‘I should think that was so,’ I said.
‘That woman was mad at him.’
It was difficult to know if she spoke in response to what I’d said or not. A frown gathered on her freckled forehead. Her flaxen hair, so like her mother’s, trailed smoothly down her back. Her eyes, lit for the while she spoke, went dead again.
‘Your uncle’s coming, Aimée. Mr Riversmith.’
But she was colouring now, lightly passing the crayons over the misshapen limbs and bodies. The tip of her tongue protruded slightly, in concentration.
‘Mr Riversmith,’ I said again.
Still there was no response. Otmar left the room, and I guessed he had gone to ask Quinty to summon Dr Innocenti.
‘Your uncle,’ the General said.
Aimée spoke again, about another game she and her brother had played, and then, with the same abruptness, she ceased. She said nothing more, but those few moments of communication had more than a slight effect on both the General and Otmar, and in a sense on me. This spark had kindled something in us; the brief transformation fluttered life into a hope that had not been there before. At last there was something good, happening in the present. At last we could reach out from our preoccupation with ourselves alone.
The General smiled at Aimée, while she sat there on the floor, lost to us again. Aimée was a lovely name, I said, not knowing what else to say. ‘Thank God for this,’ the General murmured, to me directly.
‘Yes, thank God.’
Otmar returned to the room and sat with us in silence, and in time we heard Dr Innocenti’s car approaching. We didn’t break the silence, but listened to the hum of the engine as it came closer, until eventually the tyres scrunched on the gravel outside.
‘Coraggio!’ Dr Innocenti said, speaking softly from the doorway, not coming quite into the room. ‘Va meglio, vero.’
Later he predicted that Aimée would make progress now, but warned us that on the way to recovery there might be disturbances. It was as well to expect this since often the return to reality could be alarming for a child: you had only to consider what this reality was, he pointed out. His hope was that Aimée would not be too badly affected. He charged us with vigilance.
The days and weeks that followed were happy. Diffidently, I put it to Dr Innocenti that the child was the surviving fledgling in a rifled nest, her bright face the exorcist of our pain. The beauty that was promised her, and already gathering in those features, was surely to be set against the torn limbs in Carrozza 219, against the blood still dripping from the broken glass, the severed hand like an ornament in the air? Her chatter challenged the old man’s guilt and was listened to, as wisdom might be, by Otmar. ‘Si. Si,’ Dr Innocenti several times repeated, hearing me out and appearing to be moved.
Local people, learning that some victims of the outrage were in my house, sent gifts – flowers and wine, fruit, panet-tone. The carabinieri came less often now, once in a while to ensure that Aimée was still being looked after, then not at all, instead making their inquiries of Dr Innocenti. Once I walked into the kitchen to find Signora Bardini weeping, and thought at first she suffered some distress, but when she lifted her head I saw that her streaming eyes gleamed with joy. Naturally no such display of emotion could be expected of Quinty, though Rosa Crevelli was affected, of that I’m certain. ‘Aimée! Aimée!’ she called about the house.
Perhaps for the General Aimée became a daughter with whom he might begin again. Perhaps for Otmar she was the girl who had died on the train. I do not know; I am not qualified to say; I never asked them. But for my own part I can claim without reservation that I became as devoted to the child during that time as any mother could be. It was enough to see her sprawled on the floor with her crayons, or making a little edifice out of stones near where the car was kept, or drinking Signora Bardini’s iced tea. Aimée shuffled in and out of a darkness, remaining with us for longer periods as these weeks went by. Sometimes she would sit close to me on the terrace, and in the cool of the evening I would stroke her fine, beautiful hair.
5
The telephone in my house rings quietly, but never goes unheard because there is a receiver in the hall and in the kitchen, as well as in my writing-room. It was I myself, in my private room, who answered it when eventually Aimée’s uncle rang.
‘Mrs Delahunty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Delahunty, this is Thomas Riversmith.’
‘How d’you do, Mr Riversmith.’
‘May I inquire how Aimée is?’ He sounded as if grit had got into his vocal cords – a tight, unfriendly voice, unusual in an American.
‘Aimée is beginning to return to us.’
‘She speaks now every day?’
‘Since the afternoon she spoke she has continued.’
‘I’ve talked with your doctor many times.’ There was a pause and then, with undisguised difficulty: ‘I want to say, Mrs Delahunty, that I appreciate what you have done for my niece.’
‘I have not done much.’
‘May I ask you to tell me what the child says when she speaks to you?’
‘In the first place she asked where she was. Several times she has mentioned her brother by name. And has spoken of being scolded by her mother.’
‘Scolded?’
‘As any child might be.’
‘I see.’
‘If Aimée wakes in the night, if there is a nightmare, anything like that, a cry of distress would be heard at once. Otmar sleeps with his door open. In the daytime there is always someone near at hand.’
At first there was no response. Then: ‘Who is it that sleeps with a door open?’
‘Otmar. A German victim of the outrage. Also in my house is an English general, similarly a victim.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s strange for all of us.’
That observation was ignored. There was another pause, so long I thought we’d been cut off. But in time the gritty voice went on:
‘The doctor seems anxious that the child should make more progress before I come to take her home.’
‘Aimée is welcome to remain as long as is necessary.’
‘I’m sorry. I did not catch that.’
I repeated what I’d said. Then formally, the tone still not giving an inch, socially or otherwise:
‘Our authorities here have informed yours that I will naturally pay all that is owing. Not only the hospital fees, but also what is owing to yourself.’
This sounded like a speech, as though many people were being addressed. I did not explain that that was Quinty’s department. I did not say anything at all. A woman’s voice murmured in the background, and Mr Riversmith – having first questioned some remark made – asked if I, myself, was quite recovered from the ordeal. The background prompt was repeated; the man obediently commiserated. It had been a dreadful shock for him, he confessed. He’d read about these things, but had never believed that he himself could be brought so close to one. You could hear the effort in every word he spoke, as if he resented having to share a sentiment, as if anything as personal as a telephone conversation – even between strangers – was anathema to him.