Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

Rome is a fantastic city, Arthur. Even the sound of its name excites me. Rome! I can’t believe it! A fabulous city, all gold and white, a city within cities, a city beneath cities. Yesterday I walked along the very road Caesar took on his way to the Forum. I could feel the ghosts of dead assassins, and everywhere these wonderful Italians whose faces speak volumes. I shall go back to Rome often. We are only two hours away here in Aquila, and the drive is a beautiful one, and I feel time in that city, I feel time beneath the streets and in the air, I feel history. I shall go there often.

Arthur, it is so incredibly still at this moment. It is only ten o’clock, and Millie has already gone to sleep, and I am sitting alone in the garden with a lamp on the table, and the mountain is asleep and hushed. I can see lights somewhere far off in the distance — Rome? Impossible! But most of the nearby lights went out long ago, and I have the feeling of floating somewhere in the sky, quite free, and a little bit heady. It is difficult to get used to this air. Actually, it is doing wonders for Millie, even in the short while we’ve been here. I honestly think this is going to help her a great deal. We shall see.

Your letter addressed to me at the Danieli in Venice was forwarded here and was waiting when we arrived yesterday. Darling, of course I miss you, need you ask? And David, dear David! Oh, Arthur, your letter made me so sad. I can visualize the two of you roaming around in that big shell of a house like two lost souls, and I could weep! Please, Arthur, know that I love you and miss you both, and that I shall be home as promised. I think of you both constantly. There is not a minute that goes by when you are not in my mind. Sitting here in the silent garden, my lamp the only light on the mountain, caught in this yellow circle, I feel so terribly all alone, and miss you more than ever. But January... ah, that seems so very far away just now. Until then,

I love you,

She did not see Renato Cristo again until the third time she drove to Rome. He was sitting at a table in the Piazza Barberini, sipping at a vermouth, his cap pulled through his shoulder epaulet, staring off across the square, the sunlight touching his hair, his big hands on the table in front of him. She came down the Via Sistina, walking with a rather jaunty swing, and at first he thought only that she was a pretty girl, her figure in silhouette against the sun. Then he realized she was an American, the sunglasses, the clothing, the regal walk, the erect posture, which all American women brought to Europe. He saw her face and recognized her, and watched her as she came down the street, still unaware of his presence. His secret observation pleased him. He sat with his hands on the table, watching her, enjoying the way her legs carried her body, enjoying the quick female motion of her head as she turned to look at the buildings, a sightseer, a tourist, and yet magically more than that. A small smile touched his mouth.

He did not call out to her until she was almost upon his table. She would not have seen him if he had not called. She walked with an intensity of concentration, determined to absorb each and every landmark on the route to an obviously predetermined goal. But there was nothing unique about this sidewalk café, a bar unfrequented by tourists, a gathering place for natives, where the drinks were generous and the food was prepared without regard for the foreign palate, and she was ready to pass it by without so much as a sidelong glance when he said her name.

“Julia,” he called, very softly.

She stopped and turned, surprised. She looked at the wrong table first, trying to locate the voice, her mouth turned upward in an expectant, puzzled smile. But she saw no one she knew.

“Julia,” he said again, and he shoved back his chair and rose.

She located the table this time. She turned her head slightly and saw him at once, and then took off her sunglasses in a quick motion of her hand, and shook out her brown hair. He made a small gesture with his hand, inviting her to the table. She hesitated. He saw the hesitation in her eyes. It seemed for a moment as if she would simply wave in greeting, put on the sunglasses again, and then walk on. A questioning look crossed his face. She nodded swiftly and came to the table. He was pleased when she addressed him in Italian.

“Hello,” she said. “What a surprise!”

“Yes. Won’t you sit down?”

“Well, I... I’m in sort of a hurry.”

“You have time for a drink.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He pulled back a chair for her. Again, she seemed hesitant. Then she sat and took off her gloves, and he watched while she performed the operation, not looking at him, pulling off the gloves finger by finger, and then placing them on the table alongside her purse and the sunglasses. She was wearing a white linen suit, her hair trailing down her back. She wore no make-up. Her nose was shining, her cheeks were flushed, her lips were bare.

“You’ve forgotten my name,” he said.

“No. No, I haven’t. Renato.” She smiled.

“And Julia.”

“Yes. And Julia.”

“What would you like, Julia?”

“I’m sorry, what...?”

“To drink.”

“Oh. Whatever you’re having.”

“Some vermouth?”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“Have you had lunch yet?”

“No. I thought I’d—”

“Good, then we shall eat together.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Julia said.

“Why not?”

“I want to get to the Colosseum.”

“ Cara ,” he said, “the Colosseum has been there for two thousand years. It will still be there after lunch. We will eat together.” He snapped his fingers for the waiter and ordered a vermouth. Julia sat with her hands on the table, silent.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No.”

“You seem...” He shrugged. “Distressed.”

“No.”

“Would you prefer not having lunch with me?”

“Yes,” she said honestly.

“But that would be foolish.”

“I don’t know you,” she said. “We met on a mountain.”

“And again in Domodossola. You mustn’t forget Domodossola.” He smiled suddenly.

“No. I won’t ever forget Domodossola,” she answered. She looked down at her hands again.

“So you see, it’s all very proper. Our having lunch together. We’re almost old friends.”

“Yes, we are. But I don’t know you.”

“And if we waited to know each other before having lunch together, we’d both be old and incapable of enjoying good food.” He laughed. “Americans always insist on knowing people. What does it do, this knowledge?”

“I guess Americans are...”

“Besides, knowing another person is an impossibility.”

“I don’t think so.”

“An impossibility,” he said flatly.

“All you’re saying is that you yourself refuse to be known.”

Renato looked at her appreciatively. “Perhaps so.” He grinned. “See how well you know me already?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well, we will know each other better.”

She did not answer. The waiter brought her drink. She lifted the glass and sipped at it.

“Mmmm, that feels good.”

“You’re not wearing lipstick,” he said, studying her mouth.

“No. Does it look terrible?”

“It looks very natural.”

“Roman women don’t use much make-up. I felt a little conspicuous.”

“When in Rome,” he said, and he smiled again.

“You’re always laughing at me, aren’t you?”

“Laughing?” His eyebrows quirked upward suddenly. “ Cara , laughing at you?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I get the feeling you think I’m very stupid and... and dazed, I guess, and you find me very amusing. That’s the feeling you give me.”