Goodbye, goodbye.
/
When my father calls on September 6, everything’s in place and it’s only two days until I act. He’s in the Middle East, he says. In Syria. He’s sorry he’s been elusive recently. I tell him I understand. The line swoops and crackles beneath our words. Sometimes it sounds hollow, as if we’re talking in a cave. Other times, the connection cuts out altogether and there’s an absence that makes me feel queasy, like the numbness you get in your arm when you rest your head on it and fall asleep.
I ask him how he is.
He’s fine, he says. He’s not in any danger. Most of the shells are landing in rebel-held suburbs. I say I’m fine too. Rome is relatively peaceful at the moment, I tell him, despite a night of heavy fighting.
“Have there been demonstrations?” He sounds surprised, annoyed with himself. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s missing out on breaking news.
“Dad,” I say. “It was a joke.”
Silence.
At last he says, “Only a month to go.” Until I start at university, he means. “You must be excited.”
I say I am. It’s easier if I agree.
“You’re so lucky,” he says. “I wish —”
I know what he wishes. He wishes he could be in my position, with everything ahead of him. He has no idea what he’s wishing for. He doesn’t have a clue.
I ask him when he’s coming home.
“In about a week,” he says, then he appears to hesitate. “It’s not confirmed. The situation’s volatile.”
It’s ten years since we moved to Italy but when I hear my father on the phone it always makes me think of London. I see our house in Tufnell Park. The peaked, slightly Gothic roof, the red-brick walls. The hollyhocks by the front door. Green trees, gray sky. I can almost smell the rain. My father would often be abroad, working on a story. It was just me and my mother, for weeks at a time. She wasn’t ill yet but she wasn’t quite right either. I would come home from school and find her lying on the sofa in the front room with her forearm over her eyes, or sometimes she would be asleep in bed. In our last year in the city she was always tired.
“Kit?”
“I’m still here.”
“You’ll need an umbrella. It’s not like Rome, you know.”
He’s trying to be light and humorous but I sense him turning away, losing interest, even though his mobile’s still pressed against his ear. When filing his reports he tends to stand at an angle to the camera, alert to what is happening behind him, in the unstable darkness of a foreign night. This is David Carlyle. CNN. Benghazi.
Or Damascus.
Or Kabul.
When the phone call’s over I realize he didn’t ask me how I was. He never does. He thinks it’s a meaningless convention, a waste of breath. But I always tell him anyway.
Seconds later, oddly, Dani calls from Puglia. It’s a relief to hear her voice, but when I tell her about the man I slept with her response surprises me. She thinks I was reckless. I laugh and say we used a condom but that isn’t what she meant.
“He could have been anyone,” she says. Then she pauses and says, “Sometimes you frighten me.”
“Dani,” I say, “I wouldn’t have chosen anyone” — though even as I speak I realize there was something completely arbitrary and instantaneous about the decision. It was as if I’d been drinking. Not for a moment did it occur to me to think of consequences.
That afternoon I go out and buy an umbrella.
/
Two days later, on September 8, I flag down a taxi on Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. I have a suitcase with me, and my new umbrella. Draped over my right arm is the cashmere coat my father gave me when I turned eighteen. I’m carrying my passport, several credit cards, and a printout of my boarding pass. Round my neck is my most valuable possession — a small, silver heart-shaped locket containing two pieces of my mother’s hair, one blond and wavy, the other a glinting dark brown, almost metallic. The blond hair is what fell out when she first had chemotherapy. The brown is what grew back. I have closed my deposit account and withdrawn my savings. The money my mother left me. My inheritance. It’s enough to keep me going for a while.
A few hours earlier, at dawn, I walked to the Ponte Mazzini, my phone in my hand. The city sticky-eyed, hungover. Still half-asleep. I stopped next to a lamppost in the middle of the bridge. White mist drifting above the river, a blurred pink sun. Leaning on the parapet, I held my phone out over the water and then let go. I thought I heard it ringing as it fell. Who would be calling so early? Massimo? Dani? I would never know. In Rome people ring you all the time and mostly it’s not about anything in particular. Back in the apartment I downloaded Eraser and cleaned my hard drive, not just deleting my files but overwriting them so as to make retrieval more or less impossible. I left my laptop under the arch on Via Giulia with a note that said FREE COMPUTER. If I’m to pay proper attention, if this is to work, there’s no option but to disconnect, to simplify. From now on, life will register directly, like a tap on the shoulder or a kiss on the lips. It will be felt.
Entering the station, I have an image of myself a week ago, standing beneath the Departures board, my presence implausible, unreal, as though my lungs were drained of oxygen and my veins were empty. How things have turned around since then! On the train to the airport everything we pass seems highlighted or in relief. The bleached papyrus grass that grows next to the railway line, the wasteground where Gypsies often camp. The big blue signs on station platforms. VILLA BONELLI, MAGLIANA, MURATELLA. Strange how a journey that is only just beginning can feel so final.
At Fiumicino, while queueing for Security, I let out a cry. The old man in front of me turns round and asks if something’s wrong. His face is kind, concerned.
“It’s my umbrella,” I say. “I must have left it on the train.”
“You can buy another one.” He chuckles. “It’s not the last umbrella in the world.”
“But my father gave it to me —”
I look at the floor. Why am I lying?
“Your father will forgive you,” the old man says. “I know he will.”
TWO
Rain slants across the window as the plane drops out of the belly of the cloud. Flat wet fields appear below, and rows of trees with yellow leaves. Cars slide along a road that looks silver-plated. Germany. I feel my insides twist, a tightness in my throat. A kind of homesickness. I realize I’m missing my mother and the years when there were three of us. That time’s gone forever, though. My home’s gone too. The past is what I’m homesick for.
The plane shudders when it hits the runway, lurching right then left, as if seeking a way out. Mist gathers behind the wheels. A faint burst of applause from the back, the airy roar of brakes.
Before I flew, I googled “Berlin accommodation” and found several cheap hotels in and around Kluckstrasse. There’s talk online of a red-light area nearby but that doesn’t bother me and Kluckstrasse has the great advantage of being central. Walter-Benjamin-Platz is only four stops away on the U-Bahn.
Outside the terminal I climb into a taxi.
“Kluckstrasse, please,” I say.
The driver gives me a look in the rearview mirror. His glasses have caramel-colored lenses that make his eyes difficult to see.
I say it again. “Kluckstrasse.”
At last, and reluctantly — or so it seems to me — he pulls away. It’s my clothes perhaps. My luggage. He equated me with somewhere more upmarket.
I stare through the window. Berlin is gray — a gritty, grainy gray. There’s no warmth, no beauty; I’ve left all that behind. I wonder if my father has been to Germany. He probably has. His job has taken him all over the world. His absences used to be a mystery to me but I became accustomed to him being gone. It seemed normal, almost comforting. When he reappeared, after weeks away, I would throw myself into his arms and he would have a spicy smoky smell that I always thought of as his “work” — the smell of train stations, airport lounges, rented cars — and he would give me a T-shirt or a key ring, proof of where he’d been.