Chapter Ninety-seven

 

 

Farewell

 

 

On his final evening in Genoa, Tristan dined with Bertucci and Mala at Bertucci’s estate. “Such a passionate speaker you are!” crowed Bertucci. The recent attention he had been receiving and all the talk of war had him in high spirits. “By God, I nearly thought the people this afternoon were going to run home, gather their arms and start marching this very night to the Holy Land! Dammit, were I not so decrepit, I’d lead them! Truly, lad, I’ve never seen people so riled up in my life!”

“It is easy, I suppose,” Tristan replied with a smile, “to show courage from the curb of your home when the war is a continent away, eh, General?” Tristan, too, was in high spirits after his speaking engagement, and just now descending from that euphoria that seizes one after being hailed by an appreciative audience.

Mala was not as enthused as the two men, and as she quietly ate, she offered little to the conversation despite frequent prompting by both Tristan and Bertucci. Finally, when she had completed her meal, she stood and said, “It’s been a long day, a long week actually, so I’ll take my leave.”

“So soon?” said Tristan, visibly disappointed. “I leave for France in the morning, Mala, and will not be back to Genoa for quite some time.”

Mala looked at him sadly, and nodded, then said, “You may accompany me home in my coach, Tristan, if Bernard doesn’t mind, and when we arrive there, my coachman will bring you back. I would enjoy that. Bernard, do you object?”

“Of course not!” Bertucci replied. “It has indeed been a long week and I was trying to figure out how to politely excuse myself so I might retire for the evening.”

 

***

 

As Tristan and Mala entered her coach, a soft rain began to fall. “Ah, the rain again,” Mala sighed. “It seems that every time we part, the rain comes. First in Marseilles, then the last time you were at my house.” She looked at him, then, and lowered her eyes. “I hope you’re not still angry at me about all that.”

“No,” said Tristan, barely able to see her in the dim light of late dusk. “I have kicked myself a thousand times for leaving in the middle of the night as I did. It was childish.”

“I said some harsh things to you that night, about Odo de Lagery and the Black Monks. You know, Tristan, I don’t wish to anger you, but I meant every word I said, and to this day believe everything I told you. I didn’t mean it to be hurtful.”

“Perhaps so, but...”

“No, no, no, we aren’t going to dig it all up again, Tristan. I’ve been distraught all day, and we’re not going to make each other cross on your last night here.”

“I noticed that you didn’t appear happy this morning, and that you’ve been silent most of the day.”

“Undoubtedly, because of you. I‘ve always felt like this when I know you’re about to leave. And this time, with this business in Byzantium and the Holy Land, God only knows when you’ll return, or even if you will return.” Then she put her hand to her forehead and sighed. “Every time you leave, Tristan, it’s as though I know I’ll never see you again… and my heart can scarcely bear such a burden.”

Tristan, sitting across from her, shuffled in his seat a moment. “I know,” he then said.

“You know?” she said.

“Yes, the same thing occurs to me. Every time I look at you, Mala, I wonder what turn we might have made years ago. Every time we have to say goodbye, I know that I shall miss you dearly and sorrow crushes me with its weight of defeat. And when you are gone, I think of you constantly.”

Mala moved across the coach and took a seat beside Tristan, grasping his arm. “If what you say is true, then tell me how you kept your distance that night on the patio as I was dancing? I was prepared to give myself to you -- no conditions, no expectations -- just you and me alone in the privacy of my estate.” Then she placed his arm around her shoulders and slid her chin beneath his. “We are alone again, Tristan, in this coach. The curtains are closed and the world sees nothing.” Then she reached up and kissed him on the mouth, a long passionate kiss like the ones she had given him in Marseilles as they hungrily shared their bodies night after night.

Tristan did not pull away, but returned the kiss, and held onto her tightly, as though she might slip from his grasp at any moment. He kissed her several times, each kiss becoming more urgent than the last. Then, slowly, he withdrew, and Mala saw him cross himself in the dim light of a passing street lantern.

Confused, she returned her chin beneath his and said, “So now you pray again?” Her tone was more saucy than angry. “Very well then, I shall be content to have you hold me close until the coach reaches its destination. Can you at least give me that?”

“Of course,” said Tristan. “I need to feel your touch, Mala, and I need to know that your heart is mine.”

Acknowledging this, she pulled the coach curtain aside and yelled to the driver, “Don’t go immediately home. Make the long loop of the harbor and the town square five times!”

“Yes, Signorina!” the driver replied.

Mala then nestled back into Tristan’s embrace. “So, you do love me then, smart boy?” she said.

“Yes,” Tristan replied, “more than you could ever understand, I fear, or grasp. And though I shall not take your flesh as other men take the flesh of their women, I love you, Mala, beyond life itself. There is one thing, if I have learned nothing else, we never know what the future holds. Perhaps one day things will...”

Here he stopped, and though Mala would have liked him to finish, there really was no need; in her mind, she knew what he was going to say. “Yes, perhaps one day...” she echoed.