Beautiful Ruins (101)

Alvis lit his pipe again. “Lei è molto bella,” he said. She is very beautiful.

Pasquale turned to Alvis. He’d meant Dee Moray, of course, but at that moment Pasquale had been thinking of Amedea. “Sì,” Pasquale said. Then he said, in English, “Alvis, today is the requiem mass for my mother.”

So gracious were these two men, so fond of each other, that they sometimes had conversations speaking entirely in the other’s language. “Sì, Pasquale. Dispiace. Devo venire?”

“No. Thank you. I am go this alone.”

“Posso fare qualcosa?”

Yes. There was one thing he could do, Pasquale said. He looked up to see Tomasso the Communist puttering back into the cove. Almost time. Pasquale turned to Alvis and switched back to Italian to make sure he said it right. “If I do not come back tonight, I need you to do something for me.”

Of course, Alvis said.

“Can you take care of Dee Moray? Make sure she gets back safely to America?”

“Why? Are you going somewhere, Pasquale?”

Pasquale reached in his pocket and handed Alvis the money that Michael Deane had given him. “And give this to her.”

“Of course,” Alvis said, and again, “but where are you going?”

“Thank you,” Pasquale said, again choosing not to answer that question, afraid that if he said aloud what he intended, he might lose the strength to do it.

Tomasso’s boat was nearly at the pier. Pasquale patted his American friend on the arm, looked around the small village, and, without another word, went into the hotel. In the kitchen, Valeria was making breakfast. His aunt never made breakfast, even though Carlo had insisted for years that a hotel hoping to cater to French and Americans must offer breakfast. (It’s a lazy man’s meal, she always said. What laggard expects to eat before doing any work?) But this morning she was making a French brioche and brewing espresso.

“Is the American whore coming down to eat?” Valeria asked.

Here it was, the moment he figured out who he was to be. Pasquale took a breath and climbed the stairs to see if Dee Moray was hungry. He could tell by the light coming from beneath the door that her window shutters were open. He took a deep breath to steel himself, and tapped lightly on the door.

“Come in.”

She was sitting up in bed, pulling her long hair into a ponytail. “I can’t believe how long I slept,” she said. “You don’t realize how tired you are until you sleep for twelve hours.” She smiled at him, and in that moment, Pasquale doubted that he could ever bridge the gap between his intentions and his desires.

“You look handsome, Pasquale,” she said. And she looked down at her own clothes, the same outfit she’d worn to the train station: tight black pants, a blouse, and a wool sweater. She laughed. “I guess all of my things are still at the station in La Spezia.”

Pasquale looked down at his feet, trying not to meet her eyes.

“Is everything okay, Pasquale?”

“Yes,” he said, and he looked up, catching her eyes. When he wasn’t in the room with her, he had one sense of what was right, but the minute he saw those eyes . . . “You come down for breakfast now? Is a brioche. And caffè.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll be right down.”

He couldn’t say the rest. Pasquale nodded slightly and turned to leave.

“Thank you, Pasquale,” she said.

Hearing his name caused him to turn back again. Looking in her eyes was like standing by a door slightly ajar. How could you not push open the door, see what lay inside?

She smiled at him. “Do you remember my first night here, when we agreed that we could say anything to each other? That we wouldn’t hold back?”

“Yes,” Pasquale managed to say.

She laughed uneasily. “Well, it’s strange. I woke up this morning and I realized I had no idea what to do now. If I’m going to have this baby . . . If I’m going to keep acting . . . If I’m going to go to Switzerland . . . or back to the States. I honestly don’t have any idea. But when I woke up, I felt okay. Do you know why?”

Pasquale gripped the doorknob. He shook his head no.

“I was glad that I’d get to see you again.”

“Yes,” he said. “Me, too,” and that door seemed to open a little—and the glimpse he had beyond the door tortured him. He wanted to say more, to say everything on his mind—but he couldn’t. It wasn’t a question of language; he doubted the words existed at all, in any language.

“Well,” Dee said. “I’ll be right down.” And then, just as he was turning away, she added quietly—the words seeming just to tip from her beautiful lips, spilling like water: “Then maybe we can talk about what happens next.”

Next. Yes. Pasquale wasn’t sure how he managed to back out of the room, but he did. He pulled her door closed behind him and stood with his hand outstretched against it, breathing deeply. Finally, he pushed off the door, made it to the stairs, and eventually to his room. Pasquale grabbed his coat, his hat, and his packed bag off his bed. He came out of his room and down the stairs. At the bottom, Valeria was waiting for him.

“Pasqo,” she said. “Will you ask the priest to say a prayer for me?”

He said he would. Then he kissed his aunt on the cheek and went outside.