by Gordon Kerr
‘Oh … yes … I’m … fine … we’re fine …’ The words came in gasps, her chest heaving. ‘I did not … expect to bump into … anyone.’ And then she realised what she had said and laughed a little laugh, raising her hand, as was her habit, to cover her mouth as she did so.
Sandro, smiling, noticed this motion, the raising of the hand and loved it, loved her for it. He sat back, leaning on the boulder and reached into his knapsack, taking out a water-flask, filled several hours previously at a waterfall high up on the mountain.
‘Please, have some water.’ He extended the flask towards her. ‘It might help.’ His voice, she noted, was solicitous, involved, unlike the usual distant, unengaged manner of the men who lived in these mountains. She drank and the chill mountain water immediately made her feel better.
They talked for perhaps another fifteen minutes during that first encounter and found out a little about each other. They learned that they lived in neighbouring villages and yet they had never met, to their knowledge, or even set eyes on each other. This was not surprising, however, for each village in the valley was different to the next; each was like a little closed world. They even spoke almost different languages, distinct dialects that had developed over centuries.
Eventually Sandro and Angela parted, formally and, on his part, apologetically. He stood aside and watched her climb into the trees, admiring her body, the swing of her hips and the gentle swell of her breasts, across which her baby lay.
The swing of her hips was, of course, deliberate. She knew his eyes would be on her as she climbed away from him; indeed, she felt them drilling into her back and deliberately did not turn to wave as she rounded a stand of fir trees and disappeared from his sight.
But, she was married and he immediately tried to cast her from his mind on that account. That night, however, exhausted though he was by his days in the hills, he lay awake and she floated through his mind like a ghost: her face, her hair, the swing of her hips, drifting across his eyes like a piece of dust that he was unable to remove. He tried to disperse the thought of her, to dilute it with other things, as wine is diluted with water to lessen its strength; he tried to swat it away like one would a fly, but there she would remain, looking up at him from the forest floor as if she had just emerged from the earth, with her dazed, beautiful eyes. When, finally, he drifted off to sleep, she appeared there, too, with her baby clasped to her breast like a piece of her.
She, too, carried away a lasting impression of their meeting. It became almost a magical event to her, as if he really did not exist, that she had dreamed the whole thing and for the next few evenings, sitting across from the taciturn Luigi at dinner, she felt a pang of loss for the sparkling, caring eyes of this boy, Sandro, as he leaned over her, a pang of loss for those fifteen minutes that would never happen again, that now faded back into the past as she drifted on with her existence in this dreary home over which hung the spectre of drunken violence. In her mind she compared those fifteen minutes to the violence, the uncontrollable lust that had filled Luigi’s eyes in the clearing those few short years ago – those few short years that had seemed to consume several of her lifetimes, one after the other.
Independently of each other, they both returned to the clearing guarded by the huge boulder at the same time of day as their original meeting, but not on the same day. Gradually, as the days and then the weeks drifted past, they both sank back into the realities of their respective existences; she, caring for baby Antonio and putting food in front of Luigi and awaiting, with dread, his shuffling footsteps returning from the bar; he, beginning to help his ailing father more and more in cultivating the few fruit trees and vegetable plants that provided them with an existence. Opportunities for taking off into his beloved mountains became fewer and only rarely could Sandro find the time.
One day, however, he was returning to the village by way of the boulder and the clearing, as was his habit now, and, suddenly, there she was again, just entering the clearing from the other direction. This time they did not collide, but he gasped and she let out a small cry and it was as if they had each seen a ghost.
She raised a hand to her breast as if she could still the pounding of her heart. Here again were those eyes that had begun to appear to her everywhere she went. Now and then, when she closed her eyes in search of sleep, Luigi’s deep snores resonating beside her, those eyes had seemed to float across the insides of her eyelids, settling there as if becoming one with her own eyes.
‘Buongiorno, Angela!’ he exclaimed, his face reddening, as he said it.
She felt a pulse of satisfaction that he had remembered her name after all these weeks.
‘Buongiorno, Sandro,’ she replied. ‘Walking the hills again, I see.’
‘Oh, I don’t do it as much as I’d like to,’ he replied, and he told her about his father and how he was finding work difficult and how he had to help. They picked up their easy conversation as though all those weeks had not intervened. He remarked on the growth of baby Antonio, even in that short time, the increase in his size and the greater thickness of his jet-black hair.
And so, it started. The next day, when she arrived at the boulder in the clearing, there he was, leaning against it, rolling a thin cigarette, a broad smile splitting his handsome features. That day, however, Antonio was grizzling from an attack of cholic and she was unable to stay very long. In the days after, she would stay longer and they gradually began to share their dreams with each other.
She hung on to every word of his description of the one and only time he had left the valley, to visit Milano in the company of his teacher. Her eyes widened and her heart pounded as he spoke of the magnificence of the station Il Duce had built, the splendour and graceful beauty of the cathedral with its massive, vaulted, Gothic ceiling and the kaleidoscope of colours spilled onto the floor from the diffusion of the sun by the rose window. He told her all this once and then the next day she asked him to repeat it in every detail, missing nothing and when he did, she reminded him: ‘Oh, you missed the description of the spires’ or, ‘what about the beggars in the station?’ She drank it in and lay in bed at night, her head spinning with the wonder of it all.
In her turn, she spoke of things of which she knew little, of life beyond the valley and, indeed, beyond Italy. He would listen with a smile on his face, marvelling at her tremendous naivete, but loving her sheer enthusiasm for life. He was falling in love with her innocence of the world, her trust in the good in everything. But as she spoke, he picked up hints of darkness in her life, unhappiness in her house in the village.
On the first day of the second week of these clandestine meetings, Sandro awoke and smelled the rain before he heard its steady drumming on the roof of the house. He and his father were unable to work in the vineyard, and, after helping to fashion new fence posts in their small lean-to shed for most of the morning, he excused himself, claiming a need for fresh air. He climbed through the steadily falling rain to the clearing.
The rain dripped down from the leaves of the trees and its steady rattle on bark and greenery filled the clearing when he arrived.
Time moved on and he was rolling his second cigarette without there being any sign of Angela. It must be too wet, he thought. She could not bring Antonio out in such weather. But, suddenly, she was there, bursting into the clearing through the damp bushes and branches that hid it from the view of the outside world, had there been anyone abroad on such a day to look in. She was breathless and flushed and her long hair stuck to her face and dripped water.
She was alone, he noticed as she stood with her hands on her hips, her legs apart, her body bent forward, breathing in the damp mountain air.
He removed his waterproof jacket and threw it around her heaving shoulders as she gasped, ‘I have left Antonio with … my … mother-in-law … I was afraid … you would be … gone …’ He drew her over to the boulder and sat her down under its overhang where there was a soft carpet of lush grass that had been protected from the rain.
She offered her lips to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if it had always been written that she would inevitably do such a thing, that they would do such a thing.
Once again, she found herself making love in a clearing, staring at the canopy the trees threw over them. The first time, all she had felt was pain and fear. This time she felt pain again, but it was the pain of loving too much. Her body opened and something from deep inside her broke free and soared over the mountain peaks that guarded the valley.
As for Sandro, there came a moment when he could swear her body was melting beneath his touch and his, too, seemed to be fusing with hers until they were one.
A few feet away, the rain exploded on the earth, scattering fir cones with its force and running in tiny rivulets towards the edge of the clearing.
5
8 November 1999
London
Britain
Michael had spent the morning staring into space.
The weather on the return journey from Scotland had been even worse than the drive north. Rain had slanted onto his windscreen, necessitating his wipers to go at double speed all the way while his car went at half speed. He had, at least, enjoyed company on the journey. As he had been putting his bag in the boot of his car, Helen Matthieson had emerged from the hotel, swinging a bag.
‘Any chance of a lift?’
‘Where you headed?’ he asked, thinking she was just making the short journey into Annan.
‘Well, New York’d be great, but I’ll settle for London.’ She smiled.
‘So, you’ve realised that catering isn’t the correct career path, then?’
‘I guess so. I’ve worked non-stop for the last few months and need a break. Jacquie’s a bit annoyed with me, but that’s tough. Anyway, I’ve got an old friend in London who’s had a baby and I’ve been meaning to pay her a visit. So, what do you say? I’ll pay half the petrol.’
‘No need for that. Chuck your bag in the boot.’
And so, they talked most of the journey and the time passed quickly as they cut through the morning traffic and skirted Birmingham by early afternoon. He dropped her off around four at a tube station on the outskirts of London.
‘Give me a call, Michael,’ she said, leaning in the window of the car. ‘It’d be nice to see you again, when you’ve got everything sorted, I mean.’
‘I will, Helen. You have a good time.’
She leaned into the car, kissed him on the cheek, smiled and was gone, lost amongst the commuters.
Now he sat in the flat, deliberating what to do next. The trip to Scotland had left him even more confused than before. He had come home and searched through the file that contained all of Rosa’s bills and receipts, ready to be passed to her accountant at some future date. My God, but she was organised, he thought, as he removed the rubber band that held together the papers that related to September.
He was searching for her credit card statement, just to confirm once and for all that she had, indeed, stayed at the Lighthouse Inn.
His heart raced as he found the bill. There it was; a receipt for £180.46 debited to the Lighthouse Inn. So, there was absolutely no doubt. She had stayed there. It had been her.
He had lain down on the bed and that was where he remained, staring at the ceiling, the minutes passing. Eventually he looked down at the statement once more, as if hoping that there had been some mistake, as if he perhaps had misread it first time. But no, there it was in black and white. His eyes strayed up and down the column, taking in the account of a part of her life during those last few months. Petrol, clothes, all laid out with their cost tidily totted up beside them. Another entry caught his attention, however. It was a charge for £650 from Rogerson & Gilchrist, the very upmarket jewellers in Kensington. What was that for? She had not talked to him about such a purchase and surely she would have, if she had bought something costing that much. Although they were certainly comfortably off, that was still a substantial sum and she would have told him about it.
Ninety minutes later he was in a shop doorway on Kensington High Street, ringing a bell on the door of Rogerson & Gilchrist.
The shop front was like a remnant of another century. Around it were the cloned fascias of the typical nineties high street – identical shops filled with exactly the same items at exactly the same prices occupied streets the length of the country. That was what made Rogerson & Gilchrist so unique. Elegantly carved dark wood surrounded the windows on which the name of the proprietors was painted in gold. Above the door a brass plaque announced the shop name quietly and confidently, as if to say, if you have to ask you have no right to be here. And it was not a shop into which just anyone could wander. A doorbell had to be rung and the door opened to let a prospective customer enter, this presumably only after perusal by a hidden security camera.
A dark-suited, bald man opened the door to Michael. He, himself, looked as if time had forgotten him, as if it were still the late eighteenth century within the confines of this shop. His suit looked as if it longed for tails and his shirt collar was starched and shiny. A thin, dark blue, silk tie hugged his throat and he seemed to bend at the waist unconsciously.
‘May I enquire as to the nature of your business, sir?’ he asked, eyeing Michael’s leather jacket and jeans suspiciously over the top of a pair of small spectacles that hung precariously on the end of his nose like a fence at the edge of a cliff.
‘I wish to purchase something, but, erm, it is a little delicate. May I come in and explain to you what I require?’
‘Why certainly,’ said the bald man, not at all happy to be letting Michael come in, but rendered curious, all the same, by the hint of delicacy. ‘Please follow me.’
He led Michael through what turned out to be a foyer, lined with leather chairs and with glass tables on which society magazines were carefully laid out. The wallpaper was heavily striped and a small chandelier threw light dimly into the corners. An upmarket waiting room, thought Michael.
They entered a large, high-ceilinged room beyond in which there was a desk in each corner. The desks were highly polished and ornate. At one of them sat another dark-suited, dark-tied, grey-haired man, busily writing. He barely looked up as Michael and the bald man came in.
‘Please take a seat,’ said the bald man, going round to the other side of his desk. ‘Now, you say it is a delicate matter, sir …?’ He left the sentence hanging, unfinished.
‘Well, it is a little delicate. I’ve placed myself in a rather difficult situation and I’m hoping you can be of help.’ The bald man shifted in his chair and looked at Michael even more sceptically. ‘I hope I can trust you to be discreet …?’
The bald man raised his eyebrows, put his head to one side and spread his hands on the table. ‘Of course, sir.’ he said.
Michael continued, ‘I am married, to a wonderful woman. However, I have been having a … how can I put it … a liaison with someone else. My erm, friend sent me an item of jewellery purchased from you, but my wife found it before I had a chance to open the packet, read the accompanying note and threw it out of the car window at eighty miles an hour on the M4. My problem is that I have to see my friend tomorrow night – she has been away – and she will expect me to thank her for what she gave me and even to be wearing it. As I never even got to see the item, I have no idea at all what it was. What I want to do is buy another one and then she will be none the wiser. So, I was wondering if you could check your files to find out what she bought and I will simply buy another of the same, if you have one.’
‘I see, sir. I understand the, erm, delicacy of the situation, but I’m afraid we may not be able to help. You see, Rogerson & Gilchrist is not like a high street jeweller, mass-producing items of jewellery.
Most of the items we sell are unique, hand-crafted.’
‘But would it be possible for you to just check for me? Please? Even if I knew what it was, everything might be alright.’ Michael looked at him imploringly.
‘Well, it is a bit irregular, sir.’ His gaze shot over Michael’s shoulder, presumably to his colleague, scribbling away at the other desk, ‘but, given the delicacy of the situation in which you find yourself, I think we can certainly try. Now, if you could provide me with the date of the purchase and the name?’
Michael gave him the information he needed, trying not to sound too precise with the date as it might seem suspicious if he knew the exact details.
The bald man took a pad from a drawer in his desk and wrote on it. ‘If you will excuse me, sir …’ He stood up, pushing his chair back and went through a side door into an adjoining room. At this point there was a loud buzzing from downstairs – another client seeking entry into this sanctum. The other dark-suited man stood up, said ‘Excuse me, sir’ in Michael’s direction and left the room.
The bald man returned two or three minutes later, clutching a sheet of paper.
‘We keep full records of every purchase made so that we can be of as much help to our clients as possible,’ he said sitting down and pulling his chair closer to the desk. ‘Now, this would appear to be the only purchase ever made from Rogerson & Gilchrist by Ms Keats,’ he said, his eyes darting to the paper in his hand for confirmation of the name.
‘A lovely piece that your … friend purchased for you. A diamond-studded tie-pin, sir. I have a photograph of it.’ He removed a paper clip and detached the picture from the sheet of paper. ‘At Rogerson and Gilchrist, we retain photographs of each item we sell for our own records, sir, as well as for insurance purposes for our clients.’
It was, indeed, a beautiful piece, but certainly not something that Michael would ever consider wearing, even on those rare occasions that he wore a tie. It took the shape of a golden vine leaf, in the centre of which lay a cluster of small diamonds.