Anna took control of the situation. “That’s us all ready,” she said briskly. “Paul knows where we’re going, don’t you Paul?”
He collected himself. “Yes, I do.” His voice was too loud. He lowered it. “There’s a path down the hillside at the other end of the village. You go about two miles—maybe a bit more—and you get to an oak wood. They hunt for truffles there, I’m told, but it’s a great place for a picnic.”
“And no wild boars?” asked Andrew. “I was reading that this place is teeming with wild boars.”
“Oh, they’re there,” said Paul. “But they won’t bother us. They keep out of the way.”
He noticed Andrew’s diction, and his accent too. He spoke precisely, articulating each word deliberately, with a touch of Irish; Boston, of course.
The bottle of wine was tucked into the rucksack. “I’ll carry,” said Andrew. “You’re the guide. The guide travels light.”
Paul glanced as Andrew shouldered the rucksack. He was not a large man, and was perhaps even fractionally shorter than Anna, who was on the tall side. He was not what Paul had expected; he had imagined somebody of sporting appearance, some ruggedly handsome product of an Ivy League university, somebody with the confidence—if not the arrogance—of the Greek gods who peopled the financial firms of Boston and New York. Andrew was not that.
They set off. As they passed the Fiaschetteria, he saw Onesto standing in the doorway, talking to the owner. There was a cheerful wave, which Paul reciprocated. Along the road, they stopped briefly at a tobacconist while Andrew went in to purchase stamps for postcards. Paul and Anna waited outside.
“How long have you and Andrew known one another?” Paul asked.
She glanced into the shop. “Since we were sixteen.”
“At high school together?”
She nodded. “Yes. We were at different colleges, and we didn’t see one another for a while, but we got together a few years out of college. Then he went to work in Frankfurt and we didn’t really see one another for some time. Not until he came back to the States.”
“So it’s been on and off?”
“Yes. But now…” She did not finish the sentence. “It hasn’t been easy for Andrew, you know.”
He was not sure what she meant. “You mean…”
“I mean life hasn’t been easy. People don’t realise how hard it is if you have something like that.” She looked directly into his eyes. “You know what I’m talking about. His birthmark. People draw back. They’re embarrassed. You were, weren’t you?”
He was flustered. “I suppose…”
“Yes, but I don’t blame you for it. I should have said something in advance.”
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“It still takes people by surprise. They don’t know where to look.”
She looked into the shop again. Andrew had paid for his stamps and was coming out, tucking a small packet into the pocket of his shirt. He looked at Paul and smiled. “I reached the limit of my Italian,” he said.
They were soon on the path that led from the village, edging their way slowly down the steeper sections. The sun, approaching its zenith, made shadows short and intense; there was the thrum of cicadas, the sound, it had always seemed to Paul, of heat. They passed the church where Paul had stopped a few days earlier, but now, in company, he felt none of the unease he had experienced when he had been there on his own.
“I was here the other day,” he said. “There was something odd about that church. I felt really uneasy for some reason. I think there was somebody there.”
“Sometimes old churches have that feeling,” said Anna. “I know what you mean.”
“It’s because they’re old,” said Andrew.
“But everything is in Italy,” said Paul. “And that church is probably only a couple of hundred years old.”
He had not intended to be cutting, but he realised after he had spoken that he had sounded dismissive. Anna said quickly, “This is Andrew’s first visit to Italy.”
Paul bit his tongue. He glanced at Andrew, who was blushing.
“I’m sorry,” said Paul. “I wasn’t being sarcastic.”
Andrew made light of it. “I didn’t think you were. It’s okay.”
They continued their walk and came at last to the oak wood and the place that Paul had thought would be suitable for the picnic. They sat down and Paul uncorked the bottle of wine while Anna cut slices from a salami and Andrew tipped olives from a jar onto a paper plate.
Paul dispensed the wine. The newspaper had kept the bottle chilled and now the cold liquid brought condensation to the sides of the small plastic glasses. Paul raised his to the others. Anna put the salami aside and raised her glass in response. “To your book,” she said.
“And to yours,” said Paul.
He looked at Andrew, and saw that the other man was gazing at Anna. He loves her, he thought. He’s loved her all these years. He glanced at Anna, and just as he did so, she looked up, met his gaze, and something passed between them. And that thing was a current of sexual attraction. There was no mistaking it. It cannot be mistaken once it has been experienced. Nothing needed to be said; nothing needed to be done. It just occurred.
She looked away. She reached for the plate of salami she had been preparing and hurriedly moved the slices over to one side of the plate, using her knife. Paul said, “Can I help you with that?”
She said no, she was fine and would cut just a little bit more salami. If anybody wanted extra, they could always help themselves.
Andrew took a sip of his wine. He was looking up at the sky. He said, “Gee, that sky…look at it.”
“Makes me dizzy,” said Anna.
Paul raised his glass to his lips. Plastic made wine taste cheap, he thought—even a good wine like this.
Andrew said, “I’m going to go and take a look at the thing over there. What is it?”
He pointed to a small stone structure, about the size of a small hut, at the edge of the wood.
“It’s a shrine,” said Paul. “You may find a Madonna in it.”
He walked off. Paul turned to Anna and said, “I like him.”
She said nothing for a moment. Then she turned and looked at the retreating figure. “I’m all he has,” she said.
Paul was silent. “He obviously needs you.”
“He does.”
Paul felt his breath coming quickly. “I don’t think it would be a good idea,” he said.
She frowned. “What?”
“If you and I were to get closer.” He said it without thinking, and now he realised that it was a remark that could not be taken back.
She stared at him. “No, I think you’re right.”
“I’m sorry about that,” he said.
Her voice was very quiet although there was nobody to hear them. “And so am I,” she said.
He was silenced by the immensity of what he had said, and by the effect it had produced. It was as if he had suddenly confessed his inmost thoughts to a complete stranger; and that, in a way, was what had happened. He barely knew her; he had seen her how many times—three or four—and yet he had effectively told her that he had recognised in her the same desire that he nurtured within himself. And he had done this while the man to whom she was clearly committed had his back turned.
He felt grubby; he felt ashamed; and she must too, he suspected.
Andrew was on his way back now. “You’re right,” he said. “It was a shrine. There was a Madonna and some flowers. Somebody had put flowers there.”
“The farmer,” said Paul. “Or truffle hunters perhaps. You don’t see them, but these woods are full of people.”
“I love that,” mused Andrew. “I love it that there should be this little shrine in the middle of nowhere. And that a plaster statue can be left there quite safely.”
“Nobody would steal the Virgin Mary,” said Paul.
“I guess they wouldn’t,” said Andrew. “It would be like destroying something innocent—som
ething good.”
Which is what I’ve almost done, thought Paul. And then he thought: Am I any worse than anybody else? Would any man do the same? Is that how people behave?
Anna gave them each a plate with bread, salami, olives, and a hunk of Parmesan cheese. She avoided looking at Paul, and he at her. But she spoke to him.
“Piero di Cosimo,” she said. “I went to Florence for the afternoon with one of the people from the library in Siena. There was a di Cosimo exhibition at the Uffizi.”
Paul squeezed the residual brine out of an olive. He did not like too much salt. “Which one was he?” Casual conversation would cover the things underneath.
“The one who painted that dog.” That was Andrew. “That right, Anna?”
“Yes, the dog. The dog is looking on, I suppose; it’s really about the young woman being mourned by the satyr.”
Andrew grinned. “I pick things up,” he explained to Paul. “When you’re with somebody for a long time, you pick things up. I can go on for hours about the Ghirlandaios and Michele Tosini. Not that I do.” He turned to Anna. “What did you say that painting meant?”
Paul glanced at her quickly, and saw that the question had appeared to make her feel uncomfortable.
“I don’t think I said anything special,” Anna muttered.
Andrew seemed surprised. “But you did. I saw the photograph of it—on your desk. You had been discussing it with your students. Something about jealousy.” He paused. “Wasn’t there a play or a poem. That guy Ovid.”
Anna laughed. “That guy Ovid! Really, Andrew…”
“I know who you mean,” said Paul.
“Andrew may be a fund manager,” said Anna, now looking at Paul. “But he actually has a degree from Dartmouth. He’s encountered that guy Ovid. And that guy Virgil.”
Paul said nothing.
“Do you know how peculiar di Cosimo was?” Anna went on. “He led a very eccentric life. You know that Vasari said of him, ‘He could not bear the crying of babies, the coughing of men, the sound of bells, and the chanting of friars.’ ”
Andrew remembered something. “And didn’t you say something about boiled eggs?”
“He lived on them,” said Anna. “Or so Vasari tells us. He boiled whole batches of them when he was boiling his glue—fifty, sixty at a time—and then ate them while he worked.”
Paul poured more wine into each glass. The Vermentino was going to his head, but it had dispelled the feeling of mortification that had followed upon his disclosure of his feelings. He threw a glance at Anna, and she smiled at him. It was doing the same for her. They were friends. Something strange, something disturbing and wrong, had been dispatched, consigned to an area of quarantine somewhere deep within, but no longer dangerous or disturbing.
—
They did not linger over their picnic. Clouds had built up in the distance, and were now moving across the sky towards them; heavy cumulus clouds, grey and purple. The wind that brought them smelled of rain, that unmistakeable, dusty smell that tickles the back of the nose.
“We need to get back,” said Paul. “Unless we want a soaking.”
Anna did not seem to care, but Andrew was becoming anxious. “I don’t like lightning,” he said.
“I know why you don’t,” said Anna. “Remember Mr. Humphrey, the chemistry teacher?”
Andrew explained to Paul. Mr. Humphrey had been struck by lightning on a golf course. “It really affected us when we were kids,” he said. “Some people wouldn’t go out if there was any sign of a storm. It had a big effect.”
“He was such a nice man, too,” said Anna. “There were other teachers who deserved it more than he did. That’s what we thought.”
“Lightning’s no judge of character,” offered Paul.
They packed up the detritus of the picnic—the empty bottle, the wrapping of the salami, the half-full olive jar—and began to retrace their steps. On the way back, at the point where they began to climb the side of the hill, they were met by a figure coming down the path. They rounded the corner and he was there before them, carrying a large plastic bag of the sort provided by supermarkets.
The priest stopped when he saw them. He seemed to hesitate, as if debating with himself as to whether to continue, but they were just a few paces from one another and an encounter could not be avoided.
“Father Stefano,” said Paul. “The storm…”
Stefano looked up at the sky. “No, this won’t be a proper storm. It’s going to blow over. It probably won’t even reach us.”
Paul introduced the others. “These are my friends,” he said.
Stefano switched to English, and shook hands.
“You’re going for a walk?” asked Paul. He was puzzled by the bag; through its open mouth he had glimpsed a small loaf of bread and what looked like a wrapped cheese.
Stefano nodded. “Yes. Down there.” He pointed vaguely towards the floor of the valley.
Paul’s glance at the bag was intercepted. “For a parishioner,” mumbled Stefano.
“Of course.”
They said goodbye, and resumed their journey.
“That’s an odd place to meet a priest,” said Anna.
“Yes,” said Paul. “It is.”
He was thinking: bread, cheese.
How Rich Life Was
He saw them on a couple of occasions after that. He passed them once on his way to the Fiaschetteria, and exchanged greetings. Andrew suggested they meet for a drink one evening, and he accepted, although he thought they would not have time. And then they were off to Verona: tickets for Aida had become available at the last minute, and they were to drive there in Andrew’s rental car.
There was nothing in Anna’s demeanour to indicate any regret, and Paul was relieved by that. For his part, he felt as if a hidden well of feeling had been drained, and now there was friendship, a certain warmth, but nothing more. It had been, he decided, one of those odd moments when we see a beguiling face and are momentarily seized by the thought of what might be—a sudden yearning, a moment of temptation, that, not surprisingly, is rarely capable of being anything more.
When they left for Verona, Paul realised that he had only a few days left in Montalcino. He had worked hard, and there were ten pages left to write before the manuscript would be finished. He had the material for these ready, and the writing of them would not take long. He sent an e-mail to Gloria, which said, Within a whisker of finishing. Then I’m coming back. Missing you. P. He had written Missing you without thinking. He was about to delete it, but then he thought, I am missing her. I am. He left the message as it was and waited for her reply. Gloria was famous for responding quickly to e-mail, and her message flashed back within minutes. Missing you too, she wrote.
He finished the book two days before he was due to leave. There would be a bit of rewriting to do later on, once Gloria had edited the manuscript, but his task was effectively over. He rose from his work table. He had been sitting at it from six that morning, and it was now ten. He stretched, and closed his eyes. Finished.
He went out, pausing to tell Ella as he left that his labours were over.
“You’ve worked so hard,” she said. “Just like a German.”
He made his way to the Fiaschetteria, feeling almost light-headed. It was a bright morning, and although it would get hot later on, a cool breeze kept the heat at bay. He took deep breaths, savouring the scents of the village—the whiff of baking, the heavy scent of the nasturtiums in the window boxes, the smell of stone from the buildings around him.
Onesto and Stefano were in the café. They greeted him warmly, inviting him over.
“I’ve finished my book,” Paul announced. “Ten minutes ago.”
“An entire book!” exclaimed Onesto.
“Yes. My entire book. Finished—in time.”
“Complimenti, complimenti, complimenti!” chanted Onesto. “I haven’t even started my book yet.”
“Your book?” enquired Stefano. “Onesto, you didn’t say yo
u were writing a book.”
“Every village schoolteacher is writing a book,” said Onesto. “In his head at least.”
“It’s only a book about food and wine,” said Paul.
Onesto would not have the achievement underplayed. “It is nonetheless a book,” he said. “That’s the important thing.” He stopped, as if an idea had just occurred to him. “We must celebrate this.”
“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”
Stefano frowned. “On your bulldozer?”
Paul shook his head. He had had a telephone call at the Fiore yesterday from the rental firm in Pisa. There was somebody needing a bulldozer in Pienza, and it would be much more convenient for them if one of their men could come to drive it the short distance over there. They would arrange a car to take him back to Pisa. “It will be more comfortable for you,” the manager said. “And it will cost you nothing.”
Over coffee, Paul explained all this to Stefano and Onesto, who exchanged glances with one another.
“Then you must join us for lunch tomorrow,” said Stefano. “We are going to my brother’s place.”
“But I’m not invited.”
“He’ll be very happy to see you. It will be no problem for there to be one extra place at the table.”
Onesto seconded the invitation. It was vital, he said, that Paul should come with them. He could not leave Montalcino without a proper celebration of the finishing of the book—that would be unthinkable.
“And would it be all right for us to travel down there on your bulldozer?” asked Stefano. “My own car is very unreliable these days.”
“And mine is being used by my wife,” said Onesto hastily. “She has gone to Montepulciano for the day. Her sister lives there.”
Rather liking the thought of a final trip on the bulldozer, Paul agreed to this.
“Twelve o’clock tomorrow?” said Onesto. “Down at the car park?”