by Debbie Rix
It has been a long time since she’d done that. He took a taxi now… it was simpler for both of them, now that they lived so far away. And the children of course, made it difficult. She thought back to Michael’s cursory brush of the lips as he had left her this last time for Italy.
At the taxi rank, she was joined by the man in the blue shirt.
‘Hello again,’ he said kindly. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘Yes, yes… I, I’ve just had a bit of a shock that’s all.’
‘Oh I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘… I don’t mean to intrude.’
‘No, it’s fine; it’s nice of you. I’ve had some bad news… About my husband.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said gently.
‘He’s been taken ill… here in Italy. He’s in hospital.’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry; what is the matter?’
‘He’s had a stroke,’ she said flatly.
At that moment, two taxis rolled up and he gestured politely that she should take the first one.
‘I do hope your husband gets better soon,’ he said and handed her suitcase to the driver, who put it into the boot. ‘Where are you going?’
‘The Campo Hotel, I think,’ she replied.
He gave the address to the driver, before opening the cab door for her.
‘Thank you; I’m very grateful,’ she mumbled, climbing in.
As he closed the door gently behind her, he pushed his card through the open window. ‘If you need anything, anything at all, please do call me. My number is there.’
Their cabs travelled almost in tandem as they left the airport, ploughing through the outskirts of Pisa, past the low apartment buildings and immigrant grocers that encircled the town. They kept pace with one another through several sets of traffic lights, but as they approached the river that snaked its way through the centre of the city, his cab turned right as hers turned left. Looking out of the back window of the taxi, she watched his car as it sped along the busy road, until it was swallowed up in the line of traffic bordering the Arno.
Chapter Two
May 1999
Pisa
* * *
At her pensione, Sam had been met by a slight, blonde girl, named Mima, who turned out to be Michael’s Italian researcher. She was young and spoke reasonable English and, as Sam quickly worked out, was willing to help but anxious to retreat to her happy carefree life. She explained that the hospital was just a short walk across the Piazza and she would meet Sam there once she had unpacked.
The hotel that she had arranged for Sam was a slightly down-at-heel little pensione, right next to the Tower. In contrast to its splendid surroundings, the little hotel had definitely seen better days. The lobby was dark, in spite, or perhaps because of the grimy conservatory that jutted out onto the pavement at the front of the building. Conservatory was a generous term to describe this faded, plastic structure. Elderly cane chairs and sofas were pushed against the walls in an anti-social row, their flowery cushions beaten into submission by the myriads of tourists who had collapsed on them over the years. The lobby itself contained just two small leatherette chairs, between which stood a small, dusty coffee table – its chipped veneer disguised by magazines. Even to the most casual observer, these indicated a clientele drawn from all corners of Europe: Stern for the German tourists, Paris Match for the French, and an elderly copy of Hello in Spanish. The walls were lined, predictably, with images of famous Pisan landmarks – the Tower of course, the Baptistery, the Piazza dei Cavalieri. Early evening sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, reflecting off the haze of dust that hovered in the atmosphere. Sam signed the visitor’s book and handed over her passport to the middle-aged man behind the desk. His dark hair conspired to be both oily and wavy, Sam observed; not an attractive look. But he smiled kindly at her, and once he had spirited her passport into the safe, he picked up her suitcase and led her upstairs.
Her room was at the front of the hotel. The long windows looked out onto a tiny street that led to the Campo dei Miracoli. Once she had managed to undo the window catch, which was stiff with lack of use, she was able to lean out and take in the full magnificence of the Piazza. Perfectly positioned in the centre of the frame was the spectacular Duomo, its cupola silhouetted against the setting sun. This remarkable structure had been visible almost continuously on the short drive from the airport; it hovered above the red roofs of the city, a vast, shimmering semi-globe dominating the landscape much as it had done for a thousand years. To find herself living within three hundred metres of it seemed extraordinary. Behind it, she knew, stood the Baptistery, hidden from view by the large cathedral. Looking to the left, the little street on which the pensione stood was unremarkable; tall houses, four or five storeys high, divided into flats, she thought; the odd shop; the awnings of a number of restaurants – their tables and chairs laid out invitingly in the late evening sunshine. Directly below the pensione were three market stalls selling a classic array of Italian market goods: handbags, tourist memorabilia and umbrellas. Noting the darkening turquoise sky spreading with the coral glow of sunset, it seemed impossible to imagine the residents of Pisa would ever need an umbrella.
Sam opened her suitcase and hurriedly hung up the few items she had thrown in before she left England – two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts and some underwear. She wore a third pair of trousers with a leather jacket and ankle boots – her only shoes. Her feet were already rather hot. She would, she realised, have to buy something a little cooler.
She had no computer with her but she noted the internet cable. She would bring Michael’s hefty laptop back with her from his hospital room, and plug it in; then at least she could email her mother about the children.
She put her washbag into the tiny bathroom, taking in her reflection in the mirror above the basin. At thirty-six, her face was just developing fine lines across the brow and around her sharp green eyes. ‘Don’t frown,’ Michael used to tell her, ‘you’ll get lines.’ She tried to remember whether Carrie had had any lines. She was certainly younger than Sam. But all she could remember of her rival’s appearance was the shiny dark hair. Sam pushed her own pale brown hair behind her ears and splashed her face with water and brushed her teeth.
Moving back to the bedroom, she plugged in her phone charger and attached it to her now dead phone. The battery sparked into life and the message function flashed. Two answerphone messages and four texts awaited her; one from Miracle productions hoping she had arrived safely, and three from her mother. She read them, filled with anxiety that something had happened to the children in her brief absence. But there was no bad news. Just little snippets of information. ‘Freddie fine now.’ ‘The girls are perfect.’ ‘Can they have cake for pudding?’ She texted back hurriedly. ‘So glad all well. Yes, cake is fine. Anything. Thank you.’
She emptied her bag of the heavier items she had thrown in at the last minute, including the small photo album. She lay that on the desk. At the bottom of her bag she found a business card. Dario Visalberghi, the man at the airport. She slipped it into the frame of a mirror that hung above the desk.
The hospital of Santa Chiara, where Michael lay, was a short walk away across the Piazza.
He smiled when she burst into his room. A tragic, lopsided sort of smile, but a smile nevertheless. His bed was surrounded by medical staff. Il Professore and several of his underlings were discussing her husband’s case, gabbling loudly between themselves, apparently paying her husband no heed. It had the feel of an Italian market: busy, bustling, cheerful, argumentative. Mima announced Sam’s arrival over the hubbub and led her to the Professor. He took her hand in his and held it for a few moments; his touch was cool, kind. He looked deeply into her eyes and began to explain, in Italian, what was wrong with her husband.
Mima looked on, alarmed, and assumed the role of interpreter.
‘He has had a stroke… They are unsure how serious it is… He will need further tests. We will leave you with him now. If you have any questions just ask
.’
The group smiled sympathetically and left, taking their noise with them. The researcher retreated too, embarrassed. Sam and Michael were alone.
She sat down, perching awkwardly on the edge of his bed. Automatically, she took hold of his hand and squeezed it. But there was no reciprocal sensation.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Here we are.’
She tried to hold his gaze. Michael’s eyes swam; dark brown eyes, made milky with emotion. ‘I imagine it’s hard to talk.’ He blinked in acknowledgement, and a tear trickled down one of his cheeks. It was odd. She had felt such a whirlpool of emotions when she had left home that morning – a bewildering combination of anger, fear, panic and pity, both for herself and for him. But now, what did she feel? Exhaustion certainly. Perhaps it was the shock. The silence was palpable.
He looked old. Before he left for Italy he had grown a beard. Everyone loathed it, Sam, the children, friends. But he was wedded to it. She found herself wondering now, did he grow it for her… the dark-haired girl… Carrie? She fought back tears and leant over to kiss him, grazing his prickly cheek with her lips. Not his mouth. She couldn’t kiss the lopsided mouth.
‘How did it happen?’ Her voice sounded calm, impassive. She had gone into crisis mode, keeping her emotions in check, as she had done when she was a reporter. It was a skill she had developed in order to remain objective in difficult situations. But now, she was using it to protect herself, as if a vast wall of emotion was lying in wait to overwhelm her. If she allowed any chink, any break in that wall, it would lay waste to her. And Michael’s eyes were fearful. He needed her to be strong too.
He tried to speak, but no words came.
‘Sorry,’ she stroked his unresponsive hand, automatically, as if she were visiting some distant relative. ‘I forget you can’t really talk yet, can you?’
A second tear ran down his cheek and she reached over and wiped it with her thumb, her palm lingering on his neatly clipped beard.
Her eyes filled with tears. She could feel the wall pushing against her throat. She coughed, and wiped her own tears away roughly, almost embarrassed.
‘We’ll get you well, don’t worry,’ she said, trying to sound positive. Aware that she sounded more and more like her own cheery mother.
But she could see Michael didn’t really believe her. She wasn’t really sure she believed herself.
Later that evening, back at the little pensione, she sobbed into her pillow. The wall of emotion had finally collapsed, and she lay exhausted with an amalgamation of grief and a gut-wrenching rage at Michael. Rage at his deception. But pity too, for him, for herself, and for the children. She missed the children terribly, with a real physical pain that was deep inside her, welling up into her throat whenever she thought of them. Her mother had rung her to tell her that all three children were fine, but had let slip that Freddie had stood clinging to the garden gate when she had left, inconsolable, watching the road for two hours after she had gone, waiting for her to come back in the nasty black car. But he was asleep now, her mother cooed, he’d eaten well, watched Postman Pat with the twins. It was OK. Maybe, thought Sam.
The next morning she set out across the Piazza. It was a bright sunny day at the end of May, and she stood for a few minutes looking up at the Tower; it gleamed in the early morning sunshine. Not pure white, as it appears in the millions of replicas that sell on market stalls at 10 euros a time, but a myriad of pale shades: cream, beige, grey, palest pink. A mother-of-pearl vision fashioned from marble, gouged out of the ground at Monte Pisano hundreds of years before. It struck Sam that its pretty, intricate carving was somehow at odds with its sturdiness; like a stubby limb, an arm, or leg, covered provocatively by a gauzy undergarment. It was in every sense, feminine, not at all like the intrusive phallic symbols of twentieth-century high-rise architecture. Not a skyscraper in any real sense of the word, and yet, in its day, as much a testament to man’s power and strength as the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building or those symbols of twin destruction, the Towers.
Michael had been making a television documentary about the Tower. It was to cover the history of this, the most famous building in the world, from the early twelfth century to the present day. It had stood witness to nearly a thousand years of European history. It had played host to an extraordinary range of visitors, from Galileo to the poets Shelley and Byron. Interestingly, and unusually for that time, the building remained ‘anonymous’. It was the norm for architects to sign their buildings, literally to leave their mark, but no one had signed or laid claim to the Tower of Pisa. There were theories, of course, but no one could ever be really certain – and Michael was determined to try to uncover the hidden secrets that lay behind the Tower’s extraordinary design. Finally, he would explore the engineering of the building.
Almost from the day the first stone was laid, it had begun to lean. Successive generations had been fascinated by the building’s refusal to yield to the silty ground upon which it had been built. Since 1817, architects and engineers had experimented and excavated in an effort to shore it up, almost resulting in its destruction in 1934 when the dictator Mussolini gave orders to fill 361 drill holes in its base with concrete. Miraculously, along with the rest of the buildings on the aptly named Campo dei Miracoli, it had survived bombing in the Second World War, only to once again be nearly destroyed in an effort to shore it up in 1995. Michael had been fascinated by the subject for months, and was now filming the final phase in its rehabilitation, as the vast steel girdle was slung round its middle, holding it in position, after which the engineers, led by Professor John Burland of Imperial College, would excavate down, removing just enough soil from beneath the foundations to cause it to right itself. It would not be completely straight; that would be impossible, and anyway, the good burghers of Pisa, with a keen eye on the tourist dollar, did not want their leading tourist attraction made too perfect. No, it was to be pulled back from the brink of collapse just enough to be safe.
Michael and his crew had been filming in Italy for a few days. He had already got contrasting interviews with the solid British engineer and his colourful Italian counterparts ‘in the can’. The engineering aspects would be covered with graphic sequences when he returned to the UK. For the last two days he had been filming the process of erecting the girdle: an extraordinary collection of steel ties encircling the Tower and preventing it from toppling while the ‘under-excavation’ took place.
What had happened to Michael seemed unclear. Mima, his researcher, knew only that he had been alone, at the top of the Tower, when he collapsed. Found within five or ten minutes by his cameraman returning with equipment, he was fortunate that the old medieval hospital of Santa Chiara was just a short distance away. It had been a struggle to manoeuvre Michael’s lifeless body down the winding staircase, but the paramedics were skilled, and emergency treatment was administered swiftly.
A cool breeze brushed Sam’s face. She shivered slightly as she wandered around the Campo. The sun was making steady progress behind the Tower, casting a shadow across the bright green grass that lay, incongruously verdant, like a carpet around the buildings. The rotund outline of the Baptistery formed a smoky grey silhouette against the warm apricot sky. The marble paths, pitted by the millions of visitors, led her back to the Duomo. She had no ticket so could not enter, but instead stood gazing up at the twin bronze doors featuring scenes from the Christ’s life. To her right stood the Camposanto, the Holy Field – cemetery to the city. Its long, low, marble façade glowing almost pure white in the morning light. The creamy, carved, delicate beauty of the place was without question, and yet it left her untouched; unlike the tourists who gawped and gaped and snapped at these buildings, she felt no emotion, no joy. Glancing up, she took one more look at the cock-eyed crowd-pleaser where her husband had collapsed before she hurried away down the Via Maria, behind the stalls selling tourist models of the building that would change her life forever.
Chapter Three
May 1999
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br /> After a couple of days in Pisa, Sam settled into a sort of routine. She was relieved to discover that, unlike the centre of many tourist destinations, the heart of Pisa was a living, breathing place where residents mixed with the visitors. And so, ordinary things like soap or newspapers were readily available alongside the tourist knick-knacks being sold at the stalls that lined the Piazza. Within a few hundred yards of her pensione, she found a little chemist, a paper shop which sold cigarettes and postcards – where she could occasionally find an English newspaper – and, on the corner of the main Piazza, a café called Bar Duomo, which stood conveniently across from the entrance to the ancient convent that housed the hospital. Each morning, on her way to visit Michael, she stopped at the café to pick up their breakfast. It was a lively establishment, typical of that part of Italy, filled with businessmen on their way to work who would stand at the polished copper bar, sipping viscous, dark espresso, reading the paper while discussing the stories of the day with the bariste behind the counter. Women sat at the tables; noisy and brightly coloured like birds, dressed in spectacular outfits even at nine in the morning, their hair coiffed, their brown legs draped elegantly, chattering and gossiping over cappuccino and pastries.