by Guy Burt
‘God.’
I say, ‘Why did you signal us? You could have come back and told us he was gone. Then we wouldn’t—’ I gesture vaguely at our sopping clothes. A flash of guilt crosses Jamie’s face.
‘Well, I thought maybe – maybe he’d just gone a little way, and we could – you know, look for him. Together. But I looked from the belltower and there wasn’t anything I could see. And—’ He hesitates. ‘I wasn’t sure I should walk back – you know. On my own.’
I start to understand. In the dark, with the hermit maybe somewhere near, and the gun gone—
‘But he’s really gone?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ Jamie says, sounding grateful for the things I haven’t asked. ‘If he could get up to the tower and get the gun, he’s probably miles away by now.’
We sit in silence for a minute. Jamie is starting to look worried.
‘You’re going to catch cold if you sit here like this,’ he says.
‘I know,’ Anna says. ‘What else are we supposed to do, though?’
Jamie says, ‘You should get warm. We need a fire or something.’
‘Can’t have a fire in here,’ Anna says, her words muffled as she cups her hands round her mouth. ‘It’d burn. The floor’s wood.’
‘Not at the end,’ Jamie says.
He’s right. At the altar end of the chapel there is a step up, and then the floor is marble right to the wall under the stained-glass window. Suddenly the thought of a warm fire is right in the front of everyone’s mind.
‘There’s bits of wood in the blue sacks over there,’ Jamie says. ‘In with the bricks and stuff.’
‘Yeah,’ Anna says decisively. ‘Come on. Before we freeze to death.’
We get the fire going with candlewax and shreds of bandage, and soon it’s spluttering away happily. The wood is old and tinder-dry, and most of it is in the form of slats which we can break easily across a knee. Jamie tends the fire and gets the hermit’s blankets, and Anna and I take off our soaked clothes and wrap up in the blankets instead. Jamie hunts through the jumble of old pews and finds a kind of carved bench which, with a lot of effort, he is able to extricate and drag down to the fireside. He hangs our trousers and pyjamas and Anna’s top and anorak on it to dry.
‘How’re we going to get home?’ I say. ‘The river’s full now, and we don’t know any other way.’
‘We can try the roads, once it’s daylight,’ Jamie says. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to find our way down.’
‘When’s it light?’
‘Maybe five o’clock. I can’t remember. I think it’s usually light when I’m coming back.’
‘Only if we’re late they’ll know we were gone. There’s no-one to cover for us.’
‘I know,’ he says.
Anna says, half to herself, ‘I can’t believe he lied to us.’ And then, ‘How did he know where the gun was? We said it was in the valley, behind a rock. How did he know?’
‘Maybe he knew a lot of things,’ Jamie says.
Some time in the middle of the night, the rain starts to ease, and the thunder dies away over the hills inland. I stir uncomfortably; the floor is hard and difficult to lie on. Jamie is dozing against the end of the bench he’s brought, and Anna is curled up beside me, fast asleep, her blanket wrapped tightly round her. She’s sucking her thumb; I’ve never seen her do this before, and for some reason it makes me smile. The fire is dying down to a heap of red embers, and sleepily I take another couple of pieces of wood from the pile Jamie’s made and push them in. There is a little rush of gold sparks that swirl in the air and are gone in an instant, and then the flames catch and the slats start to crackle. The fire has been a good idea. I feel warm and almost cosy, despite the unyielding surface of the marble.
Jamie stirs slightly, and makes a little sound; then he’s still. I rest my head back on my arms and stare into the fire.
Dawn comes pale and washed-out over the hills at the head of the valley. Gradually, the chapel lightens almost imperceptibly, until the forms and shapes of its walls and pillars and organ-loft are all discernible. The fire looks dead, but when Jamie stirs it up, there are some hot parts in the middle. He feeds it sticks and pieces of bandage and more wood until it’s blazing merrily, and then reaches across to wake Anna.
‘What time is it?’ she says.
‘Half-four. The rain’s stopped.’
‘Good.’ She sits up and stretches, and looks about her.
Jamie says, ‘How do you feel? Are you OK?’
‘Yeah. I think.’
‘Alex?’
‘Mm. I think so.’
‘They’re not really dry,’ he says, pointing at our clothes. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think we should go,’ Anna says. ‘We won’t get home in time otherwise, and then they’ll want to know where we’ve been.’
‘Yeah,’ Jamie says. ‘That’s what I think, too.’
‘I don’t want to wear wet trousers,’ I say.
‘I know,’ Anna says. ‘Neither do I. And my top’s wet too, remember? But we’ll be home soon and we can get dry ones.’
‘Mm. OK.’
‘Right. Let’s get dressed, then.’
We make our way back by the roads. It’s not too difficult to find a way through the farm tracks to the main road into town; then it’s just a question of trudging steadily down it. To begin with we’re all nervous, on the lookout for cars coming or going. We will have to jump down into the ditch if any do. But there are none; everything is still asleep in the grey dawn light. We soon lose our vigilance and concentrate on the simple process of walking.
My shoes squeak with every step; they’re still sodden, and though when I put them on they’re warmly damp from the heat of the fire, they become cold and clammy almost the moment we’re out the chapel door. By the time we’re on the road, my feet are starting to feel sore and aching at the sides and heels.
On the downturn where the road straightens, something catches my eye. It’s just for a second, when the bushes at the side of the road thin out for a couple of paces and the far side of the valley opens up through them. Far across, on the low swell of land down towards the harbour and the sea, Signor Ferucci’s house – normally so dark and silent and closed up – is all ablaze with light. The bushes close and for a long while I am left wondering if I’ve invented this; dreamed it. Perhaps I’ve fallen asleep on my feet for a moment. But then, a moment later, I see it again: low in the foothills there, all its windows are lit and alive. Below, the town is still sleeping; but above it, lodged in darkness, there is light where there never has been before, as if something huge and important is happening there.
I glance at Jamie and Anna, but they’re looking at their feet, or at the road ahead, and they’ve seen nothing. I’m about to point and tell them, but then a strange feeling comes over me. It’s as if I suddenly know something, though I’m not sure what. There is something happening in Signor Ferucci’s house, and the hermit is gone; between these two facts there is some kind of territory to which I can’t quite get access. But it’s enough. I look down at my own feet, and I don’t point or say anything. I don’t know why I keep quiet like this, staring at the muddy asphalt. It just feels like it might be easier this way.
All along the valley, winding down to our row of houses, I find myself haunted by the dense little cluster of lights, and what may or may not be hidden behind them.
We get home some time before six, and the valley is starting to be properly light. There are still thick clouds all across the sky, but they are at least pale clouds, not the dark thundery ones of yesterday’s storm. The gardens of our houses are still dripping, and there are puddles in the driveways.
We slip quietly into Jamie’s house, and creep up the stairs, feet at the sides like always. For once, I’m less worried about the creaking of the stair boards than I am about the squeaking of my shoes; but Jamie and Anna say it’s hardly noticeable.
We say good night to Anna on the landing. She looks haggard and
exhausted and somehow much younger than she normally does; and I think of seeing her in the night sucking her thumb. It’s something I haven’t done for maybe three years. Her hair is a tangled, straggly mess from the rain and the river, and then from drying out by the fire, and her cheeks look white and hollow. The black smudges I’ve seen below Jamie’s eyes and mine are under hers now as well.
‘Buonanotte,’ she says.
‘Notte,’ I murmur.
Jamie closes the door to his room and we get undressed. I’m fumbling with the alarm clock, setting it for an hour’s time, when I remember we don’t have to do that any more. The hermit’s gone; there won’t be any more signals down the valley. My pyjama bottoms are still clammy. I hang them on the back of a chair and get into bed, drawing the covers round me and pressing my face deep into the comforting softness of the pillow.
From his bed, I hear Jamie say softly, ‘Night, Alex.’
‘Night,’ I say.
No-one comes to wake us. When we finally do get downstairs, it’s nearly lunchtime. I notice the knowing glances between the adults, and realize that they think we’ve been up all night reading comics or telling ghost stories or playing games. The thought is almost enough to make me laugh aloud, and I can see from Jamie’s face that he’s thinking the same thing.
I have to wear a pair of Jamie’s trousers; mine are still wet – I start to think they will never dry – and besides, they’re covered with mud. All Anna’s clothes are the same, but she has more in her suitcase. We put the dirty clothes in a plastic bag and take them to my house, where I know we stand less chance of being disturbed. In the upstairs bathroom, we half-fill the bath with water and stir the clothes round until the water’s gone mud-coloured; then we let it out and start again. Eventually the water comes clean. We hang everything to dry on the towel-rail. Lena may see it, but I feel so tired and dazed that I hardly care. In fact, as lunch approaches, I feel less and less well; and at last I get so dizzy and weak that I have to sit down.
Lena puts me to bed. I have a temperature of thirty-nine, she says, but she thinks it’s just a summer chill of some kind. She brings me lots to drink and says that she’ll call the doctor in the afternoon if I don’t feel better.
‘It must be something that’s going round,’ she says, as she tucks me in. ‘Mrs Anderson was saying that Anna’s not feeling so well either.’
Something in Lena’s voice tells me that she either knows, or suspects, more than she is saying; that she doesn’t really believe it’s just a summer chill. But she doesn’t say anything more. Later, when I get up to go to the loo, I see that the clothes are gone from the towel-rail. Later still, waking from a fitful sleep full of half-remembered terrors, I find my trousers and pyjamas dry, and folded, and on the chair by my window.
That night I dream I’m fighting my way through an endless torrent of water. Anna is calling out to me through the darkness: Get to the bank, Alex! This way! But when I turn to look, I can’t find her; and the banks of the river get wider and wider apart, so that no matter how hard I try I can’t reach them. At last, the water floods over my head and cuts off my breath; and I wake with a start, smothering a sharp cry of fear.
Jamie and I sit next to one another on the train from the airport, and as the Italian landscape rolls past us, I can see him staring at it with a kind of amazement, as if he hasn’t believed it possible we’ll get this far.
There are nineteen of us on the trip, and two teachers. The other boys are mainly lower-sixth pupils, like Jamie, but there are a few from my year as well. The bulk of the group are artists, but there are some literature specialists also. Jamie is the only musician; as I’ve predicted, the director of studies finds it hard to argue with the itinerary we have produced for him.
‘All the colours are different,’ he says, marvelling. ‘From England, I mean.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. I find it strange, a little, how struck he is by the countryside outside the window, as if he’s forgotten how it looks. For me, with my paintings of Altesa, Italy has never been all that far away; but looking at him now, I can see that for Jamie the past four years have become a huge distance.
‘Back again,’ he says quietly, almost as if he knows what I’m thinking.
‘What time’s your lecture thing, then?’
‘After lunch. I’ve got some errands to run, though; I ought to give my tutor a call and stuff like that. How would it be if we meet up this evening?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘You won’t be lonely?’ she says, teasing.
‘I’ll manage.’
‘What’re you going to do?’ she says. She’s dressed less casually today, more in the stylish manner that’s actually more common among young Italians. I watch as she checks herself in the mirror.
‘Sketching. In fact, it’s quite good to have a day without any distractions. I was planning to do loads more than I have. I need to catch up.’
‘“Distractions”?’ she says, making a face. ‘Is that what I am?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Too much so.’
She finishes with make-up and stuff and turns round. ‘There. What do you think?’
‘Nice.’
‘You have to dress the part for these things,’ she says vaguely. ‘Well – I’ve got to go. Sure you’ll be OK?’
‘Sure you don’t want me to come with you?’
She shakes her head. ‘You’d be bored. No, get some proper artist stuff done and we can get pissed later, OK?’
‘Sounds like fun,’ I say.
‘See you around six, then?’
‘Sure thing. Bye, now.’
She winks at me quickly, and is gone.
Slowly, I start to gather the things I’ll need for the day, putting them together in the bag I keep for what Anna’s called ‘artist stuff’. It’s a fine day; the sky’s clear and deeply coloured, and there will be plenty to see and draw in and around the street markets. I flick briefly through my sketches of people looking at statues. For a second, the aftertaste comes to me of the strange dislocation I felt looking at the stickers on Anna’s travel bag, as if the city had somehow – shifted. But then it’s gone, and I find I am whistling to myself as I pack the last items up.
She’s taken the bag with the stickers, I notice, but she’s left something, too: tucked down between two of the suitcases that are still there is a sheaf of paper. Curious, I go over, pull it free. Of course, I think, when I can see it properly, the thesis. It’s a good two inches thick, clamped together down its spine with a metal binder.
Still with that vague curiosity in me, I take it over to the desk and open it. I want to see some of what she’s written, to get an idea of what it is that’s occupying her life these days. On the first page there is a little fragment of text, like a quotation; alone on the page.
In csak fegyver vagyok.
I frown, and leaf through the rest of the manuscript, the pages turning slowly in front of me. Page after page is the same, the words unfamiliar. Hungarian, of course; but it surprises me all the same. She is studying in Rome; wouldn’t they want her thesis in Italian?
There’s something else, too. Her name, on the first page, is spelt differently: Ana. It looks as unfamiliar as the words inside. Strange.
Perhaps she means to translate it when she’s finished.
I flick through the pages again, and then put the sheaf back where I found it. I’m not sure whether she’d want me looking through it without her permission.
I find myself whistling again as I finish my preparations and leave: nothing can shake the kind of gentle elation that’s in me today. From nowhere, a phrase pops into my mind: something I remember from way back when I was a child. The hermit’s gone. Well, I tell myself as I lock the door after me, even if I was never sure that was true before, at least I am now.
It’s in the shadow of the Campanile that I hear her.
‘Alex! Hey, Alex!’
It’s our first morning in Florence, and Mr Dalton has sent us off from our l
ittle hotel in groups to do studies of buildings. I am with three other boys, sketching the side of the cathedral; the arc of the side of the Duomo itself is just visible from where we’re sitting, sharp against the sky. All four of us look up at the sound of my name. Anna is standing out in the sun, grinning like mad, waving. I drop my pad and sketching pen and run over to her.
‘Hey, you made it!’ I say.
‘Yeah. I went to your hotel and they said you’d all gone out. I left a message. Lucky finding you, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Where’s Jamie?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly. ‘He’s supposed to be at some musical thing, but – he might not be.’
‘Oh,’ she says, one eyebrow raised. ‘Sounds ominous.’
‘It is, a bit,’ I say. ‘I think – well, I can tell you later, if you like.’
‘Yeah.’ She stares at me for a moment, and then grabs me and hugs me. ‘Alex! It’s good to see you.’
‘You too,’ I say.
‘You’re taller.’
‘You too.’
‘Your voice is all deep.’
‘You too,’ I say, grinning.
‘Oh, funny today, are we?’ She steps back from me, still smiling, and we just look at each other for a second. Then one of the boys I’ve been sketching with comes over.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Do you know her, then?’
Anna and I glance at one another, and burst out laughing. ‘Yes,’ I manage after a while. ‘Sort of.’ Then something strikes me. Anna and I have been talking in Italian, as always, but Tim’s question has been in English. I look at her, puzzled. ‘How did you—’
‘I’m learning English,’ she says, still in Italian. ‘I know quite a lot now, but it’s easier to understand than to speak.’
‘Cool,’ I say, impressed. ‘Go on, give it a go.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘If they know I understand, they’ll all try and chat me up. I can do without that, I think.’
‘Oh, modest today, are we?’ I say, though I know she’s right.
Tim says, ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, Alex?’
Anna’s eyes meet mine for a moment, and it’s all we can do not to burst out laughing again. Then I say – switching back to English: ‘This is Anna. Anna – Tim, Eddie and Jonas.’