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Just as I step back out into the street, my phone rings. It’s Marco. He and I haven’t spoken since our aborted kiss, although I did message him to let him know the book was going ahead and he sent a nice message back. I don’t know whether I feel more worried or hopeful that he’s calling me now.
‘Ciao, Marco,’ I say.
‘Ciao, Tori. Bad news – Chiara just called me in a panic. Something unspecified but, apparently, highly stressful has happened and now she’s stuck in San Damiano for at least the next few hours. She knew I’d taken the day off, so she asked if I could come and get you. I don’t think she’s meddling,’ he adds. ‘Well, she might be. But if she is, it isn’t because of anything I’ve told her. Please know that.’
Christ, this is awkward. ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘I can get the train from here.’
‘Of course you can. I mean, if you want – if it suits you better. But I’d like to see you,’ he says. ‘If you want to see me. And we haven’t celebrated the book yet.’
‘We do need to celebrate,’ I say.
‘I think so too. Great. Where are you right now?’
‘I’m, uh, just heading to the cemetery.’
‘Of course,’ he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. My heart gives a small flip. ‘As it happens, I’m most of the way to Romituzzo already. I had to pick something up in Castelmedici. So I’ll be with you in around twenty minutes. Stay in the shade,’ he adds. ‘A dopo.’
The sun’s right overhead now and there’s no shade, no prospect of shade as far as I can see. Cradling my roses awkwardly, I reach into my bag and bring out the sunhat I’ve learned to carry since I burned my parting sitting outside on a deceptively breezy day. It probably isn’t enough, but it’s something.
The gate of the little walled cemetery is open, but there’s nobody in sight. The graves are neatly packed together, standing in tight rows beneath the high walls covered in memorial plaques. Achille’s plot isn’t hard to find. A raised slab of white marble hemmed around with flowering plants, a bouquet of roses angled across it like a spray of blood. The blooms are dark purple-red, baked brittle by the sun. I squint at the bronze lettering.
ACHILLE INFURIATI
20.02.1928 – 25.09.1954
‘Vi vedrò di bel nuovo, e gioirà il vostro cuore, e nissuno vi torrà il vostro gaudio.’
I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice; and your joy none shall take from you.It sounds familiar, somehow, but I can’t place it. Dante, maybe, or something from the Bible? I think of looking it up, but it feels disrespectful to take out my phone. Instead, I lean forward and place my roses carefully next to the others.
The silence of the cemetery is so heavy that even the cars on the road outside sound muted. I feel like I should do something, say something. I almost feel like praying, but I don’t know how, so I stand before Achille’s grave and think; and as I think, I fall into a kind of meditative state or something like it, and I don’t notice time passing. I don’t even notice Marco approaching until he says: ‘Communing with your friend?’
His voice startles me back to the present, and I feel tears threaten. I take out my sunglasses and cram them on before he can come too close.
‘Something like that.’
‘It’s just like a movie,’ he says, and smiles. ‘The mysterious lady with her hat and shades, elegantly sad among the tombs. Oh, look at that.’ He stops at my side, looks at the grave and its flowers. ‘I like the inscription.’
‘Where’s that from?’ I ask. ‘Do you know?’
‘I think it’s from the gospel of… John? Yes, John. My mother’s very religious,’ he explains. ‘When I was a little kid I could have told you the chapter and verse, too, but I’ve forgotten most of it.’
‘I can’t imagine Achille was terribly religious,’ I say. ‘But maybe his parents were.’ I look at the inscription again, reading the words back. Suddenly they seem very poignant.
‘Maybe,’ Marco says. ‘But it’s a universal hope, isn’t it? They lost their son – they wanted him back. Maybe it’s that simple.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, and then the tears rise and spill over. I scramble for a tissue and wipe my eyes.
‘Oh, Tori, I’m sorry,’ Marco says, and the compassion in his voice only makes it worse.
‘Why can’t I stop bloody crying? I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I just cry all the time and it never seems to bloody end.’
‘Maybe that’s just what you have to do,’ he says gently. ‘Maybe you have to let some stuff out.’
‘But I hate it,’ I burst out. ‘It hurts, and I hate it. I want it to stop.’
‘Would a hug help?’
I nod yes and Marco opens his arms. I lean gratefully against him and weep into his shoulder in big, snotty, undignified sobs.
