Mimi's Ghost Read Online Free PDF Page B

to. hide the broken veins. Morris smiled at his own ingenuity, non calamitas, sed vinum would have been more appropriate. And putting the brake on Signora Trevisan, he stepped out from under Paola’s umbrella, took the red handkerchief from his jacket pocket and carefully wiped the beads of rain from the image of his defunct father-in-law. If even this didn’t win a nod of acknowledgement from the old witch, then quite simply he could rest his case. They had got no more than they deserved.
    But Morris knew that the real reason his heart was racing was because of Massimina round the other side. The only woman who had ever loved him, whom he had ever loved. And life had forced him to . . . but he must not think about it. He must not and would not dwell on the past, weep over spilt milk. Yet what could one do with spilt milk if not weep over it?
    For a moment then he was almost afraid of seeing her photograph. Why hadn’t this occurred to him? This confrontation. And in company. Would something flicker across his face? Some expression of self-betrayal. Or would he burst into tears? Really he ought to have come here ages ago on his own to get the measure of the thing, see which picture they had chosen. But at the same time he relished his anxiety. Tomorrow, at the Uffizi, he could contemplate her transformation into art. Today he would have to suffer the immediacy of a photograph. So be it.
    Signora Trevisan’s tic had speeded up at the sight of her dead husband. The corner of her mouth twitched obscenely as she tried to say something. In the portico beyond, two old women were exchanging insults over the use of the step-ladder for placing flowers in the higher burial niches. Apparently Paola wasn’t the only one with a poor sense of occasion. Antonella stepped forward and began to arrange a spray of flowers in the vase by the photo of her father. Crouching down, her small pale hands worked quickly, picking stalks from cellophane wrapping. Back behind Signora Trevisan again, Morris watched, trying to still his beating heart. He forced himself to observe what a perfect image of devotion it was: the curved back of the young woman in white seal fur against the rain-wet tomb behind, the quick hands fiddling amongst the flowers. The fingers had that same pudginess tapering to delicate pink that Massimina’s had had. Perhaps Morris had been too hard on Antonella. Perhaps her gestures were not naked hypocrisy, but carried some genuine cultural resonance, the nobility of her race. An intelligent person was always willing to revise an opinion, n’est-ce-pas?  In his ear, Paola whispered: ‘Cristo santo, Mo, push Mamma round the other side, dump the wreath and let’s get out of here. It gives me the creeps.’
    The wheels crunched on the stones. The rain stiffened. It was the first time they had all come to visit her. Last year he and Paola had still been in London for i morti. And the curious thing was that Morris was thinking more about Mimi now than he had then. Or in all the months in between. Far more. As if his real mourning had only just begun. Only now had he begun to want to see her grave. Only now was he ready to face the truth: that he had loved Massimina and lost her; that he had let life slip through his fingers, or rather, tossed it violently away. Sometimes the girl was so intensely present to the inner senses, he would have to bite his tongue and clench his fists. And Morris had an inkling that this new and precarious state of mind could only be presageful. Certainly he felt incredibly nervous and excited now. What kind of photo would they have chosen? What effect would it have on him? Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Bobo checking his watch.
    They waited for an old man wobbling by with a stick, then Morris negotiated the chair round the other side. But he deliberately didn’t look down at where the photograph would be. Instead he lifted his eyes to the angel above.