Us (33 page)

But even as I announced the plan, I sensed its inherent implausibility. Who were these two characters, father and son, frankly discussing their emotions? We had barely had a relaxed conversation since ‘cow goes moo' and now here we were chatting about feelings over beer. ‘Who knows, perhaps if we can patch things up I can get Connie to fly over, and we can carry on with the Grand Tour. There's still Florence, Rome, Pompeii, Naples. He can bring his girlfriend along if he wants. If not, I'll take him back to England.'

‘And if he doesn't want to go back?'

‘Then I have a chloroformed handkerchief and some strong rope. I'll rent a car and drive back with him in the boot.' Freja laughed, I shrugged. ‘If he wants to travel on without us, that's fine. At least we'll know he's safe and well.'

We were at the apex of a high bridge now, looking east towards the Lido. ‘I almost wish that I could wait with you, although I'm not sure how we would explain that to him.'

‘“Albie, meet my new friend Freja. Freja, this is Albie.”'

‘Yes, that might be tricky.'

‘It might.'

‘For no reason!'

‘No. For no reason,' I said, though when I looked down, it seemed that she had taken my hand, and we walked like this back along the Riva degli Schiavoni.

‘And where are you heading tomorrow?' I said.

‘I'm catching the train to Florence. I have tickets for the Uffizi the day after. Three nights in Rome, then Pompeii, Herculaneum, Capri, Naples. Almost the same route as you. Then in two weeks' time I fly back to Copenhagen from Palermo.'

‘The holiday of a lifetime.'

She laughed. ‘I certainly hope I never have to do it again.'

‘Has it been that bad?'

‘No, no, no. I've seen wonderful, beautiful things. Look at this, now – it is extraordinary.' We scanned the horizon, from the Lido to Giudecca where an illuminated ocean liner, as gargantuan as some intergalactic cruiser, set off for the Adriatic. ‘And the art and the buildings, the lakes and the mountains. Wonderful things I'll never see again, but for the first time I'm seeing these things alone. I keep opening my mouth, and realising there's no need. Of course, I tell myself it's healthy and good for the soul, but I'm not sure yet that we're meant to be alone. Humans, I mean. It feels too much like a test, like surviving in the wilderness. It's a good experience to have, one is pleased to have succeeded, but it's still not the best. I miss company. I miss my girls, and my granddaughter. I'll be glad to get back home and to hold them.' She exhaled suddenly, rolled her head and shoulders as if shrugging something off. ‘This is the most I've spoken in three weeks. It must be the wine! I hope you don't mind.'

‘Not in the least.' Soon we were back at the
pensione
, standing on the threshold, facing each other.

‘Today has been the best time of my trip, the gallery and then tonight. I'm sorry it has come so late for both of us.'

‘Me too.'

A moment passed.

‘I hope the ceiling doesn't spin when I lie down,' she said.

‘So do I.'

Another moment.

‘Well!'

‘Well …'

‘We both have an early start tomorrow. We should go to bed.'

‘Sadly so.'

I opened the door but Freja didn't move, and I closed it again. She laughed, shook her head, then in a rush said:

‘I hate to use alcohol as an excuse for anything but I don't know if I'd have said this sober and perhaps, given your situation, you don't care for the idea, but I hate the thought of you in that awful little room, and if you wanted to join me, for tonight, in my room, nothing … amorous, not necessarily, just for warmth – well, not warmth, it's too hot for warmth – for company, just a safe port, safe harbour, is that correct? Well, if you feel you could do that without guilt or anxiety, then I would be most delighted.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I'd like that very much.' And so that was what we did.

Well, that was a mistake.

Despite clinical exhaustion I did not sleep at all that night, though not for the reasons one might expect. Caffeine, wine and a whirring mind kept me awake, much more so than any erotic fervour. In fact Freja was asleep on my shoulder within minutes, her breath smelling strongly of booze and an unfamiliar brand of toothpaste, and while she didn't snore exactly, there was a certain amount of snuffling and gurgling and the crackle of something catching in her throat. Modesty and self-consciousness required that we both wore T-shirts, which made us uncomfortably warm, and the pressure of even a single cotton sheet on my ruined feet kept me twitching and straining, and sure enough, as the hours ticked by, the undoubted pleasures of the evening shaded into discomfort, guilt and anxiety. With the best will in the world, it was hard to see how lying pinned beneath this woman would save my marriage, and I was acutely aware that in the pocket of my trousers, folded on the chair, my phone remained switched off. Had Connie called back? What if there was news? What if she needed me? Was she lying awake too? As the radio alarm ticked over from three to four a.m. I abandoned any hope of sleep, eased my shoulder from beneath Freja's head and retrieved my phone.

The glare of a screen at four in the morning is a more effective stimulant than any espresso and within moments I was entirely alert. There were no messages, no texts or emails. Seeking reassurance, with a sentimental desire to see my son's face animated and smiling, I opened the link to the video of them singing ‘Homeward Bound' in that unknown Venetian square. Their performance was more appealing with the sound muted, and I even noted a foolish longing look between them that I'd missed before. ‘Maybe you should let them go,' Freja had said. ‘Let him be.'

Impossible. I typed in
kat kilgour
once again, followed one or two dead ends and then, on an image-sharing website, found a virtual, visual diary of her travels. Photographs, many, many photographs. Here were Kat and Albie on the Rialto Bridge, pouting, cheeks pressed together, offering up their foreheads to the phone's fish-eye lens in that pose that has become standard these days. Here was a moody shot of Albie, posturing with his cheek against the neck of his guitar in moody black and white, the caption ‘lover and friend, Albie Petersen' and a poorly punctuated commentary beneath from KK's friends and fans –
gorgeous!!! back off bitch hes mine, two thumbs up, bring him to sydney, hes easy on the eye damn gurl he beautiful
– my strange pride battling with bemusement at this brazen new world that Albie occupied, where ratings were accorded to everything, including the sexual attractiveness of strangers, and where no opinion went unexpressed. No inhibitions, no repression.
I would!
said one remark. That's all, just
I would!
What had happened to loaded conversations and drunken, whispered confidences in back-street trattorias? Good God, I thought, how might I have fared in a world where people were free to say what they felt?

And now here was Albie in a bed somewhere, his bony torso exposed, cigarette dangling like a French film star, and more comments of a personal nature. I could, I thought, have added one of my own without fear of discovery; chipped in with ‘smoking is NOT cool' and pasted in a jpeg of a diseased lung, but instead I moved on, skimming past a photo of Kat sleeping on a railway platform, and now standing in front of the Tower of Pisa, pushing it back into alignment and I laughed, actually laughed at the thought of Albie succumbing to the temptation of that picture before catching myself and thinking –

The Tower of Pisa. That's not right.

The Tower of Pisa is not in Venice. It's in … well, it's in Pisa.

I looked at the photograph's date. Today – yesterday. I swore at the f-ing Tower of f-ing Pisa – and put my hand to my mouth.

I flicked back to the previous photograph, Kat on the train platform. The sign above the bench – Bologna. The caption:

Venice u killed us man.
2
many tourists. On the road again!

I swore louder this time, causing Freja to shift and mumble in her sleep. I felt the panic rise in my chest. Stay calm. Perhaps it was a day trip! Where was Pisa exactly? A traveller's guide to Italy sat on the top of Freja's packed case. Bologna sat in the centre of Italy's thigh, but Pisa was in … Tuscany? I was not just in the wrong city, I was on the wrong coast.

I skimmed forward to the Pisa photos, Albie looking surly and bored on the long promenade of the Arno, head resting awkwardly on his guitar case.
Albie on a downer. keep moving on, moving on. sometimes travelling is hard, man. bone-tired. need a place where we can lay our heads.
So come back to Reading then, you silly boy! Next, a night-time shot, a photo of Albie arguing with a
carabinieri
, Albie's face caught in a sneer, the officer's eyes shaded beneath his cap. ‘That's a policeman, Albie!' I wanted to shout. ‘Don't argue with a policeman!'
Moved on by fascists
was all that Kat could say on the subject. What would the next photo bring? Albie bleeding from a truncheon blow? No, a stray cat drinking from the cap of a water bottle.
Night night kitty
,
said the caption.
Siena tomorrow!

Tomorrow. That meant today, this morning, in Siena. The current time was eight minutes past four. Gathering my trousers up in my arms, dangling the evil shoes from my fingertips, I tiptoed to the door.

Dear Freja,

I believe this is called a ‘French exit' – leaving without saying goodbye. I wonder if that is an idiom that you're aware of? You know all the others. It seems rather dramatic, I know, and possibly a little rude, and I do hope that you are not offended. But you looked so peaceful sleeping there and I did not want to wake you.

The reason for my hasty departure is that I have what we detectives call a ‘hot lead' on my son's whereabouts and I need to travel the width of Italy before lunch. Who knows if I will make it in time, or if the trip will prove futile, but I feel an obligation to try. I hope that, as a parent yourself, you will understand.

My other reason for not waking you was that I wasn't sure what I would say, and felt I stood a better chance of successfully conveying my thoughts on paper, even at this early hour. I thought very hard about leaving a phone number or address at the top of this page, but to what end? I so enjoyed our conversation last night, but it also served to remind me why I am here in the first place, and certain promises and obligations that I carry with me.

So while it seems unlikely that we will ever meet again, this in no way reflects my warmth of feeling towards you, or my gratitude. You are an extremely interesting, intelligent and compassionate woman, with superb vocabulary. While I have no belief in fate or destiny, I was extremely lucky to have bumped into you at a difficult point in my journey. You are extremely good company and also, I might add, an extremely attractive woman, grandmother or no! Part of me would have enjoyed travelling on with you to Florence and Rome and Naples, though sadly this cannot be.

But I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday and, looking to the future, I hope you find happiness, on your own or with someone new, and continue to take pleasure in your beautiful children and grandchildren. For my part, I will always remember the day we spent in each other's company, will always think of you fondly and with immense gratitude as well as, I suspect, a certain degree of regret.

With very best wishes,

Douglas Petersen

Sunrise found the city abandoned. I hurried through silent streets and squares, encountering not a single soul until the Strada Nuova, where the office cleaners, the hotel workers and waiters on the early shift stumbled along, heads down, inured to the rosy light, the beauty of this place. My one thought now was to leave.

I caught the first train to Florence with three minutes to spare, scalding my hand with the two double espressos that I'd deemed essential to this journey, along with some kind of pastry, greasy as a bag of chips. I wiped my hands on a tiny napkin that disintegrated immediately, then we were out into the startling daylight, the train sliding gingerly along the causeway that connects Venice umbilically to the mainland. To my left, the strangest sight: cars.

The mainland suburbs of Venice were scrappy and dull and I set my alarm for two hours hence, and closed my eyes in the hope of sleep. But the four ill-considered shots of espresso put paid to this ambition and I found the words of my note to Freja running around my head. She would be waking now, finding the note beneath the door, reading it and feeling – what? Embarrassment? Regret? Irritation? Amusement at my misreading of events? Would she give a wry, wise smile as she placed it in the folds of her guidebook, or tear it smartly in two? Perhaps I should have said goodbye in person after all. A thought occurred.

Unlike with Albie, I knew exactly where Freja would be today. In two hours' time she would be sitting on this very train, looking out at parched suburban gardens, industrial estates and generic office blocks and, like me, regretting that second bottle of wine, and I might easily wait for her at the station in Florence, perhaps with a small gift of flowers. We could exchange a few words and an email address – ‘let's keep in touch, just as friends' – and I could still make it to Siena by the afternoon.

Or, more fantastically, I might abandon my quest completely and stay with her for as long as that lasted. Hurl my phone from the train window into the lagoon, leave Albie to his fate, let my wife do what she wanted. Hadn't Connie always been the instinctive, passionate one? And hadn't I earnt the right, after all these years of diligence and reliability, to one last fit of selfish spontaneity?