The Crooked Path

by Irma Joubert

  His mind knew she was gone. His heart was desolate and distraught.

  He wrote a short letter to his brother in the distant sunny land.

  Are you serious, Tonio? What are my chances of finding work? Do you think I would find my feet? And what about the language? And the Church?

  Six weeks later, at the height of summer, when the days were long and Marco could feel the strength returning to his warm body, his brother’s reply arrived:

  Yes, Marco, I am serious.

  I enquired at the local school in the bushveld town where Klara grew up. It’s not too far from Pretoria, where we live. They would love to offer Latin as a subject, and they’ll welcome you with open arms. You can also teach English. Everyone here speaks English, but I must warn you: the people of the bushveld speak an English that would make Shakespeare turn in his grave! You could definitely make a huge difference.

  Please think carefully. I know it would break Mama’s and Papa’s hearts, but you’re young. Here you won’t merely survive, you can have a good life and make a complete recovery.

  Marco thought about it long and hard, weeks on end, weighing everything.

  Early in September, shortly after the birth of Lorenzo and Gina’s baby boy, when the first cold showed its dark, cloudy face, Marco spoke to his parents and his brother.

  “No!” said Maria.

  Lorenzo put his hand over hers. “Mama, wait,” he said quietly. He turned to Marco. “Antonio and I have spoken,” he said. “The future looks promising in South Africa. There’s a strong economy even in these times.”

  “And . . . the sun shines every day,” Marco said softly.

  “G-g-go.” Giuseppe spoke the final word.

  Thus Marco Romanelli came to find himself aboard an Italian ship in the port of Genoa on a cold day at the beginning of November 1947, waving good-bye to his brother on the quay far below. Only Lorenzo was there to see him off, balancing between his crutches, waving and waving his white handkerchief.

  Maria and Giuseppe Romanelli had said their farewells at home. Alone. Because the country where Marco was going was far, too far. He would not be coming home again.

  Just as Antonio would not be returning either.

  Maria had given him a marble statuette of the Madonna and Child Giuseppe had made for her when Marco was born. “So you may remember, Marco, you will always be our firstborn,” she had said.

  The ship’s band played a rousing number.

  The horn sounded. Slowly the ship drew away from the quay. Lorenzo waved with both arms.

  The paper streamers that connected the ship with the land began to snap.

  Lorenzo’s figure diminished and vanished among a sea of waving handkerchiefs, and the city faded into the distance. As the sun set, the last Italian mountain disappeared from view.

  Marco Romanelli would not be accompanying his father to a concert at La Scala opera house after all.

  He wiped his eyes with his damp handkerchief. Then he turned and slowly made his way to his cabin in the belly of the big ship.

  part three

  INTERSECTIONS

  chapter

  SEVEN

  January 2, 1947, was Lettie’s first day as a qualified doctor at the Pretoria General Hospital. She worked long hours, just as she had during her internship, and sometimes, especially over weekends, she was thrown in at the deep end. She spent the occasional Sunday with Klara and Antonio, and she shared in their joy about the baby Klara was expecting.

  The little boy was born that winter. Lettie went to see Klara in the Moedersbond Maternity Home, next door to the General Hospital. Klara lay tucked under blankets in a pale-green bed jacket with lace frills at the neckline. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes shiny. Klara had never looked so beautiful, not even on her wedding day.

  “Family names are not an Italian tradition,” Klara said, “so we’ve decided to name our son after my father and grandfather, Cornelius.”

  “He’s awfully small to carry such a big name,” Lettie remarked, looking at the wrinkled little face in Klara’s arms. She stroked the tiny cheek with her forefinger.

  “Small or not, we’re naming him Cornelius,” Klara said firmly. “He’ll grow into the name.”

  A month later young Cornelius Johannes Romanelli was baptized in the church in Klara’s hometown. Lettie put in a weekend’s leave and drove to the bushveld for the occasion.

  The whole family was in church on Sunday: Klara’s brothers, Boelie and De Wet; their sister, Irene; and the siblings’ parents and grandparents. Annabel and her parents also attended, and Christine, with little ginger-haired Gerbrand clinging tightly to her hand.

  De Wet held the child’s other hand. When mother and child had returned from the war, De Wet erected a protective barrier around them both. His marriage to Christine marked the day Lettie finally buried her unspoken love for him. She had stood up with her childhood friends in an awful pink gown, feeling like a smiling frosted pudding.

  Klara and Antonio stood side by side at the baptismal font, Antonio with his arm around his wife’s waist. Klara’s ouma carried the baby to the font. When they sat back down after the ceremony, the baby still in Klara’s arms, Antonio leaned over and kissed his son’s small face. So Italian, Lettie thought, amused. Afrikaner men don’t kiss their sons.

  After the service, with everyone admiring the baby, Lettie couldn’t help noticing that Klara had gained quite a lot of weight during her pregnancy. If Klara has another baby, she’ll end up looking like me, Lettie thought. Yet Antonio still seemed madly in love with her.

  A big feast was waiting at the Big House on the Fouries’ farm.

  “It was a beautiful ceremony,” Lettie said, congratulating Antonio. “I’m sorry your parents couldn’t be here.”

  “De Wet took a lot of photos,” Antonio said. “As soon as he has them developed, I want to send my parents a few. They’re very proud of their first grandson.”

  The baby was sleeping peacefully in his woven basket.

  “Fortunately Antonio’s brother Lorenzo and his wife are also having a baby soon,” Klara said. “They live in Turin, not far from Antonio’s parents.”

  “My mother would have enjoyed today,” Antonio said in a subdued voice.

  “We’re planning a visit,” said Klara. “But it’s very far. Antonio will be away from his work for a long time. We can’t afford it right now.”

  “Maybe it’s better they weren’t here,” Antonio said after a while. “The ceremony wasn’t exactly . . . well, Catholic.”

  That spring Lettie began to spend more time with Klara and Antonio, especially on Sundays. She and Klara rekindled the friendship they had in their schooldays, and the years at university during which they had grown apart faded into the background. Lettie got to know Antonio and came to realize he was a wonderful man.

  “I think my brother is seriously considering coming to South Africa,” Antonio said one Sunday when Lettie joined them for lunch.

  “To the bushveld?” asked Lettie. “To our town?”

  “Yes, the climate will be good for his chest,” answered Antonio. “I spoke to the school principal when we were there for Cornelius’s baptism, and they’d be happy to offer him a job. Marco is teaching in Italy, but he’s not earning a salary.”

  “He could teach Latin and English,” said Klara. “Come along, Lettie, I think Cornelius is awake.”

  In the bedroom Lettie said, “Klara, you’ve lost a lot of weight. I didn’t notice it at first, maybe because of the bulky winter clothes. You do know you shouldn’t be dieting while you’re breastfeeding, don’t you?”

  Klara laughed. “No, no, I’m not on any special diet. And I have more than enough milk for the little man, just look at these sturdy little legs. Here, hold him while I fetch his diapers from the clothesline.”

  Lettie held the solid little body. She was used to working with babies in the hospital, but they were usually newborn, or sick. This little chap was healthy and beautiful.

 
“He’s lovely, Klara,” she said when Klara came back inside and took the baby from her. “Tell me, how did you manage it?”

  “Having such a lovely little boy?” Klara asked, surprised.

  “No, losing weight without following a special diet. Or are you just naturally slim?”

  “Oh no.” Klara smiled, deftly pinning on a dry diaper. “It’s hard work. I wasn’t happy with the way I looked after Cornelius’s birth so I decided to watch what I eat. I’ve been avoiding sugar and starch as far as possible, and I try to stay away from fatty foods.”

  “What happens when people invite you for lunch or supper, or when you go home?” Lettie asked. “My mom cooks rich food, and there are always cakes and desserts.”

  “So does my mom, especially if she wants to impress people. But I try to pick meat or vegetables that haven’t been cooked in butter. Or I pick a few tomatoes and a cucumber in the garden. Tomatoes and cucumbers aren’t fattening.”

  “And if you get hungry?” asked Lettie. She seemed to permanently crave something to eat.

  “Oh, I’m never really hungry. It’s usually just a case of wanting something to chew on. Then I’ll eat an apple, that’s all. And I exercise. I try to take a walk every day. I put Cornelius in his stroller and take a brisk walk up and down the hills. He loves it!”

  That evening Lettie spent a long time staring at the mirror in the ladies’ bathroom at the doctors’ quarters. If Klara could do it, she could too. If she ended up resembling a rabbit, at least it would be a skinny rabbit.

  The next morning Lettie took her tins of rusks and biscuits and beef biltong edged with yellow fat to work. At teatime she took everything to the tearoom. “Help yourselves, there’s plenty,” she said.

  “Goodness, Lettie,” said the doctors, “what a treat! Thanks!” They helped themselves to her mom’s delicious rusks and biscuits. They carved her dad’s fatty biltong in thick slices and dived in.

  After teatime she took what was left to the nurses’ canteen. “I have something for you,” she said cheerfully.

  “Dr. Lettie!” they cried. “Thank you, you’re a star!” And they dived in as well.

  “I’ll fetch the tins tomorrow,” she said over her shoulder. “Make sure they’re empty.”

  When the vendor rang his bell in the street, she slipped out and bought tomatoes and cucumbers and apples. And a bunch of carrots and a head of lettuce, for good measure.

  As she was working over Christmas, Lettie couldn’t go home, but at the end of the year she left the General Hospital and prepared to take over her father’s practice. She returned home in time to attend De Wet and Christine’s New Year’s Eve party on the farm.

  Her father collected her at the station and drove down the deserted main street, turning left into Voortrekker Street. To the left was the church, flanked by the old vicarage with its wide veranda. Across the street lived Oom Wessie. His front door opened virtually onto the sidewalk, and his entire backyard was taken up by an enormous vegetable garden. At the side of the road young boys were herding cattle back to the stables for the night. Tomorrow morning, when they had finished milking, they would drive the cows and calves back to the common.

  A twilight calm descended on the town as the sun set behind the tall steeple of the church.

  Lettie drew a deep breath. This was her world. She knew the bushveld air, the early-evening smells and sounds. She was glad she had decided to come back.

  Her father turned right into an untarred street and stopped behind their home. Lettie got out and opened the gate, then returned to the car, which her father pulled in and parked. She shut the gate and went up the three steps to the back door. Inside, she smelled her mom’s green bean stew.

  Over the past few months she had lost pounds and pounds, and for the first time in years—since Form II, she thought—she felt good about herself. Her friends hadn’t seen her for months. First she had worked the night shift and then in the emergency room. She’d had no free time to spend with friends.

  Her parents had been shocked by the sight of her. “Lettie, are you ill?” her dad had asked when he fetched her at the station.

  At home her mom clapped her hands together. “Child, are you eating enough?” she cried.

  Lettie laughed. “I’m fine, I just watch what I eat,” she reassured them. “I wanted to lose weight. I feel a lot more . . . attractive.”

  “You look lovely,” her mom admitted, “but don’t lose any more weight.”

  Well, I’m not sure about lovely, Lettie thought an hour later as she admired her new navy-blue dress in the mirror. She had bought it the week before and it had cost her almost all her savings, but she really wanted to look her best tonight. She wanted to lose more weight. She felt good.

  When Annabel honked at the gate just after eight after promising to pick Lettie up at seven, Lettie went out with more confidence than ever before.

  “What’s happened to you?” Annabel asked, clearly surprised. “Did you play doctor at a prison camp?”

  Lettie gave her an indulgent smile. “No, I simply decided to shake off some excess baggage,” she replied and got into the passenger seat. She turned to the back and addressed Annabel’s younger brother. “Hi, Reinier, how’s varsity?”

  When they arrived at the farm, De Wet was the first person to see her. “Lettie, you look wonderful,” he said sincerely. “What’s come over you?”

  “A hunger strike,” said Annabel, linking her arm with his. “Tell me, how’s life treating you?” And she led him away toward the barn.

  Outside the barn, the fires were burning high. Inside, there were lanterns, and hay bales to sit on. The band had not yet begun to play, and everyone was gathered around the drinks table.

  Klara and Christine came from the direction of the kitchen. “Hello!” Klara called out. “Lettie, you look . . . wow!”

  “Oh, Lettie, you look so pretty!” Christine cried, equally surprised.

  Lettie felt as if the world were unfolding in front of her. “You’re the one who inspired me, Klara,” she said, somewhat embarrassed.

  Christine took Annabel’s hand. “You look beautiful too, Annabel, as usual,” she said, “but doesn’t Lettie look good?”

  “Yes,” said Annabel. “Now we must just do something about the hair and the outfit.”

  “The dress is lovely, so elegant,” Klara protested.

  “Yes, but the color doesn’t suit her. And the dress is . . . ye-es, elegant, but better suited for a woman in her thirties.”

  Klara’s brother Boelie came in from outside. “Boelie,” Annabel called and hurried away in her flowing sea-green creation.

  “Don’t mind her,” said Klara and took Lettie’s hand.

  “I won’t.” Lettie smiled.

  “Come along,” said Klara. “I want to introduce you to Antonio’s brother Marco.”

  chapter

  EIGHT

  Marco Romanelli was tall, even taller than Antonio, with the same straight nose, thick eyebrows, and dark hair falling over his forehead. But he was painfully thin, and his face had a grayish, unhealthy pallor.

  “How do you do?” he said, extending his hand. His voice was the same deep tenor as his brother’s.

  Lettie took Marco’s outstretched hand. His clasp was firm, but his hand was skin and bones. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said in English.

  “Lettie is one of our best friends and she’s going to be your doctor,” Antonio told his brother.

  “A female doctor?” Marco said, surprised. “Ex Africa semper aliquid novi.”

  “Out of Africa always something new,” said Antonio, casting an amused glance at his brother, as if to say, I may have been away for a while, but I still know my Latin.

  “Plinius the Elder,” Lettie added.

  Both brothers turned to look at her, and she noticed their astonished expressions. Then Marco smiled and nodded. “You’re right, both of you,” he said, but his eyes remained fixed on Lettie.

  “When did you
arrive?” she asked.

  “Beginning of December,” he replied. “The heart of summer. The weather is so . . . warm here.”

  “You’re going to boil, just you wait, man from the Alps.” Klara laughed.

  “I see the meat is done,” said Antonio. “Can I dish up for you?”

  “That would be nice, thank you,” said Marco.

  As the brothers walked away, Lettie said, “Goodness, the man is thin!”

  “Awful, isn’t it?” Klara replied. “He eats the tiniest portions, as if he can’t hold down more than a few bites. And he gets so tired! The first three weeks he slept almost night and day. Since we’ve been here on the farm, he seems slightly better. But it’s the coughing that really worries me.”

  “He must have suffered damage to his lungs.” Lettie nodded. “I suppose Antonio is delighted to have his brother here.”

  “Oh yes. Antonio chose to come here, but I know he misses his fatherland and especially his family. When we picked Marco up at the station, Antonio was in tears. And Christmas . . . it was very touching. I’m really glad Marco is here.”

  “And will he be teaching?”

  “At the high school, yes. I do hope his health improves. He must get healthy and strong again. Please look after him when we go back to Pretoria.”

  “I will,” Lettie promised. “He’s officially my first patient. I’ll take good care of him.”

  On Monday Lettie went to the surgery with her father. Her rooms were ready. Her mom had made new drapes and a bedcover, and her dad had put up a brass sign that read Dr. Lettie Louw.

  She put down her brand-new doctor’s bag (a Christmas gift from her dad) and opened the curtains. It was already sweltering. The day was going to be a scorcher.

  When she turned from the window, the receptionist, Mrs. Roux, was standing in the doorway. “Your first patient has arrived,” she announced and stepped aside.

  Marco looked even taller and thinner than he had at the party. “Please come in,” she told him.