Nostalgia

by Jonathan Buckley

  8.6

  When she wakes up she sees exactly what she saw when she awoke in the night: a woman seated on a wooden chair beside the bed opposite, holding the hand of the sleeping old woman, who must be her mother. The daughter is aged about fifty, and is dressed entirely in brown; she has a sort of shawl over her head, and her head is bowed, as if her mother’s hand were a book in which she is reading the story of the life that is now coming to its close. With a thumb she repeatedly strokes the hand; otherwise, she is motionless. Her mother’s mouth, always open, sometimes moves as if to close, then gapes again; her jawbone has only a film of skin to cover it; her eye sockets are huge, like two bowls with a marble in each, under tissue; her arms have not enough muscle in them to make them move; the veins might have been painted onto the skin with blue-black ink.

  It is six o’clock. She wants to go back to sleep, but it’s not possible to stop looking, though the dying woman and her daughter make her remember her father, watching his wife die, at her bedside every minute of that final week, talking to her in a whisper, constantly, as if she could hear and understand every word, though barely a word came back. It is unbearable, the memory of it; she is glad to have the distraction of a sudden contempt for Gideon. Her mother’s life ended terribly, yet Gideon had no compassion; he should be forced to know how it ended, she tells herself; he should be forced to know what her parents endured. Then the old woman makes a faint whistling sound, and Gideon is banished.

  She closes her eyes and begins to fret about missing her flight. If she can be out of the hospital by nine o’clock – nine-thirty at the latest – she should be able to get to the airport on time. At seven-thirty, as she is about to call Robert, to ask him if he can come right away, to try to speed things up, a nurse arrives, takes her temperature and blood pressure, and tells her that she will be seen by the doctor this morning, but cannot say exactly when. ‘One hour, maybe a little more,’ she says. Fifteen minutes later the nurse comes back. ‘Two hours, perhaps a little more,’ she says. She rings Robert, and asks him if he could find out about seats on the later flight; a text arrives within a couple of minutes – No seats; she replies that she’ll let him know when she’s getting out – there’s no need to come yet. At eleven o’clock two doctors arrive, one grey and professorial, the other young and bright. The young one puts questions to her, in English; the senior one examines her eyes, her mouth, her back, her hands; her temperature and blood pressure are taken again. The doctors withdraw; they confer; the senior partner leaves, and the junior comes back to her. She has recovered, he tells her; and she has an allergy to bee stings. ‘So you must be careful,’ he says, as he shakes her hand. She calls Robert, who says he is leaving right away, and at that very moment a different nurse arrives. ‘You can go,’ says the nurse, with a brittle little smile, as if surprised to find that she hasn’t vacated the premises already. The nurse bundles up her clothes and directs her towards the bathroom.

  The bed has been stripped by the time she returns, and the nurse has gone; the woman in the shawl, still holding her mother’s hand, has not once looked up. Out in the corridor, she passes the young doctor; evidently she looks lost, because he asks: ‘You are waiting for somebody?’ He walks with her to the junction with another corridor, which is sunlit towards the far end. ‘There is a garden,’ says the doctor. ‘A nice place to wait. You are OK now. No worries.’ He shakes her hand again. The garden is an area of grass with one flowerbed, a fig tree, three wooden benches, and a small rectangular pool, clogged with weeds. A heavily breathing man with whiskers like iron filings is sitting on one of the benches, in his pyjamas, grasping the steel stand of a drip, glowering at her as though he suspects she might try to snatch the drip away; one of the other benches is occupied by a smiling man whose eyes are shut and whose hair is covered by a thick elasticated dressing, bloodstained at the temple; the third bench is free. She sits down; the smiling man continues to smile, eyes shut; the man with the drip has redirected his gaze at the fig tree, from which is coming the twittering of a bird. The twittering is incessant, but for a minute or two it’s pleasant; then it becomes as irritating as an unanswered phone. She gets up from the bench and goes over to the fig tree; the singing ceases; she peers into the leaves, and sees a plump little brown bird. As soon as she returns to the bench, the twittering resumes. The man with the drip grates his teeth in what may be meant to be a sardonic grin; the smiling man pats his dressing, eyes still closed.

  8.7

  Known in English as the Garden Warbler, Sylvia borin is a passerine songbird of the Sylviidae family, and is widespread and common in Europe and western Asia. It is primarily an insectivorous species, but also eats soft fruits, especially in the autumn months, when it requires high-energy food in preparation for its winter migration to central and southern Africa. Its name in Italian is beccafico, or fig-eater. Its binomial, Sylvia borin, was created in 1783 by the Dutch physician and naturalist Pieter Boddaert (1730/33–1795), in the table of names that he compiled to accompany the 973 hand-coloured plates produced under the supervision of Edmé-Louis Daubenton for Buffon’s Histoire naturelle des oiseaux, which was itself a by-product of the Comte de Buffon’s encyclopaedic Histoire naturelle, générale et particulière.

  The beccafico is a sturdy bird, on average 13–14.5cm in length, and is visually distinguished from other warblers by the dullness of its appearance: the plumage is brown-grey, with a paler underbelly; it has no clear markings on its wings; and the face is likewise plain, though there is a faint white ring around the eye. Its typical lifespan is two years, but Garden Warblers have lived beyond fourteen years in captivity.

  The song of the Sylvia borin is a melodiously bubbling chatter that can last as long as ten seconds, and is easily confused with that of the blackcap (Sylvia atricapilla), the species to which it is most closely related. Like the ortolan (Emberiza hortulana), the beccafico has long been considered a great delicacy, but the edible beccafico is not always a Garden Warbler – the name beccafico has been applied since Roman times not only to Sylvia borin but to a variety of small migratory birds. The ortolan – now a protected species in France, but still eaten there – is prepared by being blinded or caged in a light-proof box, fattened on millet and drowned in armagnac; the beccafico is rarely fattened artificially for consumption.

  8.8

  He sees her through the window: with her head resting on the back of the bench, she’s gazing at the sky, so immersed in whatever she’s thinking about that she’s unaware that the gaze of the man with the drip is riveted to her chest. But when he opens the door she notices his arrival immediately and jumps to her feet so quickly that she staggers, grabbing the arm of the bench. The ogler, grasping his drip like a banner of the seriously ill, smirks maliciously, and leers at Claire’s rear view as she passes. At the other bench, a man with closed eyes and a bandaged head is smiling as though watching a comedy show on the inside of his eyelids.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, holding the door open.

  ‘A wash and a change of clothes and I’ll be right as rain.’ Passing a framed picture of San Gimignano, she halts for a second to look at her reflection. Raking her fingers through her hair, she says: ‘I was a mess, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You were in shock.’

  ‘Did I pass out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I remember the ground going wobbly. Did I say anything stupid? I think I thought I was being arrested.’

  ‘You weren’t entirely sure where you were.’

  ‘I was babbling, wasn’t I? What did I say?’

  ‘You were concerned about your sandals.’

  She looks down at her dusty footwear and shakes her head.

  In the foyer he buys a bottle of water; she drinks most of it in less then a minute. ‘Don’t I have to sign papers or something?’ she asks.

  ‘Taken care of. The insurance is sorted. Gideon found the policy in your room.’

  ‘I hope he’s not annoyed that you’ve taken time off t
o retrieve me.’

  ‘Of course he isn’t.’

  ‘I was joking,’ she says. ‘Half joking.’

  ‘He was worried.’

  ‘Not that worried. He wasn’t here, was he? Or was he?’

  ‘We’re over there,’ he says, pointing in the direction of the car.

  She winds down the window; for a minute or two she looks straight ahead, impassively, hands meshed in her lap; he almost asks her what she’s thinking about. ‘Bugger about the flight,’ she says.

  ‘Might as well stay for the festival now,’ he suggests. ‘Only a few more days. Make the trip worthwhile. Bit of fun and folklore.’

  ‘It’s been worthwhile,’ she states quietly, still looking ahead. ‘I’m glad I met him. It’s been interesting. And it’s a nice little town. But I have to go tomorrow.’

  ‘No seats tomorrow.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘None tomorrow, and only one left on Saturday, which will probably have gone by the time we get back. And if you’re staying till Saturday you might as well stay for the festival. Unless you absolutely have to be back in London right away, in which case we could look at flights from Rome. Flying from Pisa, there are a few seats on Sunday, but that’s the big day. Plenty on Monday.’

  ‘You’ve checked all the flights?’

  ‘All from Pisa. Not Rome.’

  She looks aside, considering. ‘How would I get to Rome?’ she asks.

  ‘I’d drive you. It’s not far. Three hours or so.’

  After a pause she answers: ‘I really can’t afford to stay.’

  ‘Well, you can. The hotel’s taken care of.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Paid. Gideon has settled the bill.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I can’t have that.’

  ‘He got a discount.’

  ‘I can’t let him pay.’

  ‘It’s done.’

  ‘I’ll pay him back.’

  ‘Believe me, Claire, you can’t win this one.’

  She frowns, then asks: ‘Has he paid for tonight as well?’

  ‘No,’ he answers. ‘The hotel is booked out, so we’ve moved your stuff to my flat. You can stay there, until whenever.’

  ‘Yours rather than Gideon’s?’

  ‘Nobody has ever stayed in Gideon’s place. His apartment is his monastery.’

  ‘A monastery with naked ladies.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You have a spare room?’

  ‘No. But you’ll have it pretty much to yourself. During the day I’ll be up with Gideon most of the time. Then I’ll be at Teresa’s, probably. And if I’m not, there’s a sofa bed.’ Receiving no response, not even a glance, he goes on: ‘So you can treat the place as your own, but if you want to try Rome instead, we’ll do that.’ She nods, then turns her face into the rush of air.

  When they get to his door she looks exhausted. ‘You should take a nap,’ he says, and she agrees. He opens the bedroom door.

  ‘I can take the sofa bed,’ she says.

  ‘We can argue about that later,’ he replies. ‘For now, take the bed. The sheets are fresh, and if you want to eat, there’s plenty in the fridge.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, and she sits on the bed. Sweat is coursing out of her hair, and her breathing is loud.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Just snoozy.’

  ‘OK. I’ll get back upstairs. But if you need me, give me a call. My phone will be on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, taking off her sandals. She lies down on the bed.

  8.9

  She is having a dream in which she is on a roof, in a town she doesn’t know, and every roof except hers is packed with people, looking up at the sky in an atmosphere of patience, and from somewhere there’s a banging noise, but nobody else can hear it – everyone keeps gazing at the clouds, though the banging continues and she’s in a room she doesn’t know, with walls as white as a hospital’s walls and a lot of sunlight and her clothes on hangers on the back of a door, beyond which there is again a knocking. Her head is like a boulder and her eyelids are as thick as bacon; her watch tells her she’s been asleep for four hours. She levers herself into a sitting position and swings her feet onto the floor. The floor is cool terracotta and has no clutter on it. The ceiling light is a globe of white glass; on one wall, above a shelf of books there’s a shelf of identical box-files, one marked CAMPANI, another RIDOLFI; a dark chest of drawers is on the other side of the room, with a matching wardrobe; her bag is on a chair; there are no clothes lying around; the air smells faintly of cedar.

  She hears another knock, then a key going into the lock, and Gideon’s voice, calling: ‘Hello? Hello?’ When she opens the bedroom door he is standing in the hall; a vast smile appears. ‘Welcome back,’ he sings, loud enough to be heard in the street.

  Rubbing her eyes, she says: ‘I was asleep.’

  ‘Good, good,’ says Gideon, nodding sagely. ‘How are you feeling? Robert said you’ve been given the all-clear.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Allergic to bees, I gather.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Rather alarming, I have to say.’ He ushers her into the living room. ‘Looked like a serious situation. Well – it was a serious situation, of course. But it looked very bad. Good job the medics arrived prontissimo.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They looked after you OK in the hospital?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And Robert was on hand.’

  ‘He was very helpful, yes.’

  Gideon looks around the room, as if it were hers. ‘Look—’ he begins.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she interrupts. ‘And it doesn’t matter. Robert took care of everything.’

  ‘My Italian is dreadful. I couldn’t talk to the doctors like Robert.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And to tell you the truth—’

  ‘Hospitals give you the willies.’

  ‘They do,’ he confesses, with a plastic grimace at his own weakness.

  ‘Same here,’ she says, and she looks him steadily in the eye, so that he will know what she means.

  His eyes show not the slightest sign that he has taken the reference. ‘Dreadful places,’ he says.

  ‘Though most people in them are getting better,’ she points out.

  ‘Yes,’ he concedes. ‘But—’

  ‘Many are not.’

  ‘Quite.’ Still he doesn’t seem to make the connection.

  ‘And you had work to do. I understand,’ she says. From the tone and the expression, she hopes, nobody could tell if this remark was intended to cut; Gideon appears unwounded. ‘You settled my bill at the hotel,’ she goes on.

  His hands rise, self-deprecating. ‘It wasn’t much,’ he says.

  ‘I’m going to pay you,’ she tells him.

  ‘No. I insist.’

  ‘Why should you pay? Do you think you owe me something?’

  And at this he at last bridles slightly. ‘No, Claire,’ he answers. ‘I don’t think I owe you something. It’s a gift. A small gift. I can afford it.’

  ‘I can afford it too,’ she says. ‘I’ve come into some money recently.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ he says. ‘But I’m paying.’

  ‘I’ll withdraw the cash and leave it here,’ she says.

  ‘No. Don’t do that,’ he replies. ‘Please. Allow me. It’s not worth arguing about. And if you leave the cash I’ll post it to London and then things will get very silly. Accept it. Please,’ he says, and he deflects his gaze downward, in what may be apology.

  ‘Then I’ll pay for my meals,’ she proposes.

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ he says. ‘We’ll eat later, yes? All three of us. Same time, same place.’

  8.10

  Cecilia, effusively relieved, welcomes Claire back to the Antica Farmacia. ‘Gideon told us everything,’ she tells her, releasing her from a mighty embr
ace; she gives Gideon a sympathetic smile for the torment through which he too has passed. ‘You were in good hands,’ she assures Claire, patting Robert’s arm. Giacomo, summoned from the kitchen, regards Claire from head to shoes and up again, as if looking for signs of damage. ‘Brava,’ he pronounces, with a nod that commends her powers of recovery. He will bring a bowl of ribollita, which is good for strength, followed by a risotto of porcini. Cecilia wants to know every detail of the ordeal; Robert translates Claire’s account, augmenting as necessary.