But Lucille saw the triangle of angry red welts on my back that evening, when she carried an armful of ironed clothes into my room. She drew up short. ‘What’s that?’ A reverse echo-chamber, the question growing louder each time it was repeated instead of softer — not fading away, not attenuating and disappearing but rising, rising in crescendo. ‘What’s that? Rena, what’s that?’ ‘They look like burns, madame.’ ‘Rena, who did this to you? Simon! Come and look at this!’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘Rena, what happened to you?’ ‘Darling, you have to tell us. Who did this to you?’ ‘Who burned you?’ ‘Did Rowan do this?’ ‘Did Rowan burn you?’ ‘Did he?’ ‘Did he?’
Not a word passed my lips. When I bowed my head, it was neither an acquiescence nor an avowal, simply a way of cowering, shrinking away, trying to disappear…But Rowan was kicked out of the house the very next day.
Double Noctran.
TUESDAY
‘To have believed in both the guilt and innocence of photographing…’
Partenza
No dreams, thanks to the sleeping-pills.
Lying in bed, Rena calculates how long it will be until her plane lands in Paris. Only twenty-seven hours to go…
Aziz was supposed to come and meet her at Roissy…but with everything that’s going on in France, will he be able to?
It’s past nine by the time she walks into the breakfast room. The minute they set eyes on her, Ingrid and Simon can tell something is off.
‘You’re white as a sheet,’ Ingrid says in a worried voice. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’
She tells them.
‘Oh, you poor thing!’ her stepmother exclaims. ‘Look: here’s the number to block your Visa card. Quick! Go ask if you can use their phone; it’s a free call.’
Five minutes later, it’s taken care of.
‘You’re right not to have gone to the police,’ says Simon. ‘Given car theft statistics in Italy, it’s probably not even worth filing a complaint. It would only mean endless paperwork, with no real hope of finding the culprits.’
‘But how will we get back to Florence?’ Rena says. ‘You haven’t driven since your cataract operation, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, but my dear wife can drive.’
Rena turns to Ingrid. ‘Do you have your licence with you?’
‘Of course. Wouldn’t be caught dead without it.’
‘Oh.’ (Why hadn’t it occurred to Rena to ask Ingrid if she wanted to drive?) ‘And you’re not afraid of dealing with Italian driver machismo?’
‘Not to worry. An hour and a half on the highway should be do-able. And since we didn’t put a second driver’s name on the contract, I’ll pass the wheel back to you just before we get to the agency.’
Rena stares at Ingrid in amazement. Does she always think of everything?
‘The worst loss by far,’ says Simon, ‘is your Canon.’
‘Not to worry,’ says Rena in turn. ‘I can always buy another one. No, the worst loss is what was in it — your photos of me.’
It’s ten o’clock. The blonde, efficient young owner comes over and starts clearing away their breakfast things.
‘Well,’ says Rena. ‘Shall we be off?’
‘Wait,’ says Simon. ‘Why don’t you come up to our room so we can talk over our plans for the day?’
The question kills her. (Life? Oh, that was what / went by while we were busy / making all those plans. A haiku written by Simon himself, long years ago.) Even if they leave right this minute, Rena doesn’t see how they can possibly squeeze in everything they’re supposed to do today: drive back to Florence, return the car, schlep their luggage over to the hotel…and they wanted to spend at least a few minutes at the Uffizi, failing which they can scarcely claim to have visited Florence. Right now, they’re not even packed, so if they have to sit down and discuss plans…No, thinks Rena. No, time will stop, I’ll never see Aziz or Kerstin, Toussaint or Thierno again. I’ll be stuck here forever in a B & B on the outskirts of Siena, with my father… his wife…his confusion…and his love…
‘Coming, Rena?’ says Ingrid.
She comes, and her pointy little ass barely touches the windowsill as she sits down.
Methodically, Simon goes about removing maps, clothing and books from the room’s only chair.
‘Have a chair,’ he says. (Need me.)
‘I’m fine, Dad. Don’t bother.’ (I’d sooner die!) ‘But you’ll be cold, so close to the window.’ (Let me love you!) ‘I’m forty-five years old, Dad. I know whether I’m cold or not. Trust me.’ (Leave me alone!)
‘But you’re my guest, I want to make you comfortable.’ (Whatever happened to my loving little girl?)
‘Dad, how long do you plan to push me around on pretext of making me comfortable?’ (Get off my back!)
Everything goes smoothly.
They speed across the Tuscan countryside, Ingrid driving masterfully. At last Rena can credit the idea that this ordeal might actually come to an end.
So this is…this was…this will have been…it?
Ingrid chirps and warbles as she drives. ‘Isn’t it a gorgeous day? Oh…I hope that car theft won’t spoil your whole memory of the trip. You’ve given us such a marvellous holiday…Right, Dad?’
‘I should say so!’ Simon says. ‘From now on, I’m going to turn seventy every year.’
They talk of going to Rome the next time around. Greece, too — oh, yes! Some other year…They talk and talk, believing not a word of what they say.
When they reach Florence’s ring road, Ingrid stops at a petrol station, fills up, and passes the wheel to Rena. Putting on her glasses, she guides her stepdaughter skilfully through the one-way streets around the Piazza Ognissanti.
The agency’s elegant Francophile comes out to check the car.
‘I hope everything went well, ladies and gentlemen?’ he asks them in French.
‘Si, si, grazie, naturalmente,’ Rena says, handing him the keys.
The rental was prepaid; it’s all over. Rena feels free, light-hearted, almost giddy.
That theft was basically a stroke of luck, Subra tells her. Look at all the things you don’t have to feel guilty about anymore! Not taking pictures, not calling your son who’s soon to be a father… Even Aziz’s silence has stopped torturing you: he might be trying to reach you, but you have no way of knowing it. So it’s not your fault: you’re innocent, completely innocent! Nothing to do with Beatrice Cenci, I tell you!
On the way to the Hotel Guelfa in a taxi, Simon startles them by telling the driver to stop. At once, car horns start honking indignantly.
‘What’s up, Dad?’ asks Ingrid.
Without a word, he gets out of the car and disappears into a shop. Craning her neck, Rena sees it’s an international bookshop. Incensed, she launches into a series of rhetorical questions: ‘Is this the right time to buy a book? Does he think this is the right time to buy a book?’