Two Lives

by William Trevor

  ‘I’ve never seen a picture as beautiful,’ Aimée said.

  It occurred to me, as she spoke, that had the outrage not happened, she would probably have come to this city with her parents and her brother. They would probably have stood in front of this very picture. I looked at her, but her face was radiant. I edged closer to Mr Riversmith, hoping to share this thought with him in a quiet whisper, but unfortunately just as I did so he moved away.

  ‘Look at how the sheep are fenced,’ she said. ‘Like with a net.’

  ‘Sano di Pietro was born in Siena in 1406 and died in 1481,’ the General read from Dr Innocenti’s guide-book, and then explained that this was the person who had painted the picture.

  ‘More than five hundred years ago,’ I pointed out to Aimée, thinking that would interest her.

  ‘Eight trees,’ she counted. ‘Eight and a half you could say. Nineteen sheep maybe. Or twenty, I guess. It’s hard to make them out.’

  ‘More like twenty,’ the General estimated.

  It was difficult to count them because the shapes ran into one another when two sheep of the same colour were close together. The guide-book, so the General said, suggested that the dog had noticed the angel before the shepherds had. To me that seemed somewhat fanciful, but I didn’t say so.

  ‘I love the dog,’ Aimée said. ‘I love it.’

  Otmar, who had wandered off to examine other pictures, rejoined us now. Aimée took his hand and pointed out all the features she’d enthused over already. ‘Especially the dog,’ she added.

  I was quite glad when eventually we descended the stairs again. Pictures of angels and saints, and the Virgin with the baby Jesus, are very pretty and are of course to be delighted in, but one after another can be too much of a good thing. I wondered if Mr Riversmith’s wife would have agreed and, since I very much wanted to establish what this woman was like, I raised the subject with him. I said I had counted more than thirty Virgins.

  ‘The cathedral would perhaps be more Francine’s kind of thing?’

  But Mr Riversmith was buying a postcard at the time and didn’t hear. It was interesting that he’d been married twice. I wondered about that, too.

  ‘Otmar says you can climb up the town-hall tower,’ Aimée said in the postcards place. ‘We’re going to.’

  On the way back to the Piazza del Campo I noticed Quinty and Rosa Crevelli loitering in a doorway. They were smoking and leafing through a photographic magazine, giggling as Quinty turned the pages. I was glad they didn’t see us and that no one happened to be looking in their direction as we went by. You could tell by the cover the kind of magazine it was.

  ‘Why didn’t I ever see you?’ I heard Aimée ask her uncle. ‘I didn’t even know I had an uncle.’

  I didn’t catch his reply, something about the distance between Virginsville, Pennsylvania, and wherever it was she and her family had lived. Clearly he didn’t want to go into it all, but as we turned into the piazza she still persisted, appearing to know something of the truth.

  ‘Didn’t you like her?’

  ‘I liked her very much.’

  ‘Did you have a fight?’

  He hesitated. Then he said:

  ‘A silly disagreement.’

  The old man remarked that he would not ascend the tower but instead would search for his gardening manuals. We made an arrangement to meet in an hour’s time at the restaurant next to the café where we’d had breakfast, II Campo. I went off on my own, to look in the shoe shops.

  I was after a pair of tan mid-heels, but I wasn’t successful in my search so I slipped into a bar near that square with all the banks in it. ‘Ecco, signora!’ the waiter jollily exclaimed, bringing me what I ordered. It was pleasant sitting there, watching the people. A smartly dressed couple sat near me, the woman subtly made up, her companion elegant in a linen suit, with a blue silk tie. A lone man, bearded, read La Stampa. Two pretty girls, like twins, gossiped. ‘Ecco, signora!’ the waiter said again. It was extraordinary, the dream I’d had about Mr Riversmith, and I kept wondering how on earth I could have come to have such knowledge of anything as private as that, and in such telling detail. I kept hearing his voice telling me about the family dispute, and I rejoiced that we had at last conversed.

  ‘Bellissima!’ a salesgirl enthused a little later. I held between my hands a brightly coloured hen. I had noticed it in a window full of paper goods, side by side with a strikingly coiled serpent and a crocodile. Each was a mass of swirling, jagged colours on what from a distance I took to be papier mâché. But when I handled the animals I discovered they were of carved wood, with paper pressed over the surface instead of paint.

  I bought the hen because it was the most amusing. It was wrapped for me in black tissue paper and placed in a carrier-bag with a design of footprints on it. Did he love Francine? I wondered, and again I tried to visualize her – inspecting insects through a microscope, driving her Toyota. But I did not succeed.

  Instead, as I left the shop, I saw Mr Riversmith himself. He was turning a corner and disappeared from view while I watched. I paused for a moment, but in the end I hurried after him.

  ‘Mr Riversmith!’

  He turned and, when he saw who it was, waited. The street we were in was no more than an alley, sunless and dank. If we turned left at the end of it, Mr Riversmith said, we would soon find ourselves in the Campo again.

  ‘Let’s not,’ I suggested, perhaps a little daringly.

  I had noticed, through a courtyard, a small, pretty hotel with creeper growing all over it. I drew Mr Riversmith towards it.

  ‘This is what we’re after.’ I guided him through the entrance and into a pleasant bar.

  ‘Are the others coming here? I thought we arranged –‘

  ‘Let’s just sit down, shall we?’

  Imagine a faintly gloomy interior, light obscured by the creeper that trails around the windows. The table-tops are green, chairs and wall-coverings red. The two barmen look like brothers, young and slight, with dark moustaches. Only a sprinkling of other customers occupy tables. There are flowers in vases.

  ‘Are they coming here?’ Mr Riversmith asked again.

  ‘A little peace for you,’ I replied, smiling friendlily. ‘I think you’d welcome a bit of peace and quiet, eh? Now, I insist on standing you a cocktail.’

  He shook his head. He said something about not drinking in the middle of the day, but recognizing that this was a polite reluctance to accept more hospitality I ignored it. I ordered him an Old Fashioned, since in my house that had been established as his drink.

  ‘It’s awfully pleasant here,’ I remarked, smiling again in an effort to make him feel at ease. I said there was no reason why he and I shouldn’t be a little late for lunch. If tongues wagged it would be nonsense.

  He frowned, as if bewildered by this vernacular expression. I shook my head, indicating that it didn’t matter, that nothing of any import had been said. The barman brought our drinks. I said:

  ‘I wonder what sort of a person Sano di Pietro was.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The artist who painted the picture the child was so taken with. Incidentally, I thought it was a bit extravagant, that remark in the guide-book about the dog noticing the angel first.’

  He appeared to nod, but the movement was so slight I might have been mistaken.

  ‘You thought so too? You noticed that?’

  ‘Well, no, I really can’t say I did.’

  The place filled up. I drew Mr Riversmith’s attention to an elderly man with tiny rimless spectacles in the company of a young girl. Lowering my voice, I asked him what he thought the relationship was. He replied, blankly, that he didn’t know.

  I asked him about other couples, about a group of men who clearly had some business interest in common. I was reminded of the men in Carrozza 219, but I considered it inappropriate to mention this. One of the group repeatedly took small objects from one of his pockets and placed them for a few moments on the table. I thought they might
be buttons. I wondered if the men were in the button business.

  ‘Buttons?’ Mr Riversmith said.

  ‘Just a notion,’ I said, and then a Japanese party entered the bar and I said that there was one most noticeable thing about the Japanese – you could never guess a thing about them.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Riversmith said.

  I kept wanting to reach across the table and touch the back of his hand to reassure him, but naturally I didn’t. ‘What’s the matter?’ I wanted to ask him, simply, without being fussy with the question. He didn’t offer to buy a drink, which was a pity, because for a man like Mr Riversmith the second drink can be a great loosener. All that sense of communication there’d been when he’d talked about his sister a couple of hours ago had gone.

  ‘I really think we should join the others, Mrs Delahunty.’

  Although I’d said it was to be my treat, he had already placed a note on the table and within a few minutes we were back on the street again. I had to hurry to keep up with him.

  ‘I just thought,’ I said, a little breathless, ‘a few minutes’ rest might be nice for you, Mr Riversmith.’

  Although he in no way showed it, I believe he may possibly have appreciated that. I believe his vanity may have been flattered. He slowed his stride, and we stepped together into the bright sunlight of the Campo. The others were seated round an outside table beneath a striped blue and white awning. To my horror, Quinty and the maid were there also. Quinty was boring the General with details of the Tour de France.

  ‘I see Jean-Francois has taken the Yellow,’ he was saying as we approached them, and the old man nodded agreeably. He showed me a book of flowers he’d bought, the text in Italian but with meticulously detailed illustrations of azaleas. ‘Mollis and Knaphill,’ he said, a forefinger following the outline of the species. ‘Kurume and Glenn Dale. We shall make them grow.’

  Otmar and Aimée were looking through their postcards. Rosa Crevelli had opened a powder compact and was applying lipstick. Having given up his effort to interest the General in bicycle-racing, Quinty was smiling his lopsided smile, his head on one side, admiring her.

  ‘I’ve bought a really gorgeous hen,’ I said.

  I carefully unwrapped my prize. Aimée gasped when the pretty thing emerged from its black tissue paper.

  ‘They have crocodiles and serpents as well, Aimée, but I thought the hen the best.’

  ‘Wow, it’s fantastic!’

  ‘ “Who’ll help me grind my corn?” D’you know about the little red hen, Aimée?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘ “I won’t,” said the dog. “I won’t,” said the cat.’ I told the tale in full, as Mrs Trice had related it to me so very long ago, when I was younger than Aimée.

  ‘Well, I never heard that one,’ Quinty said. ‘Capisci?’ he asked Rosa Crevelli. ‘Signora’s on about a farmyard fowl. Una gallina.’

  I leaned toward Mr Riversmith, next to whom I was seated, and said I had hoped Quinty and the girl would have lunch on their own. ‘I must apologize for your having to sit down with servants.’

  He shook his head as if to say it didn’t matter. But it did matter. It was presumptuous and distressing. I attracted a waiter’s attention and indicated that Mr Riversmith would be grateful for an Old Fashioned and that I’d like a gin and tonic myself. I did so quietly; but Quinty has an ear for everything.

  ‘G and t!’ he shouted down the table at the waiter, who repeated the abbreviation, appearing to be amused by it. ‘You like g.t.?’ he offered everyone in turn. ‘I like,’ Rosa Crevelli said. Mr Riversmith said he didn’t want an Old Fashioned.

  ‘It wasn’t arranged, she invited herself. They’re lame ducks, as you might say.’

  Quinty had been down and out, I went on; the girl was of gypsy stock. As I spoke, the waiter returned with my gin and tonic, and one for Rosa Crevelli as well. ‘Due g.t.!’ he shouted, affecting to find the whole episode comic. When taking our orders for lunch he clowned about, striking attitudes and rolling his eyes. All this had been started off by Quinty and the maid. I drew Mr Riversmith’s attention to the fact, but added that they meant no harm.

  ‘It can be hurtful,’ I said, ‘but there you are.’

  The General had put his horticultural manual aside and was describing to Otmar the purpose of different kinds of spades. Quinty joined in the conversation, saying something about a local firm that would supply fertilizer at a good price. When labour was required he advised the General to get estimates. In Italy nothing was done without an estimate. There was a babble of Italian from Rosa Crevelli and everyone had to wait while it was translated. It didn’t amount to much, something to do with where urns for the azaleas might be obtained.

  ‘A most extraordinary thing,’ I remarked to Mr Riversmith, unable any longer to resist telling him about the dream. While I was speaking the waiter came with bottles of wine and mineral water. He joked again, pouring me two glasses of wine and then, in mock confusion, a third one. Aimée enjoyed his nonsense, and I suppose it was innocent enough.

  ‘No more than a boy you were,’ I said. ‘Fifteen or so.’

  But Mr Riversmith displayed no interest. I asked him if he had dreamed himself the night before and he insisted he hadn’t. He rarely did, he said.

  I suggested, though diffidently, that none of us can get through a night’s sleep without the assistance of dreams. Sometimes we forget we dream. We remember briefly and then forget. Or do not remember at all.

  ‘I am not familiar with the subject,’ Mr Riversmith said.

  Hoping to encourage him, I carefully retailed the details of the dream. I described the boy he’d been. I described the child his sister, Phyl, had been. I asked him if he remembered a Venetian blind that on occasion might have rattled, a slat tapping against the kitchen window-frame.

  ‘No.’

  The reply came too quickly. To remember, it is necessary to think for a moment, even for several minutes. But I didn’t want to press any of this. I finished my drink and pushed away a plate of soup, not caring for the taste of it. It was disappointing that Mr Riversmith wasn’t going to bother, but of course it couldn’t be helped.

  ‘I just thought I’d mention it,’ I said.

  I don’t think he spoke again while we had lunch but afterwards, as we walked through the streets to where the car was, I noticed to my surprise that he attempted to engage Rosa Crevelli in conversation. Since her English scarcely exists, it must have been an extremely frustrating experience for him. It was all the more bewildering that he appeared to persevere.

  I was a little upset by this and somewhat gloomily walked with the General, whose slow pace suited me. The day before I’d noticed further letters from the two firms of solicitors, so I raised the subject as we made our way together.

  ‘I’ve written to say I am creating a garden.’

  ‘Good for you, General!’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to say, actually: you’ve no objection to Otmar and myself delaying our departure a while, have you?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t.’

  ‘He’s nervous to mention it to you, but he’s wondering if the garden could be his way of paying for his board and lodging?’

  ‘Of course it could be.’

  ‘From me, it’s a gift, you understand? I shall continue to pay my weekly whack.’

  ‘That’s as you like, General.’

  Since we were passing various small cafés and bars I suggested that he might rest for a few minutes and have another cup of coffee. He readily agreed, and when we found somewhere agreeable I decided not to have more coffee but ordered a glass of grappa instead.

  ‘A garden can’t make up for anything.’ The old man, quite suddenly, returned to the subject, perhaps feeling that this was the time to say it, now that he had me on my own for a few minutes. ‘But at least it will mark our recovery in your house.’

  ‘Stay as long as you like.’ I replied softly, knowing that that, really, was what we were talking about.
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  ‘You’re kind,’ he said.

  We made a detour on our journey back to my house, turning off the main road and winding our way up to a Benedictine monastery. It was cool and leafy, with a coloured sculpture high up in an archway, and another in the same position on the other side: this is the abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore, as close to heaven on earth as you will ever find. With the exception of the General, we all descended several flights of steps, through a forest of trees, to the monks’ church in a cool hollow below. Along the cloisters were murals of St Benedict’s life. Doves cooed at one another, occasionally breaking into flight. In the monks’ shop mementoes were laid out tastefully.

  ‘Gosh!’ Aimée exclaimed, as delighted as she’d been by the picture of the shepherds and by the hen I’d bought. ‘Otmar, isn’t it fantastic?’

  Otmar was always there, unobtrusively behind her. His devotion was remarkable, and constantly she turned to him, to share a detail that had caught her imagination or to tell him something she’d thought of, or just to smile.

  ‘It is fantastic,’ he said.

  ‘What’s “fantastic” in German, Otmar?’

  ‘Phantastisch.’

  ‘Phantastisch.’

  ‘That is good, Aimée.’

  ‘Would a German understand me?’

  ‘Ja. Ja.’

  ‘Tell me another word. Tell me the name of a bird.’

  ‘Taube is for dove. Möwe is for seagull.’

  ‘How do you say “beautiful”?’

  ‘Schön is for beautiful.’

  ‘Schön.’

  ‘That is good.’

  ‘Möwe.’

  ‘That is good too.’

  Mr Riversmith bought her a little red and green box with drawers in it, and then we climbed back to where the General awaited us. He had found a tea-room and was reading about flowers again.