by Penny Feeny
‘A wedding?’ Her voice floated astonishingly clear and girlish across the thousands of miles that separated them. ‘You mean, yours?’
Gina was almost certain she could hear the ice cubes cracking in her mother’s glass: testimony either to the quality of satellite communication or of Phoebe’s determination never to be further than six inches from a drink.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh darling, how marvellous!’ Phoebe was of the generation who believed spinsterhood to be a curse rather than a pleasure – which was why she had collected three husbands.
‘I’m afraid this isn’t an invitation.’
‘Oh, but why shouldn’t I come? I haven’t been to Europe for years.’
‘It’s for information only.’
‘Go on then, tell me about him.’
‘You won’t like what you hear.’
‘I see…’ The wheedling tone pulled itself together, became waspish. ‘You’re not getting mixed up in anything foolish, are you? It’s not that old boyfriend of yours who nearly went to prison, is it? Gun-running or drugs or something.’
‘Black market cigarettes, actually.’ As if Phoebe cared; as if, dancing from one sugar daddy to another she’d given a rat’s arse what Gina got up to. Gina had never come first in her mother’s life. ‘Of course it isn’t him.’
The ice cubes clinked together. ‘So who is he?’
‘His name’s Felix Raven.’
‘Felix and Eugenie! What a splendid combination. I’ve not met him, have I?’
Gina spoke to her mother about twice a year, rarely saw her more than twice a decade. ‘It’s possible. We’ve been friends a long time.’
‘Oh, you know that’s quite common,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ve seen it a lot. People who’ve known each other for ages, or childhood sweethearts who’ve diverged and met up again. They realise in middle-age how much they’ve got in common, how nice it would be to spend the rest of their lives together. A second chance doesn’t have to mean second best.’
Gina’s hand was shaking, smudging the varnish. She reached for a wad of cotton wool to wipe it off and start again. Knowing already that her marriage would be short, this happy-ever-after talk was excruciating. She couldn’t help snapping, ‘We are not sweethearts. It’s not a romance, okay? It’s convenience.’
‘Convenience?’
‘You’ve already reminded me how old I am, and he’s a good deal older. Perhaps when you get to thirty-nine you stop looking for love.’
In fact Gina relished the thrill of a new relationship, never knowing when it might arrive and soar into flight. She sometimes wondered if she was addicted to the first flush: the glorious beginning that could go to your head and make up for all the misery that came later. None of this, however, was anything to do with Felix.
‘I’m not sure I understand. Do you mean it’s to do with money? Because…’
Because you’d know about that, thought Gina grimly. Hunting down the money, shoring yourself up against troublesome inconveniences. Like a daughter. Aloud, she said, ‘I don’t expect you to understand. It’s complicated. But I’m getting married this afternoon to my very old friend and I thought you should know.’
‘Today! You didn’t say it was today!’
‘Didn’t I? What difference does it make?’
‘Well, I can’t possibly come, can I?’
‘It’s a very low-key do. I can guarantee you won’t be missing out on anything.’
Gina knew she never managed these infrequent conversations well and it was with relief that she restored the receiver to its cradle, cutting off her mother’s protests and the faint chirruping of crickets in the South American night.
The shutters to the terrace were half open, beckoning, promising another glorious day. Gina wasn’t usually up so early unless she had an assignment which required her to capture this particular fragile light. She had planned to spend the morning making preparations, but there wasn’t much left to do. Later their friends would come to help Felix down the stairs and into Mario’s cab. Then, slowly, very slowly, they’d mount the steps of the Campidoglio to the Sala Rossa to take their oath. They were going to have the wedding breakfast in Pierluigi’s so she only needed to chill some champagne and perhaps buy some fruit. Although, as it happened, visitors kept bringing fruit. Torrents of grapes, figs, nectarines flowed over the shelves of the fridge.
She replaced the cap on the nail varnish and threw away the smeared pieces of cotton wool. Felix was sleeping. Barefoot, wearing a long baggy T-shirt, she edged around his bedroom door. He was covered up to his neck with a sheet woven from fine cotton lawn, its touch the most he could bear. A pair of embroidered Moroccan slippers lay on the floor at the end of the bed, neatly positioned for his feet – those long thin feet with the prominent ridge of bone rising to the ankle. On the pillow, his large, apparently disembodied, head with its high brow and imperious nose, resembled a bas-relief of a Roman emperor – Augustus perhaps. His eye sockets and cheeks were sunken shadows; she could make out the bones of his skull beneath the taut skin.
The empty slippers, his inert body, the thick sweet air of a sickroom, induced a crashing wave of grief. It disturbed Gina that the pain of loss was so acute, that she could be knocked breathless this way. He must have heard her enter the room – or perhaps he noticed the strong almond smell of nail polish overlaying those other smells of medication, disinfectant and decay. He opened his eyes but didn’t move.
‘Are you okay?’ whispered Gina. ‘Can I get you anything?’ He smiled but didn’t speak. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.’
He found his voice, lurking somewhere at the back of his throat. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eight o’clock.’
‘What have you been up to?’
‘Pretty disagreeable stuff actually. Phoning my mother. I’d left it to absolutely the last minute to tell her, but I don’t know why the hell I bothered.’
‘Ah, the dreaded Phoebe.’
‘Do you want me to help you up?’ She delved beneath the sheet, supporting his armpits, and gently raised him into a sitting position. She thumped the feather pillows one by one and bent him forward so she could mound them against the brass bedhead. Through his thin vest she could identify each vertebra: a row of knobs descending his spine like organ stops. He leant back against the pillows with a sigh.
‘Breakfast?’
‘Tempt me.’
‘Peach and banana frullata?’
‘I’m not really hungry yet.’
She patted his leg beneath the sheet and his lips compressed in a small grimace. ‘I thought whoever gets here first could help you change into your suit, make sure the fit’s okay.’
The white suit, collected yesterday from the cleaners’, was hanging on the wardrobe door, glinting under its layer of polythene.
‘The fit will be lousy.’
‘I think you’ll get away with it. Especially if you wear the fedora.’
‘It’s not a fedora. It’s a panama.’
‘That’s what I meant. Anyway, you’ll look classy.’
He smiled. ‘And you, dear heart, how will you look?’
She twirled, thrust forward her pelvis, let her hands rest on her hips. ‘Devastating, darling.’ Gina was not planning to wear white. She had a short, tight, black silk dress which flattered her minimal curves. She liked the idea of breaking with tradition. Weddings were so over the top these days, she craved austerity. She blew invisible dust from the panama hat and returned it to its hook. She rummaged in the chest of drawers until she found a red silk handkerchief to adorn the pocket of the white suit; the crimson rosebud for the buttonhole was still wrapped in its damp cocoon. A heavy watch and a couple of rings lay nearby: Felix hadn’t decided yet whether he would wear them, whether the watch might chafe and rattle like a manacle instead of a functional timepiece.
‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’ll make the frullata anyway. You don’t have to drink it but it’s going to be so cr
eamy and delicious you won’t be able to resist.’
‘I need to shave.’
‘We’ve plenty of time.’
A sudden surge of activity from outside: the clatter of iron shutters rising, of awnings unfurled, the screech of a television advert, the buzz of a bell.
‘Was that the door?’
Gina went out onto the terrace and hung over the railings. She had a foreshortened view of a man’s hat and a bicycle. Should she pretend it was the postman? Or no one at all.
‘Well?’ called Felix faintly.
She came back inside. ‘I think it’s the Lion King. He seems to have his bike with him.’
‘He can leave it downstairs.’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing here. We agreed not to invite him.’
‘Did we?’
‘It’s a civil ceremony. Secular guests only, we said. People who are on our side.’
‘Leone’s not our enemy.’
‘Well, I know he’s not yours.’
‘Anyway, I didn’t invite him. If you let him in I don’t suppose he’ll stay long.’
The priest wasn’t a frequent visitor, although he had been calling more often in recent weeks, as Felix became confined to the apartment. In the beginning he’d been a shadowy person Gina only heard talk of. Two years before, when Felix first took on English classes for the asylum seekers, he always went to the crypt; he never brought anyone home. By degrees she’d noticed his wardrobe emptying, the clack of the empty hangers as his clothes disappeared. She pictured his linen jackets and cashmere jumpers on the younger fitter bodies of other men, who wouldn’t take care of them – shrinking them in the wash or snagging them on nails – but she never said anything.
It was when Leone’s name began to pepper Felix’s anecdotes and observations, when there was evidence of his visits – a book on philosophy or a cake made by nuns – that she found her jealousy inexplicably mounting. Once, her return home had interrupted the two of them in passionate discourse that floundered at the sight of her into awkward silence. Leone had been wearing an open neck shirt – she could see the throb of his throat; his hand had been resting on Felix’s knee. He’d left soon afterwards – sheepishly, in Gina’s over-active imagination. Glancing into Felix’s room she was sure she could see the sheets disarranged. She hadn’t been able to keep her suspicions to herself.
‘You’re fucking him, aren’t you?’
‘For God’s sake, Eugenie, he’s a priest.’
Felix only used her full name when he was annoyed with her, but she didn’t care. ‘When did that ever stop them?’
‘There are other kinds of relationship, you know. Besides, where am I going to find the energy?’
And that was the irony. Gina wouldn’t have minded if Leone had been his sexual partner, but she was supposed to be Felix’s soulmate, his closest companion. No one else. ‘You’re not even a Catholic.’
‘Is that what’s bothering you? Don’t worry, he’s not trying to convert me. We do talk about spiritual things, it’s true, in a way you couldn’t with a lay person. But mostly we discuss what’s going to happen to those boys; there’s a constant stream and he can’t see the end of it.’
‘That doesn’t explain why he’s around so much, like he’s got a hold over you, persuading you to give all your stuff away.’
‘You’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick. Have you ever thought about why he’s stuck in that parish? Why he runs all those activities the Vatican doesn’t really approve of, however Christian they might be? Because they’re never going to advance him anyway. He blotted his copybook years ago. Like me, he wants to make his peace with God.’
She hated it when he became sanctimonious. Her Felix, long-time mentor and confidante, was refreshingly sharp and sceptical. ‘Well, I can tell he doesn’t think much of me.’
‘You are so paranoid.’
‘He thinks I’m bad for you,’ Gina complained.
‘Does anyone really give a monkey’s, at this point in time, about what’s good for me?’
She had left it at that. She didn’t want to row with him; she didn’t want him to see the shallow resentful side of her (although he knew it well enough) and Leone had continued to visit. They’d both agreed he wouldn’t fit in with the other wedding guests (or be interested in attending), yet now here he was, ringing the bell for the second time, knowing they had to be at home.
Gina crossed into the hallway and pressed the intercom. She left the front door to the apartment ajar and went over to the kitchen counter. She packed coffee grounds into the basket of an espresso pot and set it stuttering on the hob. Then she chopped peaches and bananas into the goblet of a liquidiser and added a stream of milk to the churning fruit. As the frullata foamed and settled, the visitor pushed the door shut behind him.
The Lion King was wearing a grey suit; he took off his hat, ran his hand over his balding scalp, polished his glasses. Apart from his clerical collar, his appearance was unobtrusive, discreet: a low-grade functionary, someone who had no wish to stand out. His skirts, as Felix called them, turned him into a different person altogether, a man of power and charisma, but they were inconvenient on a bicycle.
He held out a small parcel. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you so early,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought some more CDs for Felix. There’s a recent recording of Aida from La Scala and…’ When Gina didn’t take it from him, he put the packet down on top of the bookcase. ‘How is he today?’
‘Hard to tell, he’s only just woken up. Not too bad, I think.’
‘And how are you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m on top of the world, aren’t I? It’s my wedding day. Or had you forgotten?’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ He smiled, acknowledging their edgy relationship.
She couldn’t resist baiting him. ‘But you thought you’d make a last ditch appeal to my noble nature? Call a halt.’
‘The Church regards marriage as a sacrament,’ he said mildly.
Gina, suddenly aware the shirt she’d been sleeping in was ripped and stained, felt sluttish and dirty. ‘Here,’ she said, pouring a coffee and handing it to him. ‘Take this.’
He poised the cup on his palm. ‘I don’t condemn…’ he began.
She was already backing into her bedroom. ‘I need to get my dressing-gown. I won’t be a minute.’
When she returned in a pink silk wrap, brushing her hair loose from the band that had held it, he was roaming the walls – walls which had once displayed three pictures deep and a dozen across. The white spaces left behind were framed in a darker, dingier shade of emulsion.
‘See how many he’s sold off already! It’s not like I’m his only beneficiary.’ She filled a second cup and clasped it with both hands, looking down into the black swirl of the coffee. She thought about spiking it with a dose of grappa to make caffé corretto, but it was a little too early, even for her. ‘And that closet in the hallway that used to be full, you know, of Armani, Versace, whatever, is practically empty.’
Father Leone observed, ‘He’s a very generous person.’
‘Exactly! You’ve done well out of him too.’ Gina’s reflection bounced back at her from the priest’s lenses. She couldn’t make out his expression. There was no sound or movement from Felix’s room. ‘I’m not holding a gun to his head, you know. As if I cared about any of this stuff!’
‘You will acquire it, however,’ he reminded her. ‘Also the lease of the apartment.’
‘Are you blackmailing me, Father?’
He spread his hands – a common enough gesture, but unusually flamboyant for him.
Gina pressed the heel of her palm against her temple as if it were the only way to stop her head exploding. Then she said, ‘He booked his plot last week, you know.’
He looked puzzled at the change of subject. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘The same day we went to choose my ring, which I paid for myself, by the way, with my own money. It�
�s in the Protestant Cemetery, his plot I mean, along with Keats.’ She sat on the worn velvet of the chaise longue, pulling up her legs so her chin was resting on her knees. ‘Do you know what happened after his funeral?’
‘Keats’?’
‘Felix told me. Apparently he had to be buried before daybreak – that was the law for non-Catholics. Outside the city walls too. And then by the time his friend, Severn, got back to the lodgings they’d shared, the police were there. The police and his landlady. D’you know what they were doing? They were destroying everything Keats had ever touched. Bed linen, cushions, every bit of furniture. They were even scraping down the walls and taking out the windows. Because they thought consumption was contagious. They thought you could catch it by sitting on the same chair, playing the same instrument, drinking from the same glass. Severn was so angry he took his stick and smashed all the crockery to smithereens to save them the trouble.’
She sprang to her feet again, driven by her own restlessness. Her wrap billowed open in the movement; she pulled the tails of its belt together and knotted them tighter. Her fingers curled around the small pot of nail varnish that she’d dropped into one of its patch pockets. In a fit of frustration she raised her arm and flung it across the room. She was aiming at a blank patch of wall rather than Leone, but she nearly hit him all the same; her aim was lousy. There was a small tinkling sound.
The brief moment of satisfaction left her. ‘Damn!’ She foresaw the ineradicable trail of deep magenta splashed onto wall and rug. Nail varnish – what an idiotic choice. But the bottle hadn’t broken. It had caught the edge of one of the remaining pictures, splintering the glass. As Gina watched, the rest of the glass shivered and fell out of the frame which slowly dropped off its hook and onto the trunk beneath.