The Crooked Path Page 15

  “On a Friday you’re my last patient, Marco,” Lettie said. “But, okay, we can continue next Friday.”

  “Did we achieve anything?” he asked skeptically.

  “We made a start,” she said. “That’s important.”

  But when he had left, she knew they had not yet achieved anything. She also realized that in the half hour or so he’d been talking, he had not mentioned a single name. He’d mentioned facts, but not people—least of all himself.

  Sunday afternoons began to shift. After church Marco sometimes had lunch with Lettie’s family, and they spent the afternoon listening to music or walking down the town’s deserted streets to the common, or just talking in the kitchen. Sometimes they sat reading.

  “It says here in the medical journal,” Lettie said one Sunday, “that three scientists from the Boston Children’s Hospital have managed to cultivate the poliomyelitis virus in a laboratory.”

  “In Boston?” Marco asked. “Polio has been spreading in America.”

  “Here too,” said Lettie. “And there’s no treatment or vaccine. This could be a great breakthrough.”

  “I don’t know the disease at all. We never encountered it,” said Marco.

  “No, I don’t suppose you would have—it’s more prevalent in warmer regions, where there’s poor sanitation. It’s often spread by contaminated water.”

  “Is it a reasonably new disease?” he asked.

  “Oh no, some Egyptian hieroglyphs show figures with one short leg and a club foot. But it was found only in certain areas and not on a large scale. Serious outbreaks of infantile paralysis have only been known since the beginning of this century, especially in urban areas in the summer months. But now it’s popping up elsewhere, especially in America.”

  No matter the subject, their companionship was easy, as if they’d known each other for years rather than a mere six months. Once in a while they drove to Pretoria to visit Klara and Antonio.

  More often, Marco picked her up in his Fiat and they drove out to the farm. Gerbrand was always over the moon to see Marco. He was distrustful of Lettie—especially after she’d given him a tetanus shot when a rusty wire had hurt his foot.

  After lunch one Sunday Christine, De Wet, Marco, and Lettie sat on the big old veranda in the bushveld sun, making lazy afternoon conversation. Boelie was coming back to the farm, which he’d inherited when his oupa died. De Wet feared strain between Boelie and their father. Annabel had taken a job in London.

  “Annabel? London?” Lettie asked, surprised.

  “Yes, a two-year contract as an international correspondent for National Press,” De Wet said.

  “Wow!” said Lettie. “Sounds amazing.”

  “Hmm, but London is a long way from home,” Christine said. She bit her lower lip. “Does anyone want coffee?” she asked hastily.

  “No, relax, I’ll make coffee in a while,” De Wet said lazily.

  A few moments later Anna began to cry in the bedroom, and Christine jumped to her feet. “She must be hungry,” she said.

  “I’ll come too,” Lettie said, following her down the dark passage.

  The room looked entirely like Christine and nothing like De Wet. The walls were painted a light rose, the curtains had a pink floral design, and the big four-poster bed with the lace frill was covered with a pink satin bedspread.

  Christine picked up the baby and laid her down on the table for a diaper change. “I feel terrible about what I just said. I wasn’t thinking,” she said as she sat down to feed the baby.

  Lettie gave a slight frown. “What are you talking about? You didn’t say anything wrong,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

  “Oh yes, I did! I said London is a long way from home. Marco is a long way from home, Lettie. He must be so homesick!”

  “Don’t worry, Christine, Marco is a grown man. He came here for the climate. He knows he had to get away from the cold,” Lettie reassured her.

  “You don’t think I upset him?” asked Christine.

  “I know you didn’t.”

  Christine nodded. “Then I’m glad.” She gave Lettie an earnest look. “You and Marco are good friends, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Lettie, “we are.”

  “Is there something more?”

  Lettie shook her head. “No. No, there’s nothing more.”

  “He’s a wonderful man,” Christine continued, holding Anna upright. “He’s attractive, actually quite beautiful, now that he’s put on some weight and got a bit of sun on his skin.”

  Lettie began to laugh. “You can’t say a man is beautiful!”

  “Men are beautiful to me,” Christine said earnestly. “De Wet is very beautiful, you can’t argue with that. And Marco is beautiful too, Lettie. You should look.”

  She’d been looking a long time. She couldn’t help it. Aloud she said, “All right then, they are two beautiful men.”

  “And Marco is clever and charming.” Christine’s eyes were fixed on Lettie.

  Lettie sighed. “I know all that, Chrissie. But we’re really just good friends, wonderful friends.” She paused, then said, “And I don’t think it will ever change.”

  Christine sat on her bed, the baby nodding to sleep against her shoulder. Outside a bird called for its mate.

  “Lettie,” Christine asked softly, “are you in love with him?”

  She felt a great sadness drift up like a lazy bubble from someplace deep inside her and lodge itself in her throat. A primal sadness.

  She gave Christine a lopsided smile. “Ye-es,” she said, “I think I am, a little.”

  When Christine spoke again, her voice was tender. But it sounded strangely mature. “I know what it feels like,” she said. “No one knows, except Klara, but I was in love with De Wet for a very long time, since my school days, even before I left for Egypt. And . . . then I still missed him. I know that sadness.”

  Lettie just nodded. She’d been in love before, and she managed to go on with her busy life in spite of the pain. She’d do it again. “I’ll be fine, Chrissie, don’t worry. Is Anna asleep again?”

  “Yes.” Christine smiled and got to her feet. “Let’s join those beautiful men.”

  The annual school concert always drew a crowd, but the hall was hardly ever filled to capacity as it was tonight.

  “Remember the night you fell asleep onstage?” Christine asked De Wet as Lettie led them to the third row from the front, where she had saved seats. “You were the lead singer and you fell asleep in your chair!”

  Lettie joined in the laughter. “Klara was furious!”

  “Yes, it was 1938 and I’d stayed up the night before, listening to the election results,” De Wet said, “and I’d played rugby that morning. No wonder I couldn’t keep my eyes open!”

  “Can you believe that was ten years ago?” said Christine. “It feels like yesterday.”

  Nothing had changed in that time. The hall with its wooden parquet floor, the rows of straight-backed wooden chairs, the stage, the heavy dark-blue curtains—everything looked exactly the same, just slightly smaller than she remembered.

  “Your new glasses are beautiful,” Christine said.

  “Thank you. I had to get new lenses so I thought I ought to get new frames as well. You can get such nice ones nowadays.”

  The trio took their seats. Lettie was filled with an unfamiliar happiness. She loved her work and her friends. Even Annabel. She might not be tactful, but she gave good advice. She supposed being honest with one’s friends was part of good friendship too, even if the truth stung a little.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Christine said beside her.

  “I’m thinking about Annabel.”

  “Yes, she used to be here with us. All the years she was your best friend.”

  Lettie would not go quite that far, but yes, Annabel was her friend.

  At a quarter past seven—fifteen minutes late—the principal mounted the three steps to the stage. The audience clapped. He opened the proc
eedings with a Scripture reading and prayer, welcomed the audience, and thanked an almost endless number of people.

  The audience applauded again.

  Then the curtains opened and the concert began. There were poetry and piano recitals, solos and duets, a child using a saw as a musical instrument (rather ineptly, but still), and even a dance item or two. It was an ordinary school concert where everyone, regardless of talent, was granted their moment onstage. But the audience enjoyed the show, because it was their school and their children.

  At the intermission the senior girls sold coffee and koesisters on the porch outside.

  The choirs performed in the second half. The junior choir sang a number of lighter folk songs, and the senior choir gave a rendition of sacred music. Finally the combined choir delivered two patriotic songs. “It’s still the same as when we were here,” Christine whispered. “Remember all the hours we spent sitting side by side on these hard seats, Lettie?”

  The principal, who was acting as master of ceremonies, appeared onstage and announced, “For our final performance, our senior girls will sing a few popular love songs. I hope you enjoy it, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The curtains slid open. The lighting was soft. From behind the curtains four Form I pupils were blowing soap bubbles. The bubbles drifted over the stage and up to the ceiling, creating small rainbows before they vanished.

  “Oh, how beautiful,” Christine whispered.

  Six girls in long, flowing dresses with flowers in their hair came onstage. The piano began to play, and the girls twirled round so that their wide skirts billowed around their feet. They began to sing “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man” from Showboat, the musical.

  “Lovely,” Christine whispered.

  Their next song was “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?” Halfway through the number a violin joined in from behind the curtain.

  “Oh!” Christine sighed, ecstatic.

  “That must be Marco. I know he plays the violin,” Lettie whispered.

  “Really?” whispered Christine. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I just love Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy’s movies.” Christine sighed when the girls sang “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life.”

  “It’s lovely,” Lettie whispered back. She was smiling, enchanted by the scene. The music had drawn her in. She was glad she had come.

  The piano introduced the next song: “Indian Love Call,” from the film Rose-Marie. The voices joined in, and the girls held their wide skirts, twirled, and formed a semicircle.

  “Wonderful!” Christine whispered.

  The next moment a male voice came from behind the curtain, a pure, strong tenor.

  Lettie drew a sharp breath and clasped her hands together, her eyes fixed on the stage.

  The man stepped into the spotlight. He was wearing a dark dress suit and a crisp white shirt. His tall figure was proud and erect.

  “It’s Marco!” whispered Christine.

  Slowly he crossed the stage to the center. His voice carried all the way to the back of the hall.

  The girls faded into the background.

  Marco’s voice filled the hall.

  The audience was captivated.

  Slowly Lettie let out her breath and looked down at her hands. She felt totally defenseless, as if she were being torn apart, exposed.

  No, she thought, no, please.

  She’d been in love before, but never like this.

  She closed her eyes, tried to shut herself off, no longer able to look at him.

  But his voice reached every hidden corner of her heart.

  Applause erupted.

  Lettie opened her eyes. Around her people were clapping and cheering, jumping to their feet, shouting, “Encore! Encore!”

  “Lettie, you’re crying!” Christine said, dismayed.

  “No, no, it’s just . . . it was so lovely,” said Lettie, brushing her hand over her eyes. “Chrissie, I . . . my head aches and I’m tired. I’m going to leave now. Will you tell Marco . . . ?” She made a helpless gesture with her hands.

  Her friend nodded. She understood. “Go,” she said. “We’re leaving as well, just as soon as we’ve spoken to Marco.”

  Dear Lord, Lettie prayed on her way home, why did You bring this man all the way from Italy to this town?

  Quietly she slipped in at the back door of her parents’ house and tiptoed to her room. She could hear them listening to music in the living room.

  How could she ever listen to that music again without seeing him?

  She curled up under her duvet.

  How could she continue with a normal friendship? After tonight, it would be impossible.

  She buried her face in her pillow.

  She didn’t know how they could continue being nothing but friends, but she knew she could no longer be his doctor. She could no longer trust herself to be professional.

  Early the next morning the phone rang. Lettie jumped out of bed. She didn’t want her father to wake up unnecessarily. He’d been looking tired recently.

  But there was no emergency. It was Klara’s excited voice. “Christine called last night, in the middle of the night!” she said. “She told us about the concert and Marco’s singing. Since then, there’s been no stopping Antonio. We’re leaving for the bushveld in an hour to see the concert tonight. Can you believe it?” She was so excited that she was virtually stammering. “I’m calling to ask you to get us tickets, Lettie. Christine reckons the hall will be bursting at the seams tonight, because the bushveld has never seen anything like it. And get yourself a ticket as well. You’re coming with us.”

  “I’ll get the tickets, but I’ve already seen the concert,” Lettie protested.

  “Well, you simply have to come with us tonight,” Klara said firmly.

  “Ask Christine. She really—”

  “No, Christine has to look after her own kids and Cornelius,” Klara said. “Thanks, Lettie, see you tonight!” Before Lettie could say anything else, she ended the call.

  So it happened that Lettie was sitting in the hall yet again, in the fourth row from the front. The hall was packed, with no room for the proverbial mouse—the bush telegraph had done its job. Children were sitting on the floor in front of the stage, and people were standing in the open doors and at the windows.

  Lettie steeled herself against emotion. When the girls in their pretty dresses with flowers in their hair sang “Indian Love Call,” the strong tenor came from behind the curtain again, and again the audience gasped.

  Marco appeared in his dark suit and white shirt, his dark hair combed back, his face lit up by the spotlight.

  A collective sigh went through the audience.

  Lettie watched, saw everything, drank it in to remember it later.

  To her left a movement caught Lettie’s eye. She turned her head in Antonio’s direction. His aristocratic face was raised, the strong profile outlined in the stage lighting that reached their seats. His gaze was fixed on his brother on the stage.

  Tears were rolling down his cheeks uncontrollably.

  Lettie averted her eyes.

  When the concert was over, the people stood talking outside the hall, as if they were reluctant to leave.

  “That’s the brother of Antonio Romanelli, the man who helped build the bridge,” a lady said. “Do you remember when Antonio sang ‘Funiculì, Funiculà’ in the church hall?”

  “Well, this Italian is even better,” a second lady said. “He’s a fine figure of a man, isn’t he? Just so painfully thin!”

  “I’ve never seen the hall so full for a school concert,” the principal said, rubbing his hands together with pleasure.

  At last the cold chased the people back to their homes.

  “Could we have coffee at your place?” Antonio asked Lettie. “We have to leave early tomorrow morning and I’d like to spend a little time with Marco. I know it’s presumptuous, but the farm is too far and—”

  “No, no, of course you’re welcome,” Lettie said at once.
“We can catch up all night.”

  “We won’t do that.” Antonio laughed. “I’ll come with Marco. He should be here soon. You girls go ahead in our car.”

  Would this night never end?

  Her kettle was just boiling when Marco drew up at the back door. Klara laughed. “I see he knows his way around. He heads straight for the kitchen.”

  She put her arms around her brother-in-law. “Marco, you were fabulous tonight,” she said sincerely. “Why didn’t you go on? It was the highlight of the evening, the people were carried away.”

  “I didn’t want to risk having a coughing fit,” Marco replied.

  Klara laughed. “I was so proud of you!”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I still can’t believe you drove all the way from Pretoria.”

  “It was worth every mile,” Antonio said seriously. “I’m glad we did.”

  “You were really good, Marco,” Lettie said cautiously. She turned and filled the bag with coffee grounds. She poured boiling water on top and pushed the coffeepot to a cooler spot on the stove. Then she busied herself with the cups, fetched cookies from the pantry, and filled the sugar bowl.

  The other three talked nineteen to the dozen, laughing and making up for lost time.

  At last she was forced to sit down next to Klara, on the only vacant chair.

  She knew Marco was watching her across the table. From the corner of her eye she saw the slightly worried expression on his face. But she avoided his eyes as much as possible.

  Tonight, especially, avoidance was better than the alternative.

  At last everyone left.

  She got into bed.

  Sleep eluded her.

  “Daddy,” she said on Monday morning as they were driving to the hospital, “I think you should take over Marco Romanelli’s care.”

  “Why?” her father asked, frowning.

  “Well, I think he should talk about his wartime experiences. It was a traumatic time for him. He’s told me about the years they spent hiding in a cave in the Alps and about the two camps, one in Italy and one in Poland. But we don’t get to the crux of the matter. He might be more willing to speak to an older person, a man. Besides . . .” She hesitated a moment. “We’ve become good friends and . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to treat him.”