James Runcie - The Colour of Heaven

Teresa had forgotten that she might have to lie. ‘There were so many people. And you were far away.’

‘I told you that you should have come with us.’

‘There was not room. It was for men. You know that.’

‘It would not have mattered.’

‘Did you see the Doge?’ asked Teresa.

‘I did. And he saw us. It was a triumph.’

As her husband recounted the story of the day, Teresa realised that she could not take in what he was saying. She could think only of the child. Perhaps she should tell him now, she thought, in this stillness, out in the lagoon. She should confess, or even shout out, that the baby was the only thing that mattered to her, more important than either his love or her own death.

She wondered what it would be like to tell him. She almost wanted to laugh with the joy of it all, sharing this new happiness with the man she loved. But she knew that Marco would be fearful, his mood would change, and that it would ruin the day. He would talk about money. He would ask her to take the child back. And he would not give the real reason for his fear: the fact that a son might change their marriage, that they would no longer be alone.

He put out a line and began to fish.

As the boat rocked on the water, Teresa remembered holding the child in her arms. Although she ached for him, she knew that she must hide the fact, as if the revelation of such a secret would only destroy its beauty.

At last there was movement on the line and Marco flicked up a sturgeon, its back gleaming against the dying light, twitching in midair before being cast down onto the floor of the boat.

‘E basta,’ Marco cried, still happy.

A wind started up, blowing across the lagoon. Teresa watched her husband pull in the line and begin to row harder for the island.

‘Did you gather the wood this morning?’ he asked.

Teresa knew the question mattered, but could not remember why. ‘Alder,’ she replied.

‘Enough for tonight and tomorrow?’

‘Plenty,’ Teresa answered.

‘Then I am happy.’

They tied up the sandolo, and Marco took his wife’s hand. Together they walked along the Fondamenta dei Vetrai, past the furnaces of each family of glass-makers, lined in rivalry and solidarity, until they reached their home, glowing against the impending night, the secret unspoken between them.

Teresa visited her sister every week. Francesca taught her to hold the baby, calm him when he cried, rock and console him. But Teresa didn’t need encouragement. As she held the boy she realised that not only was the child beginning to belong to her, but that she belonged to the child. She had given herself away.

‘You look as if you’ve never seen a baby before,’ her sister remarked.

‘I haven’t. Not like this.’

Teresa inspected every finger and toe. She felt the weight of her new son’s head, cupping it in her palm. His eyes stared away into the distance as if he had come from some other world and knew its secrets. How could she live with such a love? How could she ever do enough for him? What if he was too hot, too cold, too hungry, or too thirsty? How could she guard against fever? What if he fell sick? What if he died?

Soon Teresa could not bear to be apart from the boy. Only she loved him sufficiently to protect him from the perils of the earth. Only she knew what it was to truly love and care for him. The anxiety grew so strong that she began to panic every time she had to leave.

‘You love him too much,’ Francesca warned, but Teresa insisted, ‘One can never love too much.’

Her sister could not agree. ‘You can. Believe me.’

Teresa could sense her disapproval.

‘You had freedom. Why lose it?’ Francesca continued.

‘Because I need to love.’

‘And the child?’

‘The child would have died.’

‘The hospital would have taken him.’

‘You know that’s a lie. And if they had … You know what happens. They never live.’

Francesca dismissed her sister. ‘It’s only a child.’

‘What?’

‘Some live, some die.’

‘How can you be so heartless?’

‘Because I know what it is to love too much.’

‘Then you live in sadness.’

‘At least I do not live in dread,’ Francesca said quietly. ‘When will you tell Marco?’

‘When I bring the boy home.’

‘You will not warn him?’

‘No. I want there to be no argument.’

Marco lived a life of certainties: work, faith, and marriage. Most of the complexities of existence could be explained either by reason or by fate, and so, when he saw Teresa carrying the child, he was convinced that she was holding a new niece or nephew.

‘Francesca?’ he asked. ‘She can’t stop.’

‘The child has come from Francesca but she is not the mother.’

‘Who is?’ He smiled. ‘Have you stolen him?’

‘Nobody knows.’

‘Then what are you doing?’

‘I want to keep him,’ Teresa said suddenly.

‘He’s not ours to keep.’ Surely she was joking.

‘I found him,’ she continued quietly. ‘Six months ago. On Ascension Day.’

‘And what have you done?’

‘Francesca has weaned him for me.’

‘Then Francesca can keep him.’

‘No.’

It was the first time she had ever denied him.

Marco stepped back. ‘You’ve always intended to keep him – without talking to me, without asking my permission?’

‘I meant to tell you, but I knew that you would be angry.’

Why could he not understand? Did he not remember how she had been mad with the lack of a child? ‘I have to keep him. He is a son. For both of us.’

‘Not mine.’

‘Please,’ she appealed, and then immediately regretted the fact that she sounded so keen to appease.

‘Give him to the priest. Or to another mother. Take him back to your sister.’ This was what he had dreaded all these years: another man’s child.

‘I can’t,’ Teresa answered simply.

‘If you won’t give him away then I will,’ Marco replied, as if ending the argument.

‘No,’ she said.

‘He can’t stay,’ Marco reiterated.

‘Look at him.’

‘I can’t,’ said Marco firmly. ‘I won’t.’

‘Please,’ Teresa begged. ‘Look.’

Marco raised his eyes and studied the child. How could he be a father to someone so unlike himself? He tried to reason. ‘Can’t you see the disgrace?’

Teresa looked down at the child, and then directly into her husband’s eyes. ‘People will forgive us.’

‘They won’t,’ Marco asserted. ‘They’ll think you a whore.’

‘They know that I was never pregnant. They have seen me. Why else am I called barren?’

‘Then they’ll think it mine, that I have been with another.’

‘I don’t care.’ Teresa was suddenly fierce again, determined. ‘If you loved me then you would love the child.’

‘You know that I love you. But how can I love a child that is not mine? Do not ask me to do this. Have I not done enough for you? Cared for you? Loved you?’

‘But can’t you see?’

‘Please …’ Marco reasoned.

‘No. I ask you. I beg you,’ his wife replied. ‘I will do everything. You don’t have to talk to him. You don’t even have to look at him if you don’t want to. Just let me be with him.’

‘Rather than with me.’

‘It is not a choice between you and the child.’

‘It seems that it is.’

‘No,’ said Teresa once more. She realised, for the first time, that she liked the sound of the word: its percussive defiance. ‘He can work for you. We will need an apprentice.’

‘Don’t think of such things.’

The child began to wake and cry.

‘You see?’ said Marco.

‘I will care for him. You need do nothing. I will keep him away from you. Nothing about him need concern you.’