arranging “accidental” meetings, at first by hanging around in all the places he knew she was likely to visit, and later, when leaving it to chance stopped working, by following her. And although, in the end, he’d been forced to stop, at least she was safe, she still had a job, and her marriage was preserved. Her husband might be suspicious, but he had no proof of his wife’s misconduct. Mario had taken all the blame; he’d let them brand him a stalker, a confused, fantasizing youth, never revealing the truth, that Anna had seduced
him.
And his reward? An even deeper loneliness, and exile to this bleak, wet Siberia.
After locking up, Mario went for a walk, as he usually did, to get the stink of frying out of his nose and the stiffness from long standing out of his legs. It was raining hard, as it had been for most of the week, but he couldn’t face going directly from the chip shop to the narrow, damp-smelling spare bedroom in his uncle’s house yet again, and nowhere else in the town would be open to him at this hour. Walking—which had never held much appeal for him at home—was his major leisure activity in this foreign backwater. Walking, listening to music, and writing letters to his love—letters which, of course, he could never mail.
He put on the baseball cap his sister had given him, back when a year of study at an American university had been a beckoning opportunity, and shrugged into the denim jacket still damp from his afternoon’s dash down the street. He could have bought a waterproof jacket—his parents had given him money for things like that—but that would have felt like giving in, accepting his fate as the resident of a rainy country. He preferred to do without, like someone merely passing through, forever surprised by the weather.
Head down, hands in his pockets, he walked through the driving rain, heading for the harbor.
Anna,
he thought, in time with his footsteps.
Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna.
He was soaking wet and shivering before he reached Front Street. The rain hurled itself against him with a fury that seemed personally vindictive. He pulled the bill of his cap lower to protect his eyes and made his way across the harbor parking lot. The rain on the few cars parked there sounded like the work of a demonic drummer. When he reached the metal guardrail he gripped it hard, as if the force of the weather might just lift him up and throw him down into the water if he wasn’t securely anchored.
The routes of his walks varied, but they always ended with the same view. On his first night in Appleton he’d been drawn instinctively to the sea. Tears had pricked behind his eyes as he stared out at the water. It was greyer and wilder than the sea at home, and yet he’d imagined it was the same sea and that somewhere…over there…Anna might at the very same moment be looking at it, too, and thinking of him.
There was no globe in his uncle’s house, and the only maps were concerned with British motorways, so it was a few days before he found out how wrong he was. He’d gone to the library—a strangely magnificent building that struck him as being completely out of place in this dour little northern town—and looked into an atlas. It had made his heart sink to see how far Sicily was from Scotland. And despite his fond wishes,
their
sea was not
this
sea, and when he gazed out from Appleton harbor his view went due west, completely opposite to the direction home. Traveling west there was nothing but the great, wide, cold Atlantic Ocean for miles and miles until you came to Canada. Only by turning his back on the ocean and aligning himself to face, roughly, southeast, would he be gazing in the direction of Sicily, and with that came the heavy knowledge that between him and his heart’s desire lay almost the entire landmass of Britain, all of France, most of Italy, not to mention certain legal, social, and economic barriers, the disappointment of his family, and the vindictiveness of
him.
And his reward? An even deeper loneliness, and exile to this bleak, wet Siberia.
After locking up, Mario went for a walk, as he usually did, to get the stink of frying out of his nose and the stiffness from long standing out of his legs. It was raining hard, as it had been for most of the week, but he couldn’t face going directly from the chip shop to the narrow, damp-smelling spare bedroom in his uncle’s house yet again, and nowhere else in the town would be open to him at this hour. Walking—which had never held much appeal for him at home—was his major leisure activity in this foreign backwater. Walking, listening to music, and writing letters to his love—letters which, of course, he could never mail.
He put on the baseball cap his sister had given him, back when a year of study at an American university had been a beckoning opportunity, and shrugged into the denim jacket still damp from his afternoon’s dash down the street. He could have bought a waterproof jacket—his parents had given him money for things like that—but that would have felt like giving in, accepting his fate as the resident of a rainy country. He preferred to do without, like someone merely passing through, forever surprised by the weather.
Head down, hands in his pockets, he walked through the driving rain, heading for the harbor.
Anna,
he thought, in time with his footsteps.
Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna.
He was soaking wet and shivering before he reached Front Street. The rain hurled itself against him with a fury that seemed personally vindictive. He pulled the bill of his cap lower to protect his eyes and made his way across the harbor parking lot. The rain on the few cars parked there sounded like the work of a demonic drummer. When he reached the metal guardrail he gripped it hard, as if the force of the weather might just lift him up and throw him down into the water if he wasn’t securely anchored.
The routes of his walks varied, but they always ended with the same view. On his first night in Appleton he’d been drawn instinctively to the sea. Tears had pricked behind his eyes as he stared out at the water. It was greyer and wilder than the sea at home, and yet he’d imagined it was the same sea and that somewhere…over there…Anna might at the very same moment be looking at it, too, and thinking of him.
There was no globe in his uncle’s house, and the only maps were concerned with British motorways, so it was a few days before he found out how wrong he was. He’d gone to the library—a strangely magnificent building that struck him as being completely out of place in this dour little northern town—and looked into an atlas. It had made his heart sink to see how far Sicily was from Scotland. And despite his fond wishes,
their
sea was not
this
sea, and when he gazed out from Appleton harbor his view went due west, completely opposite to the direction home. Traveling west there was nothing but the great, wide, cold Atlantic Ocean for miles and miles until you came to Canada. Only by turning his back on the ocean and aligning himself to face, roughly, southeast, would he be gazing in the direction of Sicily, and with that came the heavy knowledge that between him and his heart’s desire lay almost the entire landmass of Britain, all of France, most of Italy, not to mention certain legal, social, and economic barriers, the disappointment of his family, and the vindictiveness of
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