But no sooner had the taxi pulled away than I wanted to run after it and wave it down. Because I had a terror that once banished, she might never return.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘A little bit.’
‘I don’t think you can wake someone a little bit, can you?’
‘I mean I was just dozing off. There’s a time difference, you know.’
‘Of one hour, Douglas! I’m sorry, do you want to go back to sleep?’
‘No, no, I want to talk to you.’ I levered myself further up the swampy bed. Eleven o’clock.
‘I know I wasn’t meant to call you, but—’
‘Connie, is there news?’
‘No news. I take it you’ve not found him yet.’
‘No, but I will.’
‘How do you know, Douglas?’
‘I have my methods.’
She sighed. ‘I’m still texting him once a day. Nothing melodramatic. Just “please call, we miss you”.’ There was an artificial precision to her voice that suggested she had been drinking, the vocal equivalent of walking in a straight line for a policeman. ‘I’ve told him we’re both in England. Not a word back, Douglas.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’s not okay. It just means that he’s still punishing me.’
‘Us, Douglas, both of us.’
‘You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me.’ She did not contradict me. ‘If you do hear anything, don’t tell him I’m here. Ask him where he is but don’t say I’m looking.’
‘I’ve checked his email, his Facebook account too. Not a word.’
‘How can you check those? I thought he kept that private.’
Connie laughed. ‘Please, Douglas. I am his mother.’
‘Where are you now?’ I asked.
‘On the sofa. Trying to read.’
‘Anyone know you’re home?’
‘Only the neighbours. I’m lying low. How’s the hotel?’
‘A little bleak, a little damp. You remember that old fish tank that Albie refused to clean? It smells like that.’ Down the line, I heard her smile. ‘The mattress sort of sucks you in.’
‘What’s that noise?’
‘That’s the hotel boiler. It’s okay, it only happens whenever anyone runs a tap.’
‘Oh, Douglas, come home.’
‘I’m fine, really.’ A brief pause. ‘How’s our stupid dog?’
‘He’s not stupid, he’s complicated. And he’s fine. Happy I’m back.’
‘How’s the weather?’
‘Rainy. How is it in Venice?’
‘Hot. Humid.’
‘It’s funny, I can only ever think of Venice in the winter.’
‘Yes. Me too.’
‘I’m sorry not to be there.’
‘You could fly out?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I found our spot today. Where I proposed to you. You remember?’
‘It rings a bell.’
‘I didn’t seek it out. It wasn’t a pilgrimage, it was on my route.’
‘That’s fine. I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you.’
‘Yes, we could have laid a wreath.’
‘Douglas—’
‘I’m kidding. It’s, whadyacallit, dark humour.’ Some time passed. ‘You don’t regret it, do you?’
‘What?’
‘Saying yes.’
‘I don’t think I did say yes, did I?’
‘Well, eventually you did. After I’d worn you down.’
‘I did. And I haven’t regretted it for a moment. Don’t let’s talk about it now. I only phoned to say I miss you.’
‘I’m glad. And now I must go to sleep.’
‘And Douglas? I appreciate what you’re doing. I think it’s a little mad, but it’s … admirable. I love you.’
‘Are we still saying that?’
‘Only if it’s true.’
‘Well then, I love you too.’
I did not fall asleep until six, then woke at seven to discover that my knee joints had ossified. My hips ached as if I’d been struck by a car, so it took me some time and a great deal of groaning and sighing to clamber from the sucking maw of my mattress and sit on the edge of the bed. I had sweated feverishly in the night, the bedding now damp enough to propagate cress, and I drained the bedside glass of water and stumbled, hunched, to the tiny sink to drink again and again. On examination, my feet were monstrous, as moist, pale and bony as a vacuum-packed pig’s trotter. Angry water-filled blisters had formed at heel and toe. Clearly it was absurd to think that I could walk the same circuit three times today, or even once. I would have to rethink my plans, find key thoroughfares and lie in wait. The Rialto, the Accademia Bridge, the western entrance to St Mark’s — surely Albie would funnel through there at some point. I stuck useless plasters to the worst of the corns and blisters, descended with a robot’s gait to the breakfast room, filled bowls with tinned peaches and dusty muesli and lowered myself carefully into a chair.
‘Ow … ow … ow.’
‘So, did you succeed?’ said the woman.
‘Succeed?’
‘In seeing all of Venice in one day?’
‘I think so. Which is why I can’t move my legs. How was the … Accademia? Did I say that right?’
‘Beautifully. I didn’t go in the end. Coach parties arrived before me and I hate peering over people’s shoulders. There were just too many tourists. Me included, of course.’
‘The tourist’s paradox: how to find somewhere that’s free of people exactly like us.’
‘Though of course, like every tourist, I think of myself as a traveller.’ We smiled at each other. ‘Perhaps I was naïve, but I really wasn’t prepared for the crowds.’
‘Yes, I’ve only ever been here in winter.’
‘Perhaps August was a mistake. Verona was the same.’
‘Very busy.’
‘You were in Verona too?’
‘Only for two hours. I was changing trains.’
She exhaled and shook her head. ‘I made the mistake of seeing Juliet’s balcony. I don’t think I’ve ever been more depressed in my life.’
‘Me too! I felt the same way.’
‘I practically wanted to hurl myself off it.’ I laughed and, encouraged, she leant forward. ‘You’re on the way to …?’
I’m looking for my estranged son.
‘I’m not sure yet. I’m … following my nose.’
We lapsed into silence for a moment. Then …
‘I feel foolish shouting across the room like this,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Not in the least,’ I said, folding my map to make room.
I suppose this was why some people travelled, to meet new people, though this has always been a vexed area for me. Conversation, the gradual unveiling of oneself, one’s quirks and characteristics, opinions and beliefs; what a fraught and awkward business that is. Connie had always been the gregarious one, and I was inclined to let her meet new people on my behalf. But this woman was sitting diagonally opposite me now, and I had little alternative but to offer my hand.
‘I’m Douglas. As in the fir.’ A weak joke, I know, but one that might have special resonance for a Scandinavian.
‘My name is Freja, but I’m afraid I can’t think of a pun to go with that.’