Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

Renato turned to her. He took one hand from behind his head and cupped her chin, and he looked into her face very seriously and said, “You see, my darling Julia, we have a person in Italy now who plays with a three-legged table, calling upon the dead legions of Caesar, muttering his own incantations to the gullible old women. But there are no longer any tall men with axes, Julia. And even if there were... Julia, Julia darling, my grandfather destroyed the table too late, don’t you see? His supper had already been knocked to the floor. His supper had already been knocked to the floor.”

She knew almost immediately after that day il Duce spoke in the Piazza Venezia. All the signs were there, all the symptoms. She knew exactly what they meant. She read them correctly and told herself, No, this cannot be , but she recognized the truth nonetheless, and nonetheless refused to face it. Il Duce’s speech had been made on November 31, she had looked at the calendar before leaving the villa in Aquila to join Renato. And this was December 5, and all the doubt, all the fear, seemed to crystallize in the letter from Arthur, and the news that he and David were coming to Italy for Christmas. He will know, she thought. He will look, and he will see, and then my world will crumble. He is sure to see. He is sure to know what I know, what I only suspected in November but what I know for certain now. He is not a stupid man. He will know.

She did not want to leave Italy.

But if Arthur read the signs correctly, and he was not a stupid man, what would he demand, what would he ask of her? She could not leave Italy, she could not leave Renato, not now, not yet. And afterward, when it was over, when it came to an end as it inevitably and always did, what then? And where?

Oh Renato, Renato, she cried out to him alone, but she did not tell him of her doubts or fears. There is time, she thought. There is always time.

They came to the villa in Aquila two days before Christmas. She was waiting in the garden for them. She was wearing a yellow dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat, and a sweater was thrown over her shoulders. Her eyes filled with tears when she first saw them. Not because she felt she knew them, not really, there was another world for her now, and it did not include Arthur Regan, it did not include her fourteen-year-old son who embraced her clumsily, lean and awkward, his face festering with pimples. “David, you’re getting to be a man,” she said, and he blushed and said, “I tried out for the handball team in school, Mom,” and she hugged him to her and wept.

But only because he was a stranger. Only because two strangers had entered her garden in the villa, and she greeted them with the fabricated affection of a wife and mother, but she felt nothing because there was a new life for her now, a new life.

“Hello, Julia,” Arthur said. He seemed embarrassed. Arrivals and departures always embarrassed him. He hugged her close, and she felt nothing for him, yes, a sympathy because he was embarrassed by this meeting, but nothing beyond that. Awkwardly, he said, “You’re as round as a partridge, Julia. Rome agrees with you,” and only then did she see the happiness beneath his embarrassment. She looked more closely at his face. She felt an extreme sense of loss for everything they had ever known together and shared together, somehow nullified by Renato and her love for him, and she thought it sad that love was so exclusive, that love nourished and at the same time killed. She almost said this aloud to Arthur. She almost, through habit, through years of living with a man she had known since girlhood, almost-voiced her thoughts and waited for the tilting of his head and the contemplative look in his eyes and the slow, considered answer. She almost confided to him a world that did not belong to him.

“Have you been eating well?” she asked.

“Yes. You look well, Julia.”

“Who’s been taking care of you, my darling?” she asked. She wanted to know. She touched his face tenderly. She was confused in that moment, confused by an affection different from what she felt for Renato, and yet unmistakably warm.

“We’ve had Mrs. Donovan.”

“She’s a good cook.”

“Yes.”

“Mom, will we go to Rome?” David asked.

“Yes, darling.”

“Mom, there was a player from the New York Yankees on the boat coming over!”

“That’s wonderful. Was the trip good? Did you have any trouble?”

“It was a long trip, Julia,” Arthur said.

“Come inside,” she said. “Won’t you come inside?”

She had not known whether or not Millie suspected anything about Renato until the day Arthur and David arrived. And then she knew instantly. She had not fooled her sister. The frequent trips to Rome had not gone undetected. Millie knew, but had apparently made a tacit bargain with herself. She would watch Julia and listen to Julia and take her cues from Julia; she would offer nothing of her own volition. They sat in the large terrazzo-tiled living room that night as the lights on the mountain winked out. David had gone to bed amid much fussing-over by the help, and the three adults sat and watched the lights go out and sipped espresso , and Arthur said, “How do you feel, Millie?”

“Much better,” she answered. She looked at Julia quickly, as if for approval.

“The air is wonderful here, Arthur,” Julia said. “Haven’t you noticed the difference?”

“Yes,” he said, “it’s wonderful.” He smiled. “When do you suppose... it’s December already, you know.”

“Yes,” Julia said, “but...”

“We’d planned on staying until—” Millie started.

“Until April,” Julia cut in quickly.

“April?” Arthur frowned. “I’d planned to take you back when we left, Julia. You said January. I thought...”

“Darling, Millie’s doing so well. It would be a shame to take her back to Connecticut in the dead of winter.”

“Well, this isn’t exactly a tropical climate right here, Julia. In fact, it’s damned cold. I mean, I can see—”

“Arthur, can we discuss this later, please?” Julia said.

“I’m going to bed, anyway,” Millie said. She took Arthur’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Arthur. Sleep as late as you like in the morning. I’ll ask Lucia to hold breakfast.”

“Thank you, Millie.”

They waited until she was gone.

“I’d like to kiss you, Julia,” Arthur said.

“I’d like you to,” she answered.

He went to the sofa and took her in his arms. He kissed her passionately and thrust his hand under her skirt.

“Arthur,” she said, “not here, please. The servants...”

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said.

“All right.”

“Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Why, of course I’m glad to see you.” She took his hand. “Come.”

“I... I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Is something wrong, Julia? Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“No,” she said, “nothing’s wrong.” She thought, Is there something I haven’t told you, Arthur? Is there anything I have told you?

“Millie is all right, isn’t she?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, He had provided her with the lie, and she waited before accepting it. Something within her resisted its acceptance, something reacted to his innocence, his trust, something inside her suddenly felt rotten and foul-smelling. She considered the lie, she paused over it, she closed her eyes tightly.

“What is it Julia? I can tell it’s something.”

She sighed heavily. “Yes, yes,” she said.

“What?”

“Millie.”

The lie was hard coming. She did not want to lie. She closed her eyes again and shook her head, and he misunderstood the gesture and took her into his arms, the last thing she wanted. Don’t comfort me, she thought, don’t comfort your whore wife.