The Honeymoon (46 page)

“I came as quickly as I could,” he said. “I got the boat at Dover and I was just in time for the next train to Brussels. I’ve been traveling for thirty-six hours. God, it’s hot in here!”

“Have you seen him?”

He sat down wearily on the chair and placed his hat on the table.

“He’s sleeping,” he said. “I met Vigna and Ricchetti on their way out. They explained the situation.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s happened to him?”

“Frankly, I was a bit worried about something like this.”

“What do you mean?”

He rubbed his head, frowning. She remembered that she disliked him, his withholding ways. “Once before —” he began.

“Once before — what?”

“He was ill.”

“Ill? With what?”

“There was no untoward attempt. Nothing like this, just a sort of terrible agitation, pacing, talking to himself. We’d
just found out Mama was ill herself, and Johnnie was beside himself with worry about her. The doctor advised rest. He was put in the Surrey County Asylum. They gave him baths and sedatives. Gradually he got better. He was there for three weeks and came home, and that was the end of it.”

“When was this?”

He said, guardedly, “Three years ago.”

“But George and I, we knew you then. Nobody told us.”

“We were sure he was all right. He seemed perfectly well. And Mama was absolutely adamant, she insisted we not tell anyone. You see, when our sister, Emily, fell in love with Frank Otter, he found out that there had been … illness in the family, and he almost didn’t marry her because he was afraid if they had children …” She remembered that time at Weybridge, and Emily and Frank walking together and arguing and Emily crying. So that must have been what they were quarreling about that day.

Why hadn’t they told her? Mary — Mary had been her friend.

Willie hesitated. “Mama wouldn’t have wanted
you
in particular to know. You see,” he said, “there had been difficulties in the family before.”

“Difficulties?”

“Illness,” he said. “Our uncle William was in the asylum in Dumbartonshire. And our brother, Alexander.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes. It was the tragedy of our mother’s life. He never learned to talk. He was like a wild animal. They had to put him away. We never saw him again. Then we heard he died.”

She was reeling.

“I’m sorry, Marian,” he said. “But I’m here to help you now. I know Johnnie better than anyone. I won’t leave you alone. I’m going to sleep in the room with him along with the other men. He’ll be very well guarded, I promise you.”

“But why didn’t he tell me?” she asked again.

“I don’t know. Because he was ashamed. Or he didn’t remember.”

“He didn’t remember?”

“We don’t know. You see, when he got out, he never spoke about it again. It was as if nothing had happened. The doctor said amnesia is common with that sort of thing.”

I
n the late afternoon the sky darkened ominously, as if it were night. A clap of thunder shook the air, then came the wind and the rain, a blinding rain beating down onto the canal. The horizon was completely obscured. Below on the
riva
, the boatmen struggled to buckle blue coverings over the gondolas. The canal was empty. The sirocco was upon them.

After an hour, the rain ceased. Gradually the sky cleared and for the first time in days, the air was fresh and cool.

In the morning, Willie came in to her. “He went without the chloral last night. He’s awake and calm.”

“Awake?”

“Yes. But very tired.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He asked what happened. I told Corradini, the gondolier, to bathe and dress him. Perhaps you’d like to see him?” Willie said.

“I don’t want to see him.” She felt a sudden anger at Johnnie, for what he’d put her through, for wanting to leave her, for ceasing to love her.

“I’ll be with you,” he said. “Ricchetti is with him.”

Reluctantly, she rose and followed him into the
sala
.

Johnnie was slumped at the table, washed, in clean clothes, silent, staring straight ahead. Dr. Ricchetti and Corradini stood over him. Now that the crisis had passed, the gondolier had resumed his cold, contemptuous expression, an expression he was making little effort to hide, with the big Englishman reduced to a blubbering fool. He’d seen it all with these tourists, drunkenness, violence, madness. He’d taken other men to the Rialto.

Johnnie looked up at her, bewildered.

“Johnnie,” Willie said. “It’s Marian.”

His brow knit as if he were trying to remember where he’d seen her before. “Yes?” he said, mystified. His voice was faint, slurred.

“You’ve been ill,” she said stiffly.

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” she said, looking to Willie for help.

Johnnie shook his head.

“Mr. Cross,” Ricchetti said. “You had a collapse.”

“A collapse,” Johnnie repeated.

“Is it normal for them not to remember?” she asked Ricchetti.

“Yes. Typical. Then it comes back later, usually.”

She said coldly, “I’m glad you feel better, Johnnie.”

He appeared to think about her remark. “Yes,” he said vaguely. “Better,” parroting her. Then, uncertainly, “I feel better.”

Ricchetti said, as if Johnnie weren’t there, “We will try again today and tonight without the chloral and see how he does.”

“But you’ll still be here?” she quickly asked.

“I have other patients to see. But we won’t leave him alone. The gondolier will stay with him. The chloral remains in the body for many hours. It will continue to sedate him, even after we stop the dosage. We are going to take him out for a little walk today. It will be good for him.”

She looked at Willie. “But people will see him? They know what happened.”

Willie hesitated. “Yes, that may be.”

“He must have exercise,” Ricchetti said.

Willie said, “I spoke to Inspector Basso.”

“The policeman?” she said.

“By law they’ve got to file a police report.” Willie waited, letting it sink in. “The newspapers take it from the police report. There’s something in
Il Tempo
and in
L’Adriatico
.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

Her heart sank.

Willie said, “It’s in Italian. I don’t think the English read the Italian papers. I’m doing what I can. I’ve given Marseille a very large sum to keep him quiet and to forbid the hotel staff from discussing it.” He nodded toward Corradini and lowered his voice. “And to him, of course.” The awful man had made money out of this. More than his wages. More than the “tip” Johnnie had given him that first day.

“And Gerita — the maid — she took money?” she asked.

“No,” Willie said, surprised. “She wouldn’t take it. It was a large amount too.”

The next morning, Vigna came again. “It has been twenty-four hours now without the chloral hydrate. He is quiet
still.” He studied her with his dark, pouched eyes. “The mania has abated,” he said. “He is in the depressive phase of the illness now.”

“Depressive?”

“Yes. We must still watch him carefully. This can be a dangerous time. Sometimes, after the mania, they sink into a profound melancholia.”

“What is the name of it? What he has?”

“The French call it
la folie circulaire
. Around and around,” he said. He smiled sadly and circled the air above his head with his finger, as if, after all these years of coping with the mad as a medical man, he still saw some humor in this. A form of self-preservation. And perhaps because he knew there was no cure.

She asked, “That means he’ll … It could happen again?”

“The fact that he is responsive,” he said, “and that he has remained calm for this many hours, without the chloral, is a good sign. He is drowsy, he is slow, but he is talking normally. I think he understands what is happening around him now.”

“Is it safe for us to leave? To take him home?”

“We will see what happens in the next twenty-four hours.”

“What caused it? Can you tell me?”

He shrugged. “We cannot know. You say there have been incidences in the family. And,” he said, “then there is the sirocco. Thank goodness, it has broken.” With this, he gave a little smile, as if he had nothing else to go on but the weather. “Sometimes, with the sirocco, the tourists, we see they go quite mad.”

A
t last, on Tuesday evening, eight days after the attempt, the doctors deemed it safe to move him. She’d refused to consider an asylum for him — the notion of the word “asylum” getting back to London appalled her. Ricchetti and Vigna said that in light of that, they recommended that they go on to Wildbad, where he could take the cure, which might be of help.

She wrote to Charley saying only that Johnnie had
“taken ill”
without mentioning the nature of the illness, that Willie Cross had come to Venice to help, that Johnnie seemed to be improving. They were traveling slowly back to England, she wrote, giving him time to recover, and they hoped to be there by the end of July if all went well.

Gerita and Corradini accompanied them to Santa Lucia, the gondolier supporting Johnnie, nearly carrying him. Johnnie shuffled his feet like an old man, vacant-eyed, slackmouthed, concentrating, as if he couldn’t put one foot in front of the other without effort. It was as if by some awful twist of fate, the cold, strange, stale-smelling man who had precipitated this had now taken full possession of Johnnie’s body.

Willie managed the luggage and the tickets, then he and Corradini loaded Johnnie, heavy with his drowsiness and silence, onto the train.

Marian hugged Gerita goodbye. “Thank you,” Marian told her, dully.

“Good luck, Madame,” Gerita said.

Marian dug into her purse and found some coins at the bottom which she wrapped in her lace handkerchief and gave to the girl. She gave nothing to the gondolier. She would never have to see him again.

“Oh, no, Madame,” Gerita said. “I cannot take.”

“This is for your sweet mother, to help care for her,” Marian said.

The train to Verona had no first-class compartment, and there were other passengers in the carriage with them. But no one seemed, thank God, to know who they were. Willie sat between her and Johnnie as if to protect her from him.

They spent the night in Verona, Willie never leaving Johnnie’s side, taking care of him. “Johnnie, you’ve got to eat,” he said, and later, “Johnnie, you’ve got to bathe.” He held out Johnnie’s fork toward him and Johnnie took it and fed himself a bite of food.

She was exhausted with fear, the need to be alert at all times, lest he try to hurt himself again. This quiescence could be an illusion, he could suddenly spring up, run away from them, try to do it again.

The next morning they left for Trento, two hours north. This time they had a private compartment with wood paneling and luxurious, upholstered seats. There was no fear of being recognized.

As they headed into the Tyrol, the air grew clearer and cooler. The train chugged through the brilliant, snow-capped Dolomites and glided along the narrow ledges, Johnnie
seldom uttering a word, and then only in answer to a direct question from Willie.