Maggie Gee - Where are the Snows

‘Did you understand me, signor? I shouted. There was a telephone call from England. A woman called Susy. She doesn’t speak Italian, but she keeps saying Susy. It wasn’t a wrong number, she knows your name. Oh, and two letters this morning…’ She turned to find the letters and was shocked to see me. A torrent of Italian unleashed itself, my clothes, my bruises, my age, my morals… out in the rain with no hat, no umbrella…

I didn’t know where to begin to explain, how to turn blame into the praise I craved. ‘I bought an umbrella, but I left it behind. I got into a fight on the waterfront…’ (I admit I couldn’t resist that phrase. It was so very ungrandfatherly, ‘got into a fight’.)

‘You have been running after those bad women again!…’ And so it poured on, a deluge of words, a torrent of maternal disapproval. She came upstairs and found me clean clothes. I had to restrain her from calling the doctor and bringing me supper on a tray in bed. I kept trying to tell her what had really happened but she wasn’t willing to believe a word, she thought I was spinning a tale to cover up being robbed and beaten by some pimp… I didn’t care. I sank into it blissfully, the great warm bosom of Mamma Lucia.

I needed a drink, of course. I awarded myself two Martinis for heroism, large Martinis very short on ice, I didn’t want to cool down too much. Lucia had gone back to her risotto, life was almost normal again, but better in every way than normal, brighter, lighter, younger, hotter. The Martini was wonderful, sweet, dark, herby. It raced into my excited blood. My cheeks stung pleasantly where Lucia had anointed them with surgical spirit, lamenting. My clean collar pulled at my sore neck. My knees were stiffening; my shoulder ached. Every one of these wounds was a glorious memento. I drank to myself. I drank to the girl. I drank to goodness, and probably beauty. I meant to ring Susy after one Martini, but the need for Martini somehow seemed more pressing, and after two Martinis I thought it wiser to wait till I’d settled my stomach with dinner. Susy had always been something of a puritan where drink was concerned; I didn’t want to spoil things.

I thought of my daughter. I drank to her. It was her I had saved; I had saved my daughter, I treated that prostitute like my daughter, I was there when I was needed, I was a good father. She had telephoned. We should be reconciled. I would call her back when I was utterly sober.

Time for my letters! Time for Mary! I could face it, now, if it wasn’t from Mary; today had proved there was always hope; if there was nothing today, it would come tomorrow.

But one of the letters was from Mary; the other was some dull computerised thing. I saw the envelope and didn’t bother… I filled up my glass and opened Mary’s.

Yellow paper. Not Mary, surely. Or not the Mary I used to know. If I ever knew her, which I doubt. A bit bright for my eyes, but beautiful, in my present mood it’s beautiful, a thoroughly cheerful daffodil yellow. Makes the writing jig about a bit, swimming into focus then darting away… Hard to make sense of, but I’ll try. The main thing is she has written, of course. My dear Christopher … That’s affectionate; I don’t think she wrote like that before… missing us both… that’s standard, she always used to miss us both… very sorry to hear about the tragic events… yes, we were all pretty sorry about those, get to the point, how’s Matthew? You say he’s unfortunately very gravely ill, but is he dying, that’s the question? Doesn’t commit herself on that.

Susy. She writes about Susy. Heart in my mouth; may it be all right. Good news — excellent — turn for the better — garden flourishing, who cares about the garden, I want to know if my daughter still hates me, I want to know if she’s all right — living with someone her own age, oh God, another frightful boyfriend — a girl! Really, she’s living with a girl! Madonna — God, I remember Madonna, ravishingly pretty teenager, of course she’s not a teenager any more… Wonderful news, what could be better? Two girls sharing, I thoroughly approve…

She asks — She asks. I hardly dare to believe it. She asks if I ever think of coming home. She says she thinks Susy would like to see me. But perhaps she means she would like to see me. All of my women are waiting for me! Christopher, Christopher, you are beloved! Affectionately, as ever, Mary.

Delightful woman. Charming woman!

I sat there reading and re-reading, entranced, unable entirely to follow the thread but lingering over every phrase that seemed friendly or affectionate, and all of them did, to me, last night.

I was in that heightened, nervous state where you don’t know entirely what you’re doing but you have to do something, you can’t sit still, hungry for action, for anything… I ripped open the other envelope, the word-processed rubbish, hungry for food but dinner was late, it would be Lucia’s fault if I ended up tipsy…

I ripped, and stared, and couldn’t believe it.

My God, it was Susy. Susy!

Since when has my daughter been using a computer? Susy. And postmarked four weeks ago, even for Italian mail that’s rather excessive…

Susy. My Susy. Voluble. Fond! Susy telling me news, and gossip. Madonna — yes, just as Mary says. She’s very happy. This is marvellous. Ah — asking for money. Ah well, predictable. One’s children always ask for money. At least she’s asking politely this time. Wants to convert the basement… Wants to let the basement. Our house let to an outsider, I’m not so sure I like that idea, our house where we were a family, and happy…

Some of the time we weren’t unhappy…

I’ll think about it. I suppose I’ll agree.

What’s this? She wants to see me? She says it would be lovely to see me?

I think I have been forgiven at last. I must be the luckiest man in the world. It must be a reward for what I did today, though this was written weeks ago. But God arranged for it to arrive today; he forgave me for not believing in him.

Lots of love, Susy. Darling girl. And then an illegible hand-written postscript, scrubbed out, cross-hatched with black ink till there’s a dent in the paper. Never mind. I prefer it to end lots of love

And she rang, as well. Perhaps just about the money…

But if they really want to see me. If she and Mary really want to see me. What scalding happiness I should feel then.

If I could be loved again.

I sat there gloating, drinking, smiling. I read both letters over again. I squinnied at Susy’s crossed-out postscript, right-way up, upside-down, through the thin paper with the candle behind it. I was drunk, of course, I was sentimental, but one of the letters was taller than the others, taller and pointed, an A, surely. A for Alexandra, perhaps. I was playing, giggling, life was fun, from now on everything was possible.

It was a wonderful evening till it all went wrong.

There was a bottle of Amarone with the clams. Lucia didn’t know I had already been drinking; Amarone is a very heady wine. She commended it to me for its iron content, excellent for someone who had lost a little blood, and I acceded, meekly, dutifully, poured a large glass, and then another, and somehow I was on my fourth. The clams were delicious, and I gobbled them down.

I couldn’t find the bell; I yelled for second helpings, and she came in, looking rather flustered, bearing a yellow tureen of rice. I asked her, with what I thought were perfect manners, a little flowery but wonderfully polite, to sit down and join me. I was a king, I motioned the beggar-maid to sit beside me. She was too shy to accept; that must be the reason, or so I thought, so I honestly thought. I became insistent, masterful.