by Irma Joubert
The minute her head touched the hard pillow she was asleep.
She was woken by a movement next to her and sat up hastily. It was nearly midnight.
“He’s come out of the rigor, Doctor,” the night sister said as she removed the blankets from Marco’s bed.
“But just a little while ago he was shivering and shaking,” Antonio said anxiously.
“It’s what the fever does. His temperature will be very high now,” Lettie said. “Marco, we’re going to take your temperature, okay?”
But Marco seemed unaware of his surroundings. He was restless and wouldn’t open his mouth. “Under the arm?” the night sister asked.
Lettie nodded and stroked Marco’s hair to calm him.
“If only the fever would break tonight,” the sister said, handing Lettie the thermometer.
“He should start reacting to the penicillin after the fourth dose,” Lettie said softly. She looked at the thermometer and shook her head.
“High?” asked Antonio.
“Very. I don’t want to give him any more Disprin—his stomach . . .” She sighed. “We can wipe his face with a moist facecloth. It should bring some relief. And . . . Antonio, we must pray.”
“I’ve been praying all night,” Antonio said. “It’s all I’ve been doing—praying.”
Hot and cold spells succeeded each other the rest of the night with increasing intensity. Neither Lettie nor Antonio slept another wink. At a quarter past one Lettie gave Marco his fourth penicillin shot. “The body is fighting hard now. The fever is combating the infection, that’s why he’s having such a hard time,” Lettie explained when Marco began to shiver and they piled the blankets back on. “Nurse, please fill the hot-water bottle with boiling water again.”
“Lettie, will he make it?” Antonio asked, his eyes and voice filled with fear. “He’s so terribly ill.”
“If the fever breaks, he’ll make it,” Lettie said. “There’s nothing more we can do for him.”
“And if it doesn’t break?”
“That’s not an option,” Lettie said quietly.
At times Marco fell into a fitful sleep, just to wake with a start and struggle to sit up. “Aletta,” he said, bewildered.
“I’m here, Marco,” she said calmly. “Look, Antonio is here too.”
Marco stared at them, then sank back onto the pillows, his face a fiery red.
At other times he would wake and cough uncontrollably. They raised him to a sitting position, lifted his arms to help him breathe, rubbed his back. He gasped for air.
“Lettie?” asked Antonio, on the verge of despair.
“He’ll make it,” she said softly.
At four in the morning Marco opened his eyes. “I’m thirsty,” he said calmly.
Both Lettie and Antonio jumped to their feet. Lettie laid her hand on his forehead. “How do you feel?” she asked.
He gave her a faint smile. “Parched,” he said.
She looked up into Antonio’s dark eyes, so similar to Marco’s. “The fever has broken,” she said.
The eyes looked back at her anxiously. “It means he’ll get better?”
“Yes, Antonio, he’s going to get better,” she said. “We can give thanks.”
She poured some water from the jug and held the glass to Marco’s lips.
chapter
ELEVEN
Marco’s recovery was slow—one step forward and two steps back—but he was gradually getting stronger. “Antonio brought only one course of penicillin,” Lettie told her father on Friday evening. “I hope we won’t need a second.”
“The medication will last until Monday,” her father calculated. “No, I think a single course will do the trick.”
On Saturday afternoon Marco was feeling so much better that De Wet and Christine joined Antonio and Klara during visiting hours, and even Boelie popped in. They sat in the sterile hospital room, their banter and laughter brightening the white walls and warming the gray day outside.
Lettie perched on a hard bench at the head of Marco’s bed. He did not let go of her hand. Klara and Christine sat on the second bed, their legs swinging. Antonio, De Wet, and Boelie sat on the straight-backed hospital chairs the nurses had hastily brought in.
“The treatment here is first-class,” Marco said, smiling. “My doctor might have something to do with it.” Gently he touched her cheek.
“I’m so happy Lettie and Marco are together.” Christine sighed contentedly.
Everyone burst out laughing. Lettie felt her cheeks flush. “Christine!” she said, mortified.
“I’m serious!” Christine protested. “Here we are, the three of us together again. Only Annabel is missing.”
“You’re right,” Klara agreed, laughing. “We’re all happy, we just didn’t have the guts to say it out loud.” She turned to Boelie. “What do you hear from Annabel, Boelie?”
“She writes that it’s quite warm in London,” Boelie said, sounding distant.
“That’s not very romantic,” Klara remarked.
Her brother gave her a cool look. “No,” he said, “it isn’t.”
“The next time everyone is together again, maybe at Christmas, we should play games!” Christine said. “It’s always such fun.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lettie said.
“A very good idea,” De Wet agreed. “Remember that night during our varsity days, Lettie, when the two of us wiped the floor with your little friends over here?”
She remembered, and after all the years she suddenly realized it no longer hurt. “They never stood a chance,” she teased.
“If Lettie was on your team, I can well believe you destroyed your opponents,” Marco said.
“And I was stuck with the rest of the girls,” Boelie pretended to complain.
“Boelie, you’re looking for trouble!” Klara said. “We weren’t bad, we just didn’t get the hands.”
“Never mind,” Lettie said, “next time we’ll play Monopoly, and it’ll be every man for himself.”
“Don’t put De Wet in charge of the bank,” Boelie said, “or there’ll be all kinds of shady transactions.”
“It’s called financial strategy,” De Wet said seriously.
“If you’re going to argue before we’ve even begun to play, count me out,” Christine said.
The conversation ranged between stories about the kids, the dry winter on the farm, and Antonio’s latest project in Pretoria, interspersed with De Wet’s witticisms. When the bell rang at four to announce the end of visiting hours, everyone got up to take their leave. “We’ll come and say good-bye before we leave for Pretoria tomorrow, and Antonio will come tonight,” Klara said, stooping to kiss Marco’s cheek.
“That would be nice.” Marco smiled.
When everyone had left he said, “That was great. You have wonderful friends.”
“But now you’re exhausted, aren’t you?” Lettie asked worriedly.
“I am,” he said, closing his eyes. “Stay with me awhile, won’t you? They won’t kick you out.”
When the August winds were chasing clouds of dust over the dry scrubland and the farmers were gazing at the sky for signs of the first rain clouds, Marco turned thirty-two. “Shall I invite a few friends for supper at my parents’ home?” Lettie asked the week before. “I do know how to cook, you know.”
Marco looked at her with that familiar amused smile. “I believe you can do anything,” he said, “but I want you all to myself that night. I’ll book a table at the hotel.”
“Hmm, let me think,” she said, playing along. “The hotel serves tomato stew on Tuesday nights. It might be a bit stringy and greasy, but otherwise it could be nice, thanks, Marco.”
“No à la carte?”
“Not at our hotel, no.”
“Tomato stew sounds lovely,” he said.
On Friday afternoon she went shopping for a new dress. “I believe you and that Italian teacher with the splendid voice are a couple?” said Miss Pronk. “It’s incredible. You were such an odd, p
lump little ugly duckling. And now you’re beautiful, a true swan.”
Lettie began to laugh. “Annabel de Vos might be a swan, Miss Pronk,” she said, “but there’s not much swan in me! I think I’ll take the red one, please.”
“Child, you’re beautiful! Gorgeous!” Miss Pronk persisted. “In this deep-red frock, with your rosy cheeks and shiny hair, you’re going to take that Italian’s breath away.”
Tuesday afternoon Lettie had her hair done. “My dear, I hear you’re heading for the altar with that handsome Italian,” Ellen said. “What shall we do today? A little henna?”
Lettie laughed. She realized she was laughing a lot nowadays. “I’m not about to get married, Ellen, and I don’t want to change my hair color. Just trim the ends and set it in soft curls,” she said.
At half past seven she joined her parents in the living room. The deep-red frock fell in soft folds over the curves of her body, her hair was done in soft curls, and her complexion was glowing. Her father shook his head. “Lettie, you’re becoming more beautiful by the day.”
“I hope you have a wonderful evening, my darling,” her mom added.
Lettie smiled. “We’re going to eat stew in the hotel dining room, but I’ll be with Marco and that means it will be a perfect evening.”
Marco was tall and slim in his dark suit, his shoulders broad under the tailored jacket. He stopped in the doorway and looked at her. “You look wonderful, Aletta,” he said.
“And you,” she replied, “are unfairly handsome, Marco Romanelli. Congratulations on your birthday. I hope—”
His laugh began deep in his belly. He folded her in his arms and held her close. “Aletta, there’s no one like you,” he said and kissed her lips.
She was laughing too. “Your mouth is red,” she said, “and you’ve smeared my lipstick. But it was a lovely birthday kiss!”
He held her even closer. “Now everyone can see you belong to me,” he said. “Thanks for my kiss.”
“Come in, we have gifts for you.” She took his hand and led him into the living room.
“You really didn’t have to,” he protested.
Her parents came in to offer their congratulations. “Open Lettie’s gift first,” her father said.
“Okay,” Marco said, somewhat hesitantly.
“Behind you. On the table, under the sheet,” Lettie instructed, smiling.
Marco turned and slowly lifted the sheet to reveal a gleaming, brand-new gramophone.
He put out his hand and stroked the dark wood. Then he looked at Lettie, his eyes almost defenseless. “How deeply you understand me, Aletta,” he said, opening his arms.
She walked into his embrace. “Open it,” she said.
He raised the lid of the wooden cabinet, smiled, and shook his head. “A gramophone,” he said, amazed. “Music in my room.”
“Let’s find out if the sound is satisfactory,” her dad said, handing him a parcel that clearly contained a record.
Marco shook his head again. “You’re so good to me. Thank you,” he said simply. He tore off the wrapping paper and nodded. “I should have known, Doctor,” he said, shaking her father’s hand. He turned to Lettie’s mom and kissed both her cheeks.
“The gramophone is plugged in, you can try it out,” Lettie’s dad said, clearly excited by the prospect.
Carefully Marco put the record on the turntable and lowered the needle. From the dark wooden cabinet came the clear voices of Amelita Galli-Curci and Tito Schipa in a duet from La Traviata. “Recorded at La Scala,” Lettie’s father said proudly.
“The sound . . . listen to the quality, it’s incredible,” Marco said in a near whisper.
They listened in silence. Marco put his arm around Lettie again and drew her to him. “Aletta,” he said softly, overcome by emotion.
When the music died down, Marco returned the record to its sleeve. “Thank you very much, Doctor, Isabella—this is really special,” he said.
“Well, the two of you must get going, or you’ll be late for your dinner,” Lettie’s mom said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
When they arrived at the hotel, Marco took Lettie’s elbow and steered her up the steps and across the wide veranda with the wicker chairs. Instead of turning left to the dining room, he led her up the wooden staircase to the top floor. “Where are we going?” she asked uncertainly.
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to seduce you,” he said, laughter in his voice.
I’m afraid I’d be easy pickings for the handsome Italian by my side, she thought, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
Marco opened the door to one of the rooms. Lettie stopped in the doorway.
The curtains were drawn and there were candles everywhere. In the middle of the room a table had been set with a snow-white tablecloth, gleaming silverware, sparkling wineglasses, and a centerpiece of white daisies, red candles, and green cat’s-tail. “Marco?” she said, surprised.
He smiled and pointed at two easy chairs in the corner where there was a small table with two glasses of dark-red sherry. “Shall we enjoy an aperitif?” he asked, his eyes dancing.
“Marco, you’re unbelievable,” she exclaimed, smiling back at him. “It’s lovely, thank you.”
“I would have liked a little mood music, but the facilities are limited,” he said. “Now that I have my own gramophone, however . . . Lettie, it’s a very generous gift and such good quality, it must have cost you a fortune. I hope you didn’t use all your car savings?”
“There’s enough left for my little Volkswagen,” she said proudly.
“Then you earn a lot more than I do,” he said, laughing. “I can’t tell you in words how happy I am about my music.”
There was a knock on the door and a waiter entered, pushing a trolley. Marco pulled out her chair and opened a bottle of red wine. “Are the two of us going to finish the bottle?” she asked, laughing.
“I only have a birthday once a year,” he said, filling her glass to the halfway mark.
He lifted the lids of the serving dishes.
“It’s not tomato stew,” Lettie said slowly. “It’s . . . Italian food?”
He nodded. “May I dish up for you?” Deftly he transferred the pasta to her plate.
She watched him in silence: the thin, dark face with the straight nose and the mouth with the ready smile, the thick, glossy hair, neatly combed back, but already escaping to fall over his forehead, the slim hands with the long fingers spooning pasta strings onto her plate. She didn’t have to see his eyes to know exactly what they looked like: dark, sensitive, intense at times, at other times full of fun.
Her gaze took in the flowers, the candles, the greenery on the table—the colors of the Italian flag, it dawned on her. How could it be that this incredible man had fallen in love with plain Lettie Louw?
She took the first mouthful and lowered her knife and fork. “Marco, who made this food?” she asked, tilting her head sideways.
“Why? Is something wrong?” he asked anxiously.
“It’s delicious! No one here can cook like this!”
He smiled faintly. “I’m glad. I made it, Aletta, here in the hotel kitchen.”
“You?” she asked, surprised. “I didn’t know you could cook like this! When did you make all this lovely food?”
“Last night, and this afternoon. The pasta is homemade. I made it myself, Sunday morning.”
She took another mouthful. “It’s very different from the macaroni we buy at the store,” she said appreciatively. “I’m afraid you’re a much better cook than I am.”
“I can’t make lamb and roast potatoes like your mom,” he warned her, his dark eyes dancing with mirth.
“You cook like your mom, I cook like mine. How does that sound?”
He looked at her, suddenly serious. “I love you, Aletta,” he said.
It was the first time he had said the words. She felt each word, she felt a reaction start deep inside her. I am experiencing the deepest happiness a woman can
know, she thought.
“I love you too, Marco,” she said.
“Did you enjoy last night?” her mother asked the next morning at breakfast.
“It was lovely, thanks, Mommy,” Lettie replied.
Words would always fall short.
Saturdays were never busy, so Lettie went to the surgery on her own. Her father was gradually turning over his patients to her. Only a handful of grumpy old-timers and stiff-necked middle-aged gentlemen refused to be tended to by Lettie. “Don’t take exception, my girl,” said Oom Kallie from the other side of the mountain, “but it’s not decent for an old man to see a female doctor. The nurses in the hospital are bad enough.”
She filed away the last patient charts, locked the door of the surgery, and walked to her car.
He was waiting for her. He had parked his Fiat in the shade of the jacaranda tree behind the surgery, next to her father’s big old Hudson. When he saw her, he got out of the car and came over to meet her. He bent down to kiss her and took her doctor’s bag. “Hello, Lettie,” he said cheerfully. “What are we doing this afternoon?”
She laughed. “I have no idea. What do you have in mind?”
On Saturday afternoons in the past she used to wash her hair and . . . well, spend the afternoon reading, or something.
But now there was someone who wanted to spend his Saturday afternoons with her.
“Let’s head out to the reservoir and go for a walk in the veld. We can watch the sun go down.”
“Let me take my dad’s car home first, and I’ll pack a basket with sandwiches and fruit,” she said.
“Sounds good. And change into something you can walk in.”
She laughed again. Laughter came so easily when she was with him. Her entire being was filled with laughter. “Yes, this gray skirt and white blouse certainly won’t do.”
He smiled. “You’re lovely,” he said, closing the car door.
You’re lovely you’re lovely you’re lovely, the wheels sang on the tarmac all the way home.
You’re lovely you’re lovely, her hands sang as she made the sandwiches.
You’re lovely, her heart sang as she changed her outfit.