21. Rome, November #2
I watched Jean’s face closely, to see what she would say next.
I felt a hopeless tremor in my face as I tried to smile.
Our eyes met. She tried to return it, but her face was too tense.
She stabbed again at the food on her plate.
I drew my cutlery together, unable to stomach eating.
It seemed a risk to take anything more from her.
To exploit her goodwill more than I already had.
Finally, she said, “Why don’t we set some time together instead, when you’re a bit less overtired? We could have some proper sessions, instead of circling these points so informally.” She managed a tight smile. “Don’t you think that would be helpful to you?”
I hesitated. In recent weeks, Jean had been suggesting how much both Mary and I would benefit from seeing her more formally.
I had always registered the gifts that Jean’s clients sometimes left for her on the hallway table: cartons of white roses, bottles of wine, little envelopes which I thought must contain notes of gratitude.
I knew that she was transforming their lives, and I envied them for it, but the main issue was, I couldn’t pay her.
I’d wanted to use my small savings to extend my stay in Rome for a month or two beyond Christmas.
By then, the situation with Mary might be clearer; things might have progressed into something more concrete and defined.
My voice wobbled. “How much would it be?”
“Why don’t you sleep on it?” Jean said, ignoring my question and moving abruptly to clear our plates.
I tried to get up and help, but I was moving too slowly and clumsily to be of any use.
“Give it some proper thought,” she said, glancing toward the door.
“That would give me my evening back, anyway. I have work to do.”
Jean didn’t respond to any of my messages or calls until the following Saturday.
I spent the interceding days in a state of restless regret.
It was the first time, apart from my parents, that I felt I had truly hurt someone.
I sent a written note of apology and multiple texts.
Once or twice, I buzzed her door, desperate to make amends.
When she didn’t reply, I felt frantic. Jean had been my compass in Rome, and without her, I was lost. Finally, as a last resort, I mentioned Mary, a subject that always engaged her.
A lot’s happening with Mary & I miss talking to you! We could go for lunch, my treat? I really am so sorry.
Then—relief—on Saturday morning, a few messages arrived. She had been in London, tied up with the problematic client she’d mentioned before: Oriel.
You sound troubled, Gus. Is everything ok? x
Not really.
We arranged to meet later that afternoon on the Ponte Sisto.
Don’t be late x
Jean claimed her obsession with lateness stemmed from the fact she was a worrier.
Five minutes late, and she’d convince herself that something had occurred.
It was all thanks to her avid imagination, she admitted.
The intrusive thoughts she suffered from, which led her to believe that bad things had happened to me.
So I arrived at the Ponte Sisto early that afternoon with a full fifteen minutes to spare.
The bridge was filled with Saturday shoppers: Roman couples wearing metallic puffy coats and smart boots, gripping each other’s gloved hands.
I envied all of them, the contents of their thick paper shopping bags and the warmth of the homes they were returning to.
I leaned over the side of the bridge and looked out at the Tiber: The river was high, its gray surface swirling and unreflective.
Then I squinted further off, toward Mary’s apartment building, trying to see if her lights were on or not.
Jean drew up alongside me and nudged my elbow. The damp air had flattened her hair, and she was dressed in a navy trench coat. Her lips were lightly painted red, in the way she sometimes fixed her face when she left the house.
“I’m so sorry, Jean, for making you feel used,” I said, staring straight ahead. “I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s horrible.”
Jean reached over and smoothed a strand of my hair. “Can I tell you what I don’t like feeling, Gus?” Her warm hand lingered by my ear.
I turned to her and sniffed. “Go ahead.”
“I don’t like feeling that I can’t fully help you. It makes me feel hamstrung.” Her hand drew around to my chin, lifting my face upward. “I want to help you, Gus,” she went on. “You’ve been through such a lot.”
“Have I?”
She stared at me with concern. “Think of what you’ve faced: parental abandonment, heartbreak, professional disappointments, financial precarity.
” I looked away, though, as she spoke, I was surprised that I didn’t feel bad, I only felt seen.
“But it’s actually your relationship with Mary that I’m most concerned about.
You’re getting in your own way. You’re letting her hurt you, instead of love you. ”
I laughed a little, though this idea stung. I didn’t want to push Mary away. I wanted a relationship with her, and for my life to be a success. Suddenly, I was determined. I’d use my overdraft to pay Jean. It was a small price to improve myself, to become worthy of a relationship with Mary.
Jean nodded toward the apartment buildings that ran along the Lungotevere. “Which building is hers, then?”
I showed her the balcony and the metal gate which allowed you to enter the colonnade by her front door.
Then, suddenly, from behind us there was a loud cry: Guarda!
Someone near us on the bridge pointed up, and above us, in the lilac gray sky, a huge black shape appeared: thousands of tiny birds flying together, warping and shifting like moving clouds.
“Oh, look!” Jean gasped, reaching into her bag and removing a pair of binoculars. “Look,” she said, gazing upward. “Look, they’ve come!”
The sky above us was thick with little birds. Standing alongside each other, we watched them flying and marveled at the miraculous synchrony of it and the different shapes the swarms made: helix ladders which curved into spheres, then neat columns which warped into zigzag shapes.
I smiled up at the sky in astonishment. “How do they know where to go? How to follow each other?”
Jean lowered her binoculars and let her eyes linger affectionately on my face. “Somehow, they just do,” she said. “They communicate with each other, somehow.”
We stayed watching as the birds swooped lower in the sky, now making the shape of a flat, spinning disc.
As neatly and tightly as they flew, I still couldn’t help noticing the few birds that fell out of sync as the shape shifted.
They flew off, dizzy and bewildered, alone.
It was as if they’d just got it wrong, or they were distracted by something, a beam of light, perhaps, a different sound, another rhythm.
For whatever reason, they had lost their place in the swarm, in the pattern of relations.
I rested my head on Jean’s shoulder as we watched the birds. It was a huge relief that things were fine between us again. She must have felt it, too, because she let her head rock lightly against mine.
“When do we start, then?” I asked quietly.
She made a satisfied sound. “If you’re ready, tonight.”
“What do I pay you?” I asked, feeling my heart race at the expense of what I was signing up for.
Jean hushed me, placing an arm over my shoulders and bringing me close. “We don’t have to discuss that now.”
“I mean it,” I said, glancing up at her. “I’ll pay.”
“We’ll sort it out,” she said. “Nothing right away. I know you’ll make it up to me somehow.
” I felt a puzzling twinge again at this, nervous that it would open me up to another accusation of abusing her time, but Jean seemed more relaxed now.
“Pay me back by spreading the word. When you’re a famous artist back in London, you can tell everyone about me.
” This time I laughed, and she kissed the top of my head.
“No, Gus, I’m only asking for you to be happy. ”
“Then you’ve got a deal,” I joked.
She squeezed my hand. “I’m only asking for that. That and your dedication.”