Dacia Maraini - Train to Budapest

‘Emanuele!’ calls Amara, barely trusting her voice.

He slowly lifts his head with an interrogative look as if wondering whether he knows her. But the answer seems to be no. He doesn’t recognise her.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks softly.

He doesn’t answer. His mind is elsewhere. Anxious to return to his book. But what is he reading? No matter how she stretches her neck, she can’t manage to read the title on the cover. She can just recognise a word or two in German.

‘Emanuele!’ she calls again. They are alone in the empty compartment; the last passengers got off at Milan. There’s a more festive atmosphere now. From the corridor she hears the voice of a woman selling panini and pop: ‘Sparkling fizzy drinks!’

When Amara turns again to look at the seat opposite, the boy Emanuele has vanished. Only the book is still there, open face-down on the seat. Amara picks it up and reads the title: Pinocchio . In a German translation. She wants to laugh. When she and Emanuele used to read together, the books they found in his father’s library were never in German. When can he have changed one language for another? Though that very book in German seems to be there to remind her that a language now divides her from their common past. German, a language she doesn’t know well, has snatched him away from her and projected him into that distant future for which she is fishing among the roots of the past.

Amara gently replaces the upturned book on the empty seat and goes back to reading about the voyages of Captain Marlow.

The empty house has a stuffy smell. Amara opens all the windows. Late September, but it’s still hot.

She decides not to unpack her things but to go straight to the hospital. But to which department? Which ward? She phones Luca’s sister Susanna, known as Suzy, even though they have had no contact for years. Surely urgency will justify her!

‘Is it true Luca’s in hospital?’

‘He is.’

‘How is he?’

‘Had a minor heart attack. But now he’s better. No chance of that killing him!’ She can hear Suzy laughing at the other end of the line. A strange woman, her sister-in-law. Wild red hair, face puffy with drink, trembling hands. Intelligent, ironic eyes.

‘He’s written to say he wants to talk to me before he dies.’

‘Dies my foot! He’s in better health than I am.’

‘People can die of heart attacks.’

‘Not always. He’s had a fright … That’s true enough.’ She laughs again. She likes to seem more cynical than she really is. Though she usually likes to shrug her shoulders at anything in her own life that hasn’t worked out as she would have liked. Three men — one of them Indian — two miscarriages and a sickly son. She once said, ‘I’m a failure, Amara, and I boast about it.’ But who knows what she meant by ‘failure’? And why should she be proud of it? Just to be seen to be brave? Obstinate and fearless? Yet she and Luca both knew how to fascinate others. They were both more loved than loving. Even to the extent of causing a suicide: a twenty-year-old girl who when she felt rejected by the man of the caresses, pulled a plastic bag over her head and tied it tightly round her neck. Both were good at stimulating the senses of others, if unable to carry through any relationship, whether of love or friendship.

‘Can you tell me where to find him? Which ward is he on?’

‘Cardiology department. Ward 16. You’ll see a gardenia on the wall. Each ward is named for a particular flower. He’s on Gardenia. But it smells of disinfectant.’ She laughs again. Amara can almost see her red curls shaking.

‘That’s where I’ll go, then.’

‘He’ll probably have nothing to say to you. All he likes is being cuddled. You know him, don’t you.’

‘He sent me a desperate letter.’

‘His last flame has left him, he’s feeling lonely.’

‘What’s that to do with me?’

‘You’re still his wife.’

‘We split up two years ago.’

‘But he still thinks of you as his wife. Perhaps the only woman he can rely on in the midst of all the coming and going of those little flushing devices he’s been having.’

‘Flushing devices!?’

‘Well, yes, little beach girls, all plunging necklines and make-up. It’s reached a point where real beauties avoid him. He’s getting old, Amara dear. No longer so easy for him to find ladies to deceive.’

‘You’re hard on your brother, Suzy.’

‘He’s hard on me. Do you think he gave me any help when Vannino was in hospital and seemed to be dying? Or when I had to move house? Do you think he’s ever been there for me when I needed someone to complain to? I know he can’t stand people who grumble, but when your husband leaves you in the lurch with a disabled son and you find yourself on your own with no job at forty, what use is a brother who can’t lend you a helping hand?’

‘Listen, I’m off now. I could call you again this evening.’

‘Why not come to supper? I’ve made pasta al forno and I’m on my own. Do come, it’ll be nice to see you. Years since we last met. Let me remind you of the address: Via Guelfa 3, remember? Near Piazza di Crocifisso. Will you come?’

‘Well, thank you … Actually I’ve only just arrived and haven’t yet …’

‘Alone, aren’t you? I didn’t suppose you’d be with a man. Well then. No need to worry about anyone. I’ll expect you at eight-thirty. Anyway, they’ll throw you out of the hospital at seven. Ciao.’

‘Shall I bring anything?’

‘A bottle of wine, red, ciao.’

The hospital. Splintery floors, windows that won’t close. Despite the flowers on the doors, an aggressive stench of disinfectant, sick bodies, sour breath and foul air. She recognises the ward from the painted and framed gardenia on the door of Room 16.

She can make out three beds in the half-light. It’s difficult to tell them apart, but an arm rises from the bed at the far end, near the window. She too lifts a hand. She goes over. The man she had married, Luca Spiga, is stretched on crumpled sheets in pyjamas, with red socks on his feet, hair stuck to his cheeks, eyes swollen and face unshaven. Where’s that beautiful Luca, once so full of seductive caresses? He’s developed a little round stomach, like a craving for pregnancy. His long beard gives him an unkempt and sickly air. But he’s not as pale as she had imagined he would be; two red knobs on his cheeks give him the look of a farm worker who has been hoeing in the sun.

‘Well, you look fine.’

‘I’ve been near death, Amara. I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

‘I can’t talk here just like that in front of everybody.’

‘Whisper in my ear. I’ve come here especially from Vienna.’

‘You’ve really come especially to see me?’

‘Yes, especially for you.’

‘Good lord, what an honour!’

It’s obvious he has nothing in particular to say, as his sister rightly guessed. All he wanted was attention and a little affection. Taking an iron chair, Amara sits down beside him and prepares herself to be patient. As always, his eyes caress sweetly, like his soft persuasive voice.

‘Your sister says you’ve made me come here for nothing.’

‘Suzy hates me.’

‘Maybe she knows you better than I do.’

‘She’s always written me off as a good-for-nothing.’

‘How’s work?’

‘Going badly. I don’t feel at home in this architectural studio. But I have to work.’

‘Can’t you set up on your own?’

‘Too much to worry about, too many arguments, I couldn’t face it. Perhaps better to be paid a monthly salary, even a small one, than to spend my Saturdays and Sundays drawing up little plans for horrible apartments to pay the taxman and the rent. I don’t want trouble.’