NO SIMPLE REMEDY

I was the first one up the stairs, dropping Mother’s medicine bag on a high winged-back chair, and fell onto a narrow sofa as if entitled. Roger came into the room

holding his drink and smiling at me as he looked about the room with his best salesman’s smile. He took a puff on his cigar before laying it in an ashtray.

“And is this how you greet your mother’s favourite publicist?” he said, putting his drink on a side table and holding his arms out wide.

“You’re her only publicist,” I said, as I stood up and hugged him. “Well, the only one I know of,” I added.

“Why? What’d she tell you?” he said, pushing me back and looking at me.

He put his arms around me again—laughing, smelling of cigar smoke as he held me tight—kissing the top of my head before stepping back and looking at me. I smiled up at him.

“Well, Kiddo? What do you think?”

“Of what?” I asked, looking at him.

“Of what? Of Italy, boy! Italy! It’s a far cry from jolly-olde England, I must say! A far cry!”

“I don’t think Mother’s too excited about being here,” I said.

I slipped out of his grip and fell back down on the sofa. I took that moment to look about the room. Aside from the sofa I was sprawled out on, there was a second, smaller one. I found out later it was called a chaise. There were also three chairs, a large oval coffee table, and end-tables next to the chairs with big lamps and lace doilies under them. In the middle of the wooden floor there was a large cream coloured Persian rug. Four book cases lined one wall where French doors led to a balcony overlooking the valley. There were other shelves with endless nick-knacks and empty vases. It was the ceiling that got my attention, though.

“Your mother’s not happy?” Roger said. “Well, that’s because she was expecting to go to Florence, wasn’t she? She’ll get over it.”

“Look at the ceiling,” I said, not able to take my eyes off the naked figures playing in a bubbling stream. There were at least seven naked girls that I counted, all of them surrounding a man holding a water jug.

“Well, that’s quite the sight, now then, isn’t it?” he smiled. “All those naked little girls and boys.”

Richard and Barbara came in with our suitcases, dropping them on the floor just inside the door. Barbara ran to Roger, giving him a hug and kissing his cheek. He’d long been her favourite of Mother’s old staff, and he laughed at her as she stepped away. Richard approached—it looked like he did it because it was expected of him—but he always looked like that when it came to hugging Roger. While Barbara and I thought the world of Roger, Richard would rather sit in the corner reading one of his  books, than talk to him. He picked up Mother’s medical bag and placed it on the floor, sitting in the chair.

Roger walked to the door and looked down the steps where Uncle Charlie was helping Mother negotiate the steps one at a time. I poked my head under the crook of his arm and looked outside. She was struggling, pausing at every other step to gather her breath before moving on. I turned my head and looked up at him.

“You should go down and help them,” I said.

“Me? What do you expect me to do?” he asked, tightening his arm around my head and pinching me in a headlock.

“You could offer to help carry her up,” I said, my voice muffled against his fat stomach. “Give her a piggy-back.”

“She’ll be fine,” he said, stepping away from the door and letting me go.

“Do you think so?” I asked.

“Your mother’s always been the strong one—ever since your dad died. She was always number one in her class, from what Charlie tells me, and was excellent at sports, like Richie—”

“My name is Richard,” he said. “It’s always been Richard.”

“It’s obvious he gets that from your mother,” Roger added, and I didn’t know whether he meant his athleticism, or his quick-fused anger.

“What about me? What do I get from her?” I asked, ignoring Richard.

“You? She used to draw pictures when she was younger. Wanted to be an artist, she said. She used to draw Mickey Mouse, do you know who that is? Of course you do; who doesn’t know Mickey Mouse, right?”

“I like to draw,” I said.

“I know. You’re a natural. It runs in your family. Two of my uncles used to paint. Did I ever tell you that? I didn’t know them, of course; they both died in the Great War, before I was born.”

“The Great War? Weren’t you in the war?”

“That was a different one.”

“Oh.…How many wars were there?”

“Two.”

“Which one was the Great War?”

“Jesus, Dennis, try reading a book instead of drawing those stupid pictures,” Richard said.

“There’s no need for that kind of talk,” Roger said.

I looked at the door and saw Uncle Charlie pick Mother up in his arms, carrying her in through the door like they were newlyweds, instead of brother and sister. She was laughing, telling him to put her down, but he was having none of that. She gave up and put her arms around his neck, cradling her head against his shoulder.

“Hey, Charlie,” Roger said, standing in the middle of the room and looking about. “Nice digs,” he said with a grin.

“Put me down, Charlie,” Mother said.

“How ‘bout I take you to the bedroom and you have a nap? Dennis? Where’d you put your mother’s bag?”

“It’s right here,” Richard said, sliding it across the floor to me.

“Have you heard the latest?” Roger asked.

“About what?”

“Minelli’s Gigi? It swept all categories it was nominated in.”

“It’s not the latest news, but still good, I say,” Uncle Charlie laughed, letting Mother down so she could take the medication she needed out of the bag I brought her.

“Good? I thought you’d be upset?” Roger said. “Daphne was up for that role, remember?”

“She was considered for it,” Uncle Charlie said.

“It doesn’t matter in the long run. Caron wasn’t nominated, was she?”

“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Uncle Charlie said, looking around the room until he spotted the small bar cart near the French doors.

“Of course it does,” Roger said.

“Why?” Uncle Charlie asked.

“All she got was the Laurel.”

“Roger, please,” Mother called out. “Could you two just leave it alone for one day? We’ve just now got here. I’m sure Charlie’s just as tired as I am. The world will still be here tomorrow.”

“Are you sure about that Daphne?” he asked.

 

Roger was up early the next morning, the smell of fresh coffee lingering in the kitchen while he scrambled eggs in a large frying pan. There were six plates lined up on the counter top in descending order. He’d used an entire carton of eggs and was spreading butter on an Italian loaf when I walked into the kitchen.

“Take this out to your mother, will you, Kiddo?” he said, sliding the smallest of the plates forward. He handed me a knife and fork, and then turned back to dishing out the rest of the food. “You can come back for the coffee when it’s ready. Can’t have breakfast without a good cup of coffee,” he added.

“Or a bad one,” I said, quoting my father.

“Or a bad one,” Roger laughed.

Mother was sitting out on the balcony reading the English newspaper Roger had brought, enjoying the weather. I placed her breakfast on the small table, covering the newspaper and waited for her to look up at me. She pushed the plate to the side and continued reading.

“I see America’s planning to make Alaska a state,” she said without looking up.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why not? It gives them access into Russia if they should ever need to invade.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that,” she smiled, sitting back and looking up at me with a smile. She put her hand up to block the sunlight.

“Roger said he’s making coffee for you.”

“You drink it.”

“He won’t let me,” I said.

“Then bring it out here and drink it,” she smiled.

“Do you think there might be another World War?” I asked after a moment.

“Don’t listen to anything people say. The world’s always been like that.”

“Like what?”

“On the verge of war, and self-annihilation. Doom and Gloom,” she said, biting into her bread. She put it on her plate and sat back, looking at me. “I can’t eat this. Do you want to finish it?”

“Roger’s making breakfast for me.”

“And you can’t eat more? You’re a growing boy. You should eat more.”

“I’ll get the coffee,” I said.

I went back into the kitchen and Roger handed me a cup of coffee, telling me to be careful not to spill it. He also handed me a plate of scrambled eggs and two thick slices of Italian bread slathered with butter. He reached over and put my knife and fork into my pants pocket.

“You’re all set, Kiddo,” he smiled.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” Uncle Charlie said, coming into the kitchen. “I told you, I have a woman lined up for that.”

“Well, she’s not here now, is she?” Roger said, handing Uncle Charlie his plate.

“What’s in it?” Uncle Charlie asked, inspecting his plate.

“What do you mean, what’s in it? It’s scrambled eggs. There’s not a lot to work with here, Charlie, so you get what you get.”

“Where’s Daphne?”

“Out on the balcony. Did you want to join her?”

“No thanks. You have to pick your battles, remember?”

“Doesn’t have to be that way,” Roger said.

“Tell her that.”

“Off you go, Kiddo,” Roger said.

“Dennis, would like to come along when we go out later?” Uncle Charlie called out to me.

“Where?” I asked, as if it mattered. It’d be a day of exploration in an old medieval town; of course I wanted to go.

“We’ll have to get some food,” Roger said.

“We can get it on the way back. I was going to look in on the help I hired.”

“You hired someone local?”

“I wouldn’t say she’s local. She’s Chinese.”

“Chinese? And she speaks Italian?”

“Italian? She speaks at least five languages. She was raised by missionaries,” Uncle Charlie laughed.

Photo by zhang kaiyv on Unsplash

“It’s a tourist town now, Roger,” Uncle Charlie was saying as we stepped into the narrow lane leading from the apartment we were staying in.  “One would think you’d fit right in,” he smiled.

We were in the shade, the old brick walls still wet with dew and feeling cool around us until we came out into the sun on the Voltaia Nel Corso. There were a few of those small three-wheeled Vespas coming down the street and we had to move up against the wall as they passed, with other people on the street scattering in all directions.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for these bloody Yanks thinking everybody here owes them for winning the war,” Roger added with a grin.

“Funny that, Roger, you being a Yank and all, but I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” Uncle Charlie said, straightening his suit jacket. He adjusted the brim of his hat so that it kept the sun out of his eyes.

Roger had an old hat that’d seen better days, and he wore it on the back of his head, choosing to wear sunglasses instead. Whereas Uncle Charlie was always dressed neatly, looking dapper as he liked to say whenever he was wearing a tie, Roger wasn’t. His shirt tail was hanging out of his pants, his pants were sagging, and he was always pulling them up with a little hop as he walked.

The streets weren’t as full of people as Uncle Charlie and Roger seemed to think there were—at least I didn’t think they were—but all the same Uncle Charlie turned to Barbara, warning her not to let me get lost.

“What? Do you want me to hold his hand?” she quipped.

“If you have to, yes” he said.

“I’m not going to get lost,” I said.

“If you do, next time I’ll make sure we leave you with Richard and Mummy,” Barbara said, looking down at me. I reached out and grabbed the hem of her skirt, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She did, but she didn’t say anything.

“So where does this woman live?” Roger asked.

“Up ahead. It’s across from the pharmacy. There’s a small alley leading to a laundry—”

“A Chinese laundry?” Roger laughed. “Some things never change.”

I didn’t know whether we should consider ourselves part of the wandering crowd about us, or if we should look at ourselves as new citizens of the town. The weather was promising to be hot, and while most of the town’s citizens were dressed in long slacks and buttoned shirts, the tourists stood out with their Bermuda shorts and loud, colourful shirts. You could always tell who was who, Uncle Charlie said, even though he looked more like a citizen than a tourist. The Americans were loud, brash men who felt they were entitled to share their opinions as the saviours of the world; their wives coming across as just as loud and opinionated.

We found the street we were looking for and Uncle Charlie pulled a scrap of paper out of his shirt pocket before looking up at the numbers on the buildings.

“This way,” he said, and we followed him through a short maze of twisting alleys leading to the back of several shops facing the street. It was eerie, and quiet, the sun breaking through in bars of light, and the wet walls steaming in the broken light.

“And you say she speaks English?” Roger said.

“Better than you and me.”

“Is she expecting us?”

“Yes.”

“More stairs,” I said, letting go of Barbara’s skirt and putting my hand on the rail.   

“Maybe you two should wait here?” Roger said, and I watched him follow Uncle Charlie up the flight of rickety stairs.

Barbara sat on the bottom step, pulling her skirt down over her knees and hugging her arms around herself. She’d found a little bar of sunlight and moved into it to keep herself warm now that we’d stopped walking.

“I didn’t know Chinks could speak Italian,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t.”

I was looking up at the top of the stairs when I saw a young Chinese girl step out onto the landing, looking down at us. She had long, dark hair, straight, and ending in the middle of her back, with bangs that looked like they’d been cut too short. She was wearing a short skirt with suspenders, and a white blouse; knee socks that weren’t pulled up, and worn-out shoes. She looked down at us and turned away.

“Who’s that?” Barbara asked.

“I don’t know. She just came out.”

“Ask her,” she said.

“Hey!” I called up. “Who are you? Do you speak English?”

“That’s dumb,” Barbara said.

“Then you talk to her,” I said, sitting down on the step above her and looking up at the girl.

“I speak English, French, Spanish and German, as well as Italian,” the girl said.

“Wow. How old are you?” Barbara asked.

“Twelve.”

“What’s you name?”

“Liling.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“It means White Lilly,” she said, sounding somewhat proud of herself, I thought.

“My name’s Barbara. This is, Dennis. He’s thirteen—”

“Don’t tell her that,” I said.

“—I’m seventeen. Is your mother coming to work for us?”

“I think so. She wants to save enough money to go to America.”

“Our friend Roger’s from America,” I said. “He’s from Boston.”

“That’s in Massachusetts,” she said.

“We’re from Kent,” I said.

“I was born in Nepal.”

“Where’s that?”

“That’s where Mount Everest is,” Barbara said. “Don’t you pay any attention to what’s going on in the world?”

“I never heard of it before.”

“How come you speak so many languages?” Barbara asked.

“My mother taught me.”

The door opened and I saw Uncle Charlie stepping out, smiling as he put his hat on. Roger followed, bowing as he left, his hat still in his hands. I stood up, pushing Barbara to get up, and stepped down to the cobblestoned lane, looking up as they made their way down the narrow staircase.

Liling, waiting until Uncle Charlie and Roger left, slipped in behind them and closed the door behind her.

“Well, that’s that,” Uncle Charlie said as he approached us.

“Is she going to help?”

“She’s going to take care of things as far as cooking and cleaning go, but you’ll still have to take care of your mother,” he said, looking at Barbara.

I looked up at Barbara and reached out for her hand, squeezing it. She smiled at me, and then swung our hands between us like she used to do when I was younger, before Mother got sick.