William Trevor - Two Lives

‘I just thought I’d mention it,’ I said.

I don’t think he spoke again while we had lunch but afterwards, as we walked through the streets to where the car was, I noticed to my surprise that he attempted to engage Rosa Crevelli in conversation. Since her English scarcely exists, it must have been an extremely frustrating experience for him. It was all the more bewildering that he appeared to persevere.

I was a little upset by this and somewhat gloomily walked with the General, whose slow pace suited me. The day before I’d noticed further letters from the two firms of solicitors, so I raised the subject as we made our way together.

‘I’ve written to say I am creating a garden.’

‘Good for you, General!’

‘I’ve been meaning to say, actually: you’ve no objection to Otmar and myself delaying our departure a while, have you?’

‘Of course I haven’t.’

‘He’s nervous to mention it to you, but he’s wondering if the garden could be his way of paying for his board and lodging?’

‘Of course it could be.’

‘From me, it’s a gift, you understand? I shall continue to pay my weekly whack.’

‘That’s as you like, General.’

Since we were passing various small cafés and bars I suggested that he might rest for a few minutes and have another cup of coffee. He readily agreed, and when we found somewhere agreeable I decided not to have more coffee but ordered a glass of grappa instead.

‘A garden can’t make up for anything.’ The old man, quite suddenly, returned to the subject, perhaps feeling that this was the time to say it, now that he had me on my own for a few minutes. ‘But at least it will mark our recovery in your house.’

‘Stay as long as you like.’ I replied softly, knowing that that, really, was what we were talking about.

‘You’re kind,’ he said.

We made a detour on our journey back to my house, turning off the main road and winding our way up to a Benedictine monastery. It was cool and leafy, with a coloured sculpture high up in an archway, and another in the same position on the other side: this is the abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore, as close to heaven on earth as you will ever find. With the exception of the General, we all descended several flights of steps, through a forest of trees, to the monks’ church in a cool hollow below. Along the cloisters were murals of St Benedict’s life. Doves cooed at one another, occasionally breaking into flight. In the monks’ shop mementoes were laid out tastefully.

‘Gosh!’ Aimée exclaimed, as delighted as she’d been by the picture of the shepherds and by the hen I’d bought. ‘Otmar, isn’t it fantastic?’

Otmar was always there, unobtrusively behind her. His devotion was remarkable, and constantly she turned to him, to share a detail that had caught her imagination or to tell him something she’d thought of, or just to smile.

‘It is fantastic,’ he said.

‘What’s “fantastic” in German, Otmar?’

‘ Phantastisch .’

‘ Phantastisch .’

‘That is good, Aimée.’

‘Would a German understand me?’

‘ Ja. Ja .’

‘Tell me another word. Tell me the name of a bird.’

‘ Taube is for dove. Möwe is for seagull.’

‘How do you say “beautiful”?’

‘ Schön is for beautiful.’

‘ Schön .’

‘That is good.’

‘ Möwe .’

‘That is good too.’

Mr Riversmith bought her a little red and green box with drawers in it, and then we climbed back to where the General awaited us. He had found a tea-room and was reading about flowers again.

‘It’s really beautiful down there,’ Aimée told him. ‘A monk patted my head.’

As we moved towards the car I managed to draw Otmar aside, to reassure him that his proposal for paying what was owing was quite acceptable, and to repeat that he, too, was welcome to remain in my house for as long as he wished.

‘I have no skills for the work. I bring no knowledge.’

I reassured him on this point also, and for some reason as I did so a vivid picture came into my mind: of his buying the railway tickets to Milan on 5 May and counting the notes he received in change. ‘Shall we have a cappuccino?’ Madeleine suggested. ‘There’s time.’ I might have placed a hand on the shoulder from which his arm had been cut away, but somehow I could not bring myself to do so. I might have said he must not blame himself. Without knowing anything, I might have said it was all right.

‘It is possible,’ I said instead. ‘A life you did not think of when you lay in that hospital is possible, Otmar.’

For a second the eyes behind the large spectacles fearfully met mine. I remembered his fingers interlaced with Madeleine’s, and the old man as straight as a ramrod beside his daughter. I remembered the two children arguing in whispers, and a workman with a shovel, standing by the railway line.

‘She is going back to America,’ Otmar said, and there our conversation ended.

In the car Quinty regaled Mr Riversmith with information he’d picked up somewhere about St Mary of Egypt. ‘Singer and actress she used to be,’ his voice drifted back to where I was sitting, and he went on about how scavenging dogs wouldn’t touch the remains of St Bibiana, and how the Blessed Lucy endured a loss of blood through her stigmata every Wednesday and Friday for three years. I was unable to hear how Mr Riversmith responded and didn’t particularly try to, because that Quinty was having a field day didn’t matter any more. What mattered was that Mr Riversmith was an ambitious man: that hadn’t occurred to me before. He was ambitious and Francine was ambitious for him, and for herself. There were other professors with microscopes, watching other colonies of ants in other trees. He and Francine had to keep ahead. They had to get there first. What time could they devote to a child who had so tiresomely come out of the blue? Would serious ambition be interrupted in Virginsville, Pennsylvania? That’s what I wondered as Quinty continued to be silly and Mr Riversmith, poor man, was obliged to listen.

When we returned I lay down for an hour; it was almost seven when I appeared downstairs again. Aimée was in bed, the General said, and wished to say good-night to her uncle and myself. He and I went together to her room, where the shutters had been latched to create an evening twilight. When Mr Riversmith spoke her name she answered at once. I sat on the edge of the bed. He stood.

‘Aimée, I would like you to have the hen I bought. It’s a present for you.’

To my surprise, she seemed bewildered. Her face puckered, as if what I’d said made no sense. Then she turned to her uncle.

‘I didn’t ever know there was a quarrel.’

‘It wasn’t important.’

‘But it happened .’

‘Yes, it happened.’

Since that seemed inadequate, I added:

‘Disagreements don’t much matter, Aimée.’ And deliberately changing the subject, I added: ‘Remember the picture of the shepherds?’

‘Shepherds?’

‘The shepherds with their dog.’

‘And a hen ?’

‘No, no. The hen was what I bought for you.’

‘What else was in the picture?’

‘Well, sheep in a pen.’

‘What else?’

‘There were hills and houses,’ Mr Riversmith said, and although I wasn’t looking at him I guessed that that familiar frown was gathering on his brow.

‘And eight trees,’ I added. ‘Don’t you remember, we counted them?’

Through the gloom I watched her shaking her head. Her uncle said:

‘I guess you remember the angel in the sky, Aimée?’

‘Have you come to say good-night? I’m sleepy now.’