The Last Double Sunrise Read online

  “You mean we don’t tell him?” she suggested, and when he did not reply she repeated the question. “Is that it? We keep it a secret and don’t tell him?”

  “Well, I didn’t necessarily mean it quite like that.” She was normally acquiescent to his suggestions and he did not welcome the interrogation.

  “Then what did you mean?”

  Salvatore tried not to sound annoyed. “In a few years it’ll be obvious. He’ll realise I’ve groomed him and he’ll gladly take over. By then we can discuss it properly.”

  “When he’s older, that sounds better,” said Beatrice. “He doesn’t need that kind of burden now, certainly not at this young age.”

  “It’s no burden. Why do you call it a burden? He loves the place.”

  He decided to end the discussion abruptly before it became an argument and began to fondle her breasts again, her murmur of pleasure encouraging him. As he continued this she reached down to stroke his growing erection. Their moment of dissent was over as she spread her legs wider. Thus the future was abandoned in favour of the passionate present.

  TWO

  Apart from her apathetic art class, Beatrice had other problems to cope with at the local school. One was Carlo’s lack of interest in lessons like mathematics, grammar, geography or history. It worried her; she tried to discuss it when driving him each day, fearing she might soon become the mother of the biggest dunce to attend the school. But if that was to be an embarrassment for her, there was another problem over which she had even less control.

  This was the flirtatious gaze of the headmaster which was his way of greeting her daily. Gaston Fabritzi used it along with smiles and gestures to make it obvious he admired her sexually, and hoped for her response in kind. He was not the least discreet in this approach. In fact, there were occasional crude moments that caused the rest of his staff to suspect the youngest and prettiest teacher had already made herself secretly available to him. It upset then infuriated her, but since the advances were by expression and not words there was no easy way she could object. At times she thought that if Carlo’s disinterest in lessons continued, and the headmaster kept up his sly campaign, her job at the local school might soon become intolerable.

  By the time Salvatore was elected to a third term as mayor, Carlo was thirteen and Gina, eleven years-old. It took him away from home more of the time and he often left instructions in the vineyard for work Carlo could carry out in his absence. It was Gina who first noticed the effect this was having on her brother.

  “He doesn’t seem as keen these days to do all the jobs Papà leaves for him,” she said to her mother one night as they prepared the evening meal.

  “Not keen?” Beatrice was surprised. “I can’t imagine that. I thought he and your father talked of little else.”

  “They did, but not lately. Perhaps it’s a teenage change of life.”

  “You do talk some nonsense, Gina,” her mother said fondly.

  “I do, Mamma. But I can’t imagine what he does spending all that time in the attic when Papà’s not home,” she said, then dropped the subject, leaving Beatrice rather puzzled about this information. There was really nothing to interest him in the attic where she’d long ago stored her easel and art materials with a stack of unfinished canvases, the broken dreams as she sometimes called them in a rare melancholy mood.

  It was the following day. Salvatore was at the office, Carlo was busy with the vines and Gina was visiting a friend. Beatrice went upstairs to satisfy her curiosity. It was almost a year since she’d last been here, as evidenced by a covering of dust on the floor and shelves. But there was no dust on her easel. It had been moved from its cupboard and placed in the middle of the room below a spotlight. It was the sight of what lay on the easel that caused her such astonishment—the sketch of a feminine figure on a sheet of her drawing paper. She stood staring at it, stunned by the realisation this was better than anything attempted by her class of students.

  It was a figure of a girl Gina’s age but not drawn by her. ‘Carlo,’ she thought. ‘It has to be him!’ She went downstairs in a flurry of conjecture about whether to confront him, or wait until later. But she was too excited to wait.

  “Carlo!

  He was hosing a row of new vines. Startled by her voice so close behind him, he turned and sprayed her. Beatrice gave a small shriek.

  “Mamma, I’m sorry! I’ll get a towel.”

  “Never mind towels. It’ll dry. I’ve just been in the attic.”

  “Oh. Have you?” He sounded apprehensive.

  “It is your sketch, isn’t it?”

  “But…well, yes,” he finally conceded. “I usually keep the door locked.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Why, Mamma?”

  “Because I had a chance to see it.”

  “But I didn’t want you to see it, not yet. I was hoping to improve it.”

  “Carlo, it’s already quite good.”

  “Not good enough.”

  She felt a sudden astounding joy. This was an attitude she hoped for in her students who never searched for improvement. “My darling, of course it can be better. Most things can be. But it’s a lot better than I was at your age.”

  “Impossible,” he said.

  “I mean it,” she insisted. “When did you start sketching up there?”

  “About a year ago. Whenever I could find time…away from things…”

  “Away from the vineyard, you mean?”

  “Yes,” he hesitated, then said, “Mamma, do me a special favour.”

  She had already guessed it. “You mean don’t tell Papà, who might think you’re wasting time up there, instead of working hard down here.”

  “Just don’t tell him for a while.”

  “I promise, not a word.”

  “You’re a gem, Mamma.”

  “We won’t mention it to him, but no lies. Now tesoro, I want you to listen to me.” He was surprised, she looked stern and only used pet names when it was serious. “I need you to do better at school. Our headmaster, ‘Gushing Gaston’…” before she could say another word Carlo began to laugh about the nickname. “Well that’s what you young villains call him. He complains about your work in maths, in grammar, in every subject.” She raised a hand to stop his laughter. “I want to talk to him about your syllabus and can only do that if you impress him.”

  “Me? Impress Gushing? He hates me.”

  “That’s going to change, caro mio.”

  Carlo doubted if it could, so he tried to change the subject. “Mamma, how did you know us kids call him Gushing?”

  “What else do you think we talk about in the teacher’s common room?”

  It set him giggling again. “Do you feel the name fits?” he asked.

  “I do,” said Beatrice straight-faced. “It fits like a perfect suit. Far better than his old school tie and blazer with leather patches. But don’t you dare tell any of your friends I said that.”

  He promised to remain silent, and vowed to try to become a better student so the headmaster would no longer hate him. But why, he wondered?

  “It’s important, cucciolo,” she emphasised, without explaining further.

  ‘That’s the third pet name she’s called me, and it’s my favourite one,’ Carlo thought, ‘so it really must be important.’

  A month later Beatrice summoned resolve and booked an appointment with the headmaster. She risked her future by suggesting he allow her to test Carlo’s artistic ability against the sixteen-year-olds in her senior class.

  “Ridiculous. He’s only thirteen,” Fabritzi replied, “and a poor student in all his classes, by the reports that cross my desk.” He indicated that she should occupy a chair close beside this desk, an invitation to sit within reach which on most days she managed to ignore. Today she had no choice but to accept it, trying to conceal her dislike of his body odour, as well as his intentions.

  “I know his schoolwork has been poor in the past,” Beatrice agreed, “but I t
hink you’ll find it’s improved recently. At least his teachers say so.”

  “Trying hard, I believe one said,” the headmaster replied.

  “He’s doing his best, Gaston,” she said, knowing the use of his Christian name would come as a pleasant surprise to the lecherous headmaster, who’d so often urged her to use it whenever they were alone. “I think this sudden interest in art has had a profound impression. I assure you, Gaston, it came as a great surprise to me.”

  She was aware she’d twice received an eager look by using his first name, and felt uneasy, but held her breath until he shrugged and said he’d think about it. It was not like Gushing Gaston to let her easily off the hook when she came to him as a supplicant. But she resolved to persevere; if she had to demean herself and behave a bit like a tart it was strictly for Carlo.

  So, after several weeks and meetings without progress, she took another risk, suggesting perhaps he had no faith in her judgement and while she wanted Gaston to be the headmaster who discovered this talent, possibly she should seek another school that might be more welcoming. That was when Fabritzi at last agreed to what he called this ‘little experiment’. His permission was conveyed with a devious smile to imply it was a secret compact between them. A favour for her, something he’d never allow another teacher. She went home wondering whether to confide in Salvatore but unsure of his enthusiasm. Worried their son could become nervous she decided not to tell either of them. She did not break the news to Carlo until the day before it was due to take place, then spent a sleepless night herself, concerned the lack of preparation could prove a blunder. She was too nervous to eat breakfast, and felt a fierce storm before they left could be a forecast of failure.

  Beatrice became seriously anxious about the weather; she disliked driving in any rain and this was a torrential deluge. It made visibility difficult on their country road, the sharp bends and lack of bitumen felt dangerous. She was also nervous how Carlo might feel, knowing his reputation for lacking concentration in class. This would be a huge embarrassment for him—and certainly for her— if he did fail.

  It would be a personal discomfort having to authentically mark his work, doubtless giving Signor Fabritzi more chances for what he described as ‘our intimate chats’. They’d had far too many of these intimate chats since she had gained the headmaster’s permission for the experiment. They were simply his opportunity to flirt with more evocative eye contact, making comments about her blonde hair or her smart appearance. He was quite blatant with such remarks, no doubt feeling safe in the knowledge that there were no witnesses. It would be a brave act for any female teacher to risk losing her job by making a public complaint.

  She’d forced herself to endure it: Carlo’s talent was worth the occasional embarrassment and the indelicate remarks. Since the day she’d found his sketch on the easel, he’d astonished her with his ability. He’d shown her so many of his other hidden drawings— landscapes, birds in flight and animals sketched in the parkland near their vineyard. She’d never dreamed of having a son this gifted and told herself not to feel so tense and uneasy.

  But she knew if he should fail today he’d experience the same depression she’d known. A reaction that had made her feel useless and unable to get up in the morning. She was uneasy because this test to measure his ability was her idea. Should he fail through nerves she would blame herself and it would be like the awful day she’d had to walk out of her art class at Rome’s Villa Medici all over again.

  Carlo seemed to be experiencing his own tension, hardly saying a word to her on the half hour journey to school. It was unusual, for lately he’d become quite gregarious when they spoke about artistic matters. Today he sat silent. Beatrice tried to relax him with small-talk, but let it lapse when he replied briefly or worse, sat mute, clearly anxious about what lay ahead. It was a relief to reach the school. They remained in the car for a moment, bracing themselves for the run to the main entrance with the rain still pouring down. She felt it was essential to relieve his stress.

  “Carlo, relax, there’s absolutely no need to feel worried…” she started to say, but he didn’t wait for this counterfeit assurance.

  “You relax, Mamma,” was all he said, jumping from the car and racing into the school, leaving her with the words of solace unspoken.

  She reached for her umbrella, opening it as she stepped from the car, but the wind blew it inside out and ripped it from her grasp.

  “Fuck,” she shouted in expectation of an awful day. Fortunately, no one heard this expletive. The broken brolly flew away in the rain while she escaped to whatever hell awaited her inside.

  The class was not due until the morning’s second period, so there was an hour of additional restlessness for them both. Carlo disappeared, while Beatrice was given a message from the headmaster that he wished to see her before the test began. The loss of her umbrella, the soaking from the rain and a growing sense of pessimism made her feel belligerent. She had a hunch Gushing might greet her with second thoughts about allowing this and, after the tense night and uneasy drive to school, she was not willing to walk into an ambush. She made her excuses with the school secretary, saying she needed to prepare for her day’s sessions, and spent the time watching the slow-moving clock and trying to decide if this test at his age was premature. By the time the class arrived, ten girls and nine boys, plus Carlo looking like an anxious stranger among them, she had an array of items laid out. She’d done her best to offer some variety, but the objects available for still life drawing lacked diversity.

  A bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers, a large photograph of a sailing ship and another of a racehorse, were placed in front of the students. She made a brief speech about the importance of art in all nations, but particularly significant in Italy because of its historic background and national icons like Michelangelo, Titian, da Vinci and Botticelli. She finished by inviting them to sketch anyone in the room, if they preferred this to drawing inanimate objects. But she warned them people were more of a test than still life, the latter mostly favoured by young learning artists, because unlike people, the staid items never coughed, sneezed, or had to go to the lavatory. After trying to lighten their mood with this, she gave out paper and pencils then sat while the students made their choices.

  She did her best not to focus on Carlo. With some classes she roamed to observe what each one was trying to achieve, but today it felt quite different. She stayed at her desk to avoid distracting her son. A full hour passed in silence until the bell rang, then she asked them to all write names on their work and place it in a box by the door as they left.

  “I hope you all enjoyed that,” she said, “and I look forward to talking to you about your work later in the week.”

  Most of the girls smiled as they left, the boys seemed more anxious to hurry outside to the football field now the rain had stopped, and the only one who didn’t glance at her as he left was Carlo. He just scuttled out, a lone small figure among the older students.

  Normally she would collect the work and examine it later for marking, but not today. The moment the room emptied she scanned the submissions to find his name. When she found it she simply stared at it with incredulity.

  She was looking at a sketch of a woman: it was recognisably an almost perfect pencil drawing of herself.

  The rain had cleared to blue skies and drifting cloud when they left for home that afternoon. Beatrice had spent much of the day trying to calm down after her first reaction. It was so unbelievable, she could only think it comparable with a child who submits an essay so fluent it provokes suspected plagiarism, but that was beyond all possibility in this instance. The drawing with his name on it was clearly of her face, and she spent the day unable to think of anything else.

  The choice to sketch her instead of the easier inanimate objects moved her immensely. That he could do such a mature drawing when he was not yet fourteen was almost beyond belief. She had only known of his unexpected talent a month ago. It was when they sat in the car and she
turned on the engine, wondering what to say—and how to say it—that she realised Carlo was gazing at her. It had been a long day without any chance to speak privately until now.

  “Did you like it, Mamma?”

  “Yes,” she said, and started to drive off before able to find the words she wanted to express. “I did. I loved it.”

  “Did you? Honestly?”

  His need for assurance made her emotional. “Honestly, truly, Carlo.”

  “I nearly drew the vase but I thought I’d much rather sketch you,” he said, which made her laugh, although her eyes were moist.

  “I had no idea you could draw quite as well as that,” said Beatrice, trying to restrain her tears of joy.

  “I’ve been practising on faces. Like Gina’s. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You’ve certainly done that, amore mio. You surprised Gushing Gaston, too,” she said, then had to stop the car to reach for a handkerchief.

  “You’re crying,” he said, alarmed.

  “It’s silly, but I cry when I’m glad. These are happy tears,” she tried to tell him, while doing her utmost to mop her eyes and face. And then she told him that from tomorrow his life at school would change.

  She had left the drawing in a sealed envelope for the headmaster, with a note saying she could guarantee its veracity, in case the headmaster wondered how a boy of Carlo’s age could have done this. And she’d judged Fabritzi correctly. The headmaster had at first been disbelieving, then astonished and impressed. He saw an opportunity to enhance the school and his own status with this prodigy. As a result, Carlo would be allowed to spend more time in art classes and drop some of his other subjects. It was a decision received with pleasure by most teachers—particularly delighted were those who’d tried to teach Carlo the difficult subjects, like logarithms, algebra and trigonometry.