouldn’t speak. I took this to mean Brian must have denied one or more of her requests. She shook her head violently several times in answer to questions he asked her, which seemed to indicate that she wasn’t responding. He didn’t even try to ask me anything, and he and Mum acted like people who didn’t know each other and didn’t want to. I left as soon as possible to get back to my homework—a welcome escape.
I was at my desk, deep into work on my biology project about Scottish fold cats, when I heard someone coming up the stairs. It was Mum.
She sat in the reading chair. “I thought you might like to know what Brian has decided.”
“Brian decided,” I echoed. “Not Persie.”
“Correct. He’s planning to contact Maxine Leary tomorrow and offer her the job as Persie’s tutor. Maxine will have the same schedule Anna did, with weekends off unless other arrangements are made. She’ll live in Anna’s room, so you’ll have a neighbour again.”
I’d never seen much of Anna, so I wasn’t alarmed at the idea of Maxine’s being up here. “You know, he’s so afraid of Persie’s reaction to—well, to anything she’s not happy with. And yet he goes this route instead of doing it her way. What does he expect will happen? I mean, even I can see that Persie is likely to make Maxine’s life miserable.”
“I know. And I pointed that out to him.”
“Has he said anything about Persie’s request to go and look at art?”
She let a few beats go by. “He doesn’t like the idea. Says Persie doesn’t handle uncontrolled environments like that very well.”
“Really. So . . . is he jealous, do you think?”
She exhaled loudly. “That wasn’t a question I felt I could ask.”
“Well, thanks for the update. When do you think she’ll start?”
“Brian thinks it will be right away. She could be here as soon as Wednesday.”
I nodded. “Thanks for telling me. I need to get back to my homework now.”
But she didn’t seem to want to leave. Maybe she just didn’t want to go downstairs where Brian was. “How is your schoolwork going, Simon? What are you working on there?”
Trying to control my impatience, I explained as briefly as possible about the genetic aspects of folded ears in cats. She looked as though she’d like to say something, but didn’t know how I might take it; this was cats, after all, and the ear fold began in a British shorthair like Tink. I considered showing her Margaret’s photos, but decided against it; it would take too long, and I had no intention of forgiving my mother for tearing me away from Tink.
“Sounds fascinating,” was all she said about the ear fold. And then, “I also wanted to ask about getting you a piano teacher. It would be a shame to let that drop. What do you think?”
I shook my head. “I don’t have the focus for that right now. Between the coursework, and coaching Toby, and just being in a totally unfamiliar place—”
“How is that going? Coaching Toby?”
“Mostly we practise. I create word lists; I read a word; he spells it.”
“Where do you meet with him?”
I’m sure I’ve told her all this before. “At his house. Condominium. Longwood Towers; it’s very nice.”
“Are you taking taxis, then?”
“No. The subway.”
She sat up straight. “Simon, I don’t want you doing that.”
Little does she know I have to take mass transit everywhere I go for the City course. “Mum, I use it at home all the time. This system is nothing compared to that. And it’s only a few stops, to a very nice area.” It looked like she was about to protest, so I added, “Look, I really need to work now. There’s stuff I have to hand in tomorrow.” I stood and moved towards the door.
Mum sat in the chair for a few seconds, looking at me as though she weren’t sure who I was. Then she got up, came to me, and laid her hand gently on the side of my face. She left without another word.
Boston, Sunday, 30 September
Maxine did, in fact, arrive on Wednesday, sometime after I left for school. And the shit hit the fan.
The first thing Persie demanded of Maxine was that they go to a museum to see art. Maxine sensibly said she’d check with Brian, and Persie—knowing he’d already said she couldn’t go—threw the first of many tantrums for the week. Again, I was put in mind of the elephant with the rope around its ankle. Because although Persie had sometimes thrown fits around Anna, she had always submitted in the end without a physical struggle. But she fought Maxine, sometimes even slapping her. She was a bigger elephant now, and perhaps it was this denial of Brian’s that had motivated her to challenge the rope. But he must have known it would be a mistake to offer Persie a choice and then snatch it away from her again. “Which lollipop do you want, my child, the yellow or the green? The green, you say? Here’s the yellow one.” And he had never intended to give her the green one in any case.
Friday when I got home in the afternoon, the screams hit me as soon as I opened the front door. I dropped my book bag just inside the music room and headed to the kitchen, where Ned was working on dinner.
“World War—what number are we up to, now?” I asked him.
He made a face. “Sit. Talk to me. Haven’t chatted in days. What went on here over the weekend?”
I sat at the island, and magically a glass of San Pellegrino and a bowl of salted cashews appeared before me. “Thanks. Um, let’s see. I think I’ll have to summarise.” I crunched a few cashews. “Mum and Brian interviewed a number of candidates and got to a short list of two. One of them would be like Anna, live-in, and the other would be here only weekdays, with weekend care an occasional option. Brian preferred the live-in version, but Mum and I thought Persie could handle a little more latitude. We also thought Persie should be consulted. The three of us had a bit of a heated discussion Saturday morning, and Brian decided to offer Persie the chance to meet both candidates. Evidently, when he posed this idea to her
, she pounced on the weekday option without meeting either of them. Which seems to have made Brian angry.”
“But that’s not who he hired.”
I shook my head. Ned opened his mouth to speak again, but I waved at him. “I’m getting to that. I think he really expected her to choose another Anna. Personally, I don’t think he gives Persie nearly enough credit for being able to handle things. And get this: Persie laid in wait for me after dinner Saturday to ask for my help—literally. She used that word.” I gave Ned a quick rundown of what Persie had said.
“Wait. So, Miss Persie asked you how to talk to her father? And she wants an art escort?”
“Mmmm. Mum knows a lot about art, but Persie wanted me to go as well. I told her I’d do just one visit to start; I don’t really have time to do a lot of museuming. So Persie told Brian that, and I think she also told him she might like to have breakfast downstairs.”
Ned pulled a stool to the island and stared at me. “Simon, this is huge! Was he thrilled?”
“Far from it. He was so not thrilled he accused me of trying to influence Persie. Which I had by no means done. Well, maybe just about breakfast. And he decided that he would hire Maxine, ignoring Mum’s opinion as well as Persie’s request, which . . . Well, I’ll stop short of criticising him, but you can imagine. He’s said Persie’s not to go museuming, and I haven’t seen her downstairs for breakfast. Come to that, other than dinners I haven’t seen much of her at all this week. Though I’ve heard rather a lot of her.”
Ned scowled and stared over my shoulder at nothing. “This isn’t like him.”
“Maybe not in some ways. But he’s always struck me as someone who believes he’s figured everything out.”
Ned shook his head. “He can be moved by reason.”
“I think he’s jealous.”
That got Ned’s eyes back on me. “Of whom?”
“Persie didn’t ask Brian to take her museuming.”
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