Читать книгу Vestavia Hills - Christian Perego - Страница 8

Vestavia Hills, 1858

Reverend Abblepot went back home as he did many times before, like those who love their home, who know it perfectly and who, inside it, feel comfortable and sheltered from the world.

Many times he went out to carry out his task as a shepherd among his congregation: he used to give a word of comfort, or for the job far from easy to visit sick or even worse dying people; or went to visit a particular parishioner who hadn’t been to church for a while; or finally, he used to take a walk, and in the meantime exchange small talk with those who saw him as a point of reference in town.

Every time Johnathan Abblepot went back to the vicarage, he had that satisfied feeling like someone who had just done his duty.

He was also going back to a secure family home, orderly and straightforward, looked after by a kind and devoted wife, who didn’t deprive the man of the house of anything. That afternoon, however, something seemed to have changed.

It wasn’t the appearance of the house, which was always the same, with that scent of fresh flowers that Elizabeth liked to have around for him from time to time. Not the atmosphere, which remained quiet, calm, secluded, as the Reverend was used to finding.

Perhaps what had changed was in himself, confined to the depths of his heart, in a recess that was trying to talk to him, even if he still hadn't trained his ear to hear well.

As he took off his jacket, to place it on the usual armchair in the living room, Abblepot thought of Martyn Trischer, Evelyn's, the shopkeeper, nephew.

It had already happened to him before that someone didn’t respond to his greeting, but it had never bothered him.

How he was feeling now, though, Abblepot began to think, was different.

Martyn Trischer had no special relationship with him: he was a parishioner like others, a good boy, with the peregrine ideas of young people, but who had always kept himself busy, even in the vicarage. The young man was not particularly close to the reverend.

Yet the rushed greeting that the boy had given him and that note of concern in his look (had there really been? Abblepot was almost sure of it) had left the reverend a strange feeling, like when you eat something gone off, that releases its real taste only after we swallowed it. That, therefore, annoys us even more, because now we can't do anything about it.

Elizabeth came up to him from the adjoining room: “John! Welcome back," the joy of her voice had the sparkle it had every other day, "how did it go in town?"

Elizabeth was adorable in every gesture she made. Even in the most trivial questions, she managed to have an attitude that would put even the grumpiest of men at ease. She had always been this way. Their years of marriage hadn't changed her at all; they only made her a more mature and flawless lady of the house.

"All right," replied Abblepot.

But it was not difficult for Elizabeth to sense something elusive in Johnathan's voice: “You look worried. Did something happen? "

Abblepot did not want to get caught out; also, because he would not have known what to say and how to explain.

So he remained evasive: “No, nothing, why would you say that?

I feel, well... a little tired. Although I didn't do anything in particular,” and then Abblepot tried to have a more lively tone, "I am feeling a bit weak." I think I am coming down with something."

Elizabeth showed concern: “Shall I make you a hot cup of tea, huh? As mom said, it's suitable for any occasion! "

"No, don't bother," replied the man, "I am going to sit on the armchair for a while and relax. Old age hey!" he hinted a laugh to give more credibility to his apparent desire to joke about it.

Elizabeth understood perfectly well that her husband, taken by who knows what thoughts, had little desire to talk.

Sooner or later, Johnathan would always tell her what worried him. However, the young woman felt that this time her husband would not do as he ever did before.

And perhaps, on this occasion, she didn't want him to do it.

She said: "Then I will sit here with you to read a book."

The reverend smiled at her as if he was lost in thought and then said that he would do the same. He took the Bible and sat down on the armchair.

“Because you can bandage a wound and mend an injury, but those who have revealed secrets have no more hope. Whoever winks with the eye plots evil, and nobody can deflect it. With you, his speech is sweet; he admires your words, but behind your back, his speech will change, and he will twist your words." So read Johnathan Abblepot in the book of Sirach, which was one of the last meditations he was using to prepare his next sermon.

He looked up as if to follow one idea or to have another, but his mind didn’t take notice of the biblical verses. In front of him was the window of the small bay window that overlooked the lawn. From where he was sitting, he could see part of the fence.

And then he remembered that image of Martyn Trischer leaning against the fence, just before the beginning of the last function.

Again him, again Martyn Trischer.

At that point, Johnathan Abblepot's mind registered a small piece of information, which did not immediately lead to anything: his look went on a little book with a fine binding, which was carelessly resting on the table in front of the window.

Abblepot went back to reading the Bible. Or at least try to do it. His wife, Elizabeth, did not look away from her book.

Shortly after, the reverend got up to get some water, under the look of his wife. He looked at the table again, without any conscious attention.

When he returned, his wife seemed to have got up and sat back down again.

The next hour passed without any distraction. Abblepot seemed to regain concentration to mentally compose notes and arrangements that would have been useful for next Sunday's sermon. Elizabeth read a few more pages of the book in her hands, then began to tidy up some other rooms.

The reverend did a few household chores and went to the church.

Dinner time came quickly enough. Elizabeth had prepared some stew and mashed potatoes: they consumed it cheerfully and with a good conversation. The reverend's so-called tiredness seemed to have overcome; the girl was pleasant as usual.

It was then, at the end of the dinner, that a shadow reappeared in Abblepot's mind and face.

His brain had brought the detail of that book back in his mind. Like a wounded animal that hides in the ravines until it has regained sufficient strength, so that thought, strengthened with the passing of the hours, had come back to the reverend's mind.

It was a momentary flash, but that left a clear trace. Now that he had remembered, Abblepot knew that the book was not part of his library. The spine, the cover, its colour, and the size: he was practically sure that he had never bought anything like it, and no one had ever given him a book.

So, where could it come from?

By now, his brain had started: and a series of details surfaced.

When he got up to get a glass of water, the book was on the edge of the living room table near the bay window, he was sure of it, he could almost still see it in front of him. Just as he knew that, once he returned to the living room, almost without realizing it, he still had a look at the table, and the book was gone. The missing book now seemed as evident as the groove of a disappeared building left on the grass.

Abblepot tried to dismiss this thought as absolutely insignificant. But a prod, similar to something physical, pressed his chest and warned him to clear up any doubts.

When Elizabeth said she was going to bed, Abblepot stalled a bit so he could go in the living room again.

As soon as his wife went up to her room, he rushed to the study, searching for that book. As he already knew, there was nothing like it in his library. He also looked in the library, the shared one, where his wife also provided herself with readings; and again, as he imagined, he found no trace of what he was looking for.

Either he had had a hallucination, or that little book was on the living room table and Elizabeth herself, who else? She must have taken it away from there. Obviously, to make sure he didn't see it.

What other explanation was possible?

Abblepot bit his lip because he realized that he had made a wrong thought about his wife, that he had accused her of deception. Practically never, in his life with Elizabeth, had he doubted her honesty.

But now, that thought, made, forgotten and remembered again within a day, was so evident that it seemed impossible that it was on a hallucination. He was sure of what he remembered seeing, as he did not doubt that the Bible was on the pulpit of the church.

Although regretting doing such a thing, an offense to the good faith with which Elizabeth was undoubtedly full, he began to rummage in frenzy wherever it was possible to hide a book.

Finding nothing was more of a relief than a concern.

After a few minutes spent looking in the living room, Abblepot sat on the armchair, almost persuaded, with a sudden change of opinion, that he had imagined what was not there. He was now looking forward to the next morning when he could innocently question Elizabeth about that matter.

While pondering over these things, the reverend looked at the cabinet where they kept the trays and dishes. Even in the dim light of the only lamp the reverend left on, his attentive look, or sharpened by the situation, did not miss the fact that a tray was out of place, not well aligned with the order that his wife usually kept.

He got up with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension and opened the cabinet.

He was satisfied about completing his research and amazed at such a secret act by Elizabeth; he saw a book behind a tray.

It was that book: the book with the fine binding and the purple color he had seen on the bay window table.

He did not immediately read the title, stopping instead to ask himself once more why his wife had to hide that book from him.

Then he looked at the cover: they were poems and love letters from the English poet John Keats.

The following morning Abblepot was unable to wake up as early as usual. The whirlwind of thoughts that had accompanied him to bed did not allow him to go to sleep immediately. Also, when he finally fell asleep, he was restless and not at all relaxing sleep.

He decided to immediately deal with the matter of the book with Elizabeth and listen to what she had to say about it.

He found his wife in the room adjacent to the living room.

"Good morning, dear," she said with sincere friendliness.

"Good morning to you."

Abblepot, although annoyed by the event, had no intention of getting too angry. The night he had advised that it was not a good thing to let oneself get angry: not very evangelical, and probably not useful.

He went on to ask his wife what time it was.

"It's not too late, don't worry. I saw that you were still sleeping soundly, so I decided not to disturb you. I hope you don't mind. "

"No, not at all. Thank you, "said Abblepot." I didn't get much sleep tonight. "

"Worries?"

"Yes. A few."

Elizabeth invited her husband to sit down to have some breakfast. Then he offered to get him a cup of coffee.

"Do you mind if I sit in the living room?" said the reverend.

"Of course not. I'll be right there," Elizabeth replied.

When she came back, she found Johnathan seated in his armchair; he wasn't sitting back in a relaxed manner, but he was slightly leaning forward, with both feet resting on the ground, knees flexed, and wrists resting on them. He looked at her with sleepy eyes, he had the stiffness of statues, but the restlessness of those who are ready to make a move.

Not far away was the table, and Johnathan's left hand was a few centimeters from a book, which the young woman recognized immediately. He had specially put it there before going to bed.

Before Elizabeth even asked him why that attitude, Abblepot said, "Did someone lend you this?"

But in reality, that was far from a question. Elizabeth felt a heart skip a beat. She held the cup firmly in her hands, yet her stiffening must have been as apparent as if she was a puppet whose puppeteer had pulled all the strings at the same time.

Abblepot pressed on, but without altering his voice. Not that this mattered to Elizabeth, who was already feeling uncomfortable.

He said, "It's not mine. And nobody lent or gave it to me, and you know how well I know my books."

Although she felt flustered, Elizabeth regained her calm: "Sure… Keats' poems. They are lovely, do you know them? Hanna had always told me about it, do you remember her? Until in the end, she decided to lend the book to me. I have almost finished it, but the last ones I read are not so beautiful. I think it's time to return it; it's been a while. Hanna will be wondering if I might be trying to keep it!"

But Abblepot continued: "I found it by chance" he allowed himself this little lie "he was in that cabinet" and pointed to it.

Elizabeth put the coffee on the table and pretended to be interested in the book, which she had read and reread passionately until the day before. Then she said, "Ah, what a fool! I must have accidentally put it in there!"

Johnathan, this time was unable to hide his disappointment over his wife's blatant lie.

She continued: "I think I had it in my hand when I opened the cabinet's door. Who knows what I was looking for. Then I must have placed it inside without thinking. I was a little careless, sorry, John. I know you don't like untidiness, and finding a book among the dishes must have been a bad surprise!"

Elizabeth might have guessed how true that was, but not for the reasons she thought.

In reality, that was a nasty surprise for both of them, and both of them realized it.

The young woman laughed with apparent nonchalance.

The reverend said, "Don't worry. It can happen."

"Thanks for finding it, let's just leave at that," and Elizabeth laughed again "you know, it must have been at least a couple of days since I picked it up, and I didn't even bother to wonder where it was."

But this sentence brought back to Johnathan's mind the clear image of the book resting on the bay window table the previous afternoon. Now he was beginning to find it unbearable that his wife could lie to him like that. Unbearable and distressing, because he wondered what was behind that series of lies.

He handed the book to Elizabeth, looking at her as you do with a child who has misbehaved, but he did not get back the remorseful look he expected.

The young woman said, "Thanks, John. I'll try to give it back to Hanna today." And she found an excuse to excuse herself from the heavy air of that room.

Abblepot stared at an indistinct point outside the window. In reality, he saw nothing in front of him, if not the image of his wife Elizabeth, now alongside John Keats' book of poems and love letters, and another man.

He didn't know who this man was and what he looked like, but it seemed to him that there was no other explanation.

That wasn't the only thing that bothered him. If there had been nothing else, he would have dealt with the matter with elegance.

He would have approached the man making him understand the impropriety of his acts and inviting him, first of all, not to disrupt their family peace anymore, and secondly to confess his sin before the Lord.

But there was more.

Elizabeth didn't say anything about it.

She didn't even get rid of that inappropriate gift.

Lastly, Elizabeth had tried to hide it from him, because perhaps she did not intend, at least in the short term, to get rid of it: she wanted to continue reading it. Or maybe keep it.

Of course, his wife's could be just curiosity. And, given the probable inconvenience of the content and the very existence of that book in their home, she didn't want to upset him too much.

What if it did come from a friend of Elizabeth and she, young and conservative, had let herself go to a little bawdy curiosity?

Perhaps even, Elizabeth may have found that book by chance, and now she was just a bit curious.

Johnathan continued to review these last possibilities in his mind, hoping to find one of them plausible: but none left him with the serenity he would have liked.

He prayed to God that he would regain the trust he always had in his wife. However, he didn't pay much attention to church things for the next days to come.

Then he was bothered by anger and suspicion, which he felt growing to stay within him, like clouds that announce the storm that won't get away until they thunder.

Then he asked God for forgiveness for those feelings that he had condemned so many times in his sermons and that now he could not let go.

What he finally decided to do was miles away from the Johnathan Abblepot people knew.

The reverend decided to fake a trip: basically to secretly spy on his wife.

He let a couple of weeks go by, pretending he had forgotten entirely about that matter. So he forced himself to assume the most natural and usual manners with Elizabeth, being calm and focused on something else, so that she would reassure herself and would not suspect that her husband was still brooding.

Johnathan felt like dying, because of the coldness he was planning to trick Elizabeth with and because of the way he was able to deceive her.

But the pain he felt inside for what had happened was more reliable than those feelings. So he carried on.

When it seemed to him that enough time had passed not to arouse suspicion, Abblepot told his wife that he would be gone a few days: he had to go to Dothan to speak with the reverend of that community; the reason would have been too complicated to explain.

Johnathan Abblepot prepared a piece of unnecessary luggage, and one early morning when Elizabeth was still sleeping, he left the house.

He hid in an area of the church which he only had access to; from there, and he could easily reach the attic: no one would have suspected he was hiding in there.

A couple of days wouldn't take long to pass by: from up there, he could easily see the possible visits that his wife would receive and the trips she would make.

He didn't have to wait long.

That same morning, at rather late hours, Elizabeth walked briskly out of the vicarage, dressed in one of her older dresses, a handkerchief around her neck, and a hat in her hand. Abblepot watched her mesmerized for a few moments, then decided, as he had already contemplated doing that morning, that he would follow her.

Although it was not that cold, the reverend put a handkerchief and a hat on that covered most of his face.

He felt like when he was a boy and was playing hide and seek with his older brothers, but at the same time, he felt the guilt of what was not a game at all. Everything around him had the consistency of the dream, and he perceived his actions as if being performed by someone else.

He struggled to keep up with Elizabeth. For a moment, he thought he had lost her when she reappeared not that far away. Abblepot was not now from Evelyn Archer's shop: Elizabeth went in.

Johnathan waited for the few minutes it took his wife to get things done in the shop. When she came out, however, she didn't seem to have bought anything.

Amazed, Johnathan saw his wife take a tour around the building; he moved to be able to see where she was going.

The woman stopped in the back yard and leaned against the wooden wall.

She seemed worried and edgy. She tilted her head as if she was taking a deep breath. She often looked around; perhaps she was waiting for someone.

Abblepot was worried about getting discovered, but Elizabeth never looked over his side.

It wasn't long before Martyn Trischer joined her in the clearing.

Johnathan remembered several images of the young man hanging out around the church and vicarage, but he tried to remain focused on the scene he saw.

Trischer and Elizabeth spoke animatedly, her more worried, him with more silent pauses. Abblepot saw him put his hand on his head a few times, scratching it slightly; then, he saw him approaching his wife as someone who wanted to reassure the other person.

The last part of that scene, which must have revealed a lot to him by now, was a silent glance between the two young people, who were now holding hands. Finally, they parted.

Elizabeth waited a few more moments, again with her head tilted against the wall; then, she set off, probably to go home.

Abblepot did not follow her.

What he had seen paralyzed him.

It seemed definite: the book of love poems came from Martyn Trischer, he was almost sure of it; it was even more confident that his wife wasn't indifferent to the flirting the young man must have done with her.

Abblepot clenched his fists in the pockets of his overcoat until they almost hurt; he did not know why but the thought and image of his church, benches, altar, and crucifix, crossed his mind.

He quickly returned to the vicarage, lost in his thoughts, and confused as he had never felt before in his life.

He spent most of the afternoon wandering about the questions he would ask Elizabeth without even worrying that would also have to explain to her how he had come to that conclusion. It seemed to him that he was meters underwater, where the sound of the world was muffled, where even what you see loses its consistency.

He went back to reality later that afternoon.

It was almost dark when he heard someone marching quickly towards the house. He looked out of a skylight: he saw a shameless Martyn Trischer crossing the lawn.

The boy knocked on the door, and a confused Elizabeth greeted him: the two argued a bit, Elizabeth did not seem willing to let him in. But in the end, she gave up and let him in.

Abblepot without too many precautions left his hiding place and, helped by the fact that it was almost dark, he went down to the lawn to secretly go round his house. He looked through a couple of windows before seeing his wife and Trischer: the lights on in the house allowed him to see the scene perfectly.

They were in one of the sitting rooms at the back: Johnathan could not grasp their words, if not just an indistinct buzz or something a bit clearer when they raised their voices, but it was apparent what they were talking about.

Elizabeth was holding Keats' book and showing it to Trischer. He was sitting in one of the armchairs like a back stubbing throne usurper.

What they were saying was worth little now, thought Johnathan Abblepot, all taken up by the morbid obsession to watch what was going to happen.

Every movement the two made, every incomprehensible word they said, flared more in his mind. In a moment of clarity, Abblepot realized that he was still clenching his fingers into his fists until they hurt.

Then Trischer put his head down as if he was overwhelmed with thoughts: Elizabeth went up to him and put her hand on his hair.

The boy got better, touched Elizabeth's arm, before looking at her and standing up.

Finally, he kissed her.

Abblepot continued to watch as if he wasn't him doing it; he felt like a stranger watching a forbidden scene of lust.

They passionately continued kissing until it turned into the ultimate betrayal.

Trischer began to run his hands over Elizabeth's body, while she, equally voluptuous, took off his shirt.

The clothes fell almost entirely.

Martyn Trischer and Elizabeth Abblepot made love before the annihilated eyes of Johnathan. He stared at all his certainties and his whole determination of man crumbling like salt statues hit by the storm.