Where My Heart Used to Beat by Sebastian Faulks

Author:Sebastian Faulks
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780805097337
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

Yours,

Donald

I felt disorientated after my traveling and went to bed early, where I had a strange dream about Lily Greenslade. In the morning I caught a bus into town and started walking towards the Red Cross offices. I had decided to ask Luisa to come up to Florence with me. I had no idea what my billeting arrangements would be, but I imagined that between us we could afford a room in the city to which I could return as often as possible. Like most frontline infantry I had only a vague idea of what a staff officer did, but I imagined there might be more to it than smoking cigars at a safe distance—that it might entail visits to the front.

I went up the horseshoe staircase and into the main office. The clacking of typewriters and the rustle of carbons seemed busier than ever. Young women strode about self-importantly while post boys came in with letters and telegrams from the field. Luisa was not at her usual desk in the window, so after a few words with her colleagues I made my way to Lily’s office at the far end of the room and knocked at the door.

She smiled up over the telephone receiver and waved me in. I waited for her to finish her conversation.

“Hello, Robert,” she said. “We’re busy today. Were you looking for Luisa?”

“You know me so well, Lily.”

“She’s not in this morning. She had some family business to attend to.”

“Did she leave a message?”

“No.”

This struck me as odd. Lily looked embarrassed.

“Is she at her lodgings?” I said.

“No. I think she had to go into Naples.”

“I see.”

“Look, Robert, things are a bit frantic as you can see. But if you’re free at say … one thirty, we could go and find some lunch.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Lily picked up the telephone, and I made my way out onto the street. There was not much to do in town, so I went back to my lodgings and read. My room was at the back of a house in a quiet side street, not far from the sea. I was reading The Betrothed by Alessandro Manzoni for the sake of my Italian.

From my window on the top floor I could see the bay where the fishermen were mending the nets after their nighttime excursion. I began to hum the melody of “Santa Lucia,” which I remembered from when Donald had sung it. The tune was easy to pick up, but I couldn’t remember all the words; so I took random sentences from The Betrothed and sang them instead. I think I was trying to distract myself.

At noon I went downstairs to the parlor. My landlady had frequently told me I could help myself to anything I wanted. Neither she nor her husband drank alcohol and I had long had my eye on a three-quarters-full bottle of Strega on the sideboard. I filled a small wineglass and drained it.

Then I set off to walk slowly to the Red Cross building. Now I was humming “My name is Lucia, but people call me Mimi,” as Luisa did.

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