William Trevor - Two Lives

‘One thing I’d like to raise, doctor. Aimée insists she didn’t paint those pictures.’

‘She doesn’t know she did, signore.’

‘The German –’

‘It’s good that Otmar helps.’

‘Aimée and Otmar have become friends,’ I said.

Mr Riversmith frowned. Impatience flitted through his features. It was that, I realized then, that made him seem cross from time to time. Impatience was his problem, not nerves. He held his seriousness to him, as though protectively, as though to cover his impatience. But sometimes it was not up to the task and a kind of irritated fustiness resulted.

‘ Non importa, signore ,’ Dr Innocenti assured him. ‘The pictures are only pictures. Colour on paper.’

‘Mr Riversmith does not perhaps understand,’ I suggested, ‘because he has not observed his niece’s recovery.’

‘Yes,’ Dr Innocenti agreed. For once uncharacteristically vague, he added: ‘We must hope.’

That afternoon Mr Riversmith wrote the necessary cheques, for the hospital and for Dr Innocenti. He made arrangements for a gravestone, and paid for it in advance.

Then there was an unexpected development. In one of his many conversations with Aimée Dr Innocenti had described to her the city of Siena, of which he is a native. He had called it the proudest of all Italian cities, full of mysterious corners, sombre and startling in turn: before she returned to America she must certainly visit it. ‘You haven’t yet?’ he’d chided her in mock disappointment that morning. ‘Won’t you please your old friend, Aimée?’

Later Otmar brought the subject up in the salotto . Aimée had promised Dr Innocenti, he reported, but was too shy to ask.

‘Siena?’ her uncle said.

It wasn’t far, I explained. An excursion could easily be arranged. ‘It’s a pity not to visit Siena.’

Quinty would drive us. The General would accompany us in the hope of purchasing some gardening books that Quinty might translate for him.

‘Would you object to an early start,’ I questioned Mr River-smith, ‘in order to avoid the worst of the heat?’

He agreed quite readily to that, though briefly, without elaborating on his sleeping habits as another person might. I couldn’t help wondering if Francine was like that too.

‘Quinty’ll wake you with a cup of tea at half-past six.’ I lowered my voice and glanced about me, for this was something I didn’t wish the others to overhear. It would be the first time we had all done something together, I confided. ‘Since the outrage we haven’t had the confidence for much.’

I don’t know whether Mr Riversmith heard or not. He simply looked at me, and again I had the impression that he stifled a sigh. It surprised me that Francine, or his previous wife, hadn’t ever told him that this habit of his seemed rude.

9

Soon after seven the next morning I observed the General pointing out to Mr Riversmith the features of the motor-car that Quinty has a habit of referring to as his, although, of course, it belongs to me. The old man drew attention to the huge headlights, the chromium fastenings of the luggage-box and of the canvas hood, now folded down. I heard him say that motor-cars were no longer manufactured with such panache and pride. Mr Riversmith no doubt considered it antique. He said something I did not catch.

I had chosen for our excursion a wide-brimmed white hat and a plain white dress, with black and white high-heeled shoes, black belt and handbag. On the gravel expanse in front of my house I greeted the two men, and in a moment Otmar and Aimée appeared, Aimée in the red dress she’d been wearing the evening her uncle arrived. To my amazement, Rosa Crevelli came out of the house also, clearly attired for the outing, in a flowered green outfit with lacy green stockings to match.

‘Look here,’ I began, drawing Quinty aside, but he interrupted before I’d even mentioned the girl’s name.

‘You agreed it was OK,’ he said. ‘When we asked you last night you said the more the merrier.’

‘I said no such thing, Quinty.’

‘You did, you know. I remarked it would make an outing for the girl. I remarked she was looking peaky these days.’

I firmly shook my head. No such conversation had taken place.

‘You had a drink in at the time, signora.’

‘Quinty –’

‘I’m sorry.’

He hung his head the way only Quinty can do. He protested that neither he nor the girl would offend me for the world; he’d maybe misheard when he thought I’d said the more the merrier.

‘You’re coming with us in order to drive the car,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s different altogether for a maid to tag along. There’s neither rhyme nor reason in it.’

‘It’s only I promised her when you said that last night. She said you were kindness itself.’

This spoiled everything. I’d so much wanted things to go nicely. I’d wanted it to be a pleasant day for Aimée and her uncle; I’d wanted to get to know Mr Riversmith better; I’d wanted the General and Otmar to go on pulling themselves together, benefiting from the diversion; I’d wanted everyone to begin to be happy again.

‘It’s peculiar, Quinty, for a maid to mix with house-guests.’

‘I know. I know. We’re servant class. All I’m saying is, since the misunderstanding is there let it stay. It would be a terrible disappointment for the poor creature. She was ironing her clothes till the small hours.’

So in the end I gave in, even though I felt acutely embarrassed. I resolved to apologize to our guests – well, at least to Mr Riversmith and the General – when a suitable moment arrived. I am servant class myself, as Quinty well knows, but with everyone waiting I didn’t want to explain that naturally there was a difference.

‘Sorry,’ he said again.

I did no more than shake my head at him. Rosa Crevelli had been watching us, gauging the content of our exchanges. I saw him glance at her, and the pout that was just beginning to disturb her sallow features turned into a smile. I approached the others and quietly suggested that Aimée and the maid should occupy the two rear seats, which are a feature of the car, the long middle one folding forward to allow access. Otmar, Mr Riversmith and I occupied this centre section, the General sat with Quinty in the front.

‘ Andiamo! ’ Quinty exclaimed as he engaged the gears, his sombre mood of a moment ago quite vanished. ‘We’re on the off!’

The sky was empty of clouds. The morning air was cool and fresh. As we drove, I pointed out distant hill-towns and avenues of cypresses for Mr Riversmith’s benefit. Sometimes I indicated a church or, if none loomed near, a roadside café or a petrol station, knowing that for the stranger everything is of interest. Mr Riversmith nodded an acknowledgement from time to time, appearing otherwise to be mulling over matters he did not share. ‘Magnificent, this car,’ I heard the General say. Now and again Otmar turned round to exchange a word with Aimée.

‘You may find it strange,’ I remarked to Mr Riversmith, for what I had touched upon the day before had been on my mind in the night, ‘that we should be going out on a jaunt while still in the grip of the horror that has torn our lives asunder.’

He shook his head. In a conventional manner he said it was a sign of healing and recovery.

‘We long to escape our brooding, Mr Riversmith. We stitch together any kind of surface. But when we look into our hearts we see only a grief that is unbearable.’

I chose those words carefully, and did not add that the loss I’d suffered myself had been far less than that of the others because I’d had far less to lose. I didn’t go into detail because it wasn’t the time to do so. All I wished to make clear was that when, today, he observed his niece and Otmar and the old Englishman he was observing a skin drawn over human debris. Mr Riversmith said he wouldn’t put it quite like that, but didn’t offer an alternative form of words.