Fifty-Minute Hour (56 page)

‘Mary! Whatever are you doing? We've been waiting a whole hour for you –
and
worrying our guts out. We said seven forty-five at the Café di Nerone, and we finally catch up with you at nearly ten to nine, at a different bar entirely.'

‘
Buon' Anno
, Nial,' I mutter to myself, as I sip my tepid lager, check my watch again. It's already ten to midnight, yet no sign of them back. I'm sitting on my own in Giuseppe's shoddy flat, listening to the hullabaloo outside. The entire street is warming up for that final stroke of twelve – drinking, hurling streamers, setting off fire-crackers under cars (or women's skirts), shrieking with mixed terror and elation. Seton said they were going to buy champagne, though I doubt that story actually. You don't need four strong men to carry back one bottle and a few bags of crisps and nuts, and anyway it wouldn't take two hours. God knows what they're up to – they didn't deign to tell me. They're much less trusting of me now, since I refused to kill the Pope; see me as a turncoat, treat me like a Judas. And my stupid tears this evening didn't help. They loathe tears – all of them – especially in a public place, and I tend to see their point, hate myself for cracking up, behaving like a fool. I don't know why I did it, though I suspect the Pope changed something in my gender by holding me like that, made me more a woman, or a daughter, the kind who weeps and clings.

I was also very angry that Seton had deceived me, fed me propaganda about a rigid tyrant Pope, censored his whole human side – the concern he feels about poverty and violence, the way he makes a point of visiting the slums and shacks of Rome, so he can see the filth and vermin for himself, then nags his parish priests to put things right. All the cuttings Seton showed me centred on his bigotry, never on his decency, yet he's made some pretty stirring speeches which I've managed to get hold of – about sharing one's last cent (or crumb), breaking the chains of selfishness and sin. I could almost hear them snap, see the whole mean sated Western world reaching out to feed its startled neighbour.

Seton says it's cant, the oppressor shamming concern about oppression, but would
he
be able to forgive his own assassin, as Giovanni Paolo did in 1981? He broadcast that forgiveness while still racked with pain in hospital; later visited the prison cell and embraced the desperado who'd tried to bump him off. He's still disabled from that shot, yet he continues with the audiences, despite the obvious risks; still mingles with assassins, because he feels his people need him – even murderers like Seton and myself. And he's suffered not just physically, but mentally – lost his mother as a kid of eight or nine; was brought up by his brother who died himself at the raw age of fifteen; saw his only sister snuff it when she was just a babe in arms, like my own dust-and-ashes brother.

I've been reading all about him, feeling some strange bond with him, which I can't explain to anyone, since we couldn't be more different in most outward obvious ways. I keep thinking of him praying – praying for prodigals and prostitutes, praying for the world, and therefore me. I've always rather scoffed at prayer, but now I realise it's caring and attention, so I'm in his thoughts, on his mind, one of his concerns.

‘Pray
harder
,' I implore him. It's exactly five to twelve and I'm still horribly alone.

I dawdle to the window, use it as a mirror. I don't look bad tonight, tarted up in Giuseppe's best black cords and a rather stunning scarlet shirt which I coaxed from surly Stefan. You're meant to dress in red on New Year's Eve – it's an ancient Roman custom – especially for the women, and especially underneath. All the shops are full of scarlet underwear, and Seton actually bought me a pair of red lace panties, so skimpy-brief my pubic hair froths over them. It seems odd to have them on beneath men's trousers, as if I'm a girl and man at once. I suppose that's what I feel – a man who's been castrated and now cries too easily; a hulking macho woman who's learnt to fire a gun.

I wince at the shrill wailing of a siren. Tonight should be in the
Guinness Book of Records
as far as siren-power's concerned. The ambulances sound frenzied, the fire engines berserk, and every policeman in Rome seems to be hurtling through this neighbourhood with horns and screechers blaring. John-Paul's piddling sirens which whisper round his tower would be completely overshadowed here, hardly register at all. But then he doesn't register himself now, not as fiercely as he did. How could he, when he doesn't touch, or pray?

I did find out his room number, plucked up all my courage and rang through to his hotel; simply asked to speak to him, as casually, as nonchalantly, as if we were bosom pals who indulged in daily chats. ‘He's in room 142,' I lied, picking the first number which came into my head. There was some delay, cross-checking, mumbling in Italian, then the woman on the switchboard came back to me, at last. ‘It's not 142, it's 313, and I'm afraid he's out, signora.'

313 alarmed me. Thirteen is unlucky – though three itself is lucky, so I suppose I could regard it as two threes with just a one or ‘I' between. Threes are everywhere: in religion, folklore, fairy tales – three witches, fairies, wishes; three persons in one God. In the end, I shrugged it off. I'd lost interest, actually; was more concerned with Giovanni Paolo, his own three roles as orphan, victim, Father.

I grab a shrivelled olive, abandoned in an ashtray, crunch it, stone and all. I'm absolutely starving – nothing much for breakfast, two dry rolls for lunch, and a pint of beer for supper. Most other lucky people – tourists, natives, families – will be more or less blown out by now, having just devoured their special New Year's dinner: at least half a dozen courses (and sometimes double that), with fantastic wines and party hats, nuts and fruit and sweets. It's called a
veglione
– my Italian's getting better – then at midnight they start stuffing once again: lentils and a pig's foot, which sounds pretty damn disgusting, except it's another ancient custom, and meant to bring you luck – no more cruel thirteens.

I need some luck myself. Still no sign of Seton, no welcome thud or shout. I start pacing round the room, trying not to watch the clock-hands which have all but come together. If I'm on my own at the vital stroke of midnight, I'll take it as an omen, conclude I'll be alone all year. I hear the clock begin to strike – slowly, almost tauntingly, as if it's gloating at my pain. I block my ears, still hear its heartless chiming through my hands. ‘Two,' it says. ‘Alone.' ‘Three', it jeers. ‘Alone still. They've totally forgotten you. So what did you expect?' It spins out four and five, chortles over six. I burst into the smaller room, the one I share with Seton, fall onto the pile of rugs we've been using as a bed, howl louder than its seven, eight and nine.

I don't even hear the door open, until Seton's actually shaking me, pulling at my arm. ‘Come on! Get up! We're celebrating.' There's a rush of freezing air and we're suddenly outside, part of some huge crowd who are all dancing in the street, whooping, cheering, singing; not foreigners or strangers, but all one excited family. Champagne corks are popping, arcs of foam ejaculating, and a storm of brilliant fireworks seems to explode away the sky. I've never heard such uproar. Those rockets must be bombs, the Roman candles sticks of naked dynamite. The noise re-echoes from the buildings, which add their own applause; heads at all the windows, hands flinging squibs and streamers. Sirens yelp and caterwaul, blue flashing lights from police cars compete with showers of sparks – so many rockets shooting up, the sky turns blue and gold. Someone hurls a chest of drawers from an upper-storey flat. It crashes to the street, people fleeing terrified, then doubling back to loot its shattered drawers.

Empty bottles are smashing on the pavement, a huge bouquet of bright balloons bursting in midair. And, suddenly, another clock is thundering – a hoarse clock on a church-tower, striking mercifully late. I'll date
my
New Year from that one, ignore the mocking bully on Giuseppe's mantelpiece. I drain my pink champagne, hold the last gulp in my mouth, then press myself to Seton as I tongue it into
his
mouth. The final stroke of midnight seems to chime right through our bodies, vibrating in our bellies, shuddering down our spines. We're joined and sealed by midnight, by the sudden squall of firecrackers which seem to celebrate our kiss. I open my eyes a second, see the bloated moon watching like a voyeur as Seton slips his hand between the buttons of my shirt, finds my naked breasts. Giuseppe's watching too – excited, maybe jealous – suddenly scorches over and breaks me and Seton up; kisses me himself, hanging round my neck like a crazy younger brother. Then it's Stefan's turn, suspicious surly Stefan, except he's laughing now and teasing, as if I'm not a whingeing traitor and there's been nothing wrong between us. Marco's pumping both my hands, filling up my glass, skittish bubbles exploding in my face. We all toast each other, hug each other, try to chain ourselves with streamers, so we're all five looped together; five brothers, five best friends.

Eager church bells start to peal from somewhere just behind us, cracked and rather drunken bells ringing in New Year. ‘Wait!' I shout. ‘Not yet.' I can't celebrate the new until I've chucked away the old, added my own rubbish to the debris in the gutter – broken glass, dead fireworks, trampled dirty tinsel, empty cans and bottles, even a dead pigeon. I stand absolutely still a moment, amidst the tangled revellers. This is serious and difficult. I must throw away my hate, my bitterness and anger – anger with my father, fury with the world because it's not the shape or flavour that I ordered in the womb. I snap the streamers round my neck, take a step away, remove myself a yard or two from Seton and the gang, then hurl my full glass of champagne into the street. I watch it foam around the corpse of a spent rocket, dribble down a drain; shards of glass ricocheting high into the air. Seton lunges after me, grabs me by the arm. ‘Are you crazy, Nial? That's best champagne. It cost us.'

‘It cost me too,' I yell above the din. He doesn't understand, can't hear me anyway. Those raucous throaty church bells have started up again and are pealing so exuberantly they're almost drowning out the sirens. ‘New Year!' they bray and jangle. ‘New leaf, new life, new deal.'

‘New
hope
,' I whisper soundlessly. ‘New start.'

Bryan eased up from the toilet seat, stared into the bowl. Absolutely nothing. No result at all from the castor oil and senna-pods. His bowel had all but atrophied these last few days in Rome. He'd always blamed his constipation on his Mother; the way she stood outside the bathroom door, rapping out warnings and commands. Now he actually missed her there, longed to hear her telling him not to waste the toilet-paper, or reminding him how many germs could live on just one finger. She had more important things to do – consult with priests and bishops, grant interviews to media men or hordes of goggling locals, pose for preening photographs. She had already become so famous that virtual strangers were fighting for her autograph; reverent pilgrims collecting up her toast crusts or the leavings on her plate, to take home as precious relics. Even at this moment, she was the centre of attention. Their party had arranged a special New Year's vigil, from ten o'clock till midnight, in which prayers were being offered in thanksgiving for her miracle, hymns of joy and triumph sung; candle lit from candle until the whole chapel blazed with light.

He himself was sitting in the gloom, the toilet light switched off and only a beam of moonlight patterning his pale and ghostly thighs. The room was chilly-dank, drops of condensation oozing down the shiny sallow walls. The pipes were old and rusting, with strange bulges in their length, as if they too were blocked with faeces, poisoning themselves. Yet where else could he hide? Every other room was communal, even the dark washroom, with its row of matey basins, its asthmatic wheezing shower, which took almost thirty minutes to change from melted ice to grudging tepid. He himself was cold, and very cramped. He'd been squatting there for nearly two whole hours, had bolted in at ten to ten to avoid the tide of pilgrims surging to the chapel. He couldn't let them know that he'd been crying, endure their pity or contempt, be unable to explain the sheer horror of that moment in the café when his pure and perfect Mary revealed she was a whore.

He closed his eyes, heard her nervous voice again about to tell him that she loved him; the first woman in his life who had ever needed and desired him. He knew at that wild moment he was saved; saved from misery, extinction, saved even from John-Paul. It had been so wonderful to find her, track her down, at last, when he'd given up all hope, even started to believe she was just a mirage, a vain dream. He'd checked eighty-seven more hotels, and at least two hundred cafés, but failed to catch a glimpse of her until that startling stroke of fortune when she'd actually called his name, begged him to sit down with her; seemed as eager, as solicitous, as in his wildest fantasies. He had even touched her hand across the table, felt its warmth, its pulsing life; imagined it stroking down his body, kindling him, reviving.

And all that had been kindled was a bastard – a child conceived by some promiscuous pervert who attracted her so madly she actually saw him as a god. A god! Some lewd bed-hopping womaniser she'd probably picked up in a bar, who was unworthy even to look at her, let alone seduce her. It had been bad enough imagining she still had sex with James, but to think she might be sleeping with maybe
swarms
of men – waiters, wastrels, window cleaners – conceiving babies indiscriminately, even boasting of the fact. He had never seen her look so smug and satisfied, and on top of all that lechery she'd been knocking back the booze, even snatching
his
glass, once her own was empty. He should have realised her true nature when he'd discovered those vibrators, but he had tried to blame her husband, kid himself she was still the pure unspotted woman he'd idealised.