No problem interpreting France as a country at war — the images I saw last night more than suffice. But the baby. Who is that baby? Myself? ‘Apparently a boy.’ Half dead. The dream doesn’t say what happens to the other half, the part no one bothers to unfold or take in their arms, the part no one smiles at. It’s there, too, though. I mean, we can’t just toss it onto the garbage heap. Why does the mother take no interest in it?
Who is that mother? asks Subra.
Parting the bedroom curtains, Rena sees that Sunday’s limpid brilliance has given way to a chilly, steel-grey Monday — as if the Creator himself were reluctant to head back to work after His day of rest. A thick fog has invaded Chianti, narrowing the universe, effacing the distant hills and blurring even the contours of the garden. Only nearby objects are visible, and even they look dull and lustreless.
It’s only eight o’clock but Gaia has told them she needs to lock up the house by nine-thirty at the latest. How will they ever manage to extricate themselves in time?
Determined not to go stir-crazy waiting for Simon and Ingrid, Rena flips through the beautiful edition of The Divine Comedy in Gaia’s library, admiring Gustave Doré’s illustrations, and stumbles on a passage about bodies metamorphosing…
The two heads were by now to one comprest, When there before our eyes two forms begin To mix in one where neither could be traced. Two arms were made where the four bands had been; The belly and chest and with the legs the thighs Became such members as were never seen…
Hard to believe this passage was written seven centuries before movie cameras were invented, Rena says to herself. You’d think it was describing special effects for the next Harry Potter film.
This house is so lovely…
Still no sign of Simon and Ingrid. Maybe when they come down she’ll tell them to take the Megane and continue the trip without her; she’s decided to stay here. She wants to live with Gaia until the end of her days, absorbing her wisdom, making fruit jam, drying flowers, planting vegetables in the earth…
Her mobile rings. It’s Schroeder.
‘Patrice! How are you?’
‘I’m not calling to make small talk, Rena.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve been keeping abreast of…’
‘Yes, I finally caught some footage last night. It’s…’
‘What about this morning?’
A wave of fear washes through her.
‘Not yet. Is there…’
‘Rena, listen. There’s a civil war going on here. Aziz tells me he asked you to cut your holiday short and you said no. Don’t you think you’re going a bit far? I mean, you’re not Salgado, you know? You’re replaceable. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but I want to be sure you understand. Rena, you’ve got to come back today. That’s an ultimatum. If you decide not to, I won’t be able to renew your contract.’
‘Is Aziz with you?’
‘Did you hear me? On the Fringe won’t be able to publish your photos anymore.’
‘Could you put him on? I’ll talk to you again right afterwards.’
A silence. Her brain is shrouded in the same fog as the landscape.
‘Yeah.’
Aziz. His bad-day voice.
‘What’s going on, love? What have I done to deserve this overdose of silence?’
No, that’s not the right approach — she shouldn’t force him to discuss their love life in front of their boss. It will only make him feel trapped, cornered, tricked. But she can’t help it.
‘You’re thinking about replacing me, too, is that it?’
What a stupid thing to say. The worst possible tactic. She can practically see his shoulders shrugging to shake her off.
Schroeder has taken the phone back.
‘Well, Rena. What’s your decision?’
‘Ciao, Patrice.’
There. I’ve lost my job. Good start to the day. Let’s see what else can happen before the sun goes down.
Capriccio
Going upstairs to pack, she passes Ingrid coming down for breakfast. Simon isn’t hungry, she informs Rena. But they’re almost ready…
Rena brings down her suitcase, moves the car to the doorstep, and settles down to wait in the living room with Gaia.
The minutes inch by like slobbery, amorphous slugs. They swell up into obese quarter-hours, ugly and useless as gobs of saliva.
Gaia puts a sympathetic arm around her shoulders and tells her in a low voice that her father was depressive, too. So many failed Galileos! So many immature Zeuses! So many Commanders in bathrobes! Why did no one warn us about this?
Using hand gestures and her modicum of Italian, Rena conveys to her hostess that the little mice are fed up with tiptoeing around their big, depressed lion-daddies. Gaia bursts out laughing.
At long last, Ingrid comes down and tells her they’re all set. Rena goes up to help Simon with their suitcases…But first he wants to carry down the plates, glasses, cups and saucers Gaia brought them for their various snacks.
‘Leave it, Daddy, please. Don’t worry, Gaia will take care of it. It’s her job.’
Simon thinks it would be more polite, more generous, indeed, more feminist of them to take care of it themselves. The debate goes on for a good five minutes; downstairs, Gaia must be losing patience. Rena gives in and carries down the tray.
The car is waiting at the doorstep; the luggage is in the trunk; now what’s holding them up?
Oh, right. Life.
Simon has come to a halt in the middle of the living room. A step. A pause. A question — insoluble, as always. A sigh. Encroaching darkness. His hands go up to cover his face. Blackout. Endgame. They’ll go nowhere. They’ve been struck motionless, like the party guests in Sleeping Beauty’s castle.
Finally Gaia breaks the spell. Striding across the room, she kindly, smilingly—’Arrivederci’—but firmly—‘Ciao! Ciao!’—kicks them out of her house.
God bless her — if, that is, He’s still able to lift a finger.
They’re off. Naturally, though, their troubles are far from over.
‘Looks like we took a wrong turn,’ Rena says after a while, braking gently. ‘We’re headed for the highway, not the Chiantigiana.’
Simon studies the little map Gaia sketched for them. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But if we keep on going, I think we can catch up with it a bit further on.’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Rena, stopping at the side of the road to make a U-turn.
‘Fine!’ Simon says, slamming his palms down onto the open map of Tuscany on his lap. ‘No point in my reading the maps, then — just do as you please!’
Zeus does the Zeus thing, Subra says. What do you expect? He rants, raves, and thunders, reducing all to ash.