Innocence by Penelope Fitzgerald

Author:Penelope Fitzgerald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2013-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

34

Cesare drove down to the tobacconist’s in the nearest village and bought four sheets of plain writing paper and an envelope. When he got back to Valsassina he sat down in his office and began to write a letter to Chiara. This began quite formally, saying that even though she had had to leave so abruptly it had been a great pleasure to see her a few days ago. He knew the number of days, but did not mention it. He thanked her for having the truck returned. This only took up a quarter of a page.

He could have gone on to give her the news of the farm. Last year it hadn’t been practicable to make any Reserve, the special wine for the use of the family only, this year he thought it would be possible. Another thing: the day before yesterday, for no particular reason, he had gone just before sunrise to have a look at the doves and rabbits and found the casetta broken into. The door was still locked, but two panels had been taken out with an electric saw. It was clear enough that a lorry had been parked just off the track to the casetta and a little downhill, on the way to the field path. Although the ground had hardened after the recent rains the tyre marks, coming, turning and going, were quite plain to anyone who wanted to read them. Unlocking what was left of the door, Cesare had been half choked by the smother of torn fur and feathers that rose, in a white cloud, to meet him. Every cage was empty, the high roosts were down and stuck out like broken bones at odd angles. A few doves, with twisted necks, lay on the ground, perhaps surplus to requirements. The doves had probably been more intractable than the rabbits. Bernadino, on receiving the information, seemed to become a little unhinged. He demanded to go out immediately in the Land Rover to look for the rapinatori, or down to the Central Market in Florence where he was certain of being able to pick out, on the heaped butchers’ stalls, his own birds and animals all of whom he knew by name. The notion that all this had gone on a few hundred metres away, while he slept and dreamed peacefully, tormented him.

Since Cesare had made up his mind about the Riservata, and had found it useless to argue with Bernadino, he saw no point in including these topics in his letter. However, he went on writing with increasing speed and concentration, until all the paper was used up.

So far as he could remember, he had never written to her before. Probably there had been no necessity. When he had finished he read the letter through. Then he took the four sheets of paper, tore them into a number of pieces, and threw them away.

‘At least that’s something I haven’t done,’ he said aloud. It was irritating, though, to be left with the unused envelope.

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