William Trevor - Two Lives

He shook his head. He said something about not drinking in the middle of the day, but recognizing that this was a polite reluctance to accept more hospitality I ignored it. I ordered him an Old Fashioned, since in my house that had been established as his drink.

‘It’s awfully pleasant here,’ I remarked, smiling again in an effort to make him feel at ease. I said there was no reason why he and I shouldn’t be a little late for lunch. If tongues wagged it would be nonsense.

He frowned, as if bewildered by this vernacular expression. I shook my head, indicating that it didn’t matter, that nothing of any import had been said. The barman brought our drinks. I said:

‘I wonder what sort of a person Sano di Pietro was.’

‘Who?’

‘The artist who painted the picture the child was so taken with. Incidentally, I thought it was a bit extravagant, that remark in the guide-book about the dog noticing the angel first.’

He appeared to nod, but the movement was so slight I might have been mistaken.

‘You thought so too? You noticed that?’

‘Well, no, I really can’t say I did.’

The place filled up. I drew Mr Riversmith’s attention to an elderly man with tiny rimless spectacles in the company of a young girl. Lowering my voice, I asked him what he thought the relationship was. He replied, blankly, that he didn’t know.

I asked him about other couples, about a group of men who clearly had some business interest in common. I was reminded of the men in Carrozza 219, but I considered it inappropriate to mention this. One of the group repeatedly took small objects from one of his pockets and placed them for a few moments on the table. I thought they might be buttons. I wondered if the men were in the button business.

‘Buttons?’ Mr Riversmith said.

‘Just a notion,’ I said, and then a Japanese party entered the bar and I said that there was one most noticeable thing about the Japanese – you could never guess a thing about them.

‘Yes,’ Mr Riversmith said.

I kept wanting to reach across the table and touch the back of his hand to reassure him, but naturally I didn’t. ‘What’s the matter?’ I wanted to ask him, simply, without being fussy with the question. He didn’t offer to buy a drink, which was a pity, because for a man like Mr Riversmith the second drink can be a great loosener. All that sense of communication there’d been when he’d talked about his sister a couple of hours ago had gone.

‘I really think we should join the others, Mrs Delahunty.’

Although I’d said it was to be my treat, he had already placed a note on the table and within a few minutes we were back on the street again. I had to hurry to keep up with him.

‘I just thought,’ I said, a little breathless, ‘a few minutes’ rest might be nice for you, Mr Riversmith.’

Although he in no way showed it, I believe he may possibly have appreciated that. I believe his vanity may have been flattered. He slowed his stride, and we stepped together into the bright sunlight of the Campo. The others were seated round an outside table beneath a striped blue and white awning. To my horror, Quinty and the maid were there also. Quinty was boring the General with details of the Tour de France.

‘I see Jean-Francois has taken the Yellow,’ he was saying as we approached them, and the old man nodded agreeably. He showed me a book of flowers he’d bought, the text in Italian but with meticulously detailed illustrations of azaleas. ‘Mollis and Knaphill,’ he said, a forefinger following the outline of the species. ‘Kurume and Glenn Dale. We shall make them grow.’

Otmar and Aimée were looking through their postcards. Rosa Crevelli had opened a powder compact and was applying lipstick. Having given up his effort to interest the General in bicycle-racing, Quinty was smiling his lopsided smile, his head on one side, admiring her.

‘I’ve bought a really gorgeous hen,’ I said.

I carefully unwrapped my prize. Aimée gasped when the pretty thing emerged from its black tissue paper.

‘They have crocodiles and serpents as well, Aimée, but I thought the hen the best.’

‘Wow, it’s fantastic!’

‘ “Who’ll help me grind my corn?” D’you know about the little red hen, Aimée?’

She shook her head.

‘ “I won’t,” said the dog. “I won’t,” said the cat.’ I told the tale in full, as Mrs Trice had related it to me so very long ago, when I was younger than Aimée.

‘Well, I never heard that one,’ Quinty said. ‘ Capisci? ’ he asked Rosa Crevelli. ‘Signora’s on about a farmyard fowl. Una gallina .’

I leaned toward Mr Riversmith, next to whom I was seated, and said I had hoped Quinty and the girl would have lunch on their own. ‘I must apologize for your having to sit down with servants.’

He shook his head as if to say it didn’t matter. But it did matter. It was presumptuous and distressing. I attracted a waiter’s attention and indicated that Mr Riversmith would be grateful for an Old Fashioned and that I’d like a gin and tonic myself. I did so quietly; but Quinty has an ear for everything.

‘G and t!’ he shouted down the table at the waiter, who repeated the abbreviation, appearing to be amused by it. ‘You like g.t.?’ he offered everyone in turn. ‘I like,’ Rosa Crevelli said. Mr Riversmith said he didn’t want an Old Fashioned.

‘It wasn’t arranged, she invited herself. They’re lame ducks, as you might say.’

Quinty had been down and out, I went on; the girl was of gypsy stock. As I spoke, the waiter returned with my gin and tonic, and one for Rosa Crevelli as well. ‘ Due g.t.!’ he shouted, affecting to find the whole episode comic. When taking our orders for lunch he clowned about, striking attitudes and rolling his eyes. All this had been started off by Quinty and the maid. I drew Mr Riversmith’s attention to the fact, but added that they meant no harm.

‘It can be hurtful,’ I said, ‘but there you are.’

The General had put his horticultural manual aside and was describing to Otmar the purpose of different kinds of spades. Quinty joined in the conversation, saying something about a local firm that would supply fertilizer at a good price. When labour was required he advised the General to get estimates. In Italy nothing was done without an estimate. There was a babble of Italian from Rosa Crevelli and everyone had to wait while it was translated. It didn’t amount to much, something to do with where urns for the azaleas might be obtained.

‘A most extraordinary thing,’ I remarked to Mr Riversmith, unable any longer to resist telling him about the dream. While I was speaking the waiter came with bottles of wine and mineral water. He joked again, pouring me two glasses of wine and then, in mock confusion, a third one. Aimée enjoyed his nonsense, and I suppose it was innocent enough.

‘No more than a boy you were,’ I said. ‘Fifteen or so.’

But Mr Riversmith displayed no interest. I asked him if he had dreamed himself the night before and he insisted he hadn’t. He rarely did, he said.

I suggested, though diffidently, that none of us can get through a night’s sleep without the assistance of dreams. Sometimes we forget we dream. We remember briefly and then forget. Or do not remember at all.

‘I am not familiar with the subject,’ Mr Riversmith said.

Hoping to encourage him, I carefully retailed the details of the dream. I described the boy he’d been. I described the child his sister, Phyl, had been. I asked him if he remembered a Venetian blind that on occasion might have rattled, a slat tapping against the kitchen window-frame.

‘No.’

The reply came too quickly. To remember, it is necessary to think for a moment, even for several minutes. But I didn’t want to press any of this. I finished my drink and pushed away a plate of soup, not caring for the taste of it. It was disappointing that Mr Riversmith wasn’t going to bother, but of course it couldn’t be helped.