The Importance of Being Seven (34 page)

Domenica and Angus arrived at the Santa Maria Nuova Hospital three hours after Antonia had been taken away in her ambulance, its siren echoing through the narrow Florentine streets. The delay was deliberate and was not indicative of a lack of concern on their part. There was no point, Domenica suggested, in arriving contemporaneously with the patient: the doctors would need to make their admission examination and it would not help them to have anxious friends tugging at their clinical sleeves. So they continued with their visit to the Uffizi, taking in if not everything they had hoped to see, then at least some portion of it.

At the hospital they were ushered into a small, sparsely furnished waiting room outside the office of the clinical director. A secretary attended to them, offering them a glass of water and a small plate of
biscotti
while they waited.

‘Such courteous people,’ said Domenica as the secretary left the room. ‘Can you imagine the National Health Service offering anybody
biscotti
?’

‘Alas, I cannot,’ said Angus, helping himself to one of the small, brittle biscuits. He examined the biscuit carefully, as if looking for something. ‘This reminds me of Proust’s madeleine cake. Perhaps that’s why they keep them in a psychiatric institution – to promote Proustian reflections that might, in turn, aid diagnosis.’

‘Highly unlikely,’ said Domenica.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside, followed by the entry into the room of a tall man in a white coat.

‘Please excuse my tardiness,’ said the doctor. ‘I am Professor Sergio Novelletto. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.’

They both stood up to shake the doctor’s hand. As Domenica took his hand, he drew hers up to his lips and kissed it in an elaborate display of formal manners. Then he invited them to sit.

‘I have been at the bedside of your poor friend,’ he said, looking by turn at Angus and Domenica. ‘It is a classic case of a crisis brought on by excessive exposure to art and to …’ he looked out
of the window at the Florentine skyline, ‘and to these antique and beautiful stones. We call this condition Stendhal Syndrome, as you may be aware. Indeed it is here in this very institution that the pioneering work on this condition was done. My distinguished colleague, Professor Graziella Magherini, had the honour of naming this condition. She is the author of the standard work on the subject,
La Sindrome di Stendhal: Il malessere del viaggiatore di fronte alla grandezza dell’arte
. So we are well placed to treat the crises that this unfortunate condition brings about.’

‘We have heard of it,’ said Angus.

The professor inclined his head gravely. Domenica noted the immaculately groomed head of grey hair. ‘I am sure that you have,’ he said. ‘So many travellers have been overwhelmed by art in this city. Goethe, John Ruskin, Henry James – there are many illustrious names of those for whom this condition has been only too real – and now to this list we add the name of your dear Scottish friend, la Signora Antonia Collie. What a great pity!’

‘Will she be all right?’ asked Domenica.

‘Oh, I have no doubt of that,’ said the professor. ‘The duration of the crisis varies, of course, but it is usually the case that the more educated, sophisticated independent traveller recovers rather more slowly, I’m afraid to say. Perhaps such people have more sensitive souls than those who arrive in organised tours – I am not sure. Perhaps we shall never know.’

The professor paused for a moment before continuing. ‘I gather from my secretary that you are all from Edinburgh.’

‘That is true,’ said Domenica. She was about to add that Antonia came from Fife originally and that she might therefore have a less sensitive soul – and might therefore recover more quickly – but she decided not to raise this possibility.

‘That interests me,’ said the professor. ‘I have visited Edinburgh on a number of occasions. My great friend, Henry Walton, was professor of psychiatry there, of course, and I have been privileged to see his considerable collection of Chinese ceramics. But there is something more: I have been told by my Edinburgh colleagues that they encounter a very similar condition in Edinburgh, the
Edinburgh Syndrome, which manifests itself in a very similar crisis to that encountered in Stendhal Syndrome cases: shortness of breath, palpitations of the heart, disorders of colour perception, and so on. In the case of the Edinburgh variant, this principally occurs among visitors who see rather too many Fringe shows in rapid succession, followed by a visit to your renowned military tattoo. It is at that point, later in the evening, when the massed pipe bands march onto the Castle Esplanade that those who are at risk develop Edinburgh Syndrome and have to be removed to the Royal Edinburgh Hospital.’

Domenica and Angus listened to the professor with rapt attention.

‘Remarkable!’ said Domenica. ‘I was quite unaware of this.’ She paused. ‘But tell me,
chiarissimo professore
, how long will our dear friend have to remain in your care?’

The professor thought for a moment. ‘I believe that the best thing to do will be to keep her here for a couple of days while we stabilise her and observe her. Then we shall move her to the care of a very fine community of nuns in the countryside, the Convent of the Tiny Sisters. They are very solicitous of patients such as these, and she will be well cared for. She should spend three weeks with the sisters before she is fit enough to travel.’ He looked enquiringly at Domenica. ‘Will that be all right?’

Domenica nodded her approval. ‘You are very kind.’

‘It is nothing,’ said the professor. ‘I only regret the disturbance that this must cause to your own holiday plans.’

‘That is but as nothing,’ said Domenica quickly. ‘We shall rise above it, shall we not, Angus?’

‘Completely,’ said Angus.

They chatted with the professor for a few minutes more. He asked them where they were staying, and told them that he knew the area well. He had a friend who had a villa nearby and he would be happy to write a letter of introduction to this person and suggest that Domenica and Angus be invited for dinner.

‘He keeps a very good kitchen,’ said the professor. ‘And a fine cellar too. His grandfather was one of the principal producers of
Brunello di Montalcino, and some of the bottles in his cellar go back to the early 1930s.’

‘He is a fortunate man,’ said Angus.

‘Indeed,’ said the professor. ‘But we are all fortunate in one way or another. The task for most of us is to identify in what way that is, would you not agree?’

It was a curious coincidence of the sort that, although quite explicable in terms of statistical likelihood, none the less leaves us surprised, or at least vaguely unsettled. By such a coincidence, on the very day that Antonia Collie experienced her intense bout of Stendhal Syndrome and collapsed on the floor of the Uffizi Gallery, Matthew felt disinclined to get out of his bed in India Street and found himself burying his head under the pillows when Elspeth brought him an early morning cup of tea.

He had not slept well. His dreams had been vivid and vaguely disturbing; not nightmares in the conventional sense, but nevertheless characterised by a feeling of foreboding, by a sense that something vaguely unpleasant was about to happen. And while the light of dawn, and,
a fortiori
, a cup of tea will normally put such dreams into perspective, this did not happen today. On the contrary, when Matthew awoke it seemed to him that reality, if anything, was slightly worse than the uneasy world of his dreams.

There were several things worrying Matthew. First, there was the gallery, where he felt that he had got himself into an impossible situation with his new assistant, Kirsty – she of the extraordinarily tight jeans. Even if he had not spoken to her about it, he was not satisfied with her work; he felt that she discouraged, rather than encouraged, customers by what Angus Lordie had described as her ‘rather overpowering presence’. This was, of course, a polite way of saying that she was a flirt, and this meant that when couples
came into the gallery to look round, inevitably the wife would cut short the visit in order to get the husband away. Yet although he was convinced that she was not suited to the job, Pat had also warned him that it would be impossible to get rid of her because of her membership of some obscure and frightening organisation dedicated to the intimidation of men.

That was one issue. The other was the question of the flat that he had purchased on Moray Place and into which he and Elspeth would shortly be moving. Bruce’s report on this flat had been discouraging in the extreme. Not only did he suggest that Matthew had grossly overpaid for the new property, but he also claimed that the unauthorised removal of an internal wall by the previous owner had left the ceiling being effectively supported by nothing but a large Chinese cabinet. Matthew had not mentioned this to Elspeth, with the result that the knowledge had become even more burdensome to him. What if Elspeth decided to move the Chinese cabinet, as well she might? Would that bring down the ceiling and, on the domino principle, the neighbouring flat and then all of Moray Place? Surely not; and yet he could not bring himself to confess to her that he had made a foolish mistake.

Elspeth noticed the pillow over his head. ‘Matthew?’

There was a muffled sound from the bed.

‘Matthew, what’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?’

From underneath the pillow, Matthew let out a groan. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I mean, no. Or not quite. Oh, Elspeth …’

He flung the pillow aside and stared up at his wife. There were tears in his eyes.

‘Oh, Matthew!’ She bent down and embraced him where he lay. ‘My darling Matthew! You’re crying. My darling, what is it?’

He told her, sobbing as he spoke, feeling the burden of his secrecy ebb away as the truth was laid bare. ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake with Moray Place,’ he said. ‘They took a supporting wall away and the whole thing’s being held up by a Chinese cabinet. And the gallery; that girl, Kirsty – Pat says that I can’t get rid of her because she’ll do something terrible to me and I saw her looking at a Vuillard in a catalogue and I think that she’s going to buy it behind my back and then we’ll have to pay because she’ll have bought it on the gallery’s behalf and what if the money … And she’s got these really tight jeans which she wears deliberately and she makes women drag their husbands away without looking at the paintings and Big Lou says …’

‘Hush. Hush. My darling, this is all nonsense. Just nonsense.’

‘It’s not,’ wailed Matthew. ‘Bruce said that if we moved that cabinet then all of Moray Place will fall down and Pat said …’

Elspeth put her hand against his brow, just as she had done as a teacher when one of the six-year-olds had become hysterical. ‘Calm down,’ she said. ‘Just calm down. You’re under strain because of the move. That’s normal. Everybody finds a move stressful. I’ll sort out this Chinese cabinet business.’

Matthew was suddenly alarmed. ‘Don’t touch it!’ he said. ‘If you move it, then the ceiling—’

‘I’ll sort it out,’ said Elspeth. ‘Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to fall down. And as for Kirsty, I’ll sort her out too. She’s a student – she’ll get another job easily enough, and it’s not as if it’s her livelihood. I’ll get rid of her today.’

She brooked no argument. ‘You stay in bed,’ she said, rising to
her feet. ‘You get some more sleep – you obviously didn’t sleep very well last night. I shall go along to sort things out in Dundas Street. Then I’ll get a decent surveyor along to Moray Place and we’ll sort out this cabinet nonsense. Leave it to me.’

Matthew did not argue, and by the time that Elspeth left the flat after breakfast, he had fallen into a dreamless, untormented sleep. Elspeth looked in on him before she left; he appeared so vulnerable, she thought, so innocent, as men do in sleep. The strongest, the most masculine of men, she thought, can look like a baby when his head is on the pillow and his eyes are closed. It reminded her of human vulnerability; here we are with all our human pretensions, with our mastery of the world about us, with our clever machines and our elaborate conceits, and we are no more than children who must, like the smallest of creatures, surrender to sleep and the powerlessness of oblivion.

Quietly closing the door on Matthew, Elspeth went about the task of sorting out the two problems troubling her over-stressed husband. Several telephone calls later, an arrangement was made to meet a surveyor in Moray Place at noon that day. That achieved, she then telephoned the gallery and suggested that she meet Pat and Kirsty at Big Lou’s at 10.30 a.m. Kirsty, who took the call, was doubtful at first, but agreed to the suggestion when Elspeth made it clear that Matthew had authorised the meeting and would expect her to be there. This was not strictly speaking true; Matthew did not even know of the meeting, but Elspeth interpreted his earlier assent to her sorting things out as clearly covering a meeting at Big Lou’s.

Elspeth was there first, and Big Lou was already bringing her coffee to the table when Pat and Kirsty arrived. Elspeth noticed Big Lou’s glance at Kirsty’s tight jeans and knew immediately that she had an ally. Good, she thought; Big Lou understands.

‘Well,’ Elspeth began, as the two young women sat down in front of her. ‘Let’s waste no more time. As you are aware, the economy of this country is in a parlous state.’ She paused, watching the effect of her words. There was a frown from Kirsty; Pat, although attentive, gave nothing away. ‘So unfortunately one of you has to go. And it’s you, Kirsty. Sorry about that, but there we are. You’ll be paid up to the end of next week, but you can have your remaining time off. Sorry about this.’

For a moment Kirsty said nothing. Then, without any warning, she leaned across the table, and pulled Elspeth’s hair. Elspeth, taken aback, screamed, and Pat, after a few seconds of shock, turned in her seat and seized Kirsty’s long blonde hair, giving it a sufficiently sharp tug to elicit a howl of protest from the other girl.

Big Lou, witnessing this from behind her counter, lost no time in making her way round the side and rushing over to join the affray. She seized Kirsty’s hair on the other side – that is, on the opposite side of the head to that engaged by Pat – and tugged hard. There were further howls and a low hissing sound that came from one of them, although it was not immediately apparent from whom.

Big Lou was, of course, the most powerful of the three, and she soon succeeded in lifting Kirsty from her seat, by her hair. She then changed her grip, seizing her by the right arm and half pushing, half dragging her to the door. In the course of this short journey, the tight jeans split, a jagged San Andreas fault opening across the over-taut denim.

‘Oot,’ said Big Lou, bundling her out. ‘Nae ripped jeans in here.’

Pat now lent Elspeth a comb so that she could tidy her ruffled hair. They were all shocked by what had occurred, but it did not take long for the conversation to return to normal. This was not before Big Lou had confessed that she had always had her reservations about Kirsty and that her departure was by no means premature. Pat agreed with this, and complimented Elspeth on her prompt and decisive action.

They spent the next hour in pleasant conversation about books. Big Lou had been reading William Dalrymple’s
Nine Lives
, a book
about the various forms of spirituality to be encountered in India. ‘I’m reading about the Jains at the moment,’ she told them. ‘Do you realise that they wear masks when they ride bicycles so that they don’t destroy insects by swallowing them? And do you realise that they watch their footfall very closely to avoid crushing any living creature?’

‘It must be difficult,’ said Pat. ‘I suppose I crushed a lot of things walking down from Marchmont this morning.’

‘The world is full of suffering and death,’ said Elspeth.

After this conversation, Elspeth made her way over to Moray Place. The new surveyor was waiting for her, and they went into the flat together.

‘Very nice place this,’ said the surveyor. ‘One has to pay for these flats, though.’

‘How much?’ asked Elspeth.

‘Over a million,’ said the surveyor. ‘Or thereabouts – in this market. Very nice. Nice feel to it.’

‘Matthew was told that a supporting wall had been removed,’ said Elspeth. ‘Bruce Anderson said that the ceiling is being held up by that Chinese cabinet over there.’

The surveyor burst out laughing. ‘Him? He said that? What absolute nonsense. Here, I’ll show you.’

And with that he strode across the room and gave the Chinese cabinet a good push. It moved several inches, and when he pushed it again, it moved some more.

‘See? Absolute nonsense. And that’s a strengthened beam in there – I’m pretty sure of it. You’re quite all right.’

‘So Moray Place isn’t going to fall down after all?’ asked Elspeth.

‘Fall down? Of course not. Moray Place is very sound structurally. These are beautifully built houses – strong as the Rock of Gibraltar – if the Rock of Gibraltar is still strong, that is.’

‘One used to use the Bank of England as a metaphor for strength,’ remarked Elspeth.

The surveyor laughed. ‘Used to,’ he said. ‘But that’s another question altogether.’

‘So everything’s fine?’

‘Of course it is. This is a lovely flat in a very fine part of town. There’s nothing wrong with Moray Place.’

They left the flat shortly thereafter. ‘You can reassure your husband,’ said the surveyor. ‘Tell him that he’s made a very wise purchase. I’m even a bit envious!’

Elspeth returned to India Street. Matthew had got out of bed but was still in his dressing gown. He looked at her half expectantly, half guiltily.

‘I’ve just come back from Moray Place,’ she said. ‘You know what the surveyor said?’

Matthew put his hands to his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t want to hear.’

‘Matthew, my darling! He said that it was a very wise purchase! And he moved the Chinese cabinet. Nothing happened, Matthew, nothing!’

It took a moment or two for her words to sink in. When they did, he moved towards her, throwing his arms around her, showering her with kisses. It was a complete transformation; the self-doubting husband she had left that morning was nowhere to be seen; the gentle optimist she had married had returned.

‘And?’ he asked tentatively. ‘The gallery?’

She nodded. ‘Sorted out.’

‘Maturely?’

She hesitated. Was there much difference, she wondered, between the world of Olive and Tofu on the one hand and the adult world on the other? Not really.

‘More or less,’ she said.