The Crooked Path Page 14

  chapter

  NINE

  Why don’t you invite the Romanelli boy for lunch on Sunday?” Lettie’s mom said one Friday morning. “It must be lonely for him all on his own in the boardinghouse over weekends.”

  “Oh, there are other young people at Aunt Gertie’s,” Lettie said. “The new bank clerk lives there, and the math teacher at the high school.” The one Marco had such a long conversation with at Irene’s birthday party, Lettie recalled. “But I’ll ask him, thanks, Mom.”

  “We could listen to some music. You said he’s fond of classical music?” her dad said.

  “I think he’d like that,” Lettie agreed.

  So it came that they had a visitor after church on Sunday. Lettie’s mom had put the roast in the oven long before the service began to be sure it would fall off the bone, and Lettie had laid the table with the crisp, white damask tablecloth, stiffly starched napkins, and crystal wineglasses. They did not have lunch in the kitchen on Sundays.

  When Lettie returned to the lounge with the coffee tray, she found her dad and Marco at the cabinet with the leaded glass inserts, going through the record collection. “You have a diverse collection, Doctor,” Marco said appreciatively. “I grew up with some of this music, mostly the Italian singers. Some of the others are unknown to me.”

  “I’ve been building my collection over the years,” said her dad, and Lettie heard the pride in his voice. “What would you like to hear?”

  “Here’s your coffee,” Lettie said behind them and put the tray on the table. The two men turned: one short, round, and bald, the other tall and thin, with thick black hair. “You’ll only have time for one or two records. Lunch will be served in ten minutes.”

  “Could we listen to Tito Schipa?” Marco asked as Lettie left the room. “He’s really . . .” She didn’t hear the last part of the sentence.

  After lunch her mom lay down for a nap and her dad joined them in the lounge. “Italy has produced a number of great masters over the years,” he said, selecting a shiny black record with a red label from the shelf. Her dad put the record on the turntable, switched on the gramophone, and carefully lowered the needle. The Victor label spun around.

  “We had no electricity when I grew up. Our gramophone had to be wound by hand,” said Marco.

  “It was the same on the farm,” said her dad.

  The recording had probably been made sometime around 1910, but from the scratching sounds emerged a pure tenor singing “Santa Lucia.”

  “Enrico Caruso, the greatest of all tenors,” Marco said immediately.

  They listened in silence. Marco’s eyes were shut, his face relaxed.

  “Not only does this man have a golden voice,” her dad said when the music stopped, “but there’s also a wonderful honesty in his interpretation.” Carefully he lifted the record off the turntable and returned it to its sleeve.

  “There’s music just in his name,” said Marco. “Enrico Caruso—six syllables containing all five vowels.”

  Her dad nodded as he searched for another record. “Do you have anything by Galli-Curci?” asked Marco.

  “Oh yes,” her dad replied, “but first I’d like you to listen to this.” He handled the next record with care. “This is a copy of Caruso’s very first recording—at least, for the gramophone. Evidently he made a few cylinder recordings earlier. This recording was made in a hotel room in Milan in April 1902. Ten recordings were made that day in only two hours.”

  Her father eased the needle onto the revolving disc, and the piano accompaniment began. The record was very scratched and had an almost flat sound, but the voice was unmistakable.

  “In 1902, you say?” Marco asked when the record was finished. “Forty-six years ago? Amazing.”

  “Back then, records were made of wax, an extremely brittle material that had to be discarded after a while,” her dad said, putting the record away. “Thanks to modern technology we are able to preserve this music. Well, I’m going to take a nap as well. You two carry on if you wish.”

  When her dad had left, Marco turned to her. “It’s wonderful,” he said. “Can we keep listening for a while?”

  “Of course!” Lettie smiled. “Choose what you like.”

  He spent a long time at the shelf, studying the records one by one, taking a few from the shelf. “What do you like?” he asked.

  “I love the Neapolitan songs,” she said, almost apologetically. “But do play your Galli-Curci first.”

  At last he chose a recording of Galli-Curci with Tito Schipa, “Parigi, o cara,” from Verdi’s La Traviata. “I hope you’ll enjoy it too,” he said, sitting down on the soft leather sofa and stretching his legs in front of him.

  The sun fell through the open window, where the heavy velvet drapes were almost completely open. A column of light fell on the bright Persian carpet and reached Marco’s feet. Behind him the dark wooden wall panels gleamed. To his left, next to the double doors leading to the passage, hung her mother’s brand-new painting by Jacobus Hendrik Pierneef—the one she was so proud of.

  The music filled the entire room.

  When it faded away and the needle kept dragging, making a scratching sound, Marco got up and selected another record from the shelf. He bent down and slowly lowered the needle. Then he sat back down and smiled at Lettie. “Neapolitan,” he said.

  They listened to Jussi Björling’s version of “Nessun dorma,” Caruso’s cheery “La donna è mobile,” Beniamino Gigli, and the bass Ezio Pinza.

  Through it all she sat watching him. He didn’t notice. He was lost in another world, a different world on the other side of the globe. He leaned with his head against the sofa, his face upturned, his eyes shut. He looked happy. She was glad.

  When Marco chose another Schipa recording, Lettie asked, “You like Schipa?”

  Marco nodded, his eyes soft. “When I was at university in Turin, a group of us once went to Milan by train, to La Scala opera house,” he said slowly. “It was a wonderful experience. We saw La Traviata, with Tito Schipa in the role of Alfredo.”

  “You saw Tito Schipa in the flesh in La Traviata?” Lettie asked.

  The look he gave her seemed to be sizing her up. Then he nodded slowly.

  “You know opera?”

  “Oh yes, I know La Traviata. I can’t believe you actually heard Schipa sing. It must have been wonderful.”

  “Do you know Il Trovatore as well?” he asked.

  “The Troubadour? I know it, yes. The story is a bit far-fetched, but the music is heavenly—just very difficult, or so they say. I don’t know enough about music to be able to tell. I just enjoy it,” she said.

  He looked at her with a slight shake of the head. “You know more than enough. I’m so pleased, Lettie,” he said seriously.

  “Tell me about La Scala, Marco,” she said. “It’s a dream of mine to see an opera there one day. And . . . you’ve done it.”

  “Maybe . . .” He paused, blinked a few times, gestured with his hands. “The theatre has almost three thousand seats. Over the boxes, there’s a gallery, the loggione, where the poorer people can enjoy the performance. It’s where I used to sit with my fellow students. We could still see and hear everything.”

  She listened to his voice, she looked at the slim hands with the long fingers, and she became aware of his deep yearning for home.

  She wished she could put her hand on his arm.

  “We went to La Scala only twice in the three years I was at university,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. “We took the train. Milan is about a hundred miles from Turin, and students can’t actually afford train tickets.”

  “Who else did you see perform?” she asked.

  “The second time we saw the soprano Pia Tassinari.”

  He kept talking about shows they attended in Turin. “We were lucky,” he said. “In the 1920s, all our best singers went to America, mostly to the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, of course. But the depression brought many back to Italy, especially to northern
Italy, where most of them originally came from. That’s why we were able to see them back then.”

  Lettie realized that getting him to talk about his past might be therapeutic. But not now. Later, in the surgery.

  At six they had a supper of leftover cold cuts and bread with her parents. “Shall I scramble some eggs?” her mom asked.

  “No, no, this is lovely, thanks, ma’am,” Marco said.

  “Please call me Issie,” said her mom.

  “Issie?”

  “Short for Isabel.”

  “Isabella.” He spoke the name like a melody. “Beautiful,” he said and turned to Lettie. “And your full name?”

  “Aletta.”

  “Aletta?” Again the unusual cadence, the unfamiliar accent that changed the ordinary name into a song. “Alét-ta.”

  When Christine came for her routine checkup early in May, Lettie said, “This baby is going to be born soon. From now on I want to see you once a week.”

  “Okay,” said Christine. She looked up. “Lettie, I’m so afraid.”

  Lettie’s hands grew still. “Why?”

  “Gerbrand’s birth . . . it was very hard.”

  “It’s always easier the second time,” Lettie reassured her. “And I’ll be with you all the way.”

  “Promise you’ll come at once when I call you?” Christine’s blue eyes were filled with trust.

  “I promise.” Lettie nodded, smiling. “I’ll be at the hospital when you arrive. Just call before you leave the farm.”

  “Thanks,” said Christine. “I think you’re the best doctor in the whole world.”

  Lettie laughed. “I don’t know about being the best, Chrissie, but I’ll certainly do my very best for you.”

  “Come for lunch on Sunday,” Christine said as she was leaving. “De Wet has asked Marco as well. Maybe he could give you a ride.”

  “Thanks, I’ll ask him,” said Lettie.

  But during her coffee break half an hour later, she wondered if it was a good idea.

  “I think you should start with an exercise program, Marco,” Lettie said that Friday afternoon. “I’ve read a bunch of articles in medical journals that stress the benefits of regular exercise, especially for the heart and lungs.”

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with my heart?” he asked, but she heard the teasing note in his voice.

  “What sports did you play before the war?” she persisted.

  “I was on my residence’s soccer team at university,” he said, running his fingers through his dark hair.

  “We don’t play soccer in the bushveld,” she said, shaking her head.

  “And I used to row. Our university had a strong rowing club,” Marco said, the familiar smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Oh my word, no, we only have the Nile. Once or twice a year it’s in flood, but the rest of the time it’s almost stagnant, with only a few muddy pools. No, rowing won’t work here.”

  “I see.” By now the laughter was clear in his eyes. “Oh, and we used to climb the mountain. I belonged to the mountaineering club.”

  Lettie began to laugh. “Marco, you’re having me on. You know very well the only mountain around here is the one on the Fouries’ farm. And someone who grew up in the foothills of the Alps wouldn’t even call it a molehill. But you’re still going to exercise, you mark my words.”

  “You . . . er . . .” He pointed at her face.

  Self-consciously she ran her hand over her cheek. A crumb from her sandwich at lunchtime?

  “You have a dimple in your cheek when you laugh,” he said, sounding amazed.

  “Oh?” she said, confused.

  He gave a slight shake of his head. “We’ll have to see on Sunday if De Wet’s mountain can be climbed, or at least explored,” he said, getting to his feet. “I believe you’re going to the farm with me on Sunday.”

  Lettie felt her heart contract. “I . . . er . . . haven’t decided, Marco.”

  “Of course you’re going,” he said firmly. “You have a duty to make sure your patient gets the right kind of exercise.” At the door he turned. “See you Sunday after church.”

  Early on May 24, 1948, just two days before the election, De Wet called, not sounding like his usual charming self at all. “Lettie, I’m driving Christine to the hospital,” he blurted.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Lettie said calmly. “And, De Wet?”

  “Yes?”

  “Calm down. Nothing’s going to happen in the next hour.”

  “Heavens, Lettie, I’m a nervous wreck.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “Everything will be fine. Trust me.”

  There was a moment’s silence on the other side of the line. Then he said earnestly, “I’m glad you’re going to be there, Lettie. Thanks.”

  “Drive carefully now.”

  It turned into a long morning. Christine was anxious, unable to relax, no matter what Lettie tried. De Wet paced the waiting room floor like a trapped racehorse. “Go have coffee in town,” Lettie suggested.

  “No, I’d rather wait here,” he said.

  At a quarter past three, baby Anna Margaretha was born without any complications. “It’s all over and you have a perfect little girl.” Lettie smiled.

  “Thank you, thank you, Lettie,” said Christine. “You’re the best doctor in the entire world, and the best friend anyone could have. Can De Wet come in now?”

  “Let’s put on your bed jacket and brush your hair,” the attending sister said, “before I call him.”

  Soon there was a soft knock on the door. “Come in, De Wet. Meet your daughter,” Lettie said, stepping aside.

  “Look at our lovely little girl,” Christine said softly.

  Lettie closed the door behind her.

  “So the Nats won against all odds?” Marco said when he entered the surgery the Friday after the elections.

  Lettie looked up. He was still in the gray pants and white shirt he must have worn to school that morning, though he had removed his tie. His tanned face showed up against the white shirt—so different from his pallid skin tone when he first arrived, she thought briefly—and his shoulders were broad and straight under the thin fabric of the shirt.

  Lettie drew a deep breath to restore her calm. “Don’t tell me you’re also going to talk about the election,” she exclaimed. “It’s all every patient I’ve seen today has talked about.”

  “Including Christine?” Marco asked, removing his shoes.

  Lettie laughed. “You’re right. Christine couldn’t care less about politics. All she wants to talk about is her baby.”

  “How is she?” Marco asked as he stepped on the scales. “Hmm, don’t look. I didn’t gain any weight this week,” he said.

  “Both Christine and the baby are well. I saw her this morning,” Lettie said. “Marco, you’ve lost two ounces!”

  “Hmm,” he said and began to take off his shirt, “but I’ve gained twenty pounds since arriving here. That’s a pound a week. I’d say that’s really good.”

  Lettie shook her head. “You’re right. How do you feel?”

  “Fine, just fine. Listen to my heart so I can get dressed. It’s cold.”

  She nodded. “You see, it does get cold in the bushveld,” she said.

  “Cold is a relative concept,” he said. “When can Christine go home?”

  “Probably next Friday. New mothers usually recuperate in the hospital for ten days,” she said. “Why don’t you pay her a visit? The baby is lovely. Okay, you may get dressed.”

  “I . . . don’t think so,” said Marco.

  “But you’ve just complained about the cold!”

  “No, I don’t think I’ll go see her. I don’t like hospitals,” he said from behind the curtain.

  “Oh.” Lettie filled out his chart. “I hear you’re having an end-of-term concert.”

  “Who told you?” he asked, emerging from behind the curtain.

  “Our receptionist. She’s been selling tickets.”

 
“Yes, well . . .” He sank down on the chair at her desk.

  Lettie put the chart away. Turning to him, she said, “Marco, I want you to start telling me about the war years.”

  He looked up warily.

  “It would be good for you to talk about it, in your own time,” she said calmly. “It’ll be therapeutic.”

  “It will be hard,” he said quietly.

  “We can do it little by little, every Friday. Just as much as you feel up to.”

  “You think it’s . . . necessary?”

  “I don’t know if it’s necessary, Marco,” she said honestly, “but I know it’s good to talk about the traumas in one’s life. Bad experiences that are suppressed tend to fester.”

  He was quiet for a long time. “You’re right,” he said at last, “but I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “I’m your doctor, Marco. I’m responsible for your total well-being. You definitely won’t be wasting my time.”

  She wasn’t expecting him to start at once, but he did. “I hid out with a Jewish family in the mountains above the village where I lived. It was the end of June 1940.”

  Lettie already knew that. Before Marco came, Antonio had talked about he knew, though it wasn’t much. Yet she listened quietly.

  Marco spoke as if he were delivering a factual history lecture—detailed, but detached. He did not look at her, but through the window behind her back. His eyes gave nothing away. His hands lay folded on the desk between them. Occasionally he raised them to make a gesture.

  He told her about the ascent one moonless night, the cave they stayed in, the first icy winter, their food. He explained how frugally they worked with the candles and kerosene, how they wove screens from branches to block the mouth of the cave, how they punched holes in the side of a tin can and filled it with hot coals to get some warmth in the cold winter nights.

  “It wasn’t so cold inside. Our biggest problem was passing the time.” His deep voice spoke calmly. “We cleaned and gathered wood and edible plants and fruits. In summer, of course. The rest of the time we read and talked and made music. At the beginning it was fine.” He paused, then looked at his watch. “Heavens, look at the time! Your next patient must be waiting.”