16. Rome, October #2
“Ha,” I said, impressed. “Once upon a time, yes, very religious. They got out of the church sometime after I was born. I often feel guilty about that.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Though I’m not sure why I should.”
“No.”
“They still sent me to an ex-religious school, partly because it was the best free one in the area but also because they were employed there. Dad worked in the grounds, Mum worked in one of the science labs, which was—”
“Awkward?”
“Exactly,” I said, and smiled.
Jean chewed her food for a few moments. There was the nutty sound of her back teeth meeting together. I sipped my wine and reflected on Jean’s profession; the mode of her exchange made me wonder if she ever switched off.
“And what do you believe in now, Gus?” she asked.
“I believe in pasta,” I said, making a show of pressing my fork against a flat parcel of ravioli so that a white sauce bloomed out of it. “What’s in this?”
“Nothing fancy.” Jean glanced from side to side. “Gorgonzola. Pear.”
“To me, that’s fancy.”
Jean chuckled, which, after the mention of my childhood, made me feel good again. I took another mouthful of wine, then leaned back in my chair. The cramps were much better, and my body throbbed a low pulse of well-being.
“Not just pasta. I also believe in the beauty of Rome. I think Rome is my religion.”
“Oh good.” Jean clapped her hands together. “So you like it here in la bella città ?”
I couldn’t admit how lost I still felt. Nor how confused Mary was making me feel.
The low mood I sunk into, on the days I texted her and she didn’t reply.
So, instead, I told Jean Rome was paradise.
I rhapsodized about my favorite parts of the city: the marble fountain that looked like a ship; the Spanish Steps that spilled down toward it; the perfect symmetry of the Farnese Palace.
I explained that, for me, Rome radiated a beauty that was almost abusive. “As in, it actually hurts my eyes.”
Jean said she still felt the same, even though she’d been coming here for years, since she was about my age.
For a while she wrote down all her insider tips to the city: hidden chapels on the Palatine Hill, murky crypts near the Tiber, a French church with secret murals that had been painted by Caravaggio.
There were three different gelaterias I must try, she said, before I could make an educated decision on which was my favorite.
“When do you next have a free afternoon?” she asked casually. “I’ll show you around.”
I told her I’d love that, but in my mind, there was a single snare: Mary. Mary. Mary . I was imagining going to these places with her, not Jean, and seeming worldly as I did so. I was hoping there were still parts of the city that we could explore together.
“And how’s the portrait coming along?” Jean said, putting away her map and guidebooks and returning to the table with two bowls of tinned peaches and mascarpone cheese. My cheeks colored at the question, as if those thoughts of Mary were written across my forehead.
“No idea,” I said. “Mary won’t let me see it yet. It’s a weird place, that school. The whole style of painting is so technical and restrictive. Plus, Lawrence is horrible to her.”
Jean had been crumbling biscuits over her dessert, but she stopped when I said this. “How so?”
I frowned. “There’s just this weird friction between them. And he puts her down all the time. Makes these snide jokes at her expense. I hate it.”
“So the rumors are true, then,” Jean murmured, in a censorious tone. “The man’s a bully, is he? Poor girl.”
“I know.”
“Well, Gus, do tell her, if she ever needs someone to talk to, someone impartial, I’m always here.”
We were quiet for a moment then, and I began to copy the way Jean was breaking biscuits into her bowl. When I told her how good the food was, her expression lifted.
“One of my clients just brought these biscuits as a gift,” she said, wiping her mouth. “She’s a little bit devoted to me.”
“Must be heavy,” I said, trying not to spray crumbs, “hearing everyone’s problems all the time.”
“Sometimes,” Jean said. “But it’s the only way we can transform ourselves.
” For a while she stared straight ahead, lost in the thought.
Then she turned to me. “People say I give too much of myself. Today was hard. I had an extremely difficult client. Her name’s Oriel, she’s quite resistant. ” She brightened. “But then you came.”
I laughed modestly, ignoring the twinge of unease I felt at the way Jean revealed her client’s name. Was she referring to the frightened girl from outside?
“But I made you cancel your party!”
“You are the party,” Jean countered, laughing.
Flattered, I struggled to respond. The thought of being a positive force in Jean’s day felt so unexpectedly good that I needed to banish it.
Instead, I concentrated on spooning up the peach syrup, and we fell into an uneasy silence.
Then I felt Jean’s eyes watching me. I had the feeling she wanted to ask something.
“It’s actually handy, that it’s just us. I need your help with a little task.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Just a little favor. You don’t have to say yes.”
I laughed. “I know I don’t. What is it?”
Jean rose from the table and took out a folder from a tote bag which hung on the back of a chair.
She opened it, and an excited look flickered across her face.
“I just have a little homework to do. Well, it’s more of a game.
” She had to go through a refresher course so that she could continue practicing in Italy as well as the UK.
The homework was just a formality, she said. “An informal formality.”
Jean directed me back into the living room and brought out tea.
What she needed to do, she explained, was conduct a word association exercise.
It was very simple. She’d read a word and I would respond with the first word that came into my head.
It could be anything at all. Window could trigger cow , and that would be perfectly fine.
There was no wrong answer. She just needed the data.
“What if I get you into trouble?” I joked, though I was feeling excited. “Or myself in trouble?”
Jean sat on the sofa, bringing out her notebook and a tape recorder. “Whatever comes out is totally fine. Now, why don’t you sit over there?”
I got up and settled giddily into a tightly sprung armchair which faced away from where she was sitting.
“Eyes closed,” she instructed. “I’ll be recording you, is that okay?” I glanced back over at her. Her legs were crossed now, her hands steepled on a knee. Soon, she began reading in a crisp, clear voice:
“Ship.”
“Boat.”
A silence and then again that clear, calm voice:
“Father.”
“Sin.”
“Needle,” Jean said.
“Free.”
I answered as quickly as I could, worrying at times that my responses were too obvious and that Jean would think me shallow minded.
As with the portrait, I wanted to be compliant.
I wanted to come up with interesting answers for her, not to let her down in any way.
But, as she spoke, the words began to carry a hypnotic rhythm.
I felt my mind softening as the words kept coming.
“Insect?”
“Shell.”
“Abuse?”
“Study.”
“Work?”
“Utility.”
Some words felt more freighted with meaning than others. Though I tried to speak confidently, my throat began to narrow as the session wore on. I looked down and noticed how my hands shone with sweat.
“Good,” Jean said, “very good. Do you need a break? Or some water?” she asked. I shook my head, so she continued, until her voice became soporific and my own began to sound hazy and thick. At times, my answers came so naturally, I couldn’t even hear them.
“Cry?” Jean asked. “Woman? Grass? Dear? Sleep?”
Ten minutes later, we were finally done. Jean set down her pen, went over to the window, and opened it. A quietness had fallen over her. As she lingered by the window, seemingly lost in thought, I began to worry that she might have divined something terrible in me.
“Did I pass?” I said, to break the silence. I smiled cheerfully, though my mouth was dry with thirst. I was fearful that my inner world had no texture and there was nothing to analyze.
Without turning to face me, Jean asked, “Was that something that your parents taught you, that your work had to be useful?”
The question startled me. I wondered what else she’d perceived. I lowered myself carefully onto the sofa again, propping the cushions around me. Quietly, I said, “I have no idea.”
“It’s a difficult relationship with them, isn’t it?” said Jean, sitting back down.
“How could you tell?”
Jean surveyed me with pity. The muscles in my throat started to feel tight.
I noticed the box of tissues resting there on the table next to her, and the bouquet of white roses beside it.
I thought back to Mr. Greening’s office.
The threat of those pamphlets. Now, sitting across from Jean, I wondered: Was she the kind of person who might help me?
Who might seek and exorcise the damaged parts inside?
“I usually just speak to my parents on the phone,” I said, feeling a wave of guilt at how dysfunctional I had let things become.
“How often?”
“Not often.”
“Let me guess. It’s you calling them?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice breaking with emotion. “You’re right.”
“And they don’t ask about what you’re doing, do they? About your life?”
I shook my head and wiped my face quickly with the back of my hand.
I hadn’t permitted myself to cry in Rome yet.
When I was frightened about money, or frustrated by the standard of my work, I bit down and told myself: You wanted this .
When I was sad to find my spirit was still lonely, I told myself: This is just who you are.
Now, here I was, in front of a woman I barely knew, freely weeping.
I was amazed at how quickly my defenses had fallen.
“Do you feel that they don’t approve of what you do?” Her directness was affectionate, even maternal.