Better to return to Marlow and his Congo River, over which the sails of the ivory-traders lightly float. Why is the young captain so insistent in his search for that Kurz who is believed to know more than any other European about blacks and elephants? Who is it forcing him to follow that unscrupulous man who has put down roots in a world of slaves where each head is worth less than a piece of ivory? Where the darkness grows ever more dense and complex and at the bottom of which nothing can be found except the horror of a heart of darkness? Is Marlow a ghost too? Is it not too early, at twenty-six, for her to be chasing shadows rather than real live people? But her mind sees little difference. In the village square at the centre of her thoughts people who have really existed, imagined people, living people and dead people all walk and talk absolutely naturally. Even if she can tell them apart, she does not want to use a tape measure to establish who belongs on the one side and who on the other, who is worthy of her attention and who not. It is perhaps war, privation, fear, the absolute throw-of-the-dice chance of places and refuges, even of life itself, that have taught her this: to welcome the dead and the living with equal joy. In fact here is little Emanuele who, she now sees, is opening the sliding door of the compartment and, terribly serious, comes to sit facing her on one of the empty seats. He has a book in his hands. He opens it. He buries himself in his reading. He has the same dry, agile body as when he was eleven, the same dark eyes, the same quick, nervous hands. Only his quiff of hair is now grey. A child grown prematurely old.
‘Emanuele!’ calls Amara, barely trusting her voice.
He slowly lifts his head with an interrogative look as if wondering whether he knows her. But the answer seems to be no. He doesn’t recognise her.
‘Where are you going?’ she asks softly.
He doesn’t answer. His mind is elsewhere. Anxious to return to his book. But what is he reading? No matter how she stretches her neck, she can’t manage to read the title on the cover. She can just recognise a word or two in German.
‘Emanuele!’ she calls again. They are alone in the empty compartment; the last passengers got off at Milan. There’s a more festive atmosphere now. From the corridor she hears the voice of a woman selling panini and pop: ‘Sparkling fizzy drinks!’
When Amara turns again to look at the seat opposite, the boy Emanuele has vanished. Only the book is still there, open face-down on the seat. Amara picks it up and reads the title: Pinocchio. In a German translation. She wants to laugh. When she and Emanuele used to read together, the books they found in his father’s library were never in German. When can he have changed one language for another? Though that very book in German seems to be there to remind her that a language now divides her from their common past. German, a language she doesn’t know well, has snatched him away from her and projected him into that distant future for which she is fishing among the roots of the past.
Amara gently replaces the upturned book on the empty seat and goes back to reading about the voyages of Captain Marlow.
21
The empty house has a stuffy smell. Amara opens all the windows. Late September, but it’s still hot.
She decides not to unpack her things but to go straight to the hospital. But to which department? Which ward? She phones Luca’s sister Susanna, known as Suzy, even though they have had no contact for years. Surely urgency will justify her!
‘Is it true Luca’s in hospital?’
‘He is.’
‘How is he?’
‘Had a minor heart attack. But now he’s better. No chance of that killing him!’ She can hear Suzy laughing at the other end of the line. A strange woman, her sister-in-law. Wild red hair, face puffy with drink, trembling hands. Intelligent, ironic eyes.
‘He’s written to say he wants to talk to me before he dies.’
‘Dies my foot! He’s in better health than I am.’
‘People can die of heart attacks.’
‘Not always. He’s had a fright … That’s true enough.’ She laughs again. She likes to seem more cynical than she really is. Though she usually likes to shrug her shoulders at anything in her own life that hasn’t worked out as she would have liked. Three men — one of them Indian — two miscarriages and a sickly son. She once said, ‘I’m a failure, Amara, and I boast about it.’ But who knows what she meant by ‘failure’? And why should she be proud of it? Just to be seen to be brave? Obstinate and fearless? Yet she and Luca both knew how to fascinate others. They were both more loved than loving. Even to the extent of causing a suicide: a twenty-year-old girl who when she felt rejected by the man of the caresses, pulled a plastic bag over her head and tied it tightly round her neck. Both were good at stimulating the senses of others, if unable to carry through any relationship, whether of love or friendship.
‘Can you tell me where to find him? Which ward is he on?’
‘Cardiology department. Ward 16. You’ll see a gardenia on the wall. Each ward is named for a particular flower. He’s on Gardenia. But it smells of disinfectant.’ She laughs again. Amara can almost see her red curls shaking.
‘That’s where I’ll go, then.’
‘He’ll probably have nothing to say to you. All he likes is being cuddled. You know him, don’t you.’
‘He sent me a desperate letter.’
‘His last flame has left him, he’s feeling lonely.’
‘What’s that to do with me?’
‘You’re still his wife.’
‘We split up two years ago.’
‘But he still thinks of you as his wife. Perhaps the only woman he can rely on in the midst of all the coming and going of those little flushing devices he’s been having.’
‘Flushing devices!?’
‘Well, yes, little beach girls, all plunging necklines and make-up. It’s reached a point where real beauties avoid him. He’s getting old, Amara dear. No longer so easy for him to find ladies to deceive.’
‘You’re hard on your brother, Suzy.’
‘He’s hard on me. Do you think he gave me any help when Vannino was in hospital and seemed to be dying? Or when I had to move house? Do you think he’s ever been there for me when I needed someone to complain to? I know he can’t stand people who grumble, but when your husband leaves you in the lurch with a disabled son and you find yourself on your own with no job at forty, what use is a brother who can’t lend you a helping hand?’
‘Listen, I’m off now. I could call you again this evening.’
‘Why not come to supper? I’ve made pasta al forno and I’m on my own. Do come, it’ll be nice to see you. Years since we last met. Let me remind you of the address: Via Guelfa 3, remember? Near Piazza di Crocifisso. Will you come?’
‘Well, thank you … Actually I’ve only just arrived and haven’t yet …’
‘Alone, aren’t you? I didn’t suppose you’d be with a man. Well then. No need to worry about anyone. I’ll expect you at eight-thirty. Anyway, they’ll throw you out of the hospital at seven. Ciao.’
‘Shall I bring anything?’
‘A bottle of wine, red, ciao.’
The hospital. Splintery floors, windows that won’t close. Despite the flowers on the doors, an aggressive stench of disinfectant, sick bodies, sour breath and foul air. She recognises the ward from the painted and framed gardenia on the door of Room 16.