The few photographs we had were placed in a drawer in our bedroom and looked at now and then. Each year we would acknowledge the anniversary of her arrival and departure, and continue to do so now. Occasionally Connie speculates on an imaginary future for our daughter — what she might have been like, her interests and talents. She does so without sentiment, mawkishness or tears. There’s almost an element of bravado in it — like holding her palm over a candle flame, she does it to show how strong she has become. But I have always disliked this speculation, at least out loud. I listen, but I keep such thoughts to myself.
The following May, in a hotel on rue Jacob in Paris, our son was conceived and eighteen years later, I went to find him and to bring him home.
Though I was unlikely to find him here, in a pleasant little restaurant in the back streets of Venice. In fact, I must confess, Albie had rather slipped my mind. I was having too nice a time, shoulder to shoulder with an attractive and flirtatious Dane, both of us a little drunk now and overwhelmed by the wonderful seafood pasta, cold white wine and fresh fish, displayed to us before and after grilling, something that has already made me feel irrationally guilty …
‘Why?’
‘Because they show you this beautiful silver thing from the sea and you turn it into a pile of bones, and the head stares up at you saying, “Look, look what you’ve done to me!’’’
‘Douglas, you are a very strange man.’
Then strawberries and some sweet, syrupy liqueur, then, with wild abandon, coffee. Coffee! At night-time on a weekday!
‘I’m going to have to walk this off, I think,’ said Freja.
‘A good idea.’ We paid the bill, quite reasonable for Venice, splitting it fifty-fifty. I lavishly tipped our waiter, who stood shaking our hands, nodding, nodding, standing on tiptoe to kiss Freja on the cheek, indicating in vociferous Italian that I was a very lucky man, very
‘Now I think he’s saying I have a very beautiful wife.’
‘I’m sure you do, it’s just it is not me.’
‘I don’t know how to explain that.’
‘Perhaps it’s easier to let him think I am your wife,’ said Freja, and so that’s what we did.
We walked back to the fine wide street of Via Garibaldi, still busy with local families eating in the pavement restaurants, then turned into a tree-lined processional avenue between grand villas. We walked, and perhaps it was the wine or the beauty of the evening or the medicated plasters, but I was barely aware of the blisters on my toes or the torn skin on the soles of my feet. I told Freja about today’s breakthrough and my plan to lie in wait outside the hotel tomorrow.
‘And what if he doesn’t come?’
‘A free hotel in Venice without his mum and dad? I’m sure he’ll come.’
‘Okay, what if he does? What then?’
We walked on.
‘I’ll ask him to come for a drink. I’ll apologise. I’ll say we’ve missed him and that I hope things will be better in the future.’
But even as I announced the plan, I sensed its inherent implausibility. Who were these two characters, father and son, frankly discussing their emotions? We had barely had a relaxed conversation since ‘cow goes moo’ and now here we were chatting about feelings over beer. ‘Who knows, perhaps if we can patch things up I can get Connie to fly over, and we can carry on with the Grand Tour. There’s still Florence, Rome, Pompeii, Naples. He can bring his girlfriend along if he wants. If not, I’ll take him back to England.’
‘And if he doesn’t want to go back?’
‘Then I have a chloroformed handkerchief and some strong rope. I’ll rent a car and drive back with him in the boot.’ Freja laughed, I shrugged. ‘If he wants to travel on without us, that’s fine. At least we’ll know he’s safe and well.’
We were at the apex of a high bridge now, looking east towards the Lido. ‘I almost wish that I could wait with you, although I’m not sure how we would explain that to him.’
‘“Albie, meet my new friend Freja. Freja, this is Albie.”’
‘Yes, that might be tricky.’
‘It might.’
‘For no reason!’
‘No. For no reason,’ I said, though when I looked down, it seemed that she had taken my hand, and we walked like this back along the Riva degli Schiavoni.
‘And where are you heading tomorrow?’ I said.
‘I’m catching the train to Florence. I have tickets for the Uffizi the day after. Three nights in Rome, then Pompeii, Herculaneum, Capri, Naples. Almost the same route as you. Then in two weeks’ time I fly back to Copenhagen from Palermo.’
‘The holiday of a lifetime.’
She laughed. ‘I certainly hope I never have to do it again.’
‘Has it been that bad?’
