Last Train from Liguria

by Christine Dwyer Hickey

  That Führer – a certifiable nutter with too many puppets in his dangerous charge. The minute his nose sticks over the Alps, you get yourself home, girl. Hope all well with you, the boy, and that you're not causing too much havoc whizzing about Liguria in your little topolino. Come home or come visit – your affectionate father – The Old Goat.

  Finally there is a postcard from Edward, a few illegible words, like a written mumble, sent from somewhere outside Linz and looking as if he'd been carrying it around in his pocket for weeks.

  *

  September and the Almansi sisters arrive, taking Alec over and leaving Bella with little to do apart from bring him to and from the beach club attached to their hotel. In between she helps Cesare in the garden, and as the Signora has made it quite clear there is no longer any need to be 'always disturbing me with domestic banalities' Bella has taken on the role of private secretary and occasional housekeeper of the Bordighera branch of the Lami/Tassi family.

  Four mornings a week, she gives English lessons to Rosa and Elida, helping them with the housework to free up their time. At first Elida is horrified at the thought of Bella's hands getting dirty, but as her English improves and she begins to enjoy herself more, she gets over this. Both women prove themselves as pupils, as well as companions, giving Bella a sense of camaraderie she hasn't felt since childhood – not that, as she has to admit to herself, she'd ever really felt it then.

  The summer season drags bravely on, way after there is any need for it, like an orchestra playing to an empty hall. Finally it falls away altogether. Bella loves the lull at this time of the year when Bordighera, left to its locals, long-term foreign residents, invalids and the elderly, becomes less the smart Riviera resort and more of an open-air nursing home. The air is lighter, the nights cooler, it's possible to walk a straight line on the passeggiata and pavements, or to get served at a café table without having to listen to a tourist quibble over a menu or bill. Or, as she has only recently come to appreciate, to drive on a Sunday without being stuck in a jam. Shopkeepers and tradesmen, relying on custom that is more difficult to woo, come back to their attentive selves. Standards rise, prices come down. All in all, Bella feels, an ideal time of the year to prepare Alec Lami to go out to the world.

  And besides it might take her mind off Edward.

  A few days after he is due back and no sign or word, she is beginning to doubt his return. Why should he, after all? Her father had been right – there was nothing for him here. A few piano lessons each week to a child who isn't all that interested in learning it. The company of herself, Rosa and Elida! A waste of time, never mind of a life. She used to believe he only stayed because of the Signora, that they had been lovers all along, or at least that he had been in love with her, and living in hope all these years. She had been encouraged to think this way by the jealous Amelia. Bella feels now that this had to be nonsense.

  He is still young – for a man. Easy to get along with, if a little distant. Talented. Attractive to women – certainly the American cousins had thought so. And the Signora often boasted about his impeccable reference. He could make a go of it anywhere. If Edward had any sense, he would have taken his holiday money and skipped it.

  One day she breaks into his room. Even while she is doing it she is deeply ashamed – although not enough to make herself stop.

  The way it happens: she has just put the car in the garage after leaving Alec at the beach club and although not in any way aware of having a plan, she must have done. Because when she walks up that iron staircase at the side of the garage she has a screwdriver in her hand and when she reaches the door, without hesitation unscrews the bolt at the hinges.

  Her first time inside. For all the countless occasions she has made her way down the garden path for Edward's benefit – a telephone message from the Signora; a reminder that a meal is ready after he's lost all sense of time. Maybe to bring something delivered by a shop in town: music scores he's ordered, a gramophone record, a coat that has needed altering. He has always come clattering down the stairs before she's had a chance to put so much as a foot on them. It's as if he's been on constant watchout. Not that she's ever really expected to be asked in. It's just that he's always seemed so determined to keep her out.

  She wonders now if anyone has ever been inside. Alec's lessons take place at a beautiful grand piano in the Signora's sitting room in the villa, where Edward also goes to read his newspapers and books – so long as the Signora is away. And Elida happened to mention one day that Edward prefers to clean the mews himself, coming down to the linen room once a week to exchange dirty linen for clean. She has often noticed Cesare in the evenings sitting on the steps with Edward, enjoying a quiet chat and a cigarette, while a bonfire smoulders nearby, but has no idea if even Cesare has ever been over the threshold.

  The mews has one room, as well as a small bathroom; toilet, basin and hipbath and a mirror hardly big enough to hold an entire face. The main room is large and quite dark, so for a moment it seems as if the shutters are closed. It turns out to be the trees outside sopping up most of the light. A day bed against the wall. A feeble-looking card table beside it; a torch, a box of matches and an ashtray on top. An upright piano and a stool at the window overlooking the garden. There is a small wardrobe nudged to one corner. A shelf, made from a bare plank of wood and two brackets, holds a primus stove, one tin cup, one small teapot and a packet of Lipton's tea with a spoon sticking out of it. A light bulb in the centre of the ceiling with no shade. And that's it – apart from a small tin box holding shoe polishes and brushes.

  She is struck by how little of himself there is in that room. Except for a few scribbled notes on the margins of music manuscripts, there is no evidence of anyone living there. Not that the mews is unkempt, but clean and neat as a prison cell. Bella is certain the Signora would have told him to take his pick from all the spare furniture in the house. Evidently he chose not to. There are no photographs, no keepsakes; not even a calendar on the wall. No past, no future – as if Edward had only been someone passing through, and in any case, had already died.

  Afterwards she sits at the garden table for a while, where three years before she had sat with the American cousins listening to him play the piano. She tries to picture Edward but can't find a face or even imagine a voice. The only thing she can find is a back view caught from an upstairs window of the villa on a winter's evening that turned suddenly cold. Almost dark, it had started to rain. That peculiar Ligurian winter rain: large isolated drops for a long time, then a sudden collapse into a savage downpour. Edward walking down the path to his mews. His walk, brisk yet somehow unhurried, as if he hasn't noticed the rain, or just hasn't cared about it. Hair a little long and curled at the back like a child's. Hands in pockets, elbows sharp and determined, arms thin in shirtsleeves that the rain is beginning to stain.

  *

  A uniform is ordered for San Giorgio's and, after several fittings and a lot of paperwork, is finally delivered. Brown shoes, navy trousers and a very British blazer complete with a crest of San Giorgio and his dragon. A satchel and a school cap complete the look, making Alec every inch the English schoolboy, although he will have to wait another few weeks before he can play that role.

  Meanwhile Bella has his photograph taken and three copies made, one for the house, one for herself and one which she sends to his mother. She wonders where it will end up – in Signor Tassi's house in Naples, or in the gallery of photographs so lovingly created by Alec's father? She wonders if that gallery still exists.

  There is little or no wait for confirmation of his entry to the Balilla. The application for his membership is jumped at by a fawning regional comandante who declares it an honour to have a member of the Lami family in their legion. Another uniform – black shirt, black cap, grey shorts, grey socks, black shoes, a neckerchief the colour of azure and a perky little fez for his head. Another photograph and all that remains is for Alec to learn his oath and then take it. It's the usual guff about believing
in Rome the eternal, the mother of his country. He also has to swear by the genius of Mussolini and the resurrection of the Empire. Alec loves his oath, despite his struggle to learn it, and Bella is glad Edward is not here to sneer at it.

  Finally a membership card is issued in his name, signed by the Comandante Generale di Provincia, and Alessandro P. Lami is now part of the regime.

  His first Balilla meeting. Bella decides they should walk rather than drive. He's been fidgety and overexcited all morning and the exercise might work it out of his system.

  There will be singing and games, she reassures him – just as Rosa has earlier reassured her – marching practice and manoeuvres. Naturally, there will also be a spuntino break or two, for sweet treats and drinks.

  Alec speculates all the way to via San Antonio on who or what he will find there, pausing at shop windows to tenderly press his neckerchief to his chest or give a cautious twist to the woggle that holds it in place, or to pat his fez without actually touching it. Each time he lets it be known, in a roundabout way, that he is thinking of and missing someone in particular.

  Outside the window of Marco's shop: 'Elida says Maestro Edward will be home soon with holes in his shoes from all the walking – isn't that funny!'

  When they reach the huge vetrino of Caffè dello Sport: 'Where do you think Mamma is, now this very minute? I bet she's on a train. I bet that's where she is, with Nollie. I bet that's who's with her. Nollie.'

  They come to Gibelli's, where his reflection hovers over the schoolbook display. 'Do they have the same uniform for every Balillain Italy? I wonder that, I do. Would they have the same one even in Torino – say for the boys who go to the school of the Almansi sisters?'

  At the music shop he says nothing, but stays blinking into the glass for a while. When he turns round his eyes are moist. He has been thinking about his father, Bella is certain.

  She leaves him at the door in the care of his section leader, a fat boy of about fourteen, who greets them with a Roman salute and a rattled-off fascist rhyme.

  She only seems to be home a few minutes when Elida comes croaking up the stairs. Bella arrives down to a sobbing Alec in the hall, the comandante with a hand on his shoulder, trying to quieten him down. The chubby section leader – who turns out to be the comandante's nephew – is on the other side of him, looking decidedly ashamed – whether of himself or of Alec, Bella can't be certain. They can only tell her that during manoeuvres Alec had some sort of a crisi and had become more and more hysterical, leaving the section leader no option but to send for the comandante to take him home in his car.

  The comandante is obviously embarrassed and in a hurry to get this scene over with. His hands appear to be juggling the words as they come rushing out of his mouth. Bella has to strain very hard to translate what he is saying, but for the fact that he repeats himself so often, she may have missed the half of it.

  Nothing happened. But nothing! He repeatedly insists. Nobody touched or said the smallest thing to upset that boy. It was something inside the child himself, something that erupted quite suddenly. Out of nowhere. Without warning. Maybe he isn't ready for the Balilla. Maybe that's it. Perhaps another time, a few years on – when he's older and has more sense. Although he is nine years old. And if by now…?

  Of course he's not expelled. For God's love, of course not! A son of the Lami family – does she think they are crazy? But at the same time. For the boy's own sake. Perhaps? A doctor's certificate will excuse him from further duties. He can of course remain as a member. But in name only. They will certainly not be taking his card from him. The card is the best thing of all – it is evidence that he loves his country and his Duce. And it entitles him to free ice cream on a national holiday. Free ice cream, imagine that! Also free train travel at certain times; invitations to a little festa now and then. Well, maybe not every festa, but…?

  Here he draws Bella aside and his speech at last begins to slow down. No hard feelings, eh? But the Balilla can't have that sort of unbecoming behaviour out on the field. If it were up to him of course – but it isn't. 'Si tratta di morale, d'onore.' It's a question of morale, of honour, he concludes, delivering this last bit out the side of his mouth.

  Bella thanks and assures him that she understands everything. She will inform the Signora of the situation immediately. By now Alec's sobs have sharpened into wheezes and she takes him upstairs to put him to bed before calling the doctor. She can hear Elida below in the hall, showing the comandante and his nephew to the door. Elida's voice is stretched to its limits with temper – meaning she'll probably be dumb for the next few days. How dare they show such disrespect to the Lami family? Who do they think they are? If they've forgotten, she could remind them – jumped-up peasants who can barely read or write. 'You and your pig-faced nephew,' she squawks. 'Get him out of here. Fascist feccia – that's all you are. Think you can rule by castor oil and the bullying of little boys.' One final 'Bastardi!' accompanies the slam of the door.

  Bella wraps the uniform in tissue, takes the woggle and puts it in a drawer for a keepsake, also the membership card, just in case it is ever needed. Everything else she gives to Rosa, who might pass it on to someone in need. The Balilla is never discussed again, not even behind Alec's back.

  *

  Edward finally returns from his holiday almost a fortnight late, and looking decidedly peaky, Bella has to remark, for someone who's been hiking around all those weeks, in the fresh mountain air.

  'Ask no questions…' he sheepishly replies, and Bella guesses he's had one of his slips. She leaves him alone to come back to himself.

  She has only ever seen him drunk once. That was the year she had arrived in Bordighera and long before they became friends. Rosa's husband had been dying and Bella had gone to the old town to bring supper for the family and pay her respects. She had been slightly wary about intruding, but Elida had assured her that a visit at this time would be not only welcome, but probably expected. 'Don't stay long, and recognize the moment to leave,' had been her advice.

  Rosa's apartment was on the top floor of a house off the piazza della Fontana into which several other apartments had been similarly squeezed. The husband, bedridden for years, was a hugely overweight man, who seemed to be bouldered to the bed by the weight of his own flesh. Even while he still breathed, neighbours from the other apartments had been out on the landings arguing about how they would get him down four flights of stairs, never mind into a coffin.

  'We'll have to wait till the flesh rots,' a woman with a bald head had finally declared, 'or else we'll have to knock the wall down.'

  When Rosa heard this she had been so upset she screamed at them all to leave. She would do the Vigilia della Morte alone with her sons. At least they loved their father. Fat as he was. Better no prayers to accompany him to heaven than the prayers of stone-hearts and hypocrites. But the eldest son who worked for the ministry wouldn't be home on leave until morning; the second son was away in the army; the middle boy in bed with a fever. That had left only two little boys for company. Bella had not been able to leave her.

  The embalmers' arrival had been perfectly timed, a few minutes after the doctor, and a few more before the priest. Two old nuns; one of them such a tiny creature that she had to climb onto a stool and kneel on the bed to reach the corpse, lifting the fleshy cowls of his chins to get at his neck with her sponge. The taller nun had set about replacing taper candles that were almost spent. Hot wax dripping on a heavily scarred hand that never seemed to flinch. She then went about the room turning pictures to the wall: Mussolini, Queen Margherita, others from the House of Savoy, and a few family portraits featuring Rosa's husband in slimmer times.

  By now the two boys had fallen fast asleep, the bigger one, about ten years old, seated on a stool by the end of the death bed, slumped over, face mashed into the counterpane. The smaller one sleeping soundly in the rocking embrace of his sobbing mother. It had given the impression of the Pietà – as if it had been the son, and not the father, who
had just died. Bella had recognized the moment to leave.

  On the way downstairs she saw the priest shuffling upwards, pausing outside the door of each apartment, raising a weak hand and a weary voice in benediction, then, as they squeezed past each other on the narrow stairwell, pausing to bless her.

  Bella stayed at the hall door for a time, looking out. The air was heavy and dark. She dreaded the walk home; through the carruggi, those high-vaulted tunnels that ran like narrow indoor streets through the town and where, even in the broadest daylight, it was dark, and even in the rainless weeks of high summer there was a smell of must, death and dirty linen.

  She was considering waiting for the priest to come back down the stairs, maybe offer to go with him as far as the road – an old man might be glad of the company at that time of night, someone to carry his bag, take his elbow across the uneven cobbles. Then a door slammed at the top of the house and she felt herself jump from the inside out. Looking up, there was the priest again, this time ploughing down all the flights of stairs, banging on doors, kicking some of them, shouting and snarling as he went on his way, telling the neighbours they would burn in hell for the lack of respect they had shown to Rosa's dying husband, ordering them out of bed, up those stairs and onto their knees, to beg forgiveness from God and from Rosa. Bella slipped out the front door and into the short alleyway that led back to the piazza.

  A wobble of light across the cobblestones. It ricocheted off the crumbling walls, tipped off a window, grazed on a rooftop then collapsed back to the ground. There were sounds too: metal, glass, the shift of a footstep. She decided to ignore the unreliable sway of light but to follow instead the sounds, which led her to the fountain and the milk boy already at work.

  A torch in one hand, a huge enamel jug in the other, he was clumsily filling bottles, jars and billycans – whatever receptacles had been left out by local families to stay cool beneath the lip of the fountain. The boy, muttering a gleeful rosary, had obviously seen the priest in his vestments heading for Rosa's.