The Crooked Path

by Irma Joubert

  Lettie sat quietly in the backseat. Italy. After all these years.

  She had the money. Isabella and Albert had taken over her medical practice. She no longer had any excuse for not going.

  Maybe she’d been afraid all these years: afraid of meeting Marco’s parents, afraid of seeing their pain. Because they had lost a child, and it was a pain that never went away.

  But his parents were gone, both of them.

  Maybe she’d been afraid that the village Marco had always described, the village in the foothills of the mountain, would open up her own wounds.

  But the wounds had healed a long time ago. There was no longer even a scar.

  “I think I’d like to, thanks,” she said slowly. “When are you planning to go?”

  “We haven’t really decided,” Antonio said. “Definitely in the European summer, for a few weeks.”

  “And what are you planning to do?”

  “Tour Italy,” Klara replied. “There are a number of places I still want to see. And of course we’ll visit Lorenzo, probably go to their mountain villa. It’s a lovely time of year in the village. It’s beautiful there.”

  Lettie smiled.

  “I can show you where Marco and I lived, where we went to school,” Antonio said, “and we can visit the university in Turin. Okay, here we are. Please help me keep De Wet’s dogs from jumping up on my car!”

  At lunch their intended tour was mentioned again. “Gosh, it sounds lovely.” Pérsomi smiled. “There are so many places one learns of at school—I remember our teacher telling us about the hills around Rome where a she-wolf raised Romulus and Remus. The pictures of the Tower of Pisa, Hannibal crossing the Alps with his elephants . . .”

  “I saw Rome when it was flattened by bombs, at the end of 1945,” De Wet remembered. “It was when I went to look for Antonio. It was terrible, the destruction of centuries-old cathedrals and castles.”

  “I wish you could see it now, De Wet,” Klara said. “The Italians have rebuilt everything.”

  “Why don’t you all come?” Antonio asked suddenly. “The six of us. We can put our heads together and work out an itinerary that suits everyone.”

  There was silence around the table while they looked at each other. “How long do you plan on staying?” De Wet asked.

  “A month, three weeks. We haven’t really decided yet,” Klara replied.

  “I haven’t retired like the rest of you. I won’t be able to go for a month,” Pérsomi protested.

  “Your problem,” Boelie said drily. “If I can leave the farm in Nelius’s hands, surely you can leave your firm in the hands of Lettie’s son-in-law for a week or three?”

  “Yes, well, I suppose Danie could manage,” Pérsomi said thoughtfully.

  “And he’s got that new lawyer—Bertrien or something, doesn’t he?” De Wet added.

  “Bertrien de Goede,” Pérsomi said. “She’s very new. And very young.”

  “As you once were,” De Wet said. “She’s plenty capable. She just needs confidence.”

  “Do you feel like coming, De Wet?” Klara asked.

  “Yes,” De Wet said after a while. “Yes, I think I’d like to go.”

  “You’ve just radically improved your own record for quick decision making,” Boelie remarked.

  The women cleared the table and made more coffee. At four, still sitting at the table and making their plans, they cut the milk tart Pérsomi had made and ate it.

  When Lettie phoned her daughters that evening, they were equally excited about the idea. “It’s just so expensive!” she said to Isabella.

  “Ma! You have plenty of money. For goodness’ sake, use some of it!” Isabella dismissed her qualms.

  “I’m so glad you’re going to do something for yourself,” Leonora said sincerely. “All your life you’ve sacrificed everything for us. Now it’s your turn.”

  That night Lettie lay in bed a long time, sleep hovering at the door. I’m going to Italy, she thought. I’m going to take a tour of Italy, with my friends.

  Inside her was an excitement such as she hadn’t known for years. She felt young again, she thought, amazed. Young and carefree and adventurous. And almost absurdly excited.

  part five

  Destinations

  chapter

  EIGHTEEN

  On this hot summer morning, the streets of Rome were teeming with people and bicycles and buses and honking cars. Furious taxi drivers shouted at motorists, cyclists rang their bells, and buses pushed their way over to the sidewalks, then simply swung back into traffic, cutting off approaching cars.

  “Heavens, are there no traffic rules here?” Boelie asked.

  Antonio laughed. “That’s why we’re chiefly going to be walking or making use of trains,” he said. “Even taking a bus is nerve-racking.”

  Pérsomi was walking at Lettie’s side, her beautiful face filled with awe, her tall figure elegantly clad in light slacks and a cool blouse.

  Ahead of them walked Klara and De Wet, talking animatedly. Klara was wearing a bright-blue summer frock, comfy sandals, and a wide-brimmed hat. The three of them all had splurged on a new wardrobe for the trip. Every so often you could hear her laugh at one of De Wet’s remarks. “De Wet is in top form,” Pérsomi said to Lettie.

  She was glad she had taken regular walks over the past two months. Despite the jet lag, she felt fit and young and raring to go after a quick shower at their hotel that morning.

  Klara and De Wet stopped to study the buildings across the street.

  Lettie looked as well. A centuries-old building of gray granite blocks was squeezed between two modern structures—one of dark-green glass and steel, the other ornately decorated, the worn plaster covered with a pink base coat, the balcony railings painted electric blue.

  “Those three are really mismatched,” Klara said.

  “Like three disgruntled women who ended up together in a queue,” Pérsomi said.

  “We’ll never get to the Colosseum if you stand and stare at every building,” Boelie called impatiently from up front. “Are you coming?”

  “We’re on vacation, Boelie. You’re not going to hurry us along,” Klara said firmly.

  “Maybe we could walk a little faster,” Lettie said quickly. Because when Boelie and Klara crossed swords . . . “Antonio says the Colosseum is still blocks away.”

  “I hear Rome is known as the world’s biggest open-air museum,” De Wet said when Lettie caught up.

  “I tried to read up on all the places we’re going to visit,” Pérsomi said, “but there’s just too much information.”

  At last the Colosseum loomed in front of them—the largest amphitheater ever built, constructed at the time of the Roman Empire and dating from the first century. “It’s seen as one of the greatest examples of Roman architecture and engineering skill,” Antonio explained.

  “It’s not exactly in good nick,” Boelie said. “Their engineers might not have been so skillful after all.”

  “Boelie! It’s two thousand years old!” Klara said. “Besides, it was mostly damaged by earthquakes.”

  “In another two thousand years it won’t be here anymore,” Boelie predicted.

  “There’s a Latin expression we learned at school,” Antonio said. “Quamdiu stat Colisæus, stat et Roma; quando cadet Colisæus, cadet et Roma; quando cadet Roma, cadet et mundus.”

  “What does it mean?” Klara asked.

  “As long as the Colossus stands, so shall Rome; when the Colossus falls, Rome shall fall; when Rome falls, so falls the world.”

  “I think Rome and the world are safe for now,” De Wet said.

  “What I find most interesting,” Antonio said, “is that the large audiences that flocked to the Colosseum created a need for people to be able to leave the stadium hastily. The solution was much the same back then as the one architects employ today. There are eighty numbered exits. Only two of the original numbers are still visible, 23 and 54.”

  “Yes, look!” said Pérsomi, poi
nting. “You can still see it over there: XXIII. Real Roman numerals!”

  “The past is merging with the present,” Lettie said, amazed.

  “The last time I was here,” said De Wet, “I stood looking at these gigantic structures and I tried to imagine the cheering crowds, almost like when the Springboks and the British Lions square off at Loftus.”

  “I don’t know about springboks,” Lettie said, smiling, “but I know there were more than just a few lions in this arena.”

  After climbing to the top, they had coffee, then walked down the Via Sacra, the oldest street in Rome. They passed under the Triumphal Arch of Constantine, and Antonio explained that it was the way taken by the emperors when they entered the city in triumph. He explained the meaning of the friezes around the arch and told them the story of Constantine’s victory over Maxentius. He pointed at the stone and marble work and said the arch had served as the finish line for the marathon event at the 1960 Summer Olympics. Antonio was in his element. This was his heartland, and old buildings were his passion.

  They ate large slices of pizza at one of the many sidewalk cafés. They sank their teeth into the soft topping, they tugged at the tough crust, and long threads of cheese dangled down their chins. “It’s quite hard to eat this with decorum,” Boelie said as he wound a string of cheese back around his pizza slice.

  “You won’t find pap en wors in Italy.” Antonio smiled.

  “No, no, I like the pizza. It’s just strange,” Boelie said.

  That afternoon they visited the Pantheon, the temple commissioned by Marcus Agrippa for the ancient Roman gods. They examined the colossal granite columns, listened to Antonio’s explanation of how the concrete dome with its central opening to the sky was built. After almost two thousand years, he told them, it was still the world’s largest unreinforced concrete dome. “Now that’s what I call engineering skill,” Boelie said.

  “It reminds me of the Voortrekker Monument,” De Wet remarked. “It also has a domed roof with an opening. And a marble floor, and even the arch motifs over the entrances.”

  “Yes, Moerdyk was strongly influenced by Italian architecture,” Antonio said. “I helped build the church in our town many years ago. I think the main reason I was hired was because I’m Italian,” he said, laughing.

  “What are we doing tonight?” De Wet asked as they were walking back to their hotel.

  “Dinner and bed,” Klara answered firmly.

  “I vote for an early night as well,” Lettie said.

  “Us too!” Boelie said. “Pérs and I couldn’t sleep a wink in those cramped plane seats.”

  “I was too excited to sleep anyway,” Pérsomi confessed.

  “For goodness’ sake, you’re behaving like a bunch of senior citizens,” said De Wet.

  “Easy for you to talk,” Lettie said. “Your arms and legs were all over the place on the trip over. I had to perch in a corner of my seat like a finch all night.”

  “You could have woken me,” De Wet said.

  “What do you mean?” Klara said, laughing. “She tried, but you just carried on snoring!”

  “I don’t snore!” De Wet protested. “Lettie, do I snore?”

  The others burst out laughing. “De Wet, is there something we should know?” Antonio asked.

  “Come on, no, I mean . . .”

  But the laughter and banter didn’t stop. It wasn’t often that De Wet was caught on the wrong foot.

  “Did you ever see the movie Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck?” Antonio asked the next morning at breakfast.

  “Yes, sometime around 1953 or ’54,” Lettie replied. It was one of the last movies she had seen with Marco. They had traveled to the neighboring town because Marco wanted to see it so badly. On their way back, he couldn’t stop talking, not about the storyline or the acting, but about the places where the scenes had been filmed. “One day I’m going to show you all those places, Lettie. That’s a promise,” he had said.

  “We’re going to see many of the well-known landmarks in that movie,” Antonio said. “Including the Trevi Fountain. And if we have enough time, the Spanish Steps as well.”

  It’s still so unreal that I’m actually here, Lettie thought as she followed the others. This morning she was wearing a silky summer dress and her new sunglasses. Those were a novelty too. “Now that you’re wearing contact lenses, you should buy some stylish dark glasses,” Leonora had said. “You look lovely in this pair, very mod. Go ahead, Ma, buy them.”

  “You girls are bankrupting me!” Lettie had said before giving in.

  Rome was bustling, with cars and buses rushing past. Street vendors kept trying to fob off cheap mementoes, and the air was filled with the smell of freshly baked focaccias and biscotti and the garlic-and-onion aroma of cannelloni and ravioli sauces.

  “Everything smells so delicious,” Lettie said as she fell into step beside Antonio. “I’m really pleased I came along.”

  “Then I’m happy too,” Antonio said. “I wanted to show it to you.”

  The Trevi Fountain was built at the junction of three roads. According to legend, around the time of Christ, the Romans discovered a source of fresh water with the help of a maiden.

  “The scene is depicted on the facade of the fountain,” Antonio explained. “This water was diverted to the Baths of Agrippa in ancient times and for more than four hundred years provided Rome with water. Invaders later destroyed the aqueducts, but during the Renaissance, the Roman custom of building a beautiful fountain at the end of an aqueduct was revived, and the Trevi Fountain in its present form was built.”

  “Engineering skills again,” Boelie said.

  “Maybe the waterworks, yes, but the beautiful fountain was definitely not designed by engineers,” Antonio retorted.

  They studied the finely chiseled white marble figures among the rough rocks. “The last time I was here I remember thinking this was probably what the friezes on the Voortrekker Monument would look like,” De Wet remembered.

  “If you throw a coin in the fountain, you’ll be sure to return to Rome,” Klara said. “Believe me, it works. Antonio and I always throw in our coins and we always come back. De Wet, did you throw money into the fountain the last time you were here?”

  He gave a lopsided smile. “I did,” he admitted. “Three coins.”

  “See, it works!” Klara said triumphantly.

  “Then I’ll put in three coins as well,” Lettie said and scattered her coins in the water. “I hope I get three return trips to Rome in exchange!”

  “That’s what you think!” Antonio said with a knowing smile.

  “Oh! Well, what does it mean then?” Lettie asked.

  “Wait and see,” Antonio said enigmatically.

  When she turned, De Wet stood looking at her with a smile. “You know!” she said. “Come on, De Wet, tell me!”

  “It’s money in the water,” De Wet said drily.

  De Wet had been rather quiet all morning, Lettie realized and gave him a sharp look. She hoped he wasn’t coming down with something.

  “I remember Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita falling into this fountain,” Pérsomi said. “I read somewhere that the scene was shot in winter. Evidently Anita could stay in the cold water for hours, but the actor playing opposite her . . .”

  “Marcello Mastroianni, wasn’t it?” Klara said.

  “Yes, Mastroianni. Not even a wetsuit under his clothes could keep him warm. It was only after he’d finished a bottle of vodka that they could shoot the final scenes.”

  “I heard that the name of the character Paparazzo—the photographer who worked with Mastroianni, remember?” Antonio began.

  “Yes, I remember Paparazzo,” Klara said.

  “. . . that his name is where the word paparazzi comes from, used all over the world to refer to pushy photographers,” Antonio continued.

  “Hmm, interesting,” said Pérsomi.

  “They also say,” Antonio continued, “that the name itself comes from the I
talian word papataceo, which refers to a large, pesky kind of mosquito.”

  Lettie nodded. “Strange that a single supporting character in a single movie gave rise to a word that’s used all over the world. But it’s rather apt, I suppose: pesky mosquito.”

  De Wet was still gazing at the water cascading down.

  The group split up to catch their preferences. Lettie walked beside De Wet as he strode down the street. “Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll complain,” she said, smiling. “Are we going somewhere in particular, or are we just walking?”

  He was silent for a moment, then he said, “Actually, I’m retracing my footsteps, Lettie.”

  She understood at once. That was probably why he had been so quiet all morning. “You were here with Christine once,” she said.

  He nodded. “I hope you don’t mind. If you wish . . .”

  “No, I’d like to come along,” she said. She had never found the right moment after Christine’s death to talk to him about her. For the first few months he isolated himself. Then he carried on as if he had left his sorrow behind.

  They walked in silence—the easy silence between old friends who have come a long way together. Now and again they talked about trivial things. At a market stall they bought each of their daughters a scarf.

  De Wet shook his head. “I don’t really know why I wanted to come here,” he said.

  The trees formed a green roof overhead. The sun made lacy patterns on the sidewalk at their feet.

  He was quiet for a long time. Good experiences become precious memories, Lettie knew. Unhappy events are painful to remember.

  “When we first saw each other after the war, she said if I’d ever had any feelings for her I should just leave her alone,” he said.

  They passed a shop. De Wet stopped. “There was a different shop here during our visit. I bought a red ball for Gerbrand,” he remembered.

  “How did you feel when you first saw Gerbrand?” Lettie asked.

  He shook his head slowly. “It was a terrible shock to me. Not only that there was a child—that too, of course—but especially that Pérsomi’s brother was the father. I knew Gerbrand well. I grew up with him, played rugby with him . . . never mind. Heavens, Lettie, I still can’t imagine Gerbrand . . . that Christine . . .”