The Memory of Lost Senses (13 page)

The door slams shut. Neither one of them moves. The woman lies crumpled, motionless on the floor; the girl sits in petrified silence, waiting, listening, hardly daring to breathe. Only after his footsteps have faded, only when there is complete quiet does the girl slide down from the chair and run across the room. The woman reaches out, tries to speak, but her mouth is filled with blood, her teeth coated red, and the girl can’t distinguish the words in the gurgling, swelled sound. And so she says, “It’s all right . . . he’s gone now.”

At one time in her life Cora had been a brilliant listener. She had asked a great many questions, keen to hear about the minutiae of others’ lives. Long anecdotes, digressions tedious to anyone else, had been met with an unerring patience and attentiveness. And this skill alone had won her many friends. But now Cora liked to talk. Not necessarily about herself, but of those she had once known, the places she had once lived or visited.

She had made Tuesdays her “at home” day but other days, too, had seen a steady stream of callers. Once or twice, as many as ten had sat down to take tea with her, glancing about her drawing room with eager eyes and a seemingly endless list of questions, some surprisingly intelligent, others less so. What had Rome been like before the reunification? Had she met Garibaldi? (Of course, she had.) And the Pope? (Yes, many times.) Had she been in Paris during the Commune of ’71? (No, thankfully not. She had been residing in Rome at that time.) Did they still speak Latin in Rome? Was it true that they made the Jews race in bare feet through the streets and locked them up at night?

The fact that she was able to answer these questions, that she could enlighten, educate and inform her new neighbors had given her a sense of satisfaction, and pride, even a raison d’être for the short time they were in her midst. She was flattered by their interest in her, in her life and her possessions. She pointed to paintings—a watercolor of her former home, the Château de Chazelles in France, a portrait of her at twenty-one years of age, and another of the count in uniform. She spoke of her early days in Rome, pronouncing the unpronounceable, rolling her Rs and slipping into Italian here and there. She explained to them that the English expatriate community, then, had been strong, with an English quarter situated around the Piazza di Spagna—yes, where the famous steps are—and with English shops selling English produce, English tea rooms serving English tea, English hotels, English banks, even English employment bureaus offering English servants. “Well,” someone said, “that is a relief!”

Rome, she told them, had had no fewer than thirty-five thousand foreigners living within its walls when she first arrived. “Of course, many of them were visitors, there for only the season. And it is without doubt the perfect place to spend the winter months. The light is altogether different then,” she went on, staring out of the window. “I’m not sure how I shall cope with winter in England. I haven’t spent a winter here since—” She stopped. “Since I was a girl.”

“And, if I may ask, where was that, ma’am? Whereabouts did you grow up?”

“Gracious, now you are testing me!” she said, affecting a laugh. A few followed suit, and she added, “I rather think I grew up in some distant county that no longer exists, for the world has changed and the place of my childhood is no more.” Heads turned and nodded. “Like many of us here,” she continued, gauging a consensus, “I grew up in a different world.” She turned to the gentleman. “I’m afraid my early life is very dim and distant to me now. And, I fear, decidedly dull by comparison to my life overseas,” she said, smiling.

She was long used to navigating difficult conversations. It was easy enough, or had been, to chart a course. Deflection was a useful tool, to turn the tables, ask the same question back, and then another, and another, so that that the original question, addressed to her, was abandoned, forgotten. She imagined it similar to driving a motorcar and avoiding the potholes on the road ahead. The driver sees them coming and swiftly takes action. The passengers remain oblivious, distracted by a newly pointed-out vista. But it would, she thought, be nice not to
have
to drive the blessed motor every time, to be able to be a passenger, be able to sit back and simply take in the view.

Thus, motoring on, across the Channel and back to Rome, she spoke of glittering entertainments and tableaux vivants, of the torch-lit parties and moonlit charades within the walls of the Colosseum, and casually sprinkled a few famous names. She spoke of a vibrant hubbub of noise and color, and they could almost hear the carriages, carts and wagons, the thunderous clatter of hoofs and wheels. They sat in spellbound silence as she led them down dark and narrow streets, across sunlit piazzas to fountains and churches; they followed her up ancient steps, through vast doorways into cool, candlelit basilicas where saints lay at their feet beneath a marble floor. And they could see it, see it all; hear the fountains gently flowing, smell the incense within the church.

She chose not to tell them of the eight o’clock curfew, which locked up the poor Jews
Pio Nono
called “dogs”; she chose not to mention the dead cart, which crossed the piazza beneath her bedroom late at night, swaying this way and that, heavy with lifelessness, and bound for a pit in the Sacred Field beyond the city walls. She chose not to tell them about the city’s lepers and beggars, who slept in filth on the streets and sat outside the baker’s each morning, waiting for crumbs to be thrown. These poor souls, and others, she kept to herself.

And what about that first journey, someone asked, that must have taken some time? Indeed it had. It had taken over twenty-five days to reach Rome. She tried to recall the route: “From Le Havre by public coach to Nevers, across the mountains to . . . Chalon-sur-Saône . . . down the Saône to Lyon . . . then another steamer, to Avignon . . . from there, overland to Marseilles, and thence onwards to Civitavecchia.”

Yes, that was the route, she thought, staring through a shaft of light at a memory . . .
a place so far away no one will ever find us
.

She watched the light break through the small porthole, splintering into a myriad of dust-filled rays. She stepped down from her bed and moved over to the window. “We are here,” she said, turning to her aunt. “We’re in Italy.”

They had originally expected to sail upriver to Rome, but the captain advised them to continue their journey overland. The French government steamers, which commuted between Rome and the coastal port, transporting the French army and supplies to its protectorate, did so only on appointed days, and this day was not one of them, he explained. He mentioned Palo, some Etruscan tombs at Cerveteri, and though Cora was keen, Fanny said she had no desire to see Palo or to visit any ancient tombs. They needed to get to Rome before nightfall.

Sidestepping horse dung and beggars, amidst the cacophony of street vendors, soldiers, sailors, horses, dogs, carts and barrows, the two women moved along the quayside toward the carriage office. Italian men, women and children of all ages vied for their attention, desperate to sell their wares, and filthy barefoot children with eyes as black as coal stretched out grubby hands and tugged at their skirts. “Don’t worry, dear, Rome will be quite different,” Fanny said, taking hold of Cora’s arm and guiding her through the quagmire.

A group of young Italian men attached themselves to the women, walking alongside them. “Inglese? Inglese?
Benvenuta!
” One pushed forward. “Good day, fine ladies, I speak the English . . . and I will be your guide, yes?”

“No, thank you, you will not,” Fanny replied, grasping Cora’s hand.

“But, signora, please, we are your friends . . .”

Cora knew their lack of chaperone made Fanny more nervous than ever, and it had been the same in Marseilles. There, a Monsieur Saint Léger had kindly offered to act as their guide and chaperone, and for a while Fanny appeared quite taken by the attentive Frenchman. Her attempts at his country’s language, as well as her knowledge of Paris, seemed to have impressed him too. However, when he became what Fanny described as “uncommonly interested” in them, asking too many questions, she had had no alternative but to abruptly end their arrangement. “We can’t afford to make any mistakes now,” she had told Cora.

Two more young Italian men were now walking alongside them, gesticulating and speaking effusively to Cora in Italian, and then English. “I love you!”

When Cora’s broad smile began to erupt, Fanny halted. “Please!” she hissed. “You’re encouraging them, and I have already warned you about Italian men—they need no encouragement.”

Before arriving at the carriage office the women found the apothecary the captain had recommended, and there, with the help of Cora’s book, its section “Useful Phrases and Words for the Traveler in Italy,” they purchased a foul-smelling concoction which Fanny was assured would settle her stomach. Cora had wanted to browse the shops and stalls—the draper’s, with its bundles of exotic colored silks propped up outside, the milliner’s, housed in no more than a cupboard, but Fanny said not. They must make haste. “And we must remain on our guard, Cora,” she said, sitting down inside the carriage and pulling the blanket over her lap.

“Of course.”

The palette of the landscape glowed in the late morning sun. The air was fresh and cool, and the light very different to the thin midwinter veil of England. As the carriage creaked and swayed, Cora tried not to think back but forward. Italy was her home now. And for a while she kept her eyes closed, knowing that if she opened them tears would escape. For her aunt’s sake, she had for the most part been animated on their journey, pretending to be excited about their new life in Rome, and she was, in a way. But then and there all she could think of was her mother, weeks away and lost to her. For how would she ever find her again?

Through the lonely meadows and pastures of the campagna the carriage stumbled on, occasionally passing another heading back to the port, or a cart, piled high and swaying perilously from side to side. Abandoned houses languished at deserted crossroads, and scattered about the desolate wilderness were the ruins of a temple, the fallen arches of an aqueduct or the shell of a dilapidated church.

Late in the afternoon, as the air grew cooler and colors faded, the hazy outline of the city’s rooftops finally came into view. And as the carriage passed by the lopsided tombstones and broken pedestals of the Protestant Cemetery, and entered the gate of Saint Paul, Fanny turned to her niece and smiled. “Now we
are
here.”

But the city the women had anticipated had shriveled and shrunken with age. For within its crumbling walls lay only more scattered ruins, tangled up in stunted trees and grass, and wide-open fields, woodland and empty space, with no signs of life. Then, slowly, the inhabited city began to emerge: dilapidated buildings, half built and unfinished, weathered by time and neglect, with tattered shutters of flaking paint, festooned in ragged garments hanging out to dry in the winter sun. The noxious aroma of sewers and festering rubbish permeated the bouquet of cedar, cypress and pine, and the two women sat in silence, each one afraid to speak. Rome was not as they had expected.

Twisting and turning, the carriage continued, in and out of shadows, shaving doorways, grazing peasants and statues and littered shrines, scraping off plaster and paint. Cora took in her new home. Was it really any different to where they had come from? And those suspicious dark eyes staring back at her, what did they say, what did they ask?
Who are you? Why are you here
?

Then, turning on to a wide avenue, Cora gasped. The splendor of the city spread out before her in ruins she recognized from pictures, white marble fountains, sculptures and pillars, columns stretching up to the sky, pink in the twilight. Rome became Rome, ancient and grand, rising up from the muddle of her unruly young buildings and capturing one heart, one imagination.

It had been upon her arrival in Rome that Cora had made decisions about her life: how it could be, how it would be, and how it would end. She had decided then that she would never suffer the ignominy of being passed over by life and discarded in death. She had decided then that she would have a rich and full life. It lay ahead of her, a blank canvas simply waiting to have color and texture added. She would live, love and die in Rome, and be buried amongst England’s lost poets in the Protestant Cemetery, where a white marble angel would stand guard and a carpet of violets would cover her grave. This was what she decided when she became intoxicated by possibilities, and fell in love for the first and last time.

“The photographer from Linford is coming today and I rather think we should be outside, on the lawn,” said Cora, standing by the window, her back to Mrs. Davey. “Yes, the light will be better for him . . . perhaps by the horse chestnut,” she added, turning to the housekeeper. “It’s a little cooler and more shaded there. If you and Sally can erect the gazebo, and perhaps induce Mr. Cordery to help you, that would be perfect. We shall take tea there.”